Leslie Vernon (Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon)
Thomas Sharpe (Crimson Peak)
Gabriel May (Malignant)
Emily May/Madison Mitchell (Malignant)
Sal Fisher (Sally Face; “The Trial” onward only)
Audrey Myers-Tate (Halloween / original)
James Garreaux (original)
Melvin Emerson (original)
the list may be expanded at some point, but i’m trying to start kind of small. please also note that my adaptations of these characters are typically inherently queer, and unless specifically requested, try their best to be gender neutral and race neutral.
i will not write:
rape/incest/pedo/underage, all the obvious shit. don’t be a weirdo.
characters not on my list
anything i don’t feel like writing, lol
i will write:
18+ content
kinky stuff (within reason)
more personalized requests (details about reader)
thanks for stoppin in and feel free to send in requests whenever :)
MASQUE OF WAX - Chapter 2: In which Miss Fournier meets a popular man whom she does not hate
My Victorian HoW AU :)
The year is 1895. From the shadow of the Ripper emerges a new darkness which stalks the streets and back alleys of London, disappearing men and women of every stratum without a trace.
In the midst of the social season, the American Sinclairs thrive, despite being conjoined twins, by relying on their combined charm and talent. Who among their friends and patrons—and even their intended, the Fournier twins—could guess the whole truth of their murky past ... and of the waxworks they create?
CW for this chapter: referring to conjoined twins as Siamese twins, period sexism/ableism, trans man character living as a woman (to adhere to the historical setting), lots of food mentions (they eat a ten-course meal)
Words: 4,476
Chapter 1
Masterlist
***
Unlike Giovanni, Jennifer was granted the luxury of a few seconds to gawk. All of a sudden, she understood why a Frenchman would be so intent on showing for the London Season: he had wanted to meet these Sinclairs very badly indeed.
"Marchioness Salisbury, Messieurs Sinclair, may I present Mademoiselle Giovanni, principal actress at the Lyceum Theatre here on the Strand ... and her sister, Miss Jennifer Fournier." The Baron moved aside to present them both. Though usually he was not so enthusiastic where the disappointing twin was concerned, he would never dream of slighting a woman (if she could not be called a lady) in public; but still, it remained clear that Giovanni was the star of the show. "Giovanni, Miss Fournier, I am pleased for you to meet the Marchioness of Salisbury, Lady Delphia Alardice..."
The women exchanged curtseys and it's-an-honor's and how-do-you-do's.
"...and Mister Beauregard Sinclair and Mister Vincent Sinclair."
"Pleased to meet you both," said the handsome twin with a broad smile, returning the sisters' curtseys (Jennifer's curtsey, more accurately, for Giovanni preferred to bow and made it look quite natural) with a bow performed in perfect tandem with his twin. "But please, if you have occasion to use my first name, I most often go by Bo. This is my brother, Vincent," and he gestured over one shoulder. "He begs your pardon for his quietness; speech can be a mite troublesome for him."
"That's quite all right," said Giovanni directly to Mr. Vincent Sinclair himself, with a sincerity that gave Jennifer pause. "You're American!" continued the actress. "The Baron said there would be a surprise. Americans at a Frenchman's ball in the middle of the London Season. English society must think us all very droll indeed."
Her joke drew respectable chuckles from those around them.
"And from where do you come, gentlemen? If I'm not wrong, the Lower South?"
"You are correct, Mademoiselle Giovanni," said Sinclair. "We come from Baton Rouge, Louisiana." Here he turned his attention, to the surprise of all and especially her, to Jennifer, and held fast her gaze. "And where, may I ask, are you ladies from?"
Jennifer spoke after a nudge from her twin. "Buffalo, New York, Mr. Sinclair."
He nodded slowly and did not take his eyes off her, his grin broadening.
"I am certain," began the Baron, addressing the Fournier sisters as well as the crowd at large, "that you have heard stories of the curious case of the Siamese twins, Chang and Eng, who visited this country a great many decades ago and captivated the British interest. The messieurs Sinclair appear to suffer from the same affliction, though the point at which their bodies connect is distinct. As I understand it, they spent a great deal of time traveling the United States before expatriating to Great Britain after their mother and father joined the saints."
Now that the Baron had said as much, Jennifer recalled something about "United Brothers" who traveled across America, but she had never had any interest in pursuing more information. Now that they stood before her, however, she was overwhelmed with questions.
"Is that right?" asked Giovanni politely.
"That's true," replied the speaking Sinclair. "We're quite accustomed to answering questions and speaking candidly with the public. Though, in my opinion, Vincent's artistry is the most remarkable thing about us."
The Marchioness crowed in agreement and gushed, though only one bit of information seemed pertinent to the conversation: "Tuesday next, I will be hosting the opening of Mr. Sinclair's gallery in New Bond Street. It will feature his greatest pieces, including his waxworks, and you are all invited!"
"Waxworks," said Giovanni. "How fascinating. I sincerely hope I'll be able to attend, Mr. Sinclair."
Jennifer remained surprised to hear how genuine Giovanni was. From behind his brother, Vincent managed the ghost of a smile, though he had not much movement in his mouth—but his eye, which was just as blue as his twin's, smiled enough.
Bo Sinclair raised his expressive brows, creating a great many deep wrinkles on his forehead, and Jennifer felt her heart leap. She lowered her hands, fisting the satin of her gown in an attempt to subtly dry the sweat which had sprung up on her palms. "The Baron was telling us you're a singer, Mademoiselle Giovanni. Vincent loathes working without the company of his phonograph. I reckon we have one of the largest collections of operatic wax cylinders in this country."
"I should not be surprised that you're a patron of the arts, Monsieur Vincent Sinclair," said Giovanni. "What is your favorite opera?"
Vincent murmured something, casting his eye down and scratching a pattern into his twin's shoulder blade. "Lucia di Lammermoor," said the speaking Sinclair.
"An excellent choice. Lucy Ashton is one of my dream roles."
"Ah!" ejaculated the Baron, acting as though he had only just that moment come up with a brilliant plan. "Giovanni, won't you delight us with a selection before we sit down to supper? It would be such a terrible shame to have ended the night without hearing your voice, and I am certain the messieurs Sinclair would be willing to cede their spotlight and allow you to exhibit."
Giovanni obliged with a curtsey and spared one last, curious glance at Vincent Sinclair before allowing the Baron to escort her to the pianoforte. With the guests' attentions now turned toward the ingenue, Mister Bo Sinclair relaxed enough to easily approach the remaining Fournier twin. He and his brother walked as naturally as if they did not have eight limbs; neither impeded his brother at all as they came to stand beside Jennifer (or, rather, for Bo to stand facing Jennifer, so that Vincent had a clear view of the proceedings).
Were he any other gentleman, his positioning would have seemed very forward, and Jennifer may even have found herself put out, but there was a great ease and honesty in his manner which reassured her ... and after all, when one had another man attached to the back of one's head, some allowances must be made.
"Are you a great lover of music, too, Miss Fournier?" asked Sinclair, his shocking blue gaze capturing hers.
"I am not," she answered frankly, though with good humor. "I could scarcely squawk out 'Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay' if pressed. What about you, Mr. Sinclair? Do you share your brother's affinity for aria and adagio?"
"Possessing some knowledge of music seems necessary for the rounded individual, but I prefer sports. Shooting, boxing, riding, other athletics."
"Oh? You must be quite a sight upon a horse. And how does your brother feel about your sports?"
Sinclair answered her smirk with a wicked grin of his own. "Sometimes we get along. Others ... I must say he's awfully bossy, Miss Fournier."
There came a quiet shush directly behind Bo Sinclair's shoulder as Giovanni prepared to begin her performance, "Regnava nel silenzio," if Jennifer wasn't mistaken. Bo placed an index finger (a very handsome index finger on a very strong hand) to his lips and winked.
Giovanni was a force of nature, as usual, as great a coloratura soprano as ever there was and with a timbre that was, frankly, far too lovely for her to be performing anywhere in London. Paris truly was where she belonged, and after this Season, Jennifer expected she would gladly return with the Baron. Jennifer could only hope that the Baron would allow her to come along, too, for where else she would go besides back to her parents, an outcome benefiting no-one?
Though it was plain to Jennifer that Mr. Sinclair wanted to speak with her more—and strangely, she did not mind the prospect—he stood politely and silently, watching Giovanni with his best pantomime of undivided attention. When the aria, which might have been rendered a little empty toward the end without an accompanying mezzo-soprano were it not for Giovanni's sheer talent, came to a close, the crowd erupted with applause, including Bo and Vincent's own. Finally, the speaking Sinclair was free to do what he did best.
"Miss Fournier, do you think you'll accompany Mademoiselle Giovanni to my brother's gallery?"
Jennifer sighed. "I must. What kind of sister would I be if I let her face society alone?"
Sinclair pointed with his chin toward Giovanni, who had been swarmed with admirers and was assuming the process of fighting through them as politely as possible. "Meaning no offense, miss, it seems to me that your sister is the one for whom society comes naturally."
"How scathingly honest, Mr. Sinclair. Were I a lesser woman, I would take offense."
He simply smiled. "But you're not a lesser woman, are you?"
Jennifer was ashamed of the blush which sprung to her cheeks. She opened her fan and became all at once very interested in the designs of the lace. "I will see you at the gallery Tuesday next, then? Oh ... how silly. Of course I will."
"I look forward to it. Now, I hate to cut this short—I really do—but my brother is going to do me great injury if I don't take him to meet your sister."
"Allow me to escort you," said Miss Fournier hastily. "I would hate for you to get caught up in the crowd and be tripped. Mr. Sinclair"—here she addressed Vincent—"would you mind terribly if I walked behind you?"
Bo paused as Vincent seemed to answer. "Neither of us like to be slowed down, but especially him. If you can deliver us there more swiftly, by all means, do as you will."
And so Jennifer followed them in their quest toward Mademoiselle Giovanni, preventing any party-goer interested in taking a closer look at the "United Brothers" from getting too awfully close. Her position, then, did give her occasion to take a closer look herself. To say she was fascinated by the Sinclairs was an understatement, and they carried themselves so well and with such candor, if not confidence, that she found herself not one bit disgusted by their condition. She had been wrong; these men truly were special.
When finally they reached Giovanni, the actress greeted the three of them with vigor, as well as a visible measure of relief that they had come to collect her.
"My brother has something to say to you, mademoiselle," declared the speaking Sinclair.
Giovanni looked at Vincent, and Jennifer detected excitement in her twin's countenance. "Did the performance meet your expectations, Monsieur Sinclair?"
The assembly room around them quieted, as though all the attendees around them were eager to know his answer; indeed, in their eyes, this was a novel exchange: a demon from the depths of Hell meeting an angel whose voice came from the highest echelons of Heaven. The room held its breath for a beat as Vincent scratched something into his brother's shoulder blade, and Bo blushed, murmuring, "I agree with you, Vin, but you really should tell her so yourself."
A soft sigh issued from the heretofore silent twin. Then, from the twisted mouth came one word: "Perfection."
***
Giovanni's brief exhibit was followed directly by supper in the adjacent room. A little under four hundred persons were arranged at many smaller, round tables rather than long ones, and the Sinclairs seemed happy to sit down with their Marchioness and her husband the Marquis, as well as the Baron de Chantilly and the Fournier sisters. The elder couple and the noble surgeon seemed quite content to talk amongst themselves and leave the younger couples to it, a conclusion for which Jennifer was very grateful, as she hardly knew how to conduct herself around a Baron let alone a Marquis.
It had not occurred to Jennifer until they were being seated that the Sinclairs would have no use for a conventional chair, but luckily, the Marquis's valet was prepared, and without issue the Siamese twins had fetched for them two finely upholstered stools. The stools were positioned one behind the other so that the brothers sat in very much the same manner they stood, with Vincent's knees spread.
The Fourniers exchanged glances before Giovanni sat at the Sinclairs' left hand, giving Vincent the greatest access to her, while Jennifer sat at the right. The grand meal was ten courses, starting with a mossy nest of oeufs de pluviers for the table and a simple, yet excellently hot, soup. While Mister Bo Sinclair ate freely, Vincent was apparently struck with inspiration, and withdrew a small notebook and pencil and raised them eye-level to sketch.
Having eaten only one egg and abandoning her soup entirely, Giovanni watched him in rapt fascination. "Monsieur Sinclair, won't you eat?"
It was a moment more before Vincent realized she was speaking to him. When he did, he shifted and made a move to tap his brother, but then stopped short and flipped to a fresh notebook page instead. There he scribbled his answer before turning the notebook so that Giovanni could read what was written. In a thin, fine hand, the note read, "It is very difficult for me to eat, and I prefer to do so in private. Are you enjoying your meal, Mlle.?"
"It's wonderful, but I would expect nothing less from the Baron."
Within Giovanni, strange emotions were brewing: she felt flattered, almost to the point of embarrassment, that Vincent would forego communicating through his brother, something to which they were accustomed and which would undoubtedly be easier, just to foster a private conversation with her. They were at a table full of friends, and noble friends at that, and yet it was as though she and Vincent had retreated to their own secret world, him sheltered behind his brother and her reading words that only she could see. This intimacy should feel presumptuous; she should be offended, and yet, she could not muster offense within herself.
By the time the third course came (brill with mushrooms and a sauce vin de Bourgogne), Vincent had returned to his sketch, though whether that was because he was shy or because he was disinterested in her, the actress did not know.
"What are you drawing?" she asked, employing a much gentler tone than she would with anyone else.
His sole eye, a brilliant blue, fixed her with incredible intensity, but he did not seem inclined to stop sketching. It was only after she urged him two more times that he finally showed her, closely observing her reaction. The sketch was of Giovanni herself, sitting as she was, with every shape and shadow expertly rendered, and regrettably, she could not hold back her shock. He truly was a great artist; a master of form particularly. She was ashamed that she had doubted him simply because he was joined to his brother in the way he was, and because he was mute, and she was embarrassed that he seemed to take in her surprise knowingly.
"I am honored, Monsieur Sinclair. It's so very beautiful, and you make it appear effortless."
Vincent flipped the page again, scribbled, and allowed her to read: "It was effortless. Interpreting the beauty of something beautiful is a simple thing. It is finding beauty in the horrific and revolting that engages my skill."
Not only was he a great artist, he was devilishly eloquent---and somehow, he had managed to call her beautiful in a way that she did not totally despise. He had introduced it as that which was known, but had assigned no intrinsic merit to it, and Giovanni found she quite liked that.
Still, Giovanni, much like her twin, was well-versed in banter, and so rather than expose the butterflies racing within her gut, she replied, "You know, you ought to ask a person's permission before you sketch them, Monsieur Sinclair."
Something within his gaze glinted sharply, and though his reply was surely meant to be taken in good humor, Giovanni could not help but wonder if there was a kernel of genuine rage in it: "I have been looked at my entire life, Mlle., without once being asked permission. Forgive me if I look back here and there."
Meanwhile, at the Sinclairs' right hand, Bo and Jennifer had just been served their fourth course, noisettes de pré-salé à la Dubarry, which were a little dry but otherwise prettily presented. Jennifer must have made a face, because the handsome Sinclair twin laughed heartily and gestured to her plate.
"You don't like lamb, Miss Fournier?"
She felt herself flush a bit. Though normally she did not accede to niceties, she did, at the very least, try to be reasonably pleasant when the Baron was looking, and she would not dream of punishing his kindness to her by speaking poorly of the lavish meal in front of his nearly-Royal friends. "I am unaccustomed to French cuisine, that's all. It's very good."
Sinclair flashed his pearly-white grin. His scrutiny was unlike anything Miss Fournier had ever experienced, and as yet, she wasn't entirely certain she liked the way it made her feel, for the most part because she was not entirely certain how she should feel. Considering his overwhelming charm and stunning good looks, she supposed most women her age would be quite taken with him, were he not conjoined to his brother—but he was; he was, and yet still was bold enough to sit down with her and engage her in intimate conversation, and look at her in that way. It bordered on presumptuousness; it was even audacious, and yet, curiously, it was the audacity that enchanted her.
Still, she would do all she could to hide it. Not only was it unseemly, especially in such company, but she was not some naive girl willing to be vulnerable simply because a man had succeeded in capturing her interest. She returned his stare with one of her own before returning to her noisettes in a matter which could almost be called prim. Without her to occupy him, he began to chat idly of the evening's festivities with the Marquis and the Baron, while Vincent, Giovanni, and the Marchioness (but mostly the Marchioness) spoke of opera.
It seemed, however, that the handsome Sinclair was drawn to the blonde at his right hand, because it was not long before he engaged her in conversation once more.
"So, Miss Fournier," he ventured as their plates were being cleared, "since you're not a lover of music and not a sports enthusiast, may I know what you do like?"
The manner in which he said it made her laugh more genuinely than she had for anyone but Giovanni in quite a while. "Why, Mr. Sinclair, are you afraid that I might not like anything at all?"
"I'm beginning to wonder," said he, with a twinkle in his eye. "Though, of course, a bit of mystery can be alluring, and may in fact benefit a lady particularly skilled in repartee, especially during the Season."
Jennifer laughed again. "I assure you, allurement was not my intention. If you want to know, I have no objection to telling you. I like to read, foremost, about history and great battles fought in the past, but above all, I like to learn about instruments of war: siege engines, ironclad battleships and war horses, firearms, the Gatling and Maxim guns and other artillery...." As she spoke, she felt the weight of the Baron Daucourt's glare upon her, and so she repressed a smirk and concluded, "I also attend as many lectures as I can, though the majority are utterly void of originality and thoroughly wearying. Finally, I often entertain myself with writing."
Whatever the Baron's misgivings, Mr. Sinclair seemed impressed. "My goodness gracious me, quite a wide range of interests, Miss Fournier. And what of your domestic skills?"
"They are poor," said Jennifer, dryly. "I will make someone a very disappointing wife indeed, unless he is very rich, and content to talk politics with me while our staff does all of the work."
"You should have been born a man, Miss Fournier."
She spared a brief glance at Giovanni before turning her attention to their fifth course, which was fresh sauteed green beans. In that moment, she knew that she should be very careful with her words, lest the Marquis overhear, though the Baron was making a mighty effort to steer any attention away from what the lesser Fournier twin might be saying. "I rather like being a woman, Mr. Sinclair," said she. "I don't know that I should change when it is society, rather than lack of skill or intellect on my part, which limits me. The same goes for any member of my sex."
"We must all make concessions to society," Sinclair said, and if Jennifer was not mistaken, while his smile remained on his mouth, it disappeared from his eyes. "Some of us more than others."
Jennifer's gaze was drawn to the rearmost Sinclair, who was still engaged with Giovanni. "Hmm. I suppose, when you marry, you'll need a wife with many domestic skills ... so that she can care for you and your brother."
"I suppose so."
"Although ... would it not be a greater demonstration of love, to be cared for by a wife to whom domestic tasks do not come naturally, but whom chooses to undertake them to serve you? The crux of care must come from the heart."
Sinclair nearly set his silverware down to regard at her, and was silent for so long Jennifer became certain she had offended him. Finally, he said, "I hadn't thought about it like that. I should like to read some of your writing one day, Miss Fournier. No doubt, you"—here he lowered his voice so only she could hear—"are damn persuasive."
And then he beamed a grin which took her breath away.
As the night pressed on, the guests finished their poulet polonaise and moved on to a salade of romaine hearts, but it was over the ninth course, asperges d’Argenteuil in sauce mousseline, that all conversations at the host's table converged. The Marchioness had long made of herself a wearying conversational partner through explaining at great length the distinctions between Verdi and Wagner, and why either of them, on their worst days, could overcome the upstart Puccini (this was, of course, the year before Puccini would release his magnum opus, La bohème).
The Baron was the one to address the messieurs Sinclair, though primarily he spoke to Bo, as seemed to be customary. "I have heard, messieurs, from the Marchioness, that you reside in Rainham. That is quite outside the city, is it not? How do you find it?"
"Far indeed, but it's a fine little village," said Sinclair mildly. "We remain very pleased with our lodgings: a nice Georgian home in perfect view of the churchyard. The village is not so far that we can never visit London, and it's private enough that the people there know us, and we aren't worried about making a spectacle of ourselves whenever we step outside. Of course, we'd still be looking for a suitable place without the help of our terrific patroness"—the brothers bowed their heads to her as one—"and she's been a most gracious hostess when Vincent's work on the gallery prevents us from making the journey home."
"Oh, we like it when you stay with us," insisted the Marchioness, reaching across the table to touch Bo's hand. "Salisbury and I would much prefer you stay at our townhouse in Belgravia rather than such an unimportant village. You would be so much closer to dear Vincent's gallery."
"We couldn't impose on your generosity more than we already have, ma'am."
The Marquis laughed and said to the Baron, "Is it very obvious that we've had this discussion before? My love, the gentlemen simply dislike the hustle and bustle of the city; a metropolitan lady such as yourself would never understand," and he winked at the Sinclairs.
The Fournier sisters exchanged a look, which fortunately went undetected, but which served as confirmation that the twins were of one mind. Giovanni's flat in Notting Hill was not so far from New Bond Street in Mayfair, and while there was no polite way for two single women to offer lodging to two single men, the temptation was powerful. Instead, Giovanni offered this: "My sister and I are staying in a sweet apartment in a street called Ladbroke Grove. Notting Hill isn't comparable to Belgravia, of course, but it is a nice, quiet neighborhood, and the houses are almost as lovely and at a lower cost."
Mister Bo Sinclair smiled at Giovanni. "Well, I'd be happy to have such charming neighbors, but the Marquis is right: the city just doesn't suit us." Vincent scratched something into his shoulder, murmuring, and Bo added, in an inspired manner rather than a disapproving one, "You two live all alone? Very modern."
"Our landlord and his wife are friends of Baron Daucourt and of our father, but the lady is often ill, so they take holidays. It's a nice arrangement for us, considering we'll only be in London during the Season."
At this, the speaking Sinclair's agreeable expression fell. "Oh? Where are you leaving to?"
"Back to Paris," said Giovanni, gesturing to the Baron. "The Season has been an experience like no other, but I have a career to resume."
"And what a career it shall be," said the Baron. "You have captured the hearts of London's elite with your talent; now you will make your mark on Parisian theatre!"
Here he raised his glass of hock and called the table to a toast, which they did in good humor, with Jennifer's voice rising above all others. Giovanni could have sworn she even heard an utterance of agreement from Vincent, and all at once, she was overcome with sadness that he could not properly join in the merriment. What was it like, she wondered, to quite literally live in your brother's shadow? She was preoccupied with this thought for the remainder of the night, and could not be roused from her thoughts for neither dessert nor dancing. Feeling well dour, she sat against one wall with her sister, observing the Sinclair twins as they were ushered about the assembly room like show ponies.
At length, Jennifer broke their long silence. "I've not met such a popular man that I didn't hate at once," said she. "Men, rather. They seem to command the attention of the entire ballroom, and yet...."
Giovanni sighed in an uncharacteristically glum manner and rested her chin in one hand. "The Baron has gone to such lengths to meet these Siamese twins, coming to London, putting so much effort into a select evening. I'm beginning to wonder if his interest in the Sinclairs isn't purely academic. Is it possible that all this ... fippery is just set dressing?"
"What do you mean, Gio? This isn't like you."
"I mean I don't think this is a ball at all, Jennie. It is an exhibition."
I have spent waaaay to much time thinking about the Sinclair boys finding out their s/o is/was a hitman before they rolled into town. And now that same thought is extending to Gabriel send help
Ohhh shit that's such a cool concept. Thinking that they need protecting, but that's absolutely not the case. I can see Gabriel being pretty guarded about that at first, he's strong, but he knows he's smaller than a lot of other people, so even with his superhuman strength and flexibility, he's gotta be wary.
i don’t think people really get how little feedback fanfic authors actually get? like the effort to reaction ratio is so abysmally skewed here that a fic nearly 50,000 words long takes an entire year to amass like. 16 comments. someone reblogged a fic i wrote at 4 am and tagged it with a 5-word compliment and i can’t stop thinking about it, not because it was so nice but because half the time you post a fic you’re going to hear nothing and anything feels like so much
fandom culture is so, so good about giving artists the credit they’re due, but we gotta start doing that for writers too. you’ve got no idea how much people put into their stories and get maybe a handful of reblogs and a dozen-odd kudos. that’s not enough. writing is an endurance sport and y’all need to start giving fic writers a reason to endure it and improve their craft. encourage writers like you encourage artists. reblog fics, leave tags, leave comments, acknowledge that these stories do not just spring into being for your entertainment.
every single damn writer i know feels like half of their readers see them as a machine. that’s gotta change.
the number of people tagging this post as “this is why i stopped writing” is so deeply upsetting to me but at the same time it is really, really strong evidence that there is a real problem here
it is hard to create fanfic when you feel like you’re writing for ghosts. i recognize that anxiety disorders and various complications make it goddamn difficult to comment on a fic, but there needs to be more way, way more verbal support of writers than there currently is.
leaving kudos is great, liking posts is great (in fact, way more people should be doing the former; so many tags on this post mention only getting one kudos for every 10-20 hits), but ultimately if all you receive is silence you’re going to feel like no one cares about that story you’ve sunk countless weekends into creating.
there’s a really common misconception that fanfic authors write only for themselves and/or for love of a series, and while both of those things are true, that’s far from the whole scope of things. fanfic authors write for their for their stories to be read and for the readers to get something out of it, even if that something is just ‘damn, that was hot.’ we’re not shouting into a void here. we’re hoping to hear something back, and right now all we’re getting is echoes.
the lack of tangible support and encouragement for authors is a problem, and you can go through the tags on this post if you don’t believe me on that.
I cultivated the habit of leaving comments on everything.
When I dont have the brain space, just a little short “I liked this” is all it takes to make someone’s day. I know comments make authors smile and I wanna spread some sunshine and be a force of positivity.
I get that it is hard, and I get people have anxiety about interactions - but I know authors are equally as anxious for feedback. We’ve all done the hopeful refresh looking for new comments, eh?
But motivation isn’t endless. Just writing for yourself only takes most people so far.
When I was younger, I was super anxious about leaving comments. I didn’t want to seem too keen and often I only felt like I had a keymash of excitement in me.
But when I loved a fic, I loooooved it, would reread it constantly, print it out and carry it around with me, loved it.
And one day the fic I looooooved just stopped and there was this sad little authors note at the end that due to lack of feedback the motivation train had died. She had it all planned and had chapter skeletons, but she wasnt going to write anymore. The engine was Kaput. All creative momentum was gone cause this poor girl, who was an amazing writer, felt like no one cared what she had to say.
And we all came out of the woodwork then, leaving lots of lovely comments about how great it was and how we wanted her to keep writing, but she couldn’t.
Sometimes when motivation dies it cant be revived. Fanfic is for fun, and part of the fun is in the comments and interaction. If an author stops having fun, or isnt getting the interaction and validation they are seeking- well no one is paying them and it’s their free time.
But it sucked never getting the end of that story cause I bet it was so awesome in her head and all she needed was a couple more “I liked this!“s and “good work"s.
Anyway, I’ve been an anxious commenter and a “oh god is this new chapter even any good?!!” author, and I see both sides.
I dunno, I think we have to build each other up. Spread some sunshine because everyone is a bit anxious here, I think. And if you are anxious about interactions but wanting to practise getting better at them, believe me a simple little comment like “I really liked x” is a great place to start. You’ll make someone feel really good - and thats a nice feeling, knowing you made someone’s day better.
May I borrow some more of your opera knowledge and ask if there are other pieces you think Vincent and/or Brahms would listen to, or pieces that come to mind when you think of them?
Hello! For Vincent I've already half done the work on this: I answered my own ask on my partner's Vincent blog and some of the heroines are from opera (though after learning more about Princess Turandot, I think she'd be one of his favorites, too).
Anyway.
I'm just gonna do a list and add commentary if I think it's necessary!
The main difference I sense between them is that Vincent listens to opera to calm down/entertain himself and Brahms listens to opera to feel something. So naturally, Vincent gravitates toward the less bombastic but meaningful arias, and Brahms tends to like the ones that are extreme in complexity, agility, or just plain loudness. I think Vincent would be the type to just listen to whatever's on the radio (though he does have favorites) and enjoy it, while Brahms is particular as with everything, and only wants to listen to his favorites.
I've tried to select versions of these pieces that are shorter so they're more accessible, but a lot of these pieces are much longer and I encourage you to listen to the full things if you're interested. Also, these are in no particular order.
I've stuck mainly to opera for this, but there are some general classical pieces sprinkled throughout. I don't feel as qualified when it comes to classical music, but we know Vincent has a piano and Brahms can play at least the violin.
Vincent
"Il dolce suono" - Lucia di Lammermoor (in this scene, Lucia has gone mad before the bridal bed and murdered her groom, still in her wedding gown)
I think he'd also like the cabaletta following it, "Spargi d'amaro pianto"
"Sempre libera" - La Traviata (Violetta tries in vain to convince herself she doesn't want anything more from her life than what she has)
"Une poupèe aux yeux d’èmail" - The Tales of Hoffman (the Muse tries to explain to Hoffman that he's fallen in love with not a woman but a hollow doll, but Hoffman doesn't understand. Vincent would think the lyrics were fascinating and he'd like the Muse's gender-bending)
"In questa reggia" - Turandot (a beautiful but understated song about a murderous, vengeful woman, you know Vincent would love)
"Duo des fleurs" - Lakmé (this song is about flowers, and I just think he'd find it supremely calming)
"Ah fors'e lui" - La Traviata (I strongly believe Vincent loves a fallen woman/mad woman trope. also fucking look at the jewel tones on this set, holy shit.)
"Connais-tu le pays" - Mignon (I think he'd like anything from Mignon tbh. I think he'd really relate to the story, the dynamic between Mignon and Philine and the jealousy that brews between them. Plus it's one of the few operas that has a mezzo-soprano lead)
"Danse macabre" - Camille Saint-Saëns (a symphonic poem telling the story of the French superstition)
"Regnava nel silenzio" - Lucia di Lammermoor (Lucia tells a story about the ghost of a young girl she sees in her garden)
"The Mad Scene" - Giselle - (more info here; and the ghost dance with Giselle and Albrecht while we're at it)
"Un Di Felice Eterea" - La Traviata (yes I'm aware that I put the entire first act of La Traviata on this list, I just think he'd really like it)
"Una Furtiva Lagrima" - l'Elisir D'Amore
"Ah! je ris de me voir si belle" - Faust (Margeurite tries on the Devil's jewels)
"Del primo pianto" - Turandot (the lyrics can be found here if you look up the name of the aria. I think they really fit Vincent)
"Sonata Pathétique (No. 8)" - Ludwig van Beethoven
"Sulla tomba che rinserra" - Lucia di Lammermoor (can you tell I think he'd like Lucia di Lammermoor?)
"La fatal pietra" - Aida (it's just so dark)
"Le veau d'or" - Faust (Mephistopheles gets everyone drunk and sings a mocking song about the Golden Calf. I think he'd just like Faust in general, the plot is very fun)
"Addio, del passato" - La Traviata (Violetta has lost all hope for the future)
"Parigi, o cara" - La Traviata (Violetta and Alfredo daydream about living in Paris together, even though they both know they'll never get to do it. He definitely thinks about @waxhouse's Giovanni when he listens to this one.)
"Principessa di morte" - Turandot (the prince rebukes the "Princess of Death" for her incredible cruelty before forcibly kissing her. Another one of my favorites!)
Anything Dame Kiri Te Kanawa has ever sung. I think he'd probably love Maria Callas's no-nonsense come scritto and technique and would probably find her life really fascinating.
He doesn't like any Puccini operas except Turandot, especially does not care for La Bohème.
Brahms
"Der Hölle Rache" - The Magic Flute (the Queen of the Night tells her daughter to assassinate her enemy or she will disown her, one of the most famous arias of all time)
"Dance of the Knights" - Romeo and Juliet
"Les oiseaux dans la charmille" - The Tales of Hoffmann (this aria is just fun and dramatic, and I think he'd really like it because it has fantasy elements, and this song in particular is about an automaton shaped like a girl ... something I'm sure he'd like very much)
"Où va la jeune hindoue" - Lakmé (my god please listen to this one it's my favorite aria ever. I think he'd like Lakmé, and Turandot tbh, because Orientalism. He's a filthy Englishman.)
"Nessun dorma" - Turandot (listen to this and tell me you don't transcend)
"Lago dos cisnes" - Swan Lake
"Celeste Aida" - Aida
"La fatal pietra" - Aida
"Un bel dí vedremo" - Madama Butterfly (the idea of a child bride would scare him as much as it would intrigue him, and he would be fascinated with Cio-Cio-san and want to save her from Pinkerton)
"Vogliatemi bene" (From Wikipedia: [Cio-Cio-san] pleads with Pinkerton to "Love me, please." She asks whether it is true that, in foreign lands, a man will catch a butterfly and pin its wings to a table. Pinkerton admits that it is true but explains, "Do you know why? So that she will not fly away." He embraces her and says, "I have caught you. You are mine." She replies, "Yes, for life.")
"Te Deum" - Tosca
"L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" - Carmen (I think this would make him feel Horny Things)
"Les voici" - Carmen
"Requiem" - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Symphony No. 3 "Eroica" - Ludwig Van Beethoven
"The Year 1812 Solemn Overture" - Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (complete with cannons)
Cherubino's entire deal in The Marriage of Figaro
When it comes to his leading ladies (and let's be honest, he listens for the women), he prefers dramatic sopranos, with the exception of coloratura soprano Mady Mesplé, who he thinks sounds like a sweet little bird
He was never allowed to listen to Faust. Mummy thought it was too scary for him.
cameron “cam” foster; also occasionally uses aliases with different surnames (mason, smith, baker, etc)
born 1990; canon age at the time of her ghostface killings is roughly 24.
5′4″ and a little sensitive about it, but in a way that she just gets annoyed when people point it out. she knows she’s short! prior to the inciting incident that makes her take up the mantle of ghost-face, she’s of a thin, soft, average build. by the time she’s killing people, she’s purposefully built up a decent amount of muscle and is quite physically fit. she tends to look pretty blank when she’s not actively interacting with someone.
american; she’s mixed native (lakota & a hodge-podge of french, english, irish, scottish ancestry) but doesn’t really show it or address it all that much, mostly because she knows it draws negative attention. her skin tone is quite olive-y, if she’s out in the sun she can get pretty brown, but people usually just assume she’s a tan white person. (her sister and mom aren’t quite as white-passing as he is, he just kind of ended up looking more like her dad.)
she’s autistic, with her long-time special interest being my little pony (prior even to the brony fandom--more on that later). she’s learned to mask relatively well, but she tends to be easily strung along/carried away, and is often (sometimes secretly) very earnest. there are times when she says something seriously and plays it off as a coolguy joke.
not really raised with a solid religion. her mother was spiritual, though had a hard time reconnecting with her cultural religious beliefs as a result of generational trauma, and being a survivor of a residential school. her father was non-denominational christian on the surface, but privately didn’t seem to have much belief of his own. cam has never really known where to sit with religion herself, but much like her mother, she’s privately vaguely spiritual.
bisexual, tends to be attracted to men more often, but is very closeted about this. she’s learned that if often draws peoples ire (pre-transition/figuring out that she was a trans woman) and knows that a lot of her “friends” are vaguely homophobic.
born in pennsylvania, raised both there & in d.c., where she still lives until it’s time for her to become ghostface. she has a weird, distant relationship with her parents, and has always connected more with her older sister-- she’s always been more understanding of cam’s autism and behaviors that come with it. she lives with her & her young son.
had a hard time getting & staying employed for awhile, until she wasn’t really able to be employed anymore as a result of being doxxed by someone who she thought was her friend. she worked at gamestop for awhile, and attended a community college with an interest in media and technology, especially computers and coding. she was pretty good at it.
speaking of doxxing and coding-- cam was a part of a group of amateur hackers who were loosely “friends”, and frequented sites like reddit and 4chan.
one “friend” of hers was deacon billings (a ghostface himself, property of @aggravatetheaxe), someone who she greatly admired, and even harbored secret romantic feelings for.
deacon and others in their group were often annoyed by cam. the straw that seems to have broke the camel’s back came about in 2010, when she became fixated on the new my little pony t.v. show. she’d been planning on watching it already, and when people in the communities she was in started watching it ironically. earnestly believing other people were into it, she unabashedly praised it and spoke about it.
deacon & the others came up with a cruel joke where they would catfish and then doxx cam. they were successful, and this effectively ruined her both professionally and personally, leaving her friendless and jobless. she retreated into herself and became bitter and hateful, especially when she realized that it was deacon at the heart of it.
in the time she was unemployed and recovering from the doxxing, she began to experiment with her identity, and ultimately came out as a trans woman. her family was accepting and kind about it, especially where she was having a difficult time already.
cameron became obsessed with absolutely and totally ruining deacon’s life, and began to use all the time that she suddenly had on her hands to stalk him--both in real life and in person, as much as she could.
by 2014, cameron had made her way cross-country, killing off people from deacon’s work life, and working her way through their list of former friends. this culminated in her kidnapping sidney prescott, then deacon’s partner, which would ultimately be her last mistake.
following this, i’m unsure about her fate! she might have died (likely) or survived and skulked off to go lick her wounds, ready for another attempt at deacon’s life, and sidney’s.
may i request 👉👈 gabriel may with an s/o who loves to draw him -razzy
>:) of course!!! i'm not sure what this quite became, but i had Thoughts. i hope you enjoy!!
sketch the trees and the daffodils | gabriel may x reader
GN reader. this title is SFW, but my blog is 18+. minors are not to interact.
warnings: mentions of medical trauma, doctors, hospitals.
words: 706
Thin, trembling fingers gripped the crayon with effort. The scene on the page depicted a cheerful blue sky and green grass, with a large, smiling yellow sun in the corner. A singular figure stood in the center of the page in profile, seeming to enjoy the nice day that had been so carefully captured on the page. One face--A girl's, as indicated by the lashes drawn on to the dot eyes-- peered at a flower gripped in her hand, while the other on the back peered up at the sky, seeming to admire a pink butterfly. Thin arms reached up towards it, and towards the sun.
Clumsy letters in brilliant red captioned the image.
"my name iz Gabriel May. I am 6 and i liv in a hospetal. me and my sister eMily lik to play out side. my favrut colur iz red!!"
As he put the finishing touches on the image, his sister's arm reached around to take a look at what he'd drawn. No sooner had she done so that the door to their room opened, and Doctor Weaver swept in.
Gabriel watched as she smiled at Emily, his fingers twitching and stretching in excitement. Show the picture! Show what he had made!
"I see you drew something, Emily," the Doctor approached, sitting across from them. "May I see?"
When they nodded, she picked it up and looked at it.
"What a lovely drawing. Is that you?"
"Gabriel drew it. He said he wanted to you see." Emily said, leaning over the page. The doctor smiled again, nodding slowly in that way she did when they were making up a story for her. Like when she didn't quite believe them.
They were little, but they weren't stupid.
"How nice,"
"He did," Emily insisted. "He drew it."
"Of course," Dr. Weaver said indulgently. Their shared stomach twisted, and Gabriel twitched, letting out a sad, low vocalization. Why couldn't she see that he had drawn it? Why wouldn't she listen?
"Are you ready for your tests?"
-
Light flooded through the windows of the living room, the late afternoon sun cascading over your sketchbook page.
Therapy had ended near two hours ago now, and you watched your partner and his sister as they sat on the couch--Madison engrossed in a book, Gabriel half-watching some show and posing for your sketching. You figured it had been a good session, considering how quiet Gabriel had been since it ended.
You peered up at him as you tried to capture the gesture of his shared body. They were lounging on their side, Madison facing the back of the couch, head leaned into their shoulder, legs stretched down the length and crossed at the ankle-- Gabriel's vibrant blue eyes fixed on the TV, wordless mouth occasionally twitching when he found something playing on it particularly amusing or irritating.
He was beautiful. Reconstructive surgery had certainly helped him with comfort, though the healing period had been arduous. At the very least, you figured, there wasn't need of bandages any longer. His face was mostly healed, and from what you'd gathered from him and Madison, relatively close to what he'd had before the doctors had decided to skin him and shove him inside his own skull. He was keen to point that out often.
The TV crackled, pulling you from your reverie.
WHAT IS IT? YOU'RE STARING.
You huffed a laugh.
"I have to stare, Gabriel, that's how life drawing works."
A flare of distortion from the TV's speakers. It might have passed for a sigh.
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY IT IS SO ENJOYABLE TO YOU.
You shrugged. "I don't know, I've always done it. It makes me feel fulfilled. I like creating." you paused. "You could try. I'm sure Emily wouldn't mind lending the hands for it."
I BURNED THAT BRIDGE A LONG TIME AGO. I DO NOT DRAW.
"Suit yourself, but if you ever want to, I'll help, or keep you company." you smiled at him, and he averted his gaze.
WHATEVER.
There was a beat. The TV crackled and spat, distorting the image displayed on the screen. Then, almost shyly,
buried in water | part i: downpour | malignant (canon divergent)
gabriel may x transmasc reader
This part is SFW, though the rest of the title may contain NSFW later on. Minors are not to interact.
You’re an urban explorer, photographer, and video-maker. In a desperate attempt to make your quota for the month, you decide to venture into the Seattle underground at exactly the wrong time.
The rain beat down on the sodden streets, a gentle pitter-patter the background to the light and the electric buzz of the sign across the street pouring in through your apartment window.
It’d been like this for weeks.
October to May brought light and frequent rain, and only petered off once summer comes around. It’s a wonder it’s so wet, really, considering how just 2 states away down the same coast, everything seems to constantly be on fire.
You scrubbed your face, rubbing your eyes against the bright light of your laptop screen in your darkened bedroom. The sun had set hours ago (not that you could tell behind the deluge coming down outside), but you couldn’t be bothered to get up and turn on the light across the room. This next excursion wasn’t going to plan itself, and you still had a good amount of editing to do on the shots from the last trip until you could give up for the night.
Breaking into the city under the city had been more of a snap than probably most realized, and you were certainly practiced at it-- Three years of urban exploration under your belt, and you were all but a pro at it, if such a thing could be said. Your videos usually got more attention than your photos, but either way, it was more lucrative than you’d initially anticipated.
You peered back at the screen, pulling a face at what you’d managed to get the last time you’d been down there. Sure, you got the pictures you wanted, but your video camera, unbeknownst to you, had run out of memory halfway through shooting. You were still kicking yourself for that. Videos were what made the real money and paid the bills around here--most of them were even sponsor and ad-friendly, which meant plenty of extra.
Rent was coming up. You had no video. And you weren’t about to go looking for roommates after last time.
Turning towards the window, the outdoors promised uncomfortable damp--Sure, you could go tomorrow, but the sickening twist in your stomach pushed you towards impulsivity. You had a raincoat, you had boots that would keep your feet dry down in the damp underground streets of Seattle.
You chewed your lip, tapping your fingers on your desk before grabbing the mouse, saving your progress, and getting up.
Out into the rain you went.
--
The matter of getting in your usual way was more easy than you thought. Slip through the right doors, down into the right basement, and through the right breaks in the wall, and you were just where you wanted to be. You’d decided to travel lightly, opting to bring your freshly-unloaded video camera, extra batteries, lights, a voice recorder, and your drone for some nice overhead shots.
You didn’t usually do this alone, but desperation had dictated it-- and now you were regretting not texting somewhere your whereabouts as you sloshed through what had once been a street, the cobblestones uneven under your feet. Rookie mistake. You knew better than to never do this alone, even if you knew this place like that back of your hand.
Stupid. But as long as nothing happened, that wouldn’t be a problem, now would it?
You opened your bag, turning on your camera as you progressed through the street, getting a good ground view of this usually closed-off area: Dusty, moldering store fronts, tilted street lamps. Broken down carts left where they lay in the streets, now covered in gauzy veils of cobweb. You kept your breathing soft, and your footsteps as slow and even as possible. It was almost peaceful. Until--
A loud clang nearly made you drop your camera. You jumped, fumbling with it in your grasp as sloshing footsteps charged from behind you. A sudden shout echoed through the closed off street, repeating a hundred times over and causing you to cover your ears, camera still in hand. Whoever the hell was running down here was getting closer, and fast.
With not a moment to waste, you tugged the hood of your raincoat up, and slipped into the shadow of a broken-down store front, just as a flashlight flared from behind. A figure soon followed, and as it came into view, you weren’t sure exactly what you were seeing--
There was a flash of long hair and leather, the figure careening past you with legs that looked wrong, somehow, as if they were broken. You barely had time to process that before another figure scrambled after it, this one much clearer. He was wielding a gun, much less agile than the dark figure, and wearing what looked like a smartly tailored dark suit. A cop? You couldn’t be sure. The presence of a gun, though, and the man’s shouting made your stomach flip. No way you could upload this...still.
Curiosity killed the cat, you told yourself.
But then again, satisfaction brought it back.
Mustering your strength, you slipped from your hiding place and followed after.
--
He would not be caught so easily.
There was much to still do, and Gabriel was not about to let all he had worked for go to waste because some too-big-for-his-britches detective got in the way. He didn’t want to have to kill him. Not yet, not while he was still somewhat useful. In any case, he was just a distraction. Why waste the energy?
Gabriel bobbed and weaved, using Emily’s perception as he turned heel and ran forwards, face backwards towards his pursuer. Beyond the range of the detective’s flashlight, something slipped by in the shadows--trotting between pools of inky darkness, and careful not to make too much sound. He set what passed for his jaw, the mess of teeth and muscle spasming in a grimace. Another obstacle? An unfortunate passerby? Down here...
There was no time to think about that.
With a flip that would make any contortionist envious, Gabriel disappeared from the foggy, closed in square he’d found himself in, and onto the top of a dusty carriage. With a kick, he sent it rolling towards the detective, who was now casting about wildly, cursing under his breath.
Another leap, and he was on the top of another, pressed flat on Emily’s face.
He watched as the curious little figure ducked down under the fog, pressing their own body into the side of a decaying hearse.
He needed to get the detective off his trail. He needed somewhere to lie low.
This wasn’t over yet.
--
Your hands trembled, relying on the night-vision of your viewfinder to make your way through the closed off square. The man in the suit held his gun and his flashlight, frantic to find his quarry. You could feel the cold and the damp setting into your bones, chilling you to the core despite your gear. Fighting the urge to sniffle was unbearable.
You got your chance when more of the carriages loudly clanged together, sending the cop off like a shot down another dank passage. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath--
There was a rustle of fabric. Your eyes shot open as you caught a flash of movement--Static that made the screen flicker, and then something bright and fast in your viewfinder that nearly made you scream. Before you could, there was a leather-clad hand over your mouth, and the overpowering, cloying scent of blood.
You couldn’t ignore the fact that holding you fast from behind, the elbows of the person were facing the wrong way. The impossible strength behind them made your stomach do flips.
Your voice recorder crackled to life, muffled in your messenger bag. A deep, distorted voice ground out--
"As for Ambrose itself, it was hard to tell if it had always been this desolate, or if the apocalypse had just hit it particularly hard. At the very least, the streets were mostly clean of corpses. You figured plenty of that had to do with the big, metal and wood fence that had been built around it."
Hey everyone!! I updated my list, I’ve added Thomas Sharpe, and Gabriel & Emily May from Crimson Peak and Malignant respectively! Please feel free to send requests, no matter how vague— Just be sure to specify if you want a list or a ficlet.
