#long post buckle in | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr was the first site to host the blog for President Barack Obama in 2011.

#long post buckle in

astarions-wife · 7 months

Text

Amanita Szarr, theory and history:

-We know that she was the niece of Cazador, summoned to him at 13 and forcibly turned into a vampire (vampire spawn? It’s never confirmed if she’s a true vampire or a spawn).

-It’s said her entire extended family was there, watching as he summoned and turned her. It’s mentioned somewhere that she lived out of the city in a country estate, raised by her servants. Her parentage is unknown, though clearly one of them was the sibling of Cazador, since Amanita is his niece by blood.

-She resisted at first, being locked away in the attic for a year before she eventually gave in to drinking human blood out of starvation, resulting in her killing and drinking a captive that was sent up there.

-This is when she rejected the Szarr name, and declared herself “Lady Incognita”, hiding her past likely out of guilt, and disgust for what they’d made her.

-She stayed in the attic by choice after this, and wrote her “little histories” as she called them.

-Amanita/Incognita was turned in 1477, the game takes place in 1492. It’s been 15 years since she was turned, though considering vampires don’t age—she’s still a 13 year old.

-She’s responsible for the books “Diseses of the Blood”, “The Tourmaline Depths”, and “Vampires before Vellioth”.

-These books are about diseases that vampires can get, ancient tunnels below the city, and a list of vampires that came before Vellioth (Cazador’s former Master).

-Bonus fun fact, there is in fact a random ring called “Tourmaline Ring” in BG3. The ring doesn’t have any function, and I was able to locate it for sale at a vendor in act 1, but it’s still an interesting coincidence.

-Her book “diseases of the blood” can be located in the House of Hope, though she’s very clearly not among the souls there, so it’s unknown how it arrived to such a place.

Potential Theories on what happened to her:

-In the ballroom of the palace, there are two doors. The door to the kitchen is open, and the ladder here leads to the attic where you can find the multiple hidden doors that contain the rooms Amanita stayed in (for at least most of her years), as well as the torture room she was turned(?) or at least kept in for awhile.

-The dining room is closed off. The only way to access this is to send a companion into the kitchen to hit a button. This button closes off the kitchen door, and opens the dining room.

-Considering there aren’t any bodies in the kitchen, and the only servants in the house are in other rooms nowhere near the ballroom, it’s clear that someone had to open/close the door.

-There are bodies in the dining room, all of which were guests summoned to the party that evening. One of them was “hired” to play music, but Cazador’s werewolves brutally murdered all the party guests.

-It was definitely not Cazador or the other spawn responsible for opening/closing doors. By the time you get to the palace, it’s ritual night—and all the other spawn are captive in the basement with Cazador, awaiting the final piece (Astarion) to complete it.

-It’s possible that Amanita is the one responsible for controlling the doors at the party, though unconfirmed if she killed anyone (it seems more likely the job of the werewolves).

-Could Amanita have been sent down to be the “host” of the party, since Cazador obviously wasn’t around to play fake-noble for the day? It’s unclear, but I do suspect she (might) have been connected.

-In the dining room you can move the fancy chest to find a hatch to another part of the basement. Noticeable here is that Astarion doesn’t have any voice lines about this as he does the other one, though it’s safe to assume he also doesn’t know this existed (and when were the Spawn ever allowed in the dining room anyway?)

-The basement here leads to a very famously broken puzzle, that no one has solved (supposedly support says it’s broken, hoping it’s fixed one day soon).

-The key to this hatch is found in the attic, so it’s safe to assume Amanita was connected to this too? However without confirmation, it’s hard to say for sure. And would you really go through a puzzle that hard just to find her corpse if she was dead? Doubtful, in my opinion.

-It doesn’t seem that she’s one of the spawn connected to the ritual. She never mentions any of it in her writings, and some of her earlier attic notes very clearly detest Cazador, so she’s not holding back her emotions/thoughts at all.

-She was also allowed, and given human blood. None of the seven original spawn were fed human blood, and none of the seven thousand spawn were fed at all. She was likely only given this treatment because she was his niece.

-I don’t believe she escaped the palace in general, even with her book in the House of Hope. I feel like Raphael would’ve said something about knowing a Szarr, or we would’ve found more than a book tossed in a pile.

-Talks of escape were usually noted in the palace, with Leon (one of the spawn) having been plotting in a journal to have his daughter escape, but she was inevitably killed before this could happen.

-Amanita never discusses leaving. She seems like she feels as though she can’t be normal ever again with what was done to her, and chooses to stay there so she doesn’t have to face the world.

-I believe (perhaps in delusion) that Amanita is still alive. Perhaps she’s hidden away in the basement. Perhaps she’s hiding in an unknown part of the castle, truly we don’t know—but I do believe she’s alive.

-Side Note: It was a theory that she could’ve been turned into a scroll, as there’s a scroll in the palace that mentions “for my sins, I’m ink on this page until you free me”, however it’s not signed. Amanita/Incognita was very clear on signing her work, and the scroll isn’t anything you can use/interact with, so this theory is largely since debunked.

-Feel free to add onto this if I’m missing anything! Amanita is one of my favorite unknown characters, and I really want to know more about her!!! :)

258 notes · View notes

watcher0033 · 11 months

Text

Y’all, the Archive admins are made up of VOLUNTEERS. And they have been working for 12-13 HOURS STRAIGHT.

I better not hear any complaints when donation period comes around. OR ELSE.

cosplay by @woahchriswoah on Twitter

EDIT: How do we show appreciation to the volunteers? For me reading these deep dives on OTW issues u guys apparently it's been said multiple times that one of their objective statements is to have paid staff for ao3 and there's a surplus of donations they haven't used up or the other community solutions that needs to address. For those more financially literate feel free to analyze, snipe me or add to the discussion etc. linked here by deepa. They’re cool and these yearly analysis they did aint no joke.

But Seriously what can we do for these volunteers? The probable burn out from this entire fiasco would be no joke. @ao3org

25K notes · View notes

shiftythrifting · 1 year

Text

Hello friends I am back with MORE BELT BUCKLES

There will be a part two

#thrifting #shiftythrifting #submission #belt buckles #stamps #wtf #long post #shiftylisting

238 notes · View notes

jaynovz · 7 months

Text

Is it time for me to foam at the mouth about one of Silver's most batshit insane decisions in the entire show?

(So the ramble underneath this is literally 2k, so like, make good choices I guess. also pls imagine me as Pepe Silvia meme the entire time)

So I see people talking a lot about how Silver is fucking deranged bonkers banana cakes he has 10,000 snakes in his head instead of a brain and of course I agree this is just Canon.

However, the moments that we focus on are like 3.3, doldrums talking to Billy about Flint controlling reality when he's starving and dehydrated or like what he says in response in 3.10 when Flint tells him his story, about Thomas.

Both of those are very very good moments for Silver being fucking crazy and saying things out loud with his human mouth that no regular unfucked human being would come up with, he set new RECORDS for it, agreed.

TODAY I want to talk about a different moment, what I think is the most egregious example of Derangement. It's in the Silver-Flint gold conversation in 2.7.

Quick context-- Before Silver meets back up with Flint in 2.7 he was sent after a VERYYYY dissatisfying conversation (aka "the gold is still a priority" where Silver challenges Flint on the Vane and the fort and Abigail Ashe plan and Flint lies to his face) to go influence the men to vote for Flint's side of things over Hornigold's. After dealing with the Logan situation in the middle of that (which I don't actually think Flint ever finds out about Silver helping to cover that shit up, but that's not the point right now) he shows back up right in the middle of Hornigold addressing the pirate council and accusing Flint of a bunch of crimes (most of which are accurate lol) and Flint is Angy about "where the fuck has you [Silver] been?" and Silver tells him (loud enough for the entire council to hear mmhmm) that the gold is gone.

Now the order of the scenes, the timeline, means The Reveal about the gold is with Max later, (right, that later is the point it becomes real for us because we're finding out the same as Max's that Silver has made the gold disappear) and so it's hard to keep in mind until a second watch how the entire time there in the tent and Silver is putting on this performance, such a good show about it the whole time and then he goes and talks and gives the speech to the whole fucking combined crew and that entire time we don't know yet.

But Silver knows. He has already engineered a situation where he has convinced to the scouts that they're going to sell the location of the gold to another crew!! He has already removed the Urca gold from right under Flint's nose!! (Which is like the thing that Flint has been working towards for an unknown amount of years since he found out about it right? This thing, this sort of mythical amount of money, which is going to solve problems and effect change and build a future and fulfill Thomas ideals.)

And while he's talking he has already waved his hand and made it disappear in the narrative and he did it so skillfully that we don't even suspect that this is happening until the reveal and so sometimes it's hard to go back and think about the 2.7 tent conversation.

Potentially it doesn't quite HIT on the first watch. Maybe not even the second.

But yeah what I want to draw attention to is that... this ENTIRE TIME, from the moment Silver shows back up, he is putting on the performance of his fucking life. He's ALREADY met the scouts Vincent and Nicholas on the jetty, he's ALREADY convinced them ON THE FLY ON A WHIM to lie to Captain Flint. He's ALREADY coached them through exactly what to say to sell it, to lie to Captain James Flint's fucking face. right??? and THEN only after that does he goes to meet Flint.

And the very specific thing I am focusing on isn't even THAT gamble, which is fucking SCARY CRAZY ALREADY. But the WAY this boy pulls the bluff out, the lengths he goes to during the next convo in the tent about "there is no we. the gold was the inducement" and all that. You know the scene.

I wanna underline how Silver decides midstream, midargument to... FLIP IT AROUND and accuse Flint of making the gold disappear.... when Silver literally just made the gold disappear.

Silver: I believe I've been clear about the nature of my investment here. The gold was the inducement. Now no gold… Flint: It's an unfortunate development that we have to adapt, and quickly. Silver: Adapt? I've had about my fill of adapting lately. Doing your bidding, keeping the crew in line for you. Flint: I wasn't the only one to benefit from that. Silver: It certainly seemed that way. Even now you're the only one benefitting from it. Flint: What are you saying, that I'm benefitting from the gold having disappeared? Silver: It certainly solved a number of problems for you, didn't it? I have half a mind to wonder if you didn't orchestrate this whole thing to your advantage.

So yeah I'm uh, I'm literally foaming im frothing im cappucino right now. I want to put this UNDER THE MICROSCOPE AND STUDY HIM. what in the FUCK. Silver knows the entire time, this ENTIRE EXCHANGE, that not only is the gold still on the beach but that he is gonna fucking SELL THE LOCATION to Max and Rackham. And then sits there cool as a fucking cucumber with his mask of irritability...(because of course if he had nothing to do with it!!) Like of course he would be mad that the gold is gone, because the gold was the inducement RIGHT.

All of the rest of that is a foundation for like the craziest part isn't necessarily that he's putting on the act That's in keeping with him, we've seen that, we saw that he was getting more and more frustrated and that part doesn't surprise us that like he would... I mean we saw him steal the page and we saw him burn the page and we have seen him make these types of kind of batshit decisions so we're like "okay this this checks out."

But the truly deranged part where it goes beyond like it just like they're like literally... he. he. HE ACCUSES FLINT OF THE THING HE JUST DID. There was no reason for you to say that and at this point it's like he is SEEING how CLOSE he can get to the fire, he is seeing how much RISK can be pulled off. He's getting off on poking and sleeping dragon in the eye when he knows very well the entire time that he stole the fucking dragon's gold.

"I have half a mind to wonder if you didn't orchestrate this whole thing to your advantage."

I--

it's... it's some reverse psychology bluffing gamble, it's "let me say what has happened, let me literally ADMIT WHAT I JUST DID but no YOU did it, I projected it onto YOU. hope that you don't think about that too hard. let me hope that this works out"

There was... THERE WAS JUST NO REASON FOR IT. He was already pulling it off, the conversation was. "There is no we" and "I was clear about the nature of my investment" THAT'S ENOUGH. STOP.

there's just no reason for him to have done that but it's because he's fucking crazy he's a crazy person

The way his brain works just does not follow lines of logic like a sane human being!!

FURTHER POINT--

this is how we also get to the point where he convinces himself to go to Charles Town (because we see him go to Charlestown!! we see him on the ship the next time!! in 2.8!!)

and he says to the scouts that, yknow, paraphrasing "we came on this endeavor in order to allay suspicion about the fact that we have all double crossed this crew that we are sailing with right now including Flint"

now the thing about that is that and I think I've mentioned this before, but I don't know if I've said it in a formal post that so many people had defected/deserted because the gold was gone and they had no appetite for storming the fort after that. And then Silver went and convinced to the rest of the crew remaining to go to Charlestown to seek the pardons right and that's what Flint wanted him to do. So if Silver then defected because the gold was indeed the inducement and there was no gold then I don't think Flint would have fucking batted an eye!!!

And neither would anyone else!! because even though Silver is very useful to Flint as a tool right now, Flint was very mission-focused, very Miranda-focused very pardons-focused, very "let's fulfill Thomas's dream"-focused. So even though he does and has needed Silver a lot recently to influence the crew, I don't think he was really thinking about him basically for two-three episodes after that basically. Cuz they don't talk again, right, and they are just not in each other's orbit for 2.8, 2.9, 2.10.

So what that tells me is that Silver goes to Charlestown and he just... really didn't have to he could have stayed in Nassau and assisted Max or just laid low until the gold got retrieved and then potentially taking his share and left before Flint crew got back!!

I've talked about this specific part before where Silver says that their safety is contingent upon whether Flint is successful in his endeavor or not. Like he says that out loud to Vincent (which is the most bat ship banana cakes bonkers thing ever) about it because he's basically hitched his horse to the outcome of this pardon situation when he absolutely didn't have to do that to get the goal he and the scouts could have all just deserted and no one would have been the wiser because so many crew had, including Dufresne, because of the gold situation!!

Now there's some arguments here about well.... one of our main characters cannot just leave.

But because the writers have created a party member who wants to leave the party what they then keep having to do is invent more and more convoluted mental gymnastics to himself to continue staying and following Flint which is why at the end of the day I sort of can't really see a situation where the Silverflint thing is not like the main thing because they're both obsessed with each other in different ways (and Silver is obsessed first because he doesn't fucking leave and there's a bunch of reasons he should and there's a bunch of chances for him to do so) and so it all starts to look real fucking gay

But yes uh circling back... Silver lies to Flint's fucking face about the gold, going so far as to ACCUSE HIM of making it disappear, then goes on an extremely dangerous errand trapped on a ship full of people who he double crossed with two scouts with loose lips... when, in order to guarantee his future, if we're looking at actual real logic and actual real pragmatism and survival instincts and not just "oh I have to follow Flint because ummmm -dial up sounds-",

Then he should have stayed in Nassau.

#black sails #black sails meta #john silver #long post #disclaimer that I basically just sat in the bed last night and did speech to text ramble to my phone for an hour #and this is what we came out with #please imagine in all ways but physical me sitting next to you on a comfy couch with two fingers of rum #furiously ranting and gesturing about him with a roller coaster amount of volume variation #and you would be accurate as to the mood this post is supposed to convey #thoughts #like I cannot stress how long of a post this is I am not sorry but also buckle up buttercakes #i ahve been waiting for nearly a month to fully articulate this and I still dunno if I managed it #okay I've been waiting three years #i think i repeat myself oops #Charles town au

94 notes · View notes

carnivalcarriondiscarded · 11 months

Text

hold on ok i belted out a brief laughingstock Scene for possible future use that i Had to write down bc if i didn't, i'd never remember it. and why not share?

“Barnaby? Barnaby, old chap, are you with me?”

Barnaby blinks, registering the green fingers snapping in front of his nose. He huffs a laugh and pushes Howdy’s hand away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m listenin’. You were saying?”

Howdy gives him an exasperated look, a fond look. “Thinking about running off to a farm again, were you?”

“Nah, just the clouds. They’re a lot less work.”

“Well I’d rather you didn’t. Who would I talk to during the long hours if you went and floated off?” Howdy winks before turning to his shelves, already yammering away about something or other.

Something or other that Barnaby is once again not listening to, because what was that? Barnaby quickly presses his cool paw-pads to his burning cheeks, feeling the bristling fur there.

Has Howdy ever winked at him? Now that he’s noticed it, Barnaby can’t recall. If it’s new, then why? Why a wink of all things? What did that mean? And that look Howdy gave him…

Barnaby adjusts his abruptly too-tight tie. It’s unusually warm in the store, isn’t it? Howdy must have forgotten to turn on the AC.

Gosh, what is Howdy even saying? He’s still talking, but Barnaby hasn’t absorbed a word. He can’t even tell if Howdy is still speaking english. It’s all garbled.

There’s something wrong with Barnaby. He must be coming down with something… or he’s just overthinking it. Overworking the ol’ noggin. A good long nap should set him right.

“Listen,” Barnaby interrupts, patting the counter, “I uh, I don’t know where my head’s at. I better go find it - I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Oh… alright, then,” Howdy says, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Barnaby slaps that thought out of the park. He doesn’t want Howdy to be disappointed, that’s absurd. That’s something a bad friend would think. Barnaby may be many things, but a bad friend isn’t one of them.

“I’ll whip up a joke that’ll knock your socks off next time I see ya,” Barnaby promises. He smiles around the discomfort and the entirely new feeling squirming around each other in his chest.

“Now you’ve gone and brought up my expectations,” Howdy says. He leans on the counter and grins. “Are you sure you can back up such a claim, Mr. Beagle?”

Another hot flush races under Barnaby’s fur, and to his growing mortification, his tail starts wagging at breakneck speed. He lets out an uncharacteristically nervous laugh and backs away from the counter. To both of their horror, his back hits a shelf, making it rattle and tip.

“Oh, sh-” Barnaby lunges to right it before it can topple. He whips around and laughs again. Howdy’s wide-eyed stare burns. “Sorry ‘bout that! Talk about a bulldog in a bugshop, geez.”

“When you find your head, make sure to screw it on nice and tight,” Howdy says, a strange look on his face to match his tone. “And check your temperature while you’re at it - it’s not like you to be off-balance.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m off-balance,” Barnaby says. He inches towards the door, willing his stupid tail to calm down. “I just have ears instead of rearview mirrors.”

“Uh-huh…” Howdy slides to the side, trying to peer around him.

Barnaby fumbles for the door. The scrape and bang of his search for the handle echoes in the quiet store. One of Howdy’s eyebrows creeps higher the longer Barnaby stands there, making a complete fool of himself.

Finally, the door clicks, and Barnaby nearly tumbles over backwards in his haste to get out. He stumbles down the steps and briskly walks away, adjusting his hat and tie. As soon as he’s out of sight, he slaps his paws to his face and sags against the bodega.

“Idiot,” he hisses to himself. He presses his back flat against the wall and slams the side of his fist against it. Normally, Barnaby would use a situation like this to his advantage. But Howdy wasn’t laughing, and Barnaby wasn’t being funny. “Bulldog in a - gah, idiot!”

Great. Now Howdy thinks he’s not only a clumsy oaf, but that he’s losing his touch too.

Barnaby growls in frustration, pushing off the wall and stomping away from the plaza on all fours. What does he care what Howdy thinks of him? Others’ opinions of Barnaby have never been anywhere near his list of top priorities - barring Wally’s, of course. If they were, he'd never tell another joke again.

Yes, Howdy is a good friend of Barnaby’s. A close friend, even. But since when has he had such a - such an effect? Barnaby shakes his head, growling again.

There was no effect. Barnaby is just going insane. Or he’s getting sick, like Howdy implied. That would explain the sudden hot flash, the loss of typically impeccable coordination, and, oh yeah! Barnaby’s brain leaking out of his ears.

#context from My Brain:#barnaby's chatting with howdy as usual and howdy does Something endearing #or was it like... idk one of his personality quirks pops up #& barnabys like 'aw hes doing The Thing. its one of the things i love about him'#and obviously has a moment of 'whoah wait Love?? haha where the fuck did that come from. whatever *proceeds to panic*'#essentially: the first domino falls #laughingstock #aaaaand not tagging as anything else #if people see it they see it #i havent posted Any of my recent (and rare) writings so this is slightly mortifying!#its been too long since ive posted fic i need to buckle down on my wips #not this one obvs since its not even really a wip #just a tidbit for future me to edit and implement #my dc wips... who i still want to continue & finish so so badly...#the mermay timber one... the timkon cannibalism... cowboy hat rule... and many more...#anyhow i can feel my writing confidence atrophying #i glance at one of my wips and my entire brain recoils like its the worst thing since (insert bad thing here)#shaking myself by the shoulders 'Its Not That Bad You Are A Decent Writer Whose Fics Are More Often Than Not Well Received'#my brain is trying to convince me everything is terrible i need to forcibly shut it the hell up

111 notes · View notes

ludinusdaleth · 1 month

Text

not to be personal, but, maybe it's because of my background. i live in the south, where over half the folk you know will fall into something far more sinister than basic religion and lose themselves. i was abused by a man who was raised in a literal cult, and abused me due to that trauma, and i choose not to make contact with him now. with all this in mind.... liliana's story is very real. and i get the sheer anger from characters & fans about her. but with what ive personally seen & been through, i cannot be angry at her. because part of the existence of living in a land of cults & severe idealogies means living with the folk who believe that and learning what happened to them to make them break, and i cant see them, even those that hurt me, in any way but with pity & hope. at a certain point even if you have personal grief & anger you realize that the real problem is not solely placed on them but a society that created the right storm for such obscene exploitation. even if liliana did not attempt to listen to imogen, i still would not see her as the main threat - my eyes are on the cosmic level of trauma underpining every single person, entity, every goddamn black hole of this affair, and the cycle of violence, suppression of truth, &/or ostracization that led her and everyone, even ludinus, to where they are. when liliana looked to imogen for guidance - yeah, on a parental level, that's fucked. but i can't say i haven't seen it before. i can't say it didn't break my heart for her daughter and her. were she texan in reality and not just in fiction, she would completely blend in. ive seen her a thousand times over.

anyway, im simply rambling. i know discussing real life parralels to her is something folk have lambasted me for. but imogen was literally based on where laura grew up - exactly where i did. and i can safely say i know liliana in almost all those ive met. and i think that fury toward her is justified, but it's..... tired, to me. my hope is for anyone in exandria, and in our world, to break out of the mold that's forcing them into being soldiers for a cause they never should have become drafted for. and that cannot be done with seeing indoctrinated folks as a black and white enemy. they are your neighbors, your family. they could be you.

#others have said it better but treating bor'dor or liliana or anyone as unfathomably stupid risks not acknowledging your own capacity for +#being manipulated #no matter how smart we think we are we can all buckle under emotional strain and the promises of finally being relieved of it #and i know folk throw *fits* when folk joke about gatekeeping the temults from non southerners #but at least some southerners - and of course others in similar situations - know how others fall to religious extremity very well #critical role #critical role meta #long post #campaign 3 #liliana temult #cults #religion #southern culture #van speaks

17 notes · View notes

jovenshires · 5 months

Note

lowkey kinda frustrated by the lack of transparency from smosh idk if this is a common thing for all online content groups but this is personally jarring for me as someone who also is also a dropout fan :///

i totally get that. i've been a fan of smosh for like... six-ish years now so frankly im kind of used to their lack of addressing things atp. that isn't to say it's a good thing or even an excusable thing - im just saying it's something i've learned to live with.

i think it's easy to forget that smosh is a company. at the end of the day they are making decisions that they think are best for their business, what will make them the best monetary gain and what will keep the most viewers in their pocket. i can't say that i particularly agree with all of those decisions, but i also can't say that we as the fans should be allowed to dictate what they do. especially (and i say this knowing my perception personally revolves around the small subset of us here on smoshblr) when the fan base calling for transparency and accountability is a minority. as loud as smoshblr and smoshtwt seem, there are 26.5 million subscribers to smosh (and that's just the main channel - 46 million between the main three channels), most of whom aren't even aware of any of the things they're not taking accountability for. i've seen this happen with countless youtubers and online groups i've been a fan of. i won't name-drop them, but people often do what's best for their brand, not what's morally right. it's a hard thing to come to terms with, but we are just viewers consuming a product. they get to decide what to do with that product; we get to decide whether or not we consume it.

not to mention, it is a company run by real people. people whose relationships and friendships impact their choices. they may not address certain things and they may sweep things under the rug to protect people they care about. once again, i'm not saying whether this is morally good or bad or that it's okay (it's not), i'm just saying that it is a factor that they probably take into account.

now, once again, none of this is an excuse. i'm not going to say that smosh is the pinnacle, end-all, be-all of upstanding companies or that they shouldn't be transparent or that we should stop trying to ask for some semblance of change. this is a well-earned critique at this point. even with everything going on right now, this is not the first time (and i'm sure it won't be the last time either) that smosh has simply avoided addressing controversy. there used to be a master post that i had pinned to the top of my page of all the issues with smosh and who was addressing what and lemme tell you, it wasn't great. i've seen companies much more graceful and overall better at handling their messes. dropout is a great example, and try guys and starkid both come to mind as well. hell, even ogsog has been way better than smosh at this, and they spawned from them. this is a very real problem with smosh as a company and i totally understand frustration and disappointment. i'm with you, trust me.

i think this is something we all have to recognize, contend with, and then draw our own lines in the sand for. we can't dictate what the entire fandom does, and we definitely can't dictate what smosh does, as much as we may want to. all we can do is keep attempting to hold them accountable for their actions and deciding what we can and cannot abide by.

tl;dr: i think that's a very fair critique. i'm frustrated too. i hear you <3

#discourse #long post #lovingly to you all this is Not an invitation for discussion you know i hate being the discourse blog but. it's worth putting out there.#oh and buckle up this isn't even the only discourse i have in my askbox today #ask #asks #anon #anonymous

22 notes · View notes

whoslaurapalmer · 2 months

Text

been going through some old wips so behold!! some scene sketches i have done for various sugar bowl gen fics and stuff, bc i will probably never make them more than these few sentences (or they will transform into something else) and that is not terrible. sometimes you just have little snippets that exist as they are, and that's cool ⭐

wait hold on first. that time i wanted to crossover hades and hamlet but i have read hamlet too few times and need to really bite into it to make this work right. also wasn't sure if they should talk in iambic pentameter

[ "i dream of ophelia," hamlet says, suddenly. he is wiping the blood off his knife with the hem of his jacket, and horatio watches the movement, still. "i dream of her in such a dreadful state -- she has old flowers in her hair, and when she comes at last close enough to touch, she is the softest and the saddest thing i have ever seen, as if all a rotting petal. she smiles at me, with tears on her face." he pauses. "a hideous sight." ]

[ "my lord," horatio says, "perhaps it is not death."

hamlet looks away. "if not to death," he murmurs, "then to what end, horatio?" ]

that time i wanted to well i guess crossover hades with lemony but just in the sense that lemony dies and comes back repeatedly and it wasn't a time loop. just needed a lot of words about death and living i didn't always wanna pull out

the first time it happened, bertrand had dragged lemony out of the water, and lemony was coughing out lungfulls of water in the dark shadows on the pier, his whole body cold and wet and trembling, and bertrand was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, and lemony said, in a harsh whisper –

“i’m going to die.” he coughed again and looked petulant, closing his eyes. “don’t tell kit.”

"i'm sorry?" bertrand said.

then he was holding a dead lemony snicket in his arms, and before the absurd horror of it could really sink in, lemony opened his eyes again with a sharp, clear breath.

because lemony snicket is sometimes the kindest, most aware person bertrand knows, lemony takes him out for lunch.

"does this happen often?" bertrand asks.

lemony makes a face. "no," he says. "not often. i'd rather it didn't at all."

It was a lot to take in. But lemony was trusting him -- lemony, who, Bertrand knew, trusted less than three people on any given day. bertrand was touched.

bernadette and lemony go out for ice cream

her mother had told her to cause uncle lemony a reasonable amount of trouble, and bernadette, being six, was good at causing a reasonable amount of trouble. if only uncle lemony wasn’t equally good at causing a reasonable amount of trouble back. she’d kept changing her ice cream choice all the way to the ice cream parlor down the street from the movie theater, to keep him on his toes, and he had retaliated by buying one little cup of each of the ten flavors, for them to share.

they sat at a table outside the parlor, under the awning of the shop and so in the shade and out of the hot summer sun, and taste-tested them all, bernadette writing the results in the notebook from her pocket.

“what did you think of the mint chocolate chip?” uncle lemony asked.

“it needed more chips,” bernadette said. she held her pencil very tight and wrote slowly so all the letters looked like they were supposed to. her penmanship was not quite up to her troublemaking skills, but bernadette was determined to fix that as quickly as possible. “what did you think of the salted caramel?”

“less salt,” uncle lemony said, and paused while bernadette crossed a still-too-big t with neat precision. “the smores?”

bernadette smiled, because the smores ice cream was always her favorite. “perfect.”

that time i was testing out ideas for college au and wound up nearly writing the basic eight and went 'well that is NOT the tone i want'

This, thing has been happening lately. (beatrice can just see lemony, where he usually sits in the basement of the library with her, gently circling thing in her literary analysis and telling her the word is too vague. Since when does lemony police her thoughts? She flexes her grip on the steering wheel and taps her nails against it. anyway.) when she’s with olaf, she almost doesn’t feel real. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, sticking his hand out the window as beatrice drives down center street. It’s like she has to remind herself who he is. Because the second she sees him she thinks of kit all over again, in the backyard of olaf’s parent’s house, punching olaf in the face, blood on her knuckles when she pulled back. And again, and again, with a coiled rage in her eyes, because he was laughing at her around the blood he was spitting into the grass, that wheezing laugh beatrice had always loved rising to a frenzied pitch, and kit didn’t stop until olaf was on his knees and jacques grabbed her around the waist. Kit twisted in his grip like she could’ve hit him, too – and it’s the stupidest fucking thing, beatrice thinks, the only reason kit stopped was because jacques was still wearing the party hat beatrice had snapped onto his head when the snickets had all arrived. Because it was beatrice’s birthday, and kit and olaf had ended an eight year relationship in one five minute fight between lemony and bertrand pulling the cake out and josephine cutting it. Jacques had pulled kit into the house, and olaf got to his feet, dragging his forearm over his mouth.

“Didn’t think she had it in her,” he said, and how was he still laughing? Something cold and hard was curling up inside beatrice – it was her hand, gripping the cake fork so tight it was going to leave a perfect mark on her palm. She let it drop under the table, into the grass.

Beatrice got the details from kit later. And she couldn’t look olaf in the eye, now.

that time i was trying to work something out about olaf and esme and just tried rewriting the same idea over to see if i could make it work

you don’t love anything, olaf told her, like it was supposed to hurt. and if esme was anyone else, maybe it would have – if she was olaf, perhaps, who thought baiting for a rise, an argument, a power play the height of appreciation, who thought hate as intoxicating as love. maybe. as it was, esme rolled her shoulders, said, mmm, no, put her heels back on, and left olaf alone. he could come back to her when he was being less exhausting. she had absolutely no patience for his shit moods.

and it was a lie, anyway, esme thought, taking the elevator down to the lobby, fur coat hooked in her fingers and dangling just enough above the floor not to touch. she loved lots of things. rumors. gossip. attention. a very nice pair of hands. good food, in clothing, being looked at. when all eyes were on you, it didn’t matter why. you could get anything you wanted, just because you got people’s attention if only for a moment. just because you played your cards right.

“you don’t love anything,” olaf told her, like it was supposed to hurt. like if he said it all right, he could cause pain in someone else. he liked doing it. pain in someone else meant power.

esme, however, was not just someone else. she raised an eyebrow at him, bending over to do the clasp on the side of her heels. “I love lots of things,” she said. “just because you aren’t one of them doesn’t mean you have to have an attitude about it.”

and it was a lie, anyway. Esmé loved lots of things. rumors; gossip; attention; a nice pair of hands; good food, in clothing, being looked at. admired was better, but just having eyes on her was pleasing enough. being special. and it wasn’t hard, really. she was very good at being special.

that time i was thinking about ernest and lemony and bertrand but wasn't quite sure where it would go and also i can never get them all in the same damn room

“This is lemony snicket,” said lemony snicket.

Ernest paused. “Well, that’s a neat trick,” he said, digging his elbow against the glass of the phone booth. “Dialing bertrand’s number and getting you, instead. Do you do weddings? We’ve missed dewey’s bar mitzvah, of course, so that’s out – how about funerals?”

“How would that work?” lemony asked immediately. “Would i be doing card tricks over the deceased? Isn’t that inappropriate?”

“Depends on the funeral,” ernest said. “Please do it at mine. Is bertrand there?”

“He’s supposed to be,” lemony said. “I believe he’s been detained.”

It figured, of course. When ernest was actually calling in an emergency, bertrand was out somewhere being a good person to someone else. Well, it wasn’t – really an emergency. That was genuinely too dramatic, and the last thing ernest was was dramatic. Bertrand had just given ernest the number for his office at the theater and told ernest to call if he wanted to. If he needed to. He’d smiled when he’d said it, the way bertrand always smiled, one cheek dimpled and a sunshine kindness pouring out of him. And there was no time like the present, ernest thought. The present being, jammed in a phone booth blocks away from the hotel, which was still not enough distance, because –

It didn’t matter. It was fine. Ernest would be fine.

“Is there anything i can help you with?” lemony asked, because of course he was still on the other end. In bertrand’s office.

Ernest closed his eyes, his jaw working. “No,” he said.

that time lemonberry ice were supposed to be playing like some absurd hide and seek game but i could not quite work out exactly how they were playing and went well! too bad, gang

Beatrice is luminous in the lights above Ramona’s garden; they hang halos in her dark hair, in her eyes, catch on her ruby-red smile. There are the tiniest sequins sewn in her mask, Bertrand realizes, glittering like diamonds in the shape of a crescent moon curved over half her face. She’d shown him her costume before, of course, but here, at the party, it looks different than it did in the apartment. Beatrice glows even in private, but out where people can see her, she shimmers, flashes, beams, like the whole world bends around her and into her hands (balanced on his shoulders, tapping out something that feels like Magalenha). It is dizzying. He could kiss her, if he just tilted his head – they’re pressed that close in the sliver of space between the bushes at the pond. He could absolutely, definitely kiss her, and she’s grinning like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

But! This is supposed to be professional. They have rules. Bertrand holds himself very still, raising an eyebrow at her, and Beatrice bites her bottom lip hard around a giggle.

“Shhh,” Bertrand says, trying to sound stern. Does he look stern? Probably not, not at all.

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice whispers, still giggling, “you just look so – ”

“Shhhh,” he insists. Now he’s trying not to laugh. “We have to be quiet, Bea.”

She schools her expression into the perfect patient look. And just in time – there are footsteps behind them, quiet on the patio. Dress shoes, not heels, moving slowly from one corner to the next. Someone is taking their time.

that time i idly considered a sugar bowl gen groupchat fic, but i could never figure out the right circumstances to put them in where the groupchat mattered enough to be the main focus of the fic, bc the nature of a groupchat means you are getting things secondhand, which can cut down on actual story content. but i did come up with usernames, of course. and of COURSE lemonberry ice shenanigans went down in the background.

itstheduchess has renamed the chat ‘don’t tell lemony anything we’re about to say, part 5’

itsthecount: tell me every single detail of the juicy gossip itsthecount: I demand answers and I demand them now itstheduchess: where’s kit itsthecount: do not. sidetrack this conversation. itsthecount: but she’s in the shower itstheduchess: ugggggg itsthecount: who do I have to kill to get the hot take on snicket’s latest fuckup itstheduchess: THIS IS WHY WE DON’T TALK, OLAF itsthecount: and yet here I am, in the fucking group chat theretheir: ????? Did something happen? theretheir: I tried to call Beatrice earlier but she didn’t pick up plainspoken: ramona I respect your desire to respect their privacy but if something has happened it might be better to tell us now itsthecount: yes, so I can plan my funeral outfit accordingly itsthecount: this bright green suit has been dying to be worn theretheir: Olaf, I want you to know that I saw every single thing wrong with that sentence and that I’m going to give you hell for it at a later date kitsnicket: he doesn’t even have a green suit. kitsnicket: what happened? itstheduchess: from what I can tell I think they ran into bertrand plainspoken: oh, no. theretheir: I thought he was out of town? I thought he was in Boston? kitsnicket: do not tell me l and b are in boston itstheduchess: he came back for the summer, they ran into him at the diner on route 9 and I don’t know what happened because beatrice won’t tell me but i’m ASSUMING something did not go well from her tone theretheir: Well, tone is notoriously hard to tell in the written word. itsthecount: josephine have you ever read anything by lemony snicket because I think that will change your opinion on tone kitsnicket: o has a point.

itstheduchess: do you ever get the feeling that since we’re, for lack of a better word, spies, that we maybe shouldn’t have a written record of all our conversations?? kitsnicket: frequently. but that’s never stopped us before. theretheir: I often wonder where I’d be without the ability to personally call you all out on your grammar. itstheduchess: josephine. itstheduchess: you do that outside the group chat.

itsthecount: can’t we just do a murder mystery for snicker’s birthday and call it a day itsthecount: we’re all used to that itsthecount: I will supply the bodies kitsnicket: we’re going to have a conversation later about how that was not the wisest thing to say, next to trying to say ‘flammable’ was a compliment. itsthecount: I will NOT rehash that argument but I will say again that i’m RIGHT kitsnicket: regardless. we are not putting my brother through a murder mystery.

the original incarnation of all phone, no sex, which was instead more about the newspaper

when lemony came home that evening, he took off his hat, looking thoughtfully off into the distance. “apparently,” he announced to beatrice and bertrand, who were bent over a newspaper crossword puzzle in the kitchen and sharing one pen, pressed together from shoulder to hip, “i’m having a torrid love affair with you, bertrand.”

beatrice gasped, her head jerking up. “you are? and no one told me?”

“torrid?” bertrand echoed, taking the pen from beatrice and filling in another answer. “bit of a strong word, don’t you think?”

“i do,” lemony said. he crossed to the kitchen, loosening his tie as he went, and sat down beside beatrice. “i prefer something like passionate.”

beatrice rolled her eyes. honestly, the two of them were lucky they had her, otherwise they’d go around calling their magnificent relationship something boring like passionate. but torrid certainly wasn’t the word either. “you two have no imagination,” she sniffed. “how about steamy?”

bertrand and lemony shared an intrigued glance. beatrice pulled the pen back and contemplated 45 down, smiling to herself.

“i don’t think we’re particularly steamy,” lemony said.

“barely any steam,” bertrand agreed.

“sensuous, then,” beatrice suggested absently. out of the corner of her eye, she saw lemony’s face flush red to the tips of his ears, and her smile grew.

bertrand cleared his throat for a solid five seconds. “you can’t say words like that with a straight face, bea.”

the two of them were so cute when they were flustered. “how is sensuous any worse than torrid?” beatrice asked.

“now is not the time to argue the semantics of language,” lemony said, with all the wisdom of someone who has done that very thing for hours at a time and once drove josephine anwhistle to tears over his opinion on metaphors. “but it has to do with the sound, I think.”

“what about ardent?” bertrand said. “it’s sort of sophisticated.”

“it is sophisticated,” lemony said, “but does it have quite the enthusiasm?”

“you two are going to make me bring out the dictionary, aren’t you,” beatrice muttered.

“nothing would please me more,” bertrand said. he even batted his eyelashes at her for emphasis, which did nothing to sway beatrice’s opinion, although she had to admit he was cute when he did that.

“how about heartfelt?” bertrand suggested behind her.

goodness, he was sentimental. grinning at her coat, she told him, trying to be firm, “affairs aren’t heartfelt.”

sigh. for many years now i have toyed with doing a lemony pov of my babybea fic, but it has just never panned out. but moxie got the bulk of the good lines in the scenes i considered. oh i did have a title though! it was 'but all folks are damaged goods' to continue pulling lyrics from the crooked kind

moxie swings her office door open, grinning wide. “you,” she says brightly, “look like hell.”

“That’s very kind of you,” lemony snicket says, leaning against the doorjamb.

“have you found your niece yet?” moxie asked.

“no,” I said.

“have you been looking?”

“have you?”

moxie sighed. “no. and that’s because you asked me to look for the baudelaires. I thought you’d personally want to find your niece. she is your niece, you know.”

“i am well aware who she is, moxie.”

“are you?” moxie snapped. “because i’d think a man who cared about his family wouldn’t be slumped in my office, asking to be forgiven by a woman who’s already done that, many times over. and begrudgingly, I might add.”

I met moxie’s eyes, and found them cold and grey. they no longer looked as washed and sad as I thought when we were children, instead tempestuous, a word which here means “unwilling to let lemony snicket get away with anything at all.”

I had never forgotten how lucky I really was, to have been forgiven by moxie mallahan.

she was wrong to say it was begrudgingly, though. it was at first. but there is nothing begrudging about exonerating a man from inaccurate accusations.

“what else can I do?”

“well whose fault is that?” moxie shouted. “who’s been hiding, all these years, and not doing a single thing about it? pain isn’t supposed to be comfortable, lemony! it’s not something you get used to! it’s something you drag yourself out of and then never look back at, especially when there’s someone out there who needs you! you don’t lounge around in it and let it eat you alive and forget about your daughter, leave her all alone to deal with everything you were supposed to take care of, all the secrets you never told her! you help her, so she’s not out there running away at sixteen and forcing it all down so she doesn’t think about all the people who were supposed to be there for her!”

it took me a moment to realize that moxie was not talking about my niece.

i have also heavily considered writing a sequel to (the three-part folding mirror) i just wasn't in a great space at the time so it kept getting shuffled to the back of my priorities but it had such TASTY things in it. specifically this was going to reveal that bea and bertrand spent that evening planning the opera

it had taken years to amass the amount of furniture that sat in the green room backstage, and somehow that hadn't turned it into a cultivated bastion (the word of the day in the life section of the punctilio) of good taste. the green room was the ugliest place olaf had ever been in his life. first of all, it was green. not because someone had decided to be funny, which would've been a reason olaf could try and respect, but because it was an organization theater, which meant a majority of the walls were all green outright. olaf had long since stopped lecturing anyone who would listen that it was the most egregious (last tuesday's word of the day in the life section of the punctilio) calling card in the world for an organization that made such a big deal about secrecy, but it was. second, the furniture -- stately little straight-backed chairs one of the snickets had put against the wall that baudelaire always put his jacket on, the most enormous but out of style set of brown chairs sebald had had to take the door off to get in, a coffee table with a permanent slouch from olaf's shoes getting kicked up on it. at least there was his couch, beautifully lurid purple, plush in the right spots, that he'd convinced one of the other snickets to push the six blocks to the theater while he and beatrice lounged on it. old books olaf had read cover to cover more than once, last season's marked-up scripts still piled around, a set of glasses he'd taken piece by piece from his parent's house (taken, not stolen. you could not steal your own family's possessions), excellent wine from esme (definitely stolen). cool in the summer, warm in the winter from the blankets ramona made, a permanent glittering floor from an age of makeup residue. ugly. shit. fucking beautiful. his.

he wasn't welcome in every space the organization had created, but the theater, above anything else, was a theater, and he was always welcome there. it liked drama. it lived on it. a theater was the place you could break rules, set things right, change the world. no -- not change. change wasn't the right word at all. he wanted to rile it. bite it back. watch the world simmer. let it burn, just a little bit, nice and slow, before anyone noticed, and then it was too late. it was a shame nobody else understood how good it looked when you turned the world on its head just to watch it spin a little differently. not his parents, not the organization, not even beatrice really got it, not like this. nobody but this space, where the theater was one big throne and olaf was its very willing king.

speaking of beatrice. it was monday, now, and it had been an excellent weekend, and she'd missed the whole damn thing. unforgivable, but olaf was a generous man. he'd tell her. she didn't live in the green room like she'd used to, but he knew he'd still find her there. and when he leaned into the green room door, palm down on the handle and let his weight push it open, there she was, sprawled out in that red sundress that clashed with their couch. ankles crossed over a pillow, her face hidden behind some book, and she hadn't noticed olaf come in. well now, but that just would not do.

olaf sauntered over and dropped himself into sebald’s chair beside the couch, throwing his legs over the arm, then kicked the sole of beatrice’s heel sharply, grinning. “and where have you been, brat?”

beatrice kicked the bottom of his shoe back with perfect aim. olaf slid farther down into the cushions, his limbs sticking out at stupid odd angles. "rude," he called, waving his hand at her, even if she couldn't see it. "i come, out of the goodness of my heart -- " beatrice snorted, and olaf grinned wider. " -- to fill you in on all the hot drama, and this is the thanks i get?"

"oh, please." she turned a page of the book. she'd started picking off her nail polish again, he noticed, little pieces of red missing off her nails. "it's been, like, forty-eight hours since i saw you? that's not nearly enough time for hot drama to happen without me, brat."

“oh, but it did. ernest turned out to be a dirty, dirty traitor who’s been hiding information.” beatrice didn’t need to know that ernest had also given information to olaf, and that olaf had been stacking it away for future use. beatrice got drama, and the theater, and the rush when you did something special and all eyes were on you – but special to her meant noble, not different. she got away with it because she was still beatrice, but she didn’t have to know everything. (and olaf himself wasn’t a dirty, dirty traitor. some people knew how to play the game properly and bide their time, ernest.)

beatrice sat up, the book tumbling out of her hands and onto the floor, looking beautifully scandalized. “ernest did what?”

olaf wriggled himself back into a sitting position to match hers. “as far as I can tell,” he said, leaning forward, “at the party at the hotel, he was supposed to give one of the snickets something important, and pretended to be frank about it, and then he got caught."

olaf grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the room, her arm bent between them, his knuckles brushing her shoulder. “you okay?” he asked.

beatrice flashed him her bright, stunning smile, the one that almost split her face with her delight. “peachy keen,” she said, and slipped her hand out of his grasp and took off.

beatrice knew the rule – when you were acting, nobody knew, and if you did it right, not even you would know.

but that was the thing, she knew all the time.

if you did it right, then when you were acting, nobody knew. not even you.

bertrand was asked it over and over again, but he could never come up with a good answer. how could he tell the denouements apart? he just -- could. it wasn't anything as obvious as different facial structure, or the way they talked, or the way they moved, bertrand just looked at them and knew. you spent enough time around the three of them, you didn't learn tells or tricks (which could be imitated, anyway), you learned dewey, and ernest, and frank.

this wasn't to say it was kit's fault ernest had lied to her. it wasn't. but bertrand also knew that if they didn't want you to know who you were talking to, you wouldn't. ernest had done it to him a few times.

that time violet experienced The Silliest Childhood Horror, based on my own personal life experience

in her -- ugg, old age, bertrand keeps calling it, although he is a year and a half older than her and they aren't even thirty -- heightened state of mature thinking, beatrice will call it, she no longer makes the impulsive, rash decisions of her youth, like, climbing furniture (she has a stepstool now), or, throwing breakable things (she has pillows), or, launching herself across a rooftop (she has -- well, she hasn't found a replacement for that particular activity yet). she has the wherewithal to stop and think about something before she does it. but this summer is hot, and no matter what she does with her hair it just keeps finding ways to stick to her neck or her shoulders and sits in a thick, heavy weight on her head, so she takes the scissors from the bathroom and gives herself a neat, wavy bob one morning, along the line of her chin.

and, it's not that beatrice forgot about violet, because violet was just in the other room, making piles of cheerios on the table of her highchair with bertrand instead of eating them for breakfast, it's that beatrice forgot children were just, like that sometimes. because the second violet saw beatrice lacking three-fourths of her hair, her daughter burst into tears.

"oh no," beatrice said.

that time i am constantly monitoring the level of Angst i am writing to make sure i do not descend back into high school levels of horrible prosey pushing it WAY too far angst but sometimes you do just write a heartbreaking thing just to see how it looks on the page

[frank says it, one night, very quietly. “You would’ve rathered it was me,” he says. “That i was the one who died, wouldn’t you.”

Ernest stares at him.]

that time i wanted to write the events that bring moxie and lemony back together as friends but i just got stuck on the exact vfd assignment details bc i can never find it in me to make them vague, so it progressed no further. but somehow arson was definitely involved and lemony (and r!) were doing it for Reasons. anyway it did have a neat ending of asking moxie to be the editor

"alright, snicket," moxie says, and she sets her typewriter down on the rickety table between them with the gentleness it requires, but there is a hard look in her eyes that she hopes tells lemony that if it was any other item she would've slammed it down. or thrown it on the floor. or thrown it at him. instead, she throws herself into the seat across from him and pushes her hair away from her face. he hasn’t said it, but he looks like he doesn’t have a lot of time to chew the fat on a cloudy thursday evening in her small but neat newspaper office. and moxie mallahan is a busy woman now, anyway. "start talking."

lemony clears his throat. he looks run-down, and moxie feels only the smallest bit satisfied at what this world has done. but it really is a shame, she thinks. he looks so anxious where he used to look so determined.

"where do you want me to begin?" he asks softly.

"why don't you start," moxie says briskly, feeding paper into her typewriter, "with why you're alive, first of all. last i heard you were dead, or at least missing."

lemony leans back in his chair, and he certainly takes his sweet old time in answering her. "i hadn't intended," he says, "for that to come out."

moxie raises an eyebrow. "that you're alive?"

"yes."

"why?"

lemony is silent.

moxie sighs, a hard and angry shot of air. "snicket," she says, "i agreed to this meeting under the condition that you would talk to me. if you aren't going to say anything, i will throw you out of my office, and i'll continue looking on my own for answers. i thought you were finally coming around, but if you're still going to be a secretive stick in the mud, then i don't see—"

"i'm sorry," he says. he meets her eyes this time. the look he gives her is startling in its intensity. "i am sorry, moxie."

moxie frowns. she taps her fingers against the keys. "tell me what happened, snicket."

"there was an incident at mulctuary money management."

“that’s not what I—”

“that’s where this story starts,” lemony says.

moxie stares at him for a considerable amount of time, one that she hopes is enough to make lemony uncomfortable. she stops when he finally shifts in his seat some minutes later. "the papers said it was a filing error," she says. she remembers the headlines from the previous week—mischievous money mismanagement at mulctuary money management! she'd thought it was a little much. she certainly wouldn't have been so alliterative. filing error at local bank would do the trick.

"it was not," lemony says. "it was a robbery that just happened to look like a filing error, that was used to cover up a much larger crime happening nearby.”

"how do you know?"

"i was driving the getaway car."

moxie tilts her head in thought. "which car?"

lemony almost smiles. "the one from the much larger crime."

“when did you leave stain’d-by-the-sea?” lemony asks.

“don’t you know?” moxie replies.

“i do,” he says, “but I wanted to hear it from you.”

“i was eighteen,” moxie says.

moxie stares at him, her fingers frozen on the typewriter keys. "what?" she whispers.

he doesn’t say a word.

“that couldn’t have been the only way,” moxie says.

lemony sighs, his expression blank. "we don’t know any other way. sometimes the only way to stop ten fires is to start one."

moxie can think of a million other ways. "you -- "

"what did you think i was, moxie?

a friend, she'd thought at first. a mystery, she'd thought, one she'd wanted nothing more than to unravel. a detective. a hope that was going to save her town. a best friend. then a liar. a murderer. a thief. a coward. and now --

sad, she thinks. she feels sorry for him, and she can’t even be angry about it now.

"i've made a lot of mistakes," lemony says.

"you've made more than a lot," moxie murmurs. "you've made a considerable amount."

"and i know i can't apologize for all of them."

"i don't think you can."

[more before this, slumps in his seat, etc] he runs a hand through his hair. “i’m trying,” he says. “i am trying to make up for them.”

“leave, then,” moxie says quietly. “get out of it. start over.”

“where am I going to go?”

"i have no right to ask you," lemony says, "but i think the day may come when i will need the help of an impartial third party to tell the truth. the whole truth, or as much of it as I can bear. can i count on you when that day comes, moxie mallahan?"

moxie sighs. "we'll see," she says. "we'll see, snicket."

he smiles at her, a sharp and fast thing, and then it's gone. he climbs out of the window and drops into the alley below, and when moxie looks down into the alley he’s already disappeared.

every now and then i try and figure out, if i was going to deal with the taxi, which we all know i am not necessarily a fan of, how would i do it

in general, the taxi, much like jacques snicket, was reasonably unseen, always undetected, and often nearby. but that did not mean that jacques snicket liked the taxi. he had tried to return it after the initial assignment with it, one that had taken him through the city and into the hinterlands and back again at, he’ll admit, an even speed with fair gas mileage, but he was told that the taxi was his now, and it would make things much easier for him. he did not see how, but he figured it was easier to keep the taxi.

he asked kit to take a look at it and make sure the car was working properly.

“I can’t believe you get to drive this car,” kit muttered, bent under the hood of the car and getting grease all over her hands. “do you know what I would do to drive this?”

“please don’t tell me, I would rather not be an accomplice,” jacques said. he was sitting in the driver’s seat with the windows down, reading the owner’s manual, in particular the safety recommendations, because someone should. “did you check the – ”

“yes, all fine,” kit said. she waved a dismissive hand at him from around the hood. “start it. I want to hear the engine.”

jacques started the taxi, and he assumed it sounded like it was supposed to. it sounded like a car.

kit closed the hood, wiped her hands off on her handkerchief, and got into the passenger seat, looking pleased. “well, it runs perfectly. start driving.”

“what? kit – ”

“jacques, do you expect me to let my brother go tearing off with a perfect engine without knowing if it runs right?”

bea's letter fic references 'the time bertrand tried to come up with nicknames' which was a wip i had tucked away somewhere

bertrand put his pen down on his notebook. “alright. I think i’ve got it this time.”

“i doubt it,” beatrice said, cross-legged on the floor in front of the record player, “but give it a try anyway.” she looked up expectantly, her hand on her chin, elbow digging into her calf.

before bertrand had a chance to say anything, lemony walked out of the bedroom, took one look at bertrand’s notebook, and said, “bertrand, I don’t think you should say any of those words out loud.”

“okay, how about this one – buttercup?” bertrand offered.

beatrice looked at him, her face almost dangerously blank. “why do you build me up, buttercup, baby,” she intoned.

“just to let me down,” lemony called from the bedroom.

“and mess me around, and then worst of all, you never call – ”

“baby,” lemony shouted.

“when you say you will – ”

“okay, okay, I get it,” bertrand said, laughing as he crossed the word off his list. “not buttercup.”

“you alright, bea?” bertrand asks.

beatrice startles a little, her wide brown eyes fixed on him, and then she smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “just wonderful,” she says, walking past and dropping a kiss on the top of his head as she goes. “i’ll see you later, the shop down the street is having a sale on fruit and I cannot not take advantage of it.”

“don’t let jo hear you use a double negative,” bertrand says. he smooths down his hair, and then eyes the door. “you aren’t following lemony so you two can have outrageous sex in an alleyway without me, are you?”

beatrice laughs, swinging the door open. “you know i’d take you with me if I was!”

more messy lemonberry ice thoughts, where i was trying to eventually write them all dancing and just got caught up in the semantics of How Exactly I'd Get There

number one on bertrand’s list of spring resolutions (he’d forgotten all about new years resolutions, and had taken the next most timely opportunity) was to learn to paint, and so he set up an easel by the floor-to-ceiling balcony window in beatrice’s apartment, to catch the sunset as it filtered in through the glass at the end of the day. the sun moved so quickly now in the evening, and bertrand wanted to capture the way it fell in soft, fuzzy gold patches against lemony reclined back into the couch, with beatrice stretched out at his side, her head pillowed on her arms in his lap. how it sat, warm and inviting on the line of lemony’s collarbone just visible beneath the open neck of his dress shirt, on his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, on the curve of his hand in beatrice’s hair, on the constellation of moles down beatrice’s left shoulder, on the triangle of skin at the top of her knee where her slip folded open a little.

bertrand was not good at faces, or incredibly distinct lines, or, if he was being honest, a great deal of art in the first place, but he was good at shapes and colors, so the painting didn’t necessarily look like beatrice and lemony but it still looked like beatrice and lemony, the shapely smooth strokes of beatrice in the thin black slip, the easy angles of lemony relaxed against the cushions, his feet (with those very beautiful blue flowered socks) propped up on the coffee table. the record player in the corner of the painting did look more defined, though. it looked-looked like a record player. but it was only spring, bertrand reasoned, and maybe by autumn he’d be able to get their faces down. he very much wanted to.

the record player in question hit the end of the b side of one of lemony’s slow jazz albums, and beatrice groaned at the silence and rolled off of lemony, graceful to her feet even when she stumbled, trailing over and removing the record. one of the straps of her dress slipped down her arm as she sorted through the record box. bertrand brought his brush back to the beatrice smudges on the canvas and tried to make the little line of the strap on the sleeping beatrice, but it came out thicker than he wanted. he frowned, looked back at the beatrice fitting a count basie record into the player with one hand, the other pushing her hair back out of her face, sunset orange spilling brightly down her back, and then turned the strap into another sweeping curl instead. that looked better.

"lemony," beatrice said, "do you want to waltz or do you want to two-step."

lemony opened an eye and looked in her direction. "i would like," he says, "a sandwich."

"bertrand, do you want to waltz or do you want to two-step."

“I am painting,” bertrand said, waggling the paintbrush.

beatrice was hunched over the record player on the floor, at the right angle that the orange sunset filtered through the balcony window and spilled down her back, over the constellation of moles along her left shoulderblade and the low v of her black slip. bertrand didn’t think himself much of an artist, not really, but he liked the feel of it, putting lines and shapes on paper and trying to get them to look like what they were supposed to. he had a little sketchbook for that purpose, and he kept it on the table behind the couch – now it was propped up against lemony’s head as bertrand colored.

he’d already drawn a scribbly lemony in the upper left corner, the top of his hair and shoulders highlighted at the edges from the sun, shaded in lightly with the crayons piled atop the rug. bertrand had thought even colored pencils would be too extravagant for the occasional drawing of beatrice or lemony, or the doves in the yard, or the dandelions coming back in the garden. also, they’d already had the crayons. they were beatrice’s.

beatrice takes another critical look around her living room, and then pushes the end table further towards the wall with her foot. she has her hands on her hips, and her hair pinned back from her face, the evening sun gold in the hollow of her collarbone and all the curves of her, resting on her fingertips like it was always meant to be there, bertrand thinks.

was it smart, bertrand wonders, for the millionth time (and he has kept track), to fall in love with beatrice baudelaire? it’s not like he had a great deal of choice in the matter, really. beatrice pulled people towards her like – some very nice simile that doesn’t involve fire he will definitely think of when he is not standing in her kitchen and lemony is not putting away the dinner plates and that’s it, that’s why it isn’t smart, because of lemony. both of them have a magnetism, really. beatrice, loud and uncompromising with a quick laugh and clever eyes, lemony, quiet and stubborn with a stunning, deep-rooted kindness. you just can’t look at either of them without your whole chest trying to rearrange itself.

[like a wave to a shore, maybe? like raindrops pooling together on a window sill. inevitable things.]

and both of them are in love, with each other, not bertrand, and it’s – it’s fine. it’s totally fine. bertrand is honest enough to think that it’s not exceptionally fine, but it’s, regularly fine. it’s decently fine. he’s here, after all. they have a standing saturday dinner and bertrand has gotten very good at not looking too long at either of them.

and – they are teaching him to dance.

[he didn’t know what was more surprising – that lemony looked the most affronted that bertrand couldn’t dance, or that lemony could dance. but bertrand had to keep expecting the unexpected of lemony snicket.]

that time i was ttoally going to rewrite singing in the rain as lemonberry ice. oh clearly it didn't follow the movie it just had Some Vibes. but god i had the best music number in this opening, and also lemony and bertrand hadn't met bea yet and clearly i had a not-concrete idea of where vfd was in the background here. also beatrice was driving by and stopped to fix their car

lemony sighs, his hands dropping from the steering wheel. “when I woke up today,” he says, eyes fixing off somewhere in the distance. “i had a feeling something like this would happen. I should have listened to it.”

“you had a feeling the car was going to break down in the middle of the morning?” bertrand asks. “that’s incredibly specific.”

“we aren’t holding you up, are we?” bertrand asks.

“not at all,” the woman says. “i’m not in a hurry. i’m running early today, anyway.”

“it’s good to be early,” lemony says. “some would call that the mark of a noble person.”

“is there a reason,” beatrice says, hoisting herself up and sliding a foil out from the mess of gears, “that you guys have a sword in your car?”

“i was wondering where that went,” lemony says. “thank you.”

beatrice stares at lemony, and then fixes her eyes on bertrand, a deep, penetrating brown gaze with one raised eyebrow. bertrand has a vague thought that he might be able to get lost in those eyes before beatrice ducks back down under the hood.

“what are you two?” beatrice asks. “actors? spies? extreme hobbyists?”

bertrand and lemony exchange a glance.

“yes,” they say together.

bertrand grins with delight. “you know how I say there’s a song for every occasion?”

“oh no,” lemony says. “bertrand, I cannot handle that, not at this hour.”

“you might have been meant for each other – ”

“you can’t just change the words to make the song work – ”

“to be or not to be, let your hearts discover – ”

“i don’t intend to discover anything, I only met her five minutes ago – ”

“you’ve got a feeling, it’s a feeling you’re concealing, i don’t know why – ”

“this song doesn’t have a narrator, bertrand, and I cannot abide by such flagrant disregard for the lyrics – ”

“oh, come on – it’s just a mental, incidental, sentimental alibi – ”

“jacquelyn will be furious if we get to the studio tomorrow and you’ve done something stupid to your voice, you really shouldn’t – ”

“but you adore her, so strong for her, why go on stalling, you are falling, love is calling, why be shy?” bertrand stops and waits out the pause between the verse and the chorus, staring expectantly at lemony.

lemony stares back at him, stretching out the pause much longer than is musically necessary. he raises an eyebrow.

“fine, be that way,” bertrand says, still grinning, and he swings the door shut. “let’s fall in love, why shouldn’t you fall in love, your hearts are made of it, go take a chance, why be afraid of it – ”

“are you quite finished?” lemony asks.

bertrand clears his throat and takes a step back, tugging on the hem of his vest. “well, if I have to be,” he says, trying for a smile.

lemony starts humming let’s fall in love while making dinner, and gives bertrand the dirtiest look of all time when bertrand starts laughing.

#buckle up this got. long #LIKE. LONG. REAL LONG #there's more than this in my wips of course but it is all stuff i. intend to finish......she said...........with minor concern...........#this post features some silly aus some serious thoughts some sequels i considered and my hamlet thing is in here to

12 notes · View notes

baeshijima · 6 days

Text

guys i swear im cooking with the jiyan analysis i just got distracted and yapped and then had a shower and started yapping again pls believe me

i also got a calcharo fic idea where ur like a herbalist and frequently venture out to gather herbs and flowers to study their medicinal properties, but are somehow a td magnet and would have been six feet under by now if calcharo didnt keep stumbling into u almost getting ambushed like every other day (that is a lie, u would have survived bc of sheer dumb luck). after so many run-ins he has somehow become ur bodyguard during ur errands, eventually finding u and ur herb rants very endearing. somehow.

(yes, u have made him a flower crown more than once and yes he does his best to preserve it and yes he keeps that photo u took of u both together with him at all times and no he does not like u and ur stupidly lovable herb rants while he tries to fight off the 9th td hoard of the last hour while u pick flowers.)

(tldr: calcharo is putting his life on the line in the background while u yap about medicine.)

#wueueuewaaaaaa...#sophie talks : concepts <3 #anyway the jiyan ramble yap analysis is long with lots of screenshots bc i am a lore nerd so buckle up bc i WILL get this #posted today if its the last thing i do dammit

10 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

barrychannel131

Barry channel

komoda-ejderi

KoModa Ejderi

sophisticatedyet

cool nerd stuff

anemia-rp

OH, SWEET INSANITY

wendylvsfs

Too Much Goals And Plans