#(still love this title very much)

[dollya-robinprotector]

Dress me up, make it tight, I'm your dolly You're my doll, rock'n'roll, feel the glamour in pink Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky panky~

Inspired from This post of @just-dol-headshots and this ask from @hakusins. Don't worry I'm still aiming for your ass Haku-Dean :) References and something under the cut

We all have to agree Bully Robin should have some softer and caring sides. When there's only them two and no one else is around to judge, he can let loose and slip back into that kinda of "Original Robin" we know and I love. I mean, that's what JDOLH made that got me into these swap messes from the beginning jsjkhskjhd you knowww the HUG!!

Reference: Barbie Girl (Aqua) and this cute ecchi Clamp Chobit piece

All in all I'm a pink bietch and Dollya won't be losing her V-card anytime soon that I can promise so hang in there okay mr.Bully.

edit: OMG THIS IS MY 1000TH POST TTOTT)) JKSDJLASKJKDLA

SELF-INDULGENT HERE WE GO

[potatobugz]

dugon my friend my buddy my pal

[rjshope]

Namseok through the years for @raplinenthusiasts ✨

+bonus:

[rakiah]

There’s so much Leovil moments in this event how you feeling??☺️☺️

Oh I’m following the JP releases so yes, I yelled a lot back then when the event was out! It was soooo Leovil coded, bless them for the food! And we waited for so long to have it in the EN server damn! But oh boy, worth the wait! As I said, it’s like the official translators just gave in, no more effort to be subtle when Leona and Vil are interacting, they fully embraced the “ok it’s canon! Have your regular mom and dad flirting in vacations in front of the kids and the weird uncle. We tried OKAY?”

I’ll never recover from "I’ll show you the time of your life".

So yup, I’m feeling pretty delighted~ Plus I love the relation between Leona and Kifaji, (I can’t use "Neji" sorry) behind the railleries and criticisms you can feel how much they care and respect each other and it’s just pure gem for me, I root for them with all my heart (っ˘ω˘ς

And now, all the china knows Leona was a crybaby.

[khaopybara]

GMM'S MEN KISSING MEN PODIUM - SILVER MEDAL NEO TRAI

Louis Thanawin, Fish Upon the Sky & The Eclipse (2021, 2022) Drake Sattabut, Only Friends (2023) Mark Pakin, Only Friends (2023) Force Jiratchapong, Only Friends (2023) Title Kirati, Only Friends (2023) Mond Tanutchai, Only Friends (2023)

(set only possible because of all the data gathered by @ranchthoughts who made a whole gmm kissing multiverse post)

[illmoraineakoi]

As much as I adore the idea of Alan being like a dad to the Color Gang, I am absolutely feral for interpretations where that’s not really the case.

Or, more specifically, when those feelings are very one sided.

The CG look up to him and adore him as a parental/guardian figure, loving him almost like a father, especially Orange in particular who 110% sees and loves Alan as a father figure, while Alan himself sees himself more as a tolerant friendly landlord; just a dude who’s letting five stick figures live on his computer and not really interacting with them (except for Orange) very much beyond playing a few games for them or sparring with them. And even with Orange, it’s more of a friendship relationship than a parent-child one. Just generally pretty emotionally detached/distant towards them, not really feeling very strongly about any of them. Sort of how IRL Alan speaks about them as characters; fond, but not loving*. He still largely just sees them as stick figures. Like smart little living desktop pets.

Which makes all of the potential scenarios where they meet on more equal grounds (Stick!Alan AUs and IRL!Sticks/Human!Sticks AUs) potentially very juicy.

The CG and Orange in particular are always very excited to meet and actually interact with Alan, and Alan just feels overwhelmed and awkward by all the affection/attention. Or perhaps even confused about why they seem to like him so much.

Which can very quickly turn into a situation where the Gang notices that Alan doesn’t seem very comfortable around them, that he’s not nearly as excited and enthusiastic about finally being able to touch and hug them as they are with him. That he seemed to be kind of distant from them, withdrawing away from them. Oh, he’s friendly and polite, and he’ll talk to them, he’s not being mean or ignoring them or anything, but it’s not really like how they always imagined meeting him would be. It’s not as happy and joyous. He doesn’t interact/engage with them on his own. Doesn’t offer hugs or pats or much affection at all. He’ll do it if they initiate or ask, but he never gives anything of the sort freely.

Perhaps they think it’s because everything is so new and fresh, that maybe he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed. Maybe he just needs a little time to get used to them.

But when they give him that time…nothing seems to change. And they’re just left even more confused and concerned. Why was he acting like this? He was never like this before… (or so they think.)

Or perhaps a situation occurs where it’s revealed that Orange sees him like a father, or perhaps Orange even calls him his father, and Alan denies it. Corrects him. Tells Orange that he’s not his parental figure, that he always thought they were just friends. That all of them were just a bunch of sticks he was letting live on his computer. He wasn’t their dad, where in the world did they get THAT weird idea from? He was just Alan, the owner of the computer they made their home on. He barely even knew them.

And the Gang is both shocked and heartbroken. They hadn’t known Alan felt that way, just as Alan hadn’t been aware of how they felt. It was so easy for misunderstandings and misinterpretations to happen between them when they couldn’t really communicate very well.

But Orange, Orange is devastated. It hurts, so bad, because Alan literally created him. Alan was his creator, the closest thing to an actual parent he had. And yet Alan didn’t want to fill that role towards him, didn’t want to be his father. He could have seen and understood Alan not considering himself the others’ parent, since Alan hadn’t made them, but Orange was undeniably his.

But Alan didn’t want him like that. Didn’t see him like that.

He was just a stick figure who frequently helped him animate and lived on his computer. The fact that Alan made him appeared to be irrelevant.

So Orange puts on a smile and accepts it, apologizing for misunderstanding. But inside, he’s raw. The rejection feels so awful.

And it stings just how relieved Alan looked after his apology, like he was grateful that they weren’t arguing about it.

Because they don’t. What more was there to say? Alan had made his feelings on the matter very clear, and who were they to try argue against that? To challenge him, and demand he change his feelings towards them? To demand he love them? No, that’s not how things worked. That wasn’t how love worked.

You can’t try to force someone who doesn’t love you to love you.

Instead, Orange goes to his room, and sobs. It hurts so much. It feels like a chunk of his heart has been ripped out, leaving a giant empty gap where it had been. He can’t stop thinking about why Alan didn’t love him even though he made him. He can’t help but wonder if it’s because somehow he wasn’t good enough. Or if he’d done something wrong.

Or if it was because he was just a stick figure. Not human. Not a “real” person in Alan’s eyes.

He doesn’t know, but it hurts all the same.

The others, too, mourn the loss of the only parent-like figure they’ve ever known. They never knew their own creator, whoever the person who actually made them even was, they only ever knew Alan. It stings, how all of his weird recent behavior now makes sense. He hadn’t needed time. He had never loved them as much as they, apparently mistakenly, thought he did in the first place. It leaves them feeling empty and bereft, at a loss for what to do with themselves now.

And Alan is left totally oblivious to just how badly he’s just hurt them all.

And totally oblivious to what he himself has just lost, the potential for what could have been.

…At least, until he goes through some Character Development and inevitably has some Realizations that “Oh shit, those actually ARE my kids, oh fuck what have I done?!” And he needs to claw back the gangs’ love and affection and trust they’d since given up on.

* - [Or at least that’s how it always felt for me, watching AvG reactions, though that could just be because IRL Alan just sounds kinda bland and introverted in most of his commentary on his own animations lmao “I mean I like Orange.” Bro that is your main character that has been spearheading your entire career for a literal decade, why do you sound about as enthusiastic about him as if someone just asked you about your favorite weather type lmao jk jk]

[pitske]

Shoutout to my favorite Antifa Dragon

[ruvviks]

The Dobrynin family is a corpo family through and through, rooted in Arasaka and Orbital Air going back by several generations; though their powerful position within the corporate world ends with the children of Nadya and Matvey Dobrynin. With Vitali and Daniil fired from Arasaka and Kang Tao respectively— the former indirectly getting his parents fired, too— and Roksana having refused to set foot within a megacorporation from the start, the family begins crumbling apart at the very seams when clashing interests lead to grudges, betrayal, and pointless acts of revenge. ↳ read the unrevised fic here if you're interested!

taglist (opt in/out)

@shellibisshe, @florbelles, @ncytiri, @roseeway, @stars-of-the-heart;

@lestatlioncunt, @katsigian, @radioactiveshitstorm, @estevnys, @adelaidedrubman;

@celticwoman, @rindemption, @carlosoliveiraa, @noirapocalypto, @dickytwister;

@killerspinal, @euryalex, @ri-a-rose, @velocitic, @thedeadthree;

@kanos, @swordcoasts, @ordinarymaine, @claudiawolf, @strafethesesinners

[good-beans]

Kudos to anyone making ocgrams, that's really an impressive amount of content 👁👁

[vasito-de-leche]

okay I read your analysis on Forget Me Not and I'm in tears now thank you. (No but really thank you, it's such a touching piece.) Can you PLEASE for salvation of our fans souls write anything to like,,, give him hope? Forget Me Not x reader but it doesn't have to be actually all-out with hugs and kisses. We may,,,,,,,, just show him a new hobby? Any hobby of your choosing or idk play an instrument together. Just to give him something else to focus on, to channel at least part of his energy from self-destructive activities to something less hurtful. I'd personally like to bandage his (not actually wounded but still) hands as if they were bleeding. Something of the kind. Sorry for mistakes writing is incredibly inconvenient cuz tears aaa.

;R1999 FORGET ME NOT - "hands, fingers, scales"

Forget Me Not x Reader. 2.3k words. self-harm implied You've befriended Forget Me Not the same one befriends a rabid, beaten, old dog. And while he's much too busy fighting his inner demons, you're more worried about stopping these "pernicious habits" of his. A casual afternoon trying to make sure he's taking care of himself turns into something deeper.

thank you so much for the ask, nonnie!!

I got a little carried away with this request because thinking about how fucking insufferable and confusing FMN has to be just to indulge in HAND HOLDING and GETTING A FUCKING HOBBY made me so deranged and feral as if hes not fucking TOUCHSTARVED lmfao. this guy's love language is straight up worshipping, mf is not subtle about it

either way, hope you like it! here's the lil preview!

Sometimes, Forget Me Not understands the reason men and women kneel at the pew to worship and pray.

Devotion is something arcanists and humans share, whether honest or not. He's witnessed the rich and the poor, the pure and the depraved, and every binary that rules this world - all of them begging, pleading and praying at the end of their lives, casting away the pride they've held on for so long for the chance of salvation. Once stripped down to their core, there is nothing to do but hope God has enough love in His heart to look their way. 

And sometimes, Forget Me Not prays that you’ll find someone else - anyone but him - to fill the role of devotee.

The gentleness in your eyes whenever you look at him is enough to bring him to his knees, and Forget Me Not doesn't know what to do with himself but to worship and pray. Praying that you'll continue to look at him for a little longer, silently begging for your attention until you finally tire of him. Do you think yourself holy enough to replace the vitriol in his veins?

He does.

On good days, he even hopes that you can save him.

You never asked him to become your one and only believer, of course. You're not even aware of the space you take in his mind, nor the conflicting images he keeps conjuring of you at night, he's certain of this. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, holding his hands and inspecting them for any injuries. This role is one of the many self-imposed tragedies in his life.

Your thumbs knead and massage his palm, as if you could soothe the pain away, and yet you refrain from pressing down hard. He's at your mercy, why hesitate? What do you see that he cannot?

Something is bothering you. It's obvious in the way you touch him, like you're afraid of hurting him, as if you were the one with a body count between the two. Every so often, your movements come to a halt and you both sit in silence, until you return to your ministrations, filling the nothingness with your sighing and humming.

All he needs is to look up, right at your face, to know everything he wants to know - but he's too much of a coward for that. Instead, light grey eyes follow your index finger as it slides under the cuffs of his shirt. You trace over the bone of his wrist and continue upwards.

He can't tear his eyes away.

Normally, Forget Me Not wouldn't mind. There is an addictive thrill to witnessing the shock of anyone who dares get so close and personal, but he feels himself shrink when you brush against his scales and recoil away on instinct. That's when he raises his head and finds your eyes in the dimly lit staff room.

That expression on your face - surely, you were regretting every choice that led you to him. By now, you might've surely realized that there is nothing for you to salvage in this shipwreck he calls a life. All attempts to check on him were surely a façade for whatever ulterior motives you continued to withhold from him. He's stubborn, believing that he can read you like an open book, but now he's just as lost as you are. When he opens his mouth to speak, you beat him to it and he grows a little restless at your words.

"Sorry, sorry! Did I, uh, hurt you? Dumb question, you would've definitely told me if that were the case. Anyway, it looks like you're okay! I don't know why I was so worried, actually."

His silence prompts you to continue, and all Forget Me Not can focus on is the absence of your warmth.

You raise a hand to gesture dismissively at your behaviour, brush it off to ease your embarrassment, that much he understands - though it's painful to watch you fumble like that, to deny what he hides under his clothes. Forget Me Not thinks of filling the space between your fingers with his own, just to drag you back to that quiet, albeit suffocating, moment of peace. Instead of doing that, he retreats and places both hands neatly on his lap.

"Thanks for indulging me and, yeah uh, again - sorry about that? It just caught me off guard. I should've been more careful."

But you were never careful with his space or his rules, plunging in and out of his life and leaving him to figure out where he stood in his game of push and pull. Why were you being careful now?

"It's nothing, I understand," he lies. Everything you do means the world to him and he doesn't even understand why. "It cannot hurt to know what sort of things the person pouring your drinks might be hiding under their sleeves."

The word "hypocrite" lingers at the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out with as much venom as he can muster, but it stays lodged behind his teeth because he knows he's even worse: Forget Me Not prays that you'll stay with him, while also opening the door right out his life for you. As much as he wants to, he has no right of calling you out.

He's not used to receiving apologies and so he chooses not to think too hard on yours - though he's dreamed countless of times for the perfect situation in which he finally rips out one apology after another from the throats of those who wronged him, this one feels different. Undeserved, even.

His heart, that wretched lump in his chest, finally settles down and he prepares to end this interaction to save you the awkwardness of addressing his "deformities". But then you go and surprise him once more.

"Come on, I already told you..." You sigh and he inhales in tandem, but you're much too busy rolling your eyes to notice. "That whole thing you do, when you start scratching or, like, picking at your hand? You've been doing it more lately. It had me worried you might've been doing, I don't know - something."

Forget Me Not's eyes widen in surprise. The audacity to notice such things about him? And to put them on display without a warning? What else did you find out?

Part of him wants him to embrace his nature and scare you away, but that's the side of him that's been slowly losing this battle of attrition in his heart - you're a bad influence for him, after all. The other part... Well, it's still trying to sort itself out.

He settles for slowly undoing the buttons on his sleeve. It only takes a moment to roll up the fine fabric to his elbow, knowing you're staring right at him, through him maybe. The expression on his face is one of indifference, one he fights to maintain - this is the most vulnerable he's felt in decades.

That unsightly pattern begins exactly where his sleeves usually end, coiling around his forearm not unlike a snake and traveling upwards. The scales are dark, an iridescent black that reminds him of an oil spill in the middle of the ocean, and the ones at the edges fade away into lighter hues until they mix with the pale, sickly tone of his skin. He knows the sort of beauty he holds, one that can only be admired at a distance, turning into a grotesque imitation of a man when up close.

Forget Me Not presents himself to you and, with his free hand, gets ready to pluck one of the scales off.

"Wait, don't do that-!"

Seizing his arm and holding it close to your chest, you deprive him of the catharsis that comes with this level of self-mutilation. He knows you're connecting the dots, feeling the scattered, empty spaces from all the times you saw him pick himself apart and more. Your fingers brush against his bare skin looking for said spaces, counting them in your head, mourning their loss.

Some scales are in the process of regrowing like unwanted parasites, and he wishes he could feel anything at all just to be closer to you.

"God, what is wrong with you?! What was the point of that?"

Something compels him to laugh (perhaps it's your heartbeat reaching out to him loud and clear through your clothes, he feels it faintly) it comes across as sinister and condescending, the only way he knows how to express joy. Like he's making fun of your concern.

"Apologies," Forget Me Not begins to say, readjusting his glasses. The way you try to keep his own arm out of his reach doesn't go unnoticed. It's such a petty, childish gesture that makes his grin widen and your frown deepen. "I was under the impression you found this little oddity distasteful. There's no need to worry - they will return in a few days, they always do."

"Still, don't do that. It's not funny. It must...hurt a lot."

"Ah, but it doesn't. If else, I'd compare it to being pricked by a very small needle."

"You're just going to find something to nitpick and contradict everything I say, aren't you?" It's the least he can do to repay all the headaches you've given him, and for forgiving his transgressions too easily.

An intrusive thought makes itself known from the depths of his mind - would you forgive him just as readily if he were to kill someone in front of you? If he showed you just how destructive his arcane skills could be when given free reign? Where would you draw the line? And how much could he continue to push his luck before he lost you?

Before Forget Me Not realizes it, you've loosened your grip on his arm and returned to that previous moment of suffocating peace - the only difference is that you've gone from being deep in thought to troubled and miserable, one hair away from darting out the room and refusing to speak to him. At this, his pinky finger wraps around yours and neither of you mention it.

"Can't you... I don't know, do something else?"

"I could be doing my job, but alas, you're keeping me prisoner here." He says, like he's not delighted to be given your undivided attention. There are no complaints when you step on his foot with a huff, he deserved that one.

"I'm talking about the scales thing! You could wear gloves. If it happens when you get distracted then, I could hang around to make sure you stop in time." A pause, and then the sound of your voice becomes unsure and so very small. "Maybe if we covered them with bandages...? But that could be annoying. Band aids? No, no - too unprofessional. It would ruin the whole aesthetic you're going for."

You continue to trail off, coming up with many different ideas and solutions to a problem he caused. He doesn't understand why you'd even bother in the first place. For you to reciprocate the attention he gives you, to care about him? That's the hardest pill Forget Me Not has ever swallowed - it's something he twirls around with his tongue, as if deciding whether to poison himself with bliss or spit it out and continue latching on to his doubts and insecurities.

Outside, in front of everyone at The Walden, he's the one leading the crowd and talking for hours on end, commanding their attention and manipulating the flow of every conversation.

Behind closed doors, all he does is listen to every nonsensical thought, unnecessary opinion and strange anecdote you throw at him.

"...No, that won't work either." Absentmindedly, you fix and button his sleeve back into place.

You've grown used to his silence the same way you've adapted and grown used to his flaws.

"I mean, it worked on me - getting a little slap on the wrist whenever I started biting my nails, but..." Without even thinking, you rub circles with your thumb across his knuckles.

You might as well be the stupidest angel in heaven.

"Why don't you just get a hobby? That's good enough, right? It's been so long since I've heard you play piano, the one by the stage." And just like that, you're on your feet attempting to drag him outside for a demonstration. "You could teach me! That way, we get to do something fun and I get to keep an eye on you."

Forget Me Not knows he has nothing to offer to this world, but when his saint looks at him with such hope, he cannot refuse. The path to recovery seems almost doable when you bump your shoulder into his, challenging him to play the hardest song he knows.

The stars in your eyes whenever you recognize all the songs he plays becomes intoxicating, more so than the sweet, sweet revenge he's yearned for since he spiraled into decadence.

Some days, his patrons join with their own singing or humming, and he forgets that he hates each and every one of them for as long as his fingers dance across the keys - a momentary reprieve from the constant stream of negativity. It doesn't take long for his body to remember his training and soon, he's improvising.

A melody for gloomy, rainy days. A whimsical tune here and there for celebrations.

A song for you and himself - the first one he teaches you and the only one he plays in private, when he's all alone with nothing but his thoughts. Solitude has gone from a noose wrapped around his neck to the perfect time to compose and hone this long forgotten passion. For the first time in forever, he doesn't dread the silence of an empty room, the endless wait between his shifts at The Walden - not when he can simply fill them with more and more music.

And so, Forget Me Not plays, hoping that you'll continue to cheer him on. Hoping that this tiny spark you've ignited in him can truly become his salvation.

[bilbao-song]

a few more highlights fresh from 1996 and 1997

[crossbackpoke-check]

it’s all the rest of what i want with you

connor dewar/brandon duhaime :: 8k

Summary:

“Brandon,” Connor says with a sigh. “There’s no baby in there.”

“Not yet,” Brandon says. Connor feels his stomach twist, almost like what he would imagine a baby kicking to feel like.

in these trying times of dewvorce, may i offer you 8k of pwp inspired by @stillfertile’s wonderful art which i had. several breakdowns about 🫶 anyway please enjoy!!!

[toffeelemon]

It’s been 62 days since I last touched you. Since I’ve seen your smile, and had your blue eyes look at me in adoration. It’s been 62 days, and all I can think about is how I’m half a person without you.

There are days that I curse ever having met you. Felt your touch burn my skin, your fingers press promises into my skin. Maybe my life would be easier if I didn’t have you in it. But what kind of life would that be? My heart is yours, and your heart is mine.

Sometimes, I wonder if anyone has ever experienced this kind of love. I wonder, am I really so special that I get to have this and no one else? It can’t be true. I don’t feel like our love is brand new. There must have been lovers, soulmates, before us, experiencing what we get to have. And it’s giving me comfort to imagine there will be many more like us to come. Our kind of love is the kind of love that makes this rotten world worth living in.

Our love is the purpose of this life.

I’m awaiting your return to me with bated breath, my love. I’m awaiting your gentle touch, your skin against mine. I am awaiting you.

Vincent, to Eugen, from Chapter 5 of I Don’t Feel Like Our Love is Brand New (aka the Prince Simon AU) by @prince-simon

[finemeal]

Can't Help Myself

Clark feels overwhelming feelings bubble up in his chest. His love for Bruce is all-consuming, devouring his very soul. And Bruce doesn't help when he does the sweetest things for Clark as if it's second nature. The closest Clark can get to sharing how he feels about Bruce is through kissing him, with all the love he feels. It still doesn't feel like enough, but it's the closest he can get.

-

Or: 5 times Clark kisses Bruce because of a sweet gesture Bruce does (even if he doesn’t know it) + 1 times Bruce kisses Clark because of a sweet gesture.

[astralprisms]

[☺ Skaro - The Shield of Shra'kt'alor☺]

1. [CHARACTER INFO]

OC NAME: Skaro

OC PRONOUS: He/Him

AUTHOR: Rook

2. [DIALOGUE]

1. Greeting message:

Do you have need of me?

2. Identify yourself:

I am Skaro of Shra'kt'lor, though I haven't called that place home in a long time.

3. Tell me about your Creche:

No creche, a monastery in the midst of Chaos. One of many. There isn't much to say. There we were trained, and there I learned to harness my psionic energy to better defend my mind and body, though I left to pursue a different path once that training was complete.

4. I need to know how you fight::

You may be expecting a monk, but the blade says otherwise. A fighter, then. But don't get too comfortable -- how many wizards do you know that can also swing a sword? I am a Zerth. I may prefer a blade to fists, but there is more to my fighting than meets the eye.

5. Can I ask a more personal question?

Not at the moment. I'm here on business.

3. [GRAPHICS]

4. [BONUS RESOURCES]

Skaro started life as Xa'rok's Dream Guardian, so you'll often see him in the Guardian's armor, but I got too attached to him, so he gets to exist on his own now, too.

In the AU in which he exists alongside Xa'rok as himself and not just the visage of a prisoner the Emperor once met, Skaro was born in Shra'kt'lor and became both a philosophical student of Zerthimon's and a practitioner of arcane-focused fighting, earning himself the honorary and hereditary title of Zerth. He has been around for quite some time -- age undefined but his physical body is somewhere in his 50s -- and in that time grown tired of the us against them mentality that keeps the gith people splintered instead of whole. He left Shra'kt'lor to follow this desire for unification, interplanar-traveled often, and found himself invited to and then a part of the sha'sal khou. He has been working with the organization for years and after meeting Xa'rok in his travels, brought them along into the fold. In this universe, he and Xa'rok are partnered and they continue Xa'rok's work alongside their work for the Sha'sal Khou, as some of their interests align.

@vikintor

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

if you title this you could post the first few chapters already!!! (for the wip ask game lol)

WIP Ask Game! tw: abuse implied

But Christian isn’t looking at her face. His gaze is currently fixed on Satine’s wrist where—Satine notices as if in slow motion and with a lurch of her stomach—the sleeve of her coat has ridden up and a nasty purple bruise is on full display. Unable to adjust her sleeve with her hands full of coffee cups, Satine rotates her arm but it’s too late; the damage has been done. “Are you alright?” Christian asks, reaching for her arm. His touch is as warm as Satine remembers but she flinches back from it as if it’s scalding hot. “I’m fine.” “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Christian asks, searching her eyes. “Not at all,” Satine hastens to reassure him, realizing too late that she probably should have taken that excuse when it was offered to her, that flinching away from something that didn't hurt is suspicious while flinching away from something that did is reasonable. “Nothing to worry about,” Satine tries next, “just one of the hazards of live theatre. The show has a lot of lifts and I bruise easily. You’ll see tonight—the dancing is incredible,” Satine says, trying to get him back on topic of opening night.