#(the quotes are to relate back to the prompt as usual and not to say im not really a 'poet' or that i dont really experience chronic 'pain')

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 363

Adjective: Poetic

Noun: Pain

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Poetic: relating to or used in poetry; written in verse rather than prose; having an imaginative or sensitively emotional style of expression

Pain: physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury; mental suffering or distress; (informal) an annoying or tedious person or thing; careful effort, or great care or trouble

[thatstonedwriter]

˚₊‧🍄[ Pain in the Ass ]🍃˚₊‧

◉ Synopsis; Billy Butcher comforts(?) you as you deal with chronic pain

◉ CW; swearing, chronic pain, mentions of self-medication, references to ableism, Butcher might be a bit OOC (sorry), implied romantic attraction

◉ A/n- I’m still nervous about writing scenarios/short fics but i wanted to try it out since I really like this prompt. Hopefully it turned out alright- enjoy!

You’d done your best- really you had. All morning, quotes from people who thought they knew better, your parents, your own fucking doctors- everybody saying it’s just “mind over matter”- echoing in your head. Classic platitudes you’ve heard since you were younger; people trying to relate, but instead, minimizing your pain.

“Oh yeah I get it- sometimes my stomach hurts, too.”

“Headaches suck but it could always be worse right?”

“You can’t let pain control you.”

“Fuck those stupid God damn- agh!”

Annoyed grumbles turn into a sharp gasp as another wave of pain shoots through your joints. This paired with the stomach/headache combo from this morning was really wearing you down.

And now you were reaching a point of desperation. The medicine you’d been prescribed proved itself useless against the pain today- and sure you could ask for some meds from Frenchie’s stash but… that option should be saved as a last resort. You could ask for help from Hughie, Kimiko or M.M. Surely one of them would be kind enough to pick up more of your prescription or grab you some heating pads- but then again, going out in public could put them at risk. You couldn’t ask them to put their lives in danger for something so trivial.

Never had it crossed your mind to ask Butcher for help. Worst case scenario, he kicks you out of the group for being weak- best case scenario? He says something ableist and leaves you to fend for yourself. No. You’re not dealing with that shit, especially not now.

A knock on the door to your little “bedroom” signaled that a higher power had other plans for you.

“Ya’alright in there, love?” Butcher’s voice, in any other scenario would have been a pleasant surprise- but in this moment of vulnerability? It was like hearing death bells toll.

“Yeah- yep- yep I’m good, thanks.” Your curt reply was not unusual to Butcher, but certainly not preferred. Slightly worrisome, even. You hadn’t come out all morning, and now you’re miffed with him? He hadn’t even done anything to piss you off! Today, at least.

He tries the doorknob, letting out a frustrated huff when it turns out to be locked.

"Trying to let yourself in? See, you're why God made locks."

"Come now, no need for the 'ostility-"

You rolled your eyes as Butcher began his usual spew of excuses, but one in particular caught your attention. It was near the end of his little monologue- softer, quieter, and spoken with a hint of uncertainty.

"and besides… can't have ya crappin' out on us, yeah?"

Even from in your room, you could hear the uncomfortable shuffling of a man unacquainted with emotional vulnerability.

"I'm not 'crapping out' on anyone," you scoff, wincing as more pain sears through your body. "But.. I could use some hel- hey!"

Before you could even finish your sentence, the door "magically" opened- and there Butcher stood, sly smirk on his face, lockpick in hand. He catches your gaze and shoves the pick back in his pocket.

"So then, what seems to be the problem, eh?"

God, it's going to sound so ridiculous when you say it out loud. Compared to what everyone's been through, saying "my tummy hurts" isn't really a matter of urgency.

But it's more than a stomach or headache on it's own. It's more than your joints occasionally aching and popping. It's been every goddamn day for as long as you could remember. Would it really be so wrong to ask for help?

“It’s just been.. pain. All day.”

“Is that all? A’right, where does it ‘urt?”

“…Everywhere. All the time.”

Your response caught Butcher off-guard. He’d been expecting some minor complaints, or even a sarcastic retort about what an ass he was being. The cocky, confident expression was replaced with one of concern as he caught a glimpse of the medications littering the nightstand. Surprisingly enough, they were all your own prescriptions. Probably not strong enough for whatever you were dealing with, Butcher reckons.

“You tried Frenchie’s stash?” he sighs, playful demeanor gone as he goes fishing in his pocket for cigarettes and a light.

“I’m.. saving that as a last resort.”

Butcher lets out a ‘hmph’ as he lights a cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out the door.

“What d’ya need?”

“Sorry?”

He takes another drag, this time blowing the smoke out his nose. “Make me a list, I can grab what’cha need.”

It was hard to tell whether or not Butcher was annoyed with you. On one hand, you could appreciate the concern. On the other, it was almost certain Butcher was frustrated with this show of “weakness.” It took you a moment to find the right words- not necessarily wanting to decline the offer, but hesitant to voice your needs.

“You don’t need to grab anything. Meds aren’t helping today, and I can���t ask you to put yourself at risk. But if you’re offering… I wouldn’t mind some company…”

Uneasy silence smothered the room until Butcher finally sighed, dropping his cig on the floor and putting it out before walking into the room, taking long, slow steps. He grabs a nearby chair, loud scraping assaulting your ears as Butcher drags it to the side of your bed, plopping himself down and crossing his arms. More uncomfortable silence envelops the two of you until you decide to speak up.

"You don't have to be here if you don't want to, y'know."

"I know," Butcher mumbles. He glances at you out of the side of his eye, gaze softening as he watches you wince as yet another wave of pain rolls through your body.

Black spots invade your vision as the aching in your body worsens. You let out a low groan, hands gripping the sheets tightly as you wait for this wave to pass.

A larger, calloused hand covers one of yours, startling you enough to open your eyes. Through the black spots, you swore you could see Butcher's hand on yours, thumb rubbing your knuckles softly.

"You'll uh.. You'll be a'right."

You let out a weak laugh at the awkward, but sweet attempt at comfort.

With how little you'd expected from him, this gentle, caring side to Butcher was a welcome surprise. As the pain dissipates, your eyes begin to flutter closed.

"How about ya take it easy today. I'll tell the others not to bother ya, and I'll come back 'n keep ya company." Butcher's voice is soft- unexpectedly considerate.

Nodding weakly, you lean your head back, shifting against the pillows to get comfortable once again.

Butcher squeezes your hand, keeping a firm hold on you as you drift back to sleep.

[endiness]

Debunking misinformation about Netflix's The Witcher (Part 5)

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7]

"The show was supposed to have 7 seasons."

So. This isn't quite true and this rumor has largely been based off of what was basically a misunderstanding of what Lauren said and the subsequent misreporting of that along with the media never really following up on any of her clarifying comments, either — all of which is the thing that I really want to get into.

First off, I will preface this by saying that at one point, Lauren did say something along the lines of how she pitched "season 1, then season 2, season 3, 4, 5, 6, 7" to Netflix. Unfortunately, I cannot find this quote at the moment, but I do think that should be noted. However, as far as I can tell, the main source of the rumor that the show was originally planned for 7 seasons is not based off of Lauren having said that but rather this SFX/gamesradar interview instead:

Which Lauren later went on to clarify what she meant in another season 1 interview:

And in an interview for season 2:

The basic gist of what she was saying was that she initially mapped out 7 seasons with the idea of 1 season = 1 book, essentially, which she mainly did in order to have an overall sense of where the characters were going. So, was there a rough draft, outline for 7 seasons? Sure. Were there definitive, concrete plans that the show was always supposed to have 7 seasons? imo, no.

Just to address this, too, and how the subsequent misreporting of inaccurate information spreads: People — and not just the fanbase but other media outlets, too — usually cite this Hollywood Reporter interview with Henry Cavill as proof that the show was always supposed to have 7 seasons because he said he'd be up for doing that many:

But Henry Cavill was never directly quoted as saying that, and given that he was never directly quoted, it's likely that the interviewer asked him something along the lines of "Would you be part of the show for 7 seasons?" which prompted the answer he gave — and there is a difference between Henry Cavill himself saying that there's going to be 7 seasons and he's down for being part of the show for that long vs an interviewer asking him if he'd be up for doing 7 seasons of the show (which has been based off of the subsequent misreporting of what Lauren said in the first place) and him answering yes.

On top of that, here's an earlier season 1 interview Henry Cavill did with Elle where he talks about how many seasons he hopes the show goes to:

Which imo also only goes to show that the idea that there were ever any definitive plans for 7 seasons is not an accurate depiction of the situation.

"The viewership for season 3 was bad."

Season 3 debuted at #1 on the Top 10, it stayed at the #1 spot in the Top 10 for a total of 3 weeks, and it stayed in the Top 10 altogether for 8 weeks.

It had approximately 54.8 million views over the course of 186 days — 6.9 million views in 2 days (from Netflix's Jan-Jun 2023 data) + 49.7 million views in 184 days (from Netflix's Jul-Dec 2023 data.)

It was also the 5th most watched show in Netflix's Jul-Dec 2023 data, which I think is the most important factor because regardless of how the season-by-season numbers look and any potential drop in viewership, it was still one of the most watched shows on the platform during that time period.

"The show was cancelled and it was cancelled because of season 3."

The show was already rumored to have been renewed for season 4 and season 5 back in September of 2022.

So, long before season 3 even aired or it was announced that Henry Cavill was leaving the show or any other season 3 related issue. Given that Netflix already has a track record of shows rarely going beyond 5 seasons, if that, I think it is entirely probable that it was renewed for season 4 and season 5 back in 2022 with the intention for the show to end after that point anyway — although, granted, this hasn't been confirmed.

Also, like, despite claims otherwise, the show is following the books and the books do have a set endpoint. The show ending where the books do is not the show being cancelled, it's just the show coming to its natural conclusion like the books do. Also just to say, but it is entirely possible for the show to adapt the last 3 books into two seasons anyway. Baptism of Fire largely focuses on Geralt's story, not Ciri's as she's hardly in that book, whereas The Tower of the Swallow largely focuses on Ciri's story, and both books roughly take place over the course of summer/fall. It is extremely probable that S4 will cover Geralt's story in BoF and Ciri's story in TTotS (especially as we already know that Bonhart will appear in S4 and he's really not that prominent of a character until TTotS), leaving the remainder of TTotS and The Lady of the Lake for S5 (which roughly covers winter/spring, just to give a sense of the timeline in the books.)

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

CS Winter Bingo--Square 4 (caroling): A Match Faked for Christmas, ch. 3

Hi there and happy holiday season!  In an attempt to continue procrastinating my season 4 rewatch drabbles–and to not feel guilty about it–I decided to participate in the CS Winter Bingo event.  I received nine winter/holiday related prompts arranged in a square like a bingo card.  My mission is to make a bingo by writing at least three of my prompts before winter is over, but I’m hoping to do better than that!  I’m hoping to finish all nine!  Given the nature of the event, you can expect a lot of fluff (but then what else would you expect from me, after all?)  I’m hoping to keep them short as well, but I’m usually not nearly as successful at that.  And without further ado, let’s play CS Winter Bingo!

Rating: G

Word count: 1554

Today’s prompt: Fake Dating: Holiday Edition

Other chapters: (1) (2) (3) (5) (6)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emma took a deep breath, hesitated for another moment, and then knocked on Killian’s door.  After holiday decorating yesterday, she figured it was her turn to approach him for their next act of romantic subterfuge.

And…well…maybe she had enjoyed the outing to the tree farm, putting up the lights and ornaments and garland, talking and laughing and just enjoying the company of her neighbor.  Maybe they could be friends when all of this was over?  It was good to be friendly with neighbors, wasn’t it?

Yeah, friends, her rather sarcastic inner voice mocked.  You totally just feel friendship for him.  That’s why your heart nearly beat out of your chest when you fell from that ladder and he caught you in his arms.  Nothing more!

Emma felt her cheeks redden, and prayed that if Killian saw it he would just attribute it to the cold wind.

Okay, so maybe he was her hot friend.  She had eyes, didn’t she?  She could appreciate a well-built male specimen.

At that inauspicious moment, the well-built male specimen himself opened the door.

“Why Swan,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Pleasure indeed. Unbidden, images guaranteed to deepen the color on her cheeks to magenta flitted through her mind.

“Uh,” she said, clearing her throat, “I thought I ought to come to your house too.  You know, to keep up appearances.  We are ‘dating’ after all.  Should pretend like we enjoy each other’s company.”

He motioned her in and then shut the door against the cold December wind.  “I do enjoy your company, Swan.”

He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly.  Only the barest hint of the innuendo she knew he was capable of.  It made her heart stutter. Again.

If this fake relationship lasted much longer, she was going to need to see a cardiologist.

“So, what manner of relationship worthy trickery did you have in mind today, love?” he asked after a moment.

She simply shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I’m not good at this.”

“Faking a relationship?”

“A relationship at all,” she said.  “I’m more of a one-nighter type.  I’ve had a couple relationships, and…well, the best thing I can say about them is that they’re over.”

She did not want to talk about Neal or Walsh or the way they’d so utterly messed her up.

He must have sensed her reluctance, because he tactfully moved on.  “Well then, I have a suggestion.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go caroling!” he said with a big, excited smile.

“Caroling?” she said with a frown. “As in knocking on people’s doors and then singing.  In public?”

“Of course!” he said.  “In the immortal words of Buddy the Elf, the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!”

She laughed at that–not merely his words or the fact that he was quoting a silly Christmas movie, but also the exaggerated way he waggled his eyebrows when he said it.  He was an idiot.  He was adorable.

She was in trouble.

“Killian, I have no idea how your voice is,” she said, “but there is a reason I don’t sing in front of anyone else.  Ever.”

“Oh come on!” he wheedled, “you can’t be that bad!  Besides, after we’re done, we can come back here and I’ll make you another mug of hot cocoa.”

“Wait,” she said, “you mean you made the cocoa you brought me?  Like from scratch?”

“Of course!” he answered.  “Nothing to it.  Just heat a little milk, a little cocoa, maybe a dash of vanilla and voila!  Molten sweetness in a mug.  How do you make your cocoa?”

She shrugged. “Tear open a packet of Swiss Miss, dump it in some water, and then nuke it til it’s hot.”

He pulled a face that made her laugh again.  “That’s it, Swan,” he said, “it’s decided.  As your fake boyfriend it is my duty to save you from the perils of powdered cocoa mix.  So what do you say?  A little caroling?  We end up at Mary Margaret’s to make a good show of it, and then back here for cocoa?”

“It’s a fake date,” she said, “but you’re going to have to help me.  I don’t exactly have all the Christmas music memorized.”

“Not a problem, love!” he said, rummaging in one of his cabinets and producing two old, rather faded song books.  “I come prepared for any Christmas related emergency.”

Emma didn’t know what to expect when it came to caroling with Killian, but when they reached the first house and his smooth, almost liquid baritone crooned “Silent night”, her jaw literally dropped.  That voice…like silk did things to her.

He glanced at her when she didn’t join in with him, and caught her gaping.  The slow, sinful wink he shot in her direction, knowing gleam in his eye, did not help matters.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing like that?” she asked as they walked away from their first house.

“Like what, love?” he asked with an all too satisfied grin.

“Like….like….” his grin widened at the way she stuttered, and she frowned up at him.  “You know exactly like what!”

He laughed.  “I’m flattered by your eloquent praise,”

She was saved the trouble of making an even bigger fool of herself when Leroy Little opened the door to them, rather impressive scowl on his face.

“What?” he groused.  “My brothers and I are having a holiday party. And you’re interrupting.”

“Just here to spread a little Christmas cheer,” Killian said, and then indicated a page in their song book.

This time Emma joined in on a rousing rendition of “God rest ye merry, gentlemen.”  Behind Leroy, six other men listened attentively and then applauded when the song came to an end.  Leroy, unmoved, merely held his scowl.

“You done?” he asked when the last note died away. “Can we get back to it now?”

“Merry Christmas to you,” Emma called over her shoulder as she and Killian moved toward their next house.

Killian was uncharacteristically silent as they walked, and after a moment Emma looked up at him.  He peered back a delighted grin on his face.  

“What?” she asked.

“Why Swan, you were holding out on me,” he said.  “You led me to believe you could barely carry a tune, but your voice is lovely.”

Her cheeks reddened–again–at the compliment. “Whatever,” she said dismissively.

“No, really!” he said, and despite the slight hint of gentle teasing in his face, she could hear the sincerity below it.  “You have the voice of an ethereal fairy princess.”

She burst into laughter at that ridiculous thought.  “Killian, I don’t think anyone in their right mind would call me that!”

He chuckled.  “An ethereal warrior fairy princess then?  Or, maybe, given the holiday season, an ethereal warrior sugarplum fairy princess?”

She laughed again at his nonsense and playfully shoved him.  He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm as they continued their carolling.

Half an hour later, Emma was certainly filled with holiday cheer in spite of herself, but she was also more than half frozen.  She breathed a sigh of relief as they made it to the Nolan residence, their last stop before heading back inside.

“You know what would really sell the ruse?” Emma asked as they walked up their matchmaking neighbor’s front porch.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“A flirtatious rendering of ‘Baby it’s cold outside.’” she said.  

His grin grew wicked. “That is a fantastic idea!  We’ll have her eating out of our hands.”

And if Mary Margaret Nolan’s expression while they sang was any indication, he was absolutely correct.

As for Emma….well, she was convinced the song choice was a very significant miscalculation on her part.  Killian singing Christmas carols about the birth of the newborn king was bad enough, but when he dialed the smolder up to eleven with a song like that, it was a wonder she didn’t spontaneously combust.

When the song came to an end, Mary Margaret and David both applauded enthusiastically, before Mary Margaret invited them in.

“We’ll have to take a rain check,” Killian said smoothly.  “As it happens, Emma and I have a hot cocoa date to get to.  Another time, perhaps.”

The older woman’s eyes gleamed at the information, and she enthusiastically ushered them on their way.  Killian took Emma’s hand and laced their fingers as they walked across the street.  Emma knew the action was all for show. She knew it, but still, she felt a bolt of electricity from their connected hands all the way up to her heart.

This had been a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon.  The fact was, she’d liked spending the time with Killian, liked talking and laughing and simply being with him.

And that thought terrified her.

Physical attraction, she could deal with.  This…connection, this care, this….way her heart fluttered when he looked at her, when he spoke, when he sung to her.   Yeah, this was harder to deal with..  A girl’s stomach didn’t swoop when her friend, smiled at her, did she? 

Emma was beginning to think she was in very serious trouble.

Stepping into Killian’s house, she shrugged it off.  That was post-Christmas ethereal warrior sugarplum fairy princess Emma’s problem.  For now, she’d just enjoy the ride.

NEXT CHAPTER->

[queenofbaws]

Ohh, never sent anything like this your way and so I don't want to take the reigns too much! But I loved some of the prompts you RBed. Maybe "I keep thinking that something must be wrong with me. Even right now, it feels like I'm ten feet away from myself." In relation to anything Supermassive (UD/Quarry maybe) because I love love how you write fics for those games; take it anyway you'd please. I just super enjoyed the prompt lol

not-quite-six sentence weekend :P

The whole thing had seemed like a joke at first, just another way that the universe could grab them by the ankles, give them a good hard shake, then grab up all the loose change that spilled from their pockets while their heads were spinning. Things had been normal before camp - things had made sense. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and the things that went bump in the night were usually just your imagination or one of your pets knocking into something in the dark.

But now there were monsters. Now it was impossible to tell where reality ended and make-believe began. Now...

Well, now they were in a dingy little basement that reeked of burnt coffee, sitting on uncomfortable foldout chairs. It had to be the strangest support group that'd ever existed, bar none, and even that wasn't going the way it should've been...not with the other quote-unquote survivors doing what they were doing. Most of them were fine, but the Blackwood Bunch?

Oh. Oh, the Hacketteers were pretty fed up with them.

"So there I am, soaked to the bone, wearing someone else's clothes, I'm tired, I'm hungry, everything hurts, and it's like...every time I thought things were going to be okay, I...I ended up alone again. It was just...way too much. Insult to injury, you know?" Emma let the rest of her breath out in a heavy exhale, anxiously tucking her hair behind her ears. Per the usual, she hadn't let stage fright stop her from going at the first opportunity she was given, working her way through her story with tight smiles and shallow laughs. She licked her lips, took another breath, and -

"You think that's bad," Jessica spoke up from across the way, the collection of chairs a little too sloppy to be called a 'circle,' per se, "try having frostbite. And a concussion. And being in your underwear for most of it."

There was a ripple of low chatter from a couple of the others - not the Hacketteers, not the Blackwoods, but the others, the ones who'd been watching with slow-growing amusement and exasperation as their strange turf war had developed. In voices too low for the (warring factions) rest of them to hear, a man missing a suspiciously clean chunk of his ear leaned over to murmur, "Bet this is the one where they start throwing chairs," only for a woman with a garishly bright red pixie cut to dip her chin and respond, "Twenty bucks and you're on."

At the forefront, Emma's smile tightened, becoming something automatic. Automatonic, really. "I was in my underwear for a lot of it, actually."

"No frostbite, though," Mike cut in, happy enough to take over Jess's argument for her. "Seriously, you guys don't even know what you're talking about, okay? Like, yeah, sure, I know you got scared or whatever, but until you're fighting for your life out in subzero temps? Pfft. You don't know what it means to survive."

"Says the guy who stuck his hand in a bear trap," Jacob shot back, not bothering to lower his voice.

Mike had been ready, though. "Says the guy who stepped into a snare, then stepped into a bear trap, then...wait, wait, how'd he put it last time?" he asked, making a show of turning to Emily, then Jess, then craning his head around to Sam. "Oh! Right. Got dragged into a hillbilly sex dungeon. All in one night. Rip on the bear trap all you want, my guy, my one moment of dumbassery hardly stacks up to you going full fucking Loony Tunes. Walk off any cliffs while you were at it? Try and blow out a stick of dynamite thinking it was a birthday candle?"

"Hey man, that's not fair!" It was then that Nick threw his hat into the ring, sticking up for Jacob's case without a moment of hesitation. "You guys weren't down there! You have no idea what it was like, being in those cages all night!"

"Uh, hang on. A-a-agree to disagree." Chris was the one who spoke that time, but Ashley had lifted a finger beside him, the two of them seemingly lodging their complaint as a unit. "If we want to talk about dungeon experience, you...you really don't have a leg to stand on here, man. Sorry. You don't. Ash and I were in a fucking Saw movie, okay? So, I-I-I'm sorry that like, you got to sit for most of the night, but - "

"I was a fucking werewolf, dude!" Nick fired back, actually getting to his feet. "A monster! You don't have the first idea what that's like! My body exploded, I almost killed Abi, I...things still feel wrong! I still feel wrong! It's like...sometimes I don't even think this is my real body anymore, like I'm here, but I'm also standing ten feet away from myself! You don't get to just act like you've been there, done that - fuck that!"

A clearing of a throat. An unnecessarily loud, pointed sniff.

And then Josh entered the fray.

"Yeah. Know what? True. True that. Not a one of us - and I mean this, Nicholas - not a single one of us has any idea what it's like to be possessed by something otherworldly, flung around according to its whims, changed beyond recognition, and then woken up to realize, aw shit, it's Monday isn't it? I need to get to work pronto, but I'm just covered in all this gross, sticky blood!" Slowly, moving with deliberation, he straightened in his seat, the reconstruction scars on his face almost gone but not quite, his left eye catching the light in that eerie way human eyes weren't supposed to. "Shit. Wait. Hang on. That's not what I meant to say. Sorry, haven't had any of that coffee burbling away on the counter yet, and you know I'm not myself until I've had my coffee, hee hee, ha ha, hoo hoo. What I meant to say was - eat my whole, entire ass. Get back to me when you can describe the taste of human flesh to me, how's about that?"

She'd been quiet until then, but Abi raised her hands in a silent plea for them to stop, scrambling to take hold of the back of Nick's shirt when he took a single step forward towards Josh. "Guys! Guys, hey, this...I...fighting isn't helping stuff, okay? We should just - "

"Okay. Honestly? Sorry, not sorry, I'm on their side with this one," Laura piped in, the Blackwood gang sneering as the Hacketteers whirled. "You guys have...no idea what a hard time is, okay? Yeah, wow, yikes, werewolves. Try being in a jail cell for two months, never knowing if the weirdo who kidnapped you was going to let you go, kill you, bring you something to eat, or just stand outside your cell breathing too hard. On top of the werewolf thing! On top of it!"

"Yeah, like, not for nothing, but we didn't even get to make friendship bracelets, you know?" agreed Max, still nodding right along with Laura.

"They didn't even get to make friendship bracelets," Emily repeated, sadly shaking her head.

"Big talk. Real big talk. I'm sorry, did any of you walk away from your weird little winter getaway missing a limb?" Dylan asked. "No. Didn't think s - "

"Chris messed up his knee!" Ashley snapped. "Mike's missing fingers! Sam's, like, almost totally deaf in her one ear now! You can't just - "

"Yeah, I'm sorry, you didn't get fucking mauled," Emily cut in, speaking over Ashley as she yanked her shirt to one side, revealing the massive scar on her shoulder. "Don't complain about - "

"Pretty sure I got mauled, actually! Pretty sure a few of us got mauled, in fact! You don't - "

"You guys weren't lost underground for hours, trying to find your way out." Matt, that time, his usual stoic silence thrown by the wayside. "Pitch black. In a maze. Hearing something hunt you - "

"Wow. All due respect, dude? You weren't listening to our story at all, were you?" Ryan accused. "We - "

And with that, the meeting devolved the way it always did, all of the younger survivors pointing fingers and shouting, comparing wounds and battle scars, stacking their traumas on top of one another's like Pokemon cards. It wasn't the most therapeutic of ways to go about things, of that there could be no doubt, but...it must've been doing something, because they kept showing up every week.

The world was a strange place, after all. It only made sense that they'd be strange now too.

[orionsangel86]

Subtext Glorious Subtext! A Dreamling on Netflix analysis in The Sandman - Part 1

A Walk With Death

In order to make the story flow better, the show moved Men of Good Fortune forward so that it takes place directly after The Sound of Her Wings. This choice was brilliant for several reasons, and I already talked about that extensively in this post. The Sound of Her Wings comes at a point where Dream feels lost and without purpose, and his sister shows him the value in his role, and in hers, and reminds him of the beauty of humanity, and how to love it again. Then as Tom Sturridge has been quoted as saying, Dream realised that if he could feel so much for the people he met so fleetingly at the moment of their deaths, what did he feel for the man he had known for 600 years?

To help bridge the two separate issues into one episode of television, we get some new short conversations between Death and Dream that don’t occur at all in the comics, where Death asked Dream about Hob.

Death: “...And then there’s your ongoing project. How’s he bearing up after all this time?”

Dream: “Who? Hob Gadling? I don’t know I was forced to miss our last appointment.”

Death: “Well I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

They briefly speak of him again before they part when Dream says:

Dream: “I too am late for an appointment.”

Death: “Tell him I said hello.”

Whilst these exchanges seem minor, and are added to make the episode flow better, Death implies two things here that are non existent in the comics - 1. That she keeps tabs on Hob, or at least has her own assumptions about the nature of his and Dream’s relationship, given the emphasis she puts into the word “love”. 2. That she believes Dream tells Hob about his family, or at least her, and if he doesn’t, that he should.

In the comics, Dream never reveals who he is to Hob, and Hob only really figures it out during the Wake and then after when talking to Death. Hob is a character who is usually isolated from the main storyline. He doesn’t interact with anyone else other than Dream until his conversation with Death in the Wake, other than the one off story in World’s End told from Jim’s POV (Which I have written about separately here where I consider how Hob's relationship with Jim has the potential to add him to the long list of canonically queer characters in the Sandman TV show.)

In the show, Death telling Dream to tell Hob that she said hello gives some prompt that this Dream, in the show, should be revealling who he is AND telling Hob about his sister. Whether he does or not remains a mystery, but the implication is there. It puts an expectation in the minds of the audience, one that comic readers wouldn’t have. There is a prompt for audiences to imagine how Dream and Hob’s reunion should go, and that it should include him revealling himself and telling Hob about his sister. It ultimately encourages the audience to expect Hob and Dream to be closer automatically than they ever are in the comics.

Return to the White Horse

I could wax poetic about Tom Sturridge’s micro expressions as Dream, but there is already a really nice post from @mimisempai​ about his expressions in his scenes with Hob here which I love. When Dream first leaves Death in the park and sets off to find Hob we follow him as he makes the surprisingly short walk from Richmond to Greenwich (lol, its a 4 hour walk, 1 hour drive, and 2 hours by train FYI - though funnily enough the New Inn is actually right by Richmond Park so Dream would have to walk all the way back there from the White Horse Tavern. But the London that exists in The Sandman is clearly a different place entirely!) It is a connector scene between two comic issues that I think give some lovely little insights into Dream's state of mind at the time.

In the comics, Dream meets with Hob after dealing with Hector and Lyta Hall, and it is his desire to meet with Hob that leads him to neglect Lyta and not explain anything to her fully. Ironically Dream wanting to repair his relationship with Hob in the comics is very partially to blame for the bad impression he leaves on Lyta, which ultimately ends in the whole mess in The Kindly Ones. There is no such connection between Hob and Dream's untimely end in the show (which is an interesting element given how the show swaps out comic!Dream's foreshadowed ending in The Kindly Ones in The Sound of Her Wings with his happy reunion with Hob as well.)

Instead, we get to see Dream walking nervously through the busy streets of London. He smiles awkwardly to the man in the doorway, an attempt at human interaction that he fails at spectacularly when the man recoils, simply because Dream is strange and offputting to normal humans (which makes Hob’s reaction to him later even more meaningful). His reaction to the school kids is to close in on himself, shrugging his shoulders and looking down, as if wishing he was invisible. All of these moments indicate how uncomfortable he is in this setting, and also possibly nervous at this appointment he is late for. All of these moments are added in contradiction to how comfortable he is with Hob at the end of this episode. Still so freshly free from his traumatic experience in the glass cage, having had nothing but cruel words and mistreatment from humans for over a century, it is clear he is still getting used to being out among them again now that his sister isn't a comfortable presence by his side. The music in this scene swells and adds anticipation. This is building to something important.

When he arrives at the White Horse we get that beautiful zoom in of his face as he realises the tavern has closed down. The shock and hurt and loss flickering across his face. At this point the audience still doesn’t know the meaning of this, but it is the emphasis that remains in mind as the scene changes and we get a different Dream, with a paler face, a sour expression, and a terrible hair cut. I love this transition because it makes it so clear how he has already changed. If the microexpressions weren’t obvious before, they are now. This is a different Dream, and one you don’t really want to meet. A Dream who hasn't been unconsciously building a friendship over 6 centuries. A Dream who thinks very little of the humans in his charge.

It is this Dream who first meets Hob Gadling, in 1389. Please read on to Part 2 to dig into that meeting. :)

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

Personality through quotes

Thanks @illarian-rambling here!

Rules: give quotes from your OCs about a given prompt

My prompt: What do you do when your friend is sick?

Lexi: "Well, I guess I identify what's bothering them first. And then I try to relate it to myself to show I'm being empathetic, and I understand what they're going through. I let them know it'll be okay, and then I give some advice."

Maddie: "Hm. I guess I try to look around to see if there's anything to help now. And...I guess if there's like an objective solution. Maybe a hands-on method. I, uh, I look for that, since I work better like that. I dunno, I guess I'll then do something to try and help."

Ash: "The way I see it, the sooner you get rid of the bad stuff, the better. So I usually try to look for an easier way out. Practical solutions. I'm not that good at being comforting, but I can solve any puzzle you throw at me."

Gwen: "Considering my friends send me to comfort someone, I think of myself as empathetic. I really try to put myself in their shoes and imagine what they must be going through. I comfort them, validate their feelings, then I take a step back and look at the big picture. I think I'm good at long-term solutions."

Robbie: "I guess I try to figure out what they need. Like, do they need me to leave or, like, stay. When they say they're alright, I need to figure out if they mean it. I can shut up long enough to listen, believe it or not. I try to, I guess, empathize with them. And I try to piece the puzzle together and somehow I end up connecting things. It is hard not to give all the ideas I can think of though. Sometimes they need to, like...be in the moment. I struggle with that, but I try my best."

Akash: "I try to detach myself first, which is a little difficult to do. But it's easier to restate what's going on, then work it out from there. I can't always relate to what's going on, but I do try to use my experiences to give advice. I know that just saying it'll be okay is lame, so I try to assure them in other ways. Like if I think it will be okay, I specifically tell them it's an I think situation. And if I'm not sure, I'll just say that I'll support them through it."

Jedi: "I always try to see things from an individual's point of view. I understand many perspectives, so I will be able to understand them. I will likely take an optimistic approach that most of what is going on in this person's life will resolve in time, and I will provide multiple solutions dependent on multiple scenarios I anticipate happening."

Carmen: "... I don't comfort people.... But if Jedi was upset... I suppose I would simply point out the facts. And then figure out the problem to make a solution. Reliable plans are the way to fix your problems."

Your prompt: What is the worst place you have been stuck in for a long time?

Tagging @little-peril-stories @mk-writes-stuff @willtheweaver @dyrewrites @chauceryfairytales

@writernopal @the-stray-storyteller @loopyhoopywrites @ceph-the-ghost-writer @cowboybrunch

@elsie-writes @melpomene-grey @mysticstarlightduck @theeccentricraven

+ ANYONE ELSE

TSP

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy

[oc-challenges]

Bonjour! Whether you’re single or in a relationship this Valentines Day, most of us have oc couples we love, and we here at oc-challenges want to celebrate those couples with a Valentines Challenge! This challenge is 8 days long, beginning on February 7th and ending on the fated day of February 14th, and @elmunson and @aliverse have come together once again to bring you these prompts!

You know the usual, don’t steal edits. If you feel an edit of yours or someone else’s has been stolen and would like to report it, follow these guidelines.

For any crossovers, make sure the other person is okay with crossovers.

Feel free to ask questions, all prompts are open to interpretation!

In order for your post to be included in this blog, it must be tagged with #ovc2023.

And last but certainly not least, have fun!

Day One: All The Love (7th)

Romance isn’t the only love, and it’s certainly not the most important. To start us on our celebration of love, show off your ocs and their relationships that display the seven different types of love.

Day Two: Same Couple, Different Font (8th)

We all have our favorite and least favorite ships. They may have even inspired some of your oc relationships! Today is about co-co-comparison, what are some canon couples you feel give the same vibes or energy as your oc ship?

Day Three: Another Version of Us (9th)

In a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred realities, in any version of reality... I’d find you and I’d chose you. Or maybe there’s only one universe where we belong together and it’s not this one. Whatever the case may be, it’s all about the ship AUs on the 9th! 

Day Four: Love You Like A Love Song... Or Quote (10th)

You know when you hear a song for the first time and immediately tie it to your otp? Or you see a quote and go “oh my god, that’s so my oc ship!”? Well we want to see them too, pair your oc ship with a song or quote you relate to them.

Day Five: That’s So Us (11th)

Every good couple starts with a solid foundation than adds building blocks to make a strong home out of each other. In OC ships, you could even say these building blocks are ship tropes. Tell everyone what tropes you think your ship is made of!

Day Six: The Language of Flowers (12th)

Flowers mean something, not just a bouquet as an apology, but the flowers themselves have their own symbolism. What is your oc to afraid to say in words? What flowers share a secret language that makes the wedding so much more meaningful? Or maybe they just like pretty flowers. Thank you @ginevranights for this adorable idea!

Day Seven: Love, An Admirer (13th)

Noah wrote Allie 365 letters, we’re only asking you to write one. Show off the valentine card(s) your oc gets from their love interests or maybe go back to elementary and make a little valentine to give to someone else!

Day Eight: Dear Valentine (14th)

It’s time to reach into a bag of chocolates and love yourself a little. For this day, make sure you’ve signed up for @ocpotluck’s valentines exchange to get yourself and someone else a little present!

[ppenvs3000w24]

Blog 6: How safe are you at work?(Historical interpretation)

In this week’s blog prompt, we were tasked with unpacking the quote:

“There is no peculiar merit in ancient things, but there is merit in integrity, and integrity entails the keeping together of the parts of any whole, and if these parts are scattered throughout time, then the maintenance of integrity entails a knowledge, a memory, of ancient things. …. To think, feel or act as though the past is done with, is equivalent to believing that a railway station through which our train has just passed, only existed for as long as our train was in it.” – Edward Hyams, Chapter 7, The Gifts of Interpretation

Collecting and fixing the broken historical artifact helps discover the knowledge that accompanies the artifact.

I believe that Edward wants to express that historical artifacts and evidence of the past by themselves have no value. However, by collecting these often degraded and broken parts, we can discover a story, lost knowledge, or memory of the past. He also uses a train simile to explain that one cannot ignore the past just because it has already happened. It usually teaches us a lesson that helped us improve to the present. Edward’s use of simile, a figurative language, is like what Alan Leftridge talked about when discussing ‘Interpretive Titles and Leads’ in the assigned reading, chapter 14 of the textbook. This helps the reader better visualize and relate the meaning behind Edward’s statement as most people have ridden a train, allowing them to easily visualize and understand.

Relating this quote back to interpretating history, Edward mentions how learning about past helps discover lost knowledge or warnings. This was also mentioned in this week’s second assigned reading, chapter 15 of the textbook, “Another reason to interpret history is to remember. To remember not only the happy stories of our past, but also the tragic ones”. The textbook goes on to mention historic conflicts and events, but I want to relate this to work safety and OSHA.

There is a common saying in the workforce especially centered around manual labour and heavy equipment: “All safety regulations are written in blood”. This saying wants to drive home the message that all work safety regulations and rules that workers find annoying only exist due to a worker in the past getting seriously hurt by a workplace incident causing preventative measures to be made afterwards. While working daily, it is important to follow safety regulations and rules as YOU might be the next OSHA case that rules are written about to prevent serious injury.

By observing the preventative rules, watching recreated incident videos, and reading case files, a working can paint a picture and gain knowledge of the incident that happened in the past that they can prevent now. This is in my opinion exactly what Edward Hyams was talking about in his quote but in a different circumstance compared to my interpretation.

As someone who has worked in many different warehouses and distribution centers, I am fairly comfortable working around loud heavy machinery and forklifts moving around with their horns blaring. Safety is always important in warehouses as the employers do not want to get sued however, safety incidents still occur. One of the biggest safety rules is always wearing high-visibility clothing in the facility so people operating heavy machinery can notice the employee easily. However, all employees are given the same high-visibility clothing so after a period of time, employees unconsciously start tuning out the high-visibility clothing as they become used to them. This is why the saying “All safety regulations are written in blood” resonates with me, as I believe high visibility acclimatization is going to lead to an incident that will create a new OSHA law sooner rather than later.

[yuri-is-online]

Hi again! Shy anon, here. Those longfic ideas are so good! How are you able to come up with such cool prompts?! Sometimes I wish I had my old well of creativity back. But anyways! Hope that, even with the doctor visits you're going through, that you're doing well and taking care of yourself. Can't wait to see what's next! Sincerely, the anon who loves Riddle & Azul

My shy friend, thank you for your kind words ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) I am doing my best to take care of myself and take things slowly, which has included my writing which I am a bit upset about but hey. Some days last a bit longer than others. I feel you about wanting your "well of creativity back." I lose mine a lot, or should I say it runs empty??? idk.

I find that I get my best writing prompts and ideas by reading lots of original stuff that's not always related to my fandoms or my fics. I really like history so I have a bunch of random books about things like crime in Victorian England, Regency Era etiquette, and a history of sex work in London among some other more normal things. When I read if I come across a word I don't know I highlight it and write the definition in the margins, and I usually keep my diary near me so I can write down quotes I really like (I copied down a lot from the Flowers of Evil but I think this one is my current favorite)

I'm always open suggestions for books, my scope is rather limited so I appreciate when people suggest things for me to check out even if I am a bit slow to get to them.

[whinlatter]

say something about the process of your writing. anything you like

(Reading other writers' responses to this prompt today has been so energising and exciting - thank you for sending me this, and for getting everyone to share their writer reflections, what a rich insight!)

When it comes to writing, I'm a vibes-first, plot-second kind of fiction writer. I can talk a bit about a character-study fic I'm in the middle of writing right now, which has the working-title The Hanging Out With Hagrid Award. I'm currently in the figuring-out-what-this-fic-will-be phase, so hopefully this can serve as an example of how I'm writing these days!

My work often starts with a mental image, an emotion or feeling, and/or a dumb joke I've thought of (eg. the idea of Hogwarts having a prize they give out annually to the highest performing student in different subjects, and the one for Care of Magical Creatures being colloquially referred to as the Hanging Out With Hagrid Award). I always begin with a placeholder opener first. Even if (when) I pull it to shreds later, I always use an opening to stand as a sort of creative manifesto for the direction and feel of the rest of the piece as I write it. I never really write chronologically and rarely start with a plan - I just start writing disparate fragments of dialogue, often that are directed more by rhythm than content (my word docs are full of truly tragic little notes-to-self like 'insert a joke here that goes joke-joke-joke-JOKE...joke-joke-joke-joke.'') I also just throw around bits of prose that convey setting and colour and sensory experience, descriptions about how characters are placed or interacting with a space and with each other. Titles often come very early on, and I almost always build playlists to write to before getting going, sometimes little moodboards and colour palettes.

For fanfiction writing, then I go straight to canon and build up a big google doc of canon quotes and information that relate to the themes of the text (thank god for those totally illegal searchable pdfs). For Orchards, this meant loads of setting description for the Burrow, layout maps of the house and garden, links to calendars, as well as every time in canon Harry and Ginny's relationship is referred to alongside mentions of the Orchard, or Quidditch, or the outdoors in general. I'm just building up the doc for the fic I'm currently working on, and so I'm just throwing in descriptions of Hogwarts grounds, Hagrid's speech patterns, canon info on different animals, different moments where characters in the fic interact in canon so I can try and get their speech patterns and relations to one another right. I'm a pedant (and also deranged?), so I often cite canon in footnotes when I'm writing.

And then once I've done all that, I sketch plot and structure. I usually draw a timeline out for that that looks a bit like a musical score (because I am, in my heart, a pretentious arsehole). This new fic will follow the arc of a character's time at school, but probably won't move chronologically - I love work that plays with chronology, hence why Little Women (2019) has my whole heart and La Vie En Rose blew my mind when I first watched it as a teenager. Pacing is definitely the thing I worry most about - like where is the emotional crescendo going to be, how do I have peaks and troughs in intensity and impact on the reader. This is always always is the thing I spend the most time drafting and re-drafting. Often I deliberately stay away from re-reading a WIP for a week or two to try and come back to it with fresh eyes so I can see how it reads and moves more clearly. Or I zoom out of the word document so it's like 20% size and try and see if some sections are literally too big or too long and throwing off the weighting and the pace of the piece, lol.

What's odd is that I write non-fiction for a living, and historically, I've done the opposite of all of these things when I start writing non-fiction. But coming back to fiction writing has changed how I think about approaching non-fiction writing massively. I'm now trying to think much more about how to make non-fiction compelling and legible to a reader in the ways fiction authors do by instinct. (This approach has also started to make the process of non-fiction writing much less acutely painful, which is a blessed and merciful relief after a long time in the trenches).

[mibeau]

🧕Women’s Emancipation during the Prophet’s Lifetime Vol. 1: THE CHARACTER OF THE MUSLIM WOMAN🧕

🧮Score: 4.0/5.0 . “You may accept or reject something of what any human being says, except the Prophet (SAW).” - page 16.

■ This is the abridged version of the original Arabic book published in 1994. The book is divided into 8 volumes.

The author’s writing style is relaxing, eloquently welcoming and soft-spoken. In most parts, pretty convincing. I must say the translator did a very good job. He has not only translated the author’s words, he even conveyed the intended tones, too. . ■ Essentially, this book is a hadith anthology on everything related to Women in Islam from many angles, during the Prophet’s Lifetime. He started the book by introducing the overviews of what he is going to discuss further in the subsequent chapters. The “overview” chapter is 24 pages long. He also shared the reasons that prompted him to work on this book and what is the methodology used.

■ The discussion mainly focused on the misconceptions of Women’s rights among the Muslim communities. He also highlighted sacrifices made by Muslim Women that many people tend to disregard or even are unaware of.

He further discussed the virtues and traits of an ideal Muslimah, for us to emulate, inshaAllah. He shared famous great Female Figures mention in the Quran like Bilqis, Asiah & Maryam and their awe-inspiring characters. . ■ All questions raised are usually answered with a quote from the hadith then, further elaborated, personal insights were given only when necessary. Some insights are interesting but can be controversial. Like the one on page 124.

■ I have read quite several Arabic-to-English translated books. Many times, the authors are somewhat sheltered in their own culture and tend to be insensitive. But, I am surprised by this author’s open-mindedness (within Islamic acceptance), like wow, MashaAllah!

Personally, one of many reasons I decided to study Islam back as a fresh Muslim is because I want to understand, why it is said Islam is simple. Why Islam is a peaceful religion? How Islam is liberating, not oppressing (especially towards women)? The answers I found in my journey are magnificent, Subhanallah! That is why I appreciate people who keep an open mind in approaching matters like the things discussed in this volume. . --- ● Buy a preloved copy from:

● Buy a new copy from:

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Many thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for this fic rec!

I am in a phase where I am absolutely loving, like, medieval fics? I'm trying to write one myself even though I have NO knowledge of anything so when I saw Siri recommend this AND it was Steve Rogers, I couldn't click fast enough.

As per usual, ahead there be

The fic does very well in the language being appropriate for the type of fic that it is. I'm not sure that's going to make any sense lol but like ... if I'm reading a medieval fic? There's a certain cadence and language I really want to read, and if it's actually modern language being used, it's super difficult for me to stay immersed. But I think @buckets-and-trees did really well in staying in the language and cadence of the times.

You sigh, turning back properly in your chair so your lady in waiting, the Duchess Natalia, can resume taking down your hair. “Your Majesty?” she prompts, noting your sigh. “It’s good to hear the king is back.” “He will undoubtedly request an audience with you tomorrow,” she says. She is far too observant and already knows you too well. She is also mercifully diplomatic, discreet, and a confidant who listens and doesn’t needle you or pry, so she continues letting out the braids, letting you muse on your own and only speak further if you want to. You don’t want to.

This is from right at the top of the story and I was so excited because I was like, yessssssss it's being written for the time. I also was like uh oh, cuz why is she weary that her King is back?

you had grown close, and you had dangerously started to lose your heart to him.

ohhhhhhhhhh THAT's why! And I relate cuz I never want anyone I care about to know I care about them lol that's intimidating and gives power over you if you do.

Now, here you sat, hoping your husband would summon you on the morrow, as you could not simply turn up in his royal presence, even though you were queen.

The way that I was irked?? She is a QUEEN and she can't just go see the King??? I forget about sexism sometimes lol

You had been prepared all your life to marry a king and not to grow sentimentally attached to him as your husband. You felt like such a fool, pining when you had been perfectly fine and content in your life a mere six weeks ago.

Relatable content in bold!

Now this next shizz made me SCREAM INTO MY PUMPKIN PILLOW, y'all and I'm sorry to quote so much but like it's necessary:

There are voices outside your bedchamber and you and Natasha exchange perplexed looks. Just as she turns toward the door, it bursts open, the king entering without hesitation. He takes in the scene then quickly strides forward. Natasha quickly drops into the customary curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she says. You should have risen from your spot and greeted him as well, but your heart has jumped into your throat, and you are momentarily frozen. The king is across the room and standing next to you by the time Natasha rises back to her full stature. He reaches out for the brush in her hand, and you catch the nearly imperceptible lift of the corners of her lips in a smile as she gives it to him. “Duchess, you may go, I will take over.”

So here's the Queen, right? Pining away, lost in thoughts, thinking of him, HOPING he will summon her ... and as IF HER OWN THOUGHTS SUMMONED HIM, he BURSTS in. And the BURSTING is important because it means he WANTS to see her, he NEEDS to see her. Are her exact feelings reciprocated or is it just lust? Well, the man is about to BRUSH HER HAIR FOR HER so like ... I don't think it's just lust. The absolute INTIMACY and sweetness of him taking over that act is like ... it made me scream. HONESTLY!!!

He pulls all your hair into his left hand, then, holding it, works the brush through it with his right hand, starting at the bottom, moving up a little at a time. You marvel at how gently and methodically he works through your locks, almost reverently. Neither of you speak as he brushes your hair. You study him in the mirror. He’s concentrated fully on his task.

When I tell y'all the thought of Steve Rogers being fully focused on brushing hair made me burst into flames lmao. Because we all know how much Steve puts into anything he wants to do ... he's going to do it RIGHT, and for him to control whatever impulses brought him to her chamber in the first place to PROPERLY BRUSH OUT HER HAIR?!?! I am DYINGGGGGGGGGGGG

He stands up straight and urges you to turn in your chair and face him. His fingers possessively trace along your jaw, tilting your chin up. “Did you miss your king?”

The way I know it's about to be BUSINESS TIME between these two!! LIKE, how DARE he?!? Cuz I think he KNOWS she did but he WANTS to HEAR it and then using POSSESSIVE TOUCH and making you LOOK at him as he asks you??? *melts*

You couldn’t say you missed your husband and not your king, not yet, so instead of mincing words or spinning together something else true enough to say, you bring your hand up over his, and turn your head to press a kiss into the palm of his hand.

I mean, yes you could've, Queen but I GET why you're hesitant to expose your heart. That made me go AWWWWWWWWE out loud though cuz I wish she would have vocalized that.

I'm not gonna quote all the smut cuz I'd be quoting ALL THE SMUT but it is HOT, y'all. THIS shizz took me OUT tho

You try to move to kneel before him, but he says, “Oh no,” instead insisting on luring you up and pulling you into a kiss, fully flush against his body, and he leads you in no uncertain terms to the bed, shoving you down to sit at the foot of the mattress.

Sooooooooo she's going to DO for HIM, and he's like NUH UH, me first!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WANT TO DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE.

Y'all have GOT. TO. GO. READ. THIS!

This is from almost the end, but it's so absolutely tender and intimate and I WEEP

He brings your joined hands to his lips, and he kisses the back of your hand, then tucks it close to his chest and begins conversing with you – about the mundane, the important, things from the past few weeks apart, and from your lives apart before.

Like, now that the frenzy is over, let's catch up on life cuz I missed you and want to know what you were doing, and I want you to want to know what I was doing. There's real emotion here between these 2 which makes everything that happened before THAT MUCH BETTER.

I cannot say enough wonderful things about this story. Thank you again SO MUCH SIRI for reblogging and recommending this one and to the author for creating and sharing. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and will be coming back to this one again and again.

Title: Fire Burning from a Cedar Tree

Fandom: MCU

Characters/Pairings: King!Steve x Royal!Reader, brief appearance from Natasha

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Georgian-but-quasi-American royal AU. You came into the betrothal with no illusions to the situation – yours was a marriage to ensure the continuation of many generations of alliance and peace between your respective kingdoms. Very early, however, you learn what your royal union truly means to you both.

Content Warnings: politically arranged marriage, reluctant pining, SMUT (rough fucking, p in v, oral – female receiving, fluffy fucking, nipple play)

Additional Notes: The eighth and final offering in my 2022 Holiday Extravaganza. Just a smutty one-shot here with a smattering of situation painting/plot and relationship development. Did I think we were going to end up with this much Steve for the HE? Nope! But here we are, yet again ahaha. I had closed my laptop and gotten up to go to bed, had this idea while brushing my teeth, and sat back down and typed for an hour, then have been feverishly returning to it as I had the time. So I hope you enjoy, dear reader.

Music Ficspiration: Big God by Florence + the Machine, I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face from My Fair Lady, Better Love by Hozier, Movement by Hozier, So Real by Jeff Buckley, Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley

“Your Majesty,” one of your ladies in waiting enters your bedchambers and sweeps into a curtsy.

“Yes?” you prompt, turning in your chair to look at her directly instead of through mirror of the vanity.

“His Majesty the King has returned.”

You nod, “Thank you. You may retire for the evening.”

She curtsies again, bowing her head, and then leaves, closing the door softly behind her. You sigh, turning back properly in your chair so your lady in waiting, the Duchess Natalia, can resume taking down your hair.

“Your Majesty?” she prompts, noting your sigh.

“It’s good to hear the king is back.”

“He will undoubtedly request an audience with you tomorrow,” she says. She is far too observant and already knows you too well.

She is also mercifully diplomatic, discreet, and a confidant who listens and doesn’t needle you or pry, so she continues letting out the braids, letting you muse on your own and only speak further if you want to.

You don’t want to.

The product of a long-arranged betrothal to bring peace between two countries, you had accepted your fate, resigned to be a good and dutiful queen. You were not to inherit a throne in your own country, had known that from birth with two older brothers, and you had grown up ready to embrace duty and opportunity. On arriving in the kingdom of Brooklyn as the future queen, your interactions with King Steven had been limited, but pleasant. They had been sufficient for you to be secure in your hope that it would be a good union, no need to worry about him being either cruel or moronic.

You had expected to be wedded and bedded. What you had not expected was to actually fall for him after the wedding ceremony and royal festivities when the two of you had taken the custom ten-day royal honeymoon to the palace in the north of his country by the lakes. The first night, of course, you’d consummated the union. The first few days you had been tentative in each other’s company. But with few staff, few interruptions, no royal obligations, only time really to yourselves – dining together, walking in the gardens, riding in the forest, in your bedchambers… you had grown close, and you had dangerously started to lose your heart to him.

Then you had been sent back to court while he had to depart directly to attend to matters in California in Stark’s kingdom. Two weeks had stretched to three, and the longer he was absent, the more you missed him, spurring you to grow more irritated at your naivety for developing more tender feelings for him than just that of the dutiful wife and queen you were supposed to and had intended to be.

No, here you sat, hoping your husband would summon you on the morrow, as you could not simply turn up in his royal presence, even though you were queen. Indeed, you could go anywhere else in this kingdom, had the company of many – some only because they had to or were courting your favor, but enough warm and developing relationships throughout the court – but not the one person you now yearned for.

You had been prepared all your life to marry a king and not to grow sentimentally attached to him as your husband. You felt like such a fool, pining when you had been perfectly fine and content in your life a mere six weeks ago.

There are voices outside your bedchamber and you and Natasha exchange perplexed looks. Just as she turns toward the door, it bursts open, the king entering without hesitation. He takes in the scene then quickly strides forward.

Natasha quickly drops into the customary curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she says.

You should have risen from your spot and greeted him as well, but your heart has jumped into your throat, and you are momentarily frozen.

The king is across the room and standing next to you by the time Natasha rises back to her full stature. He reaches out for the brush in her hand, and you catch the nearly imperceptible lift of the corners of her lips in a smile as she gives it to him.

“Duchess, you may go, I will take over.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

She makes to curtsy again before exiting, but he waves her off. “Go,” he commands, impatiently but somehow without any irritation, and she heeds his wishes and departs immediately.

Wordlessly, he steps right up behind you. You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised he came to you. You belong to him, and he’s been denied by proximity for three weeks. He pulls all your hair into his left hand, then, holding it, works the brush through it with his right hand, starting at the bottom, moving up a little at a time. You marvel at how gently and methodically he works through your locks, almost reverently. Neither of you speak as he brushes your hair. You study him in the mirror. He’s concentrated fully on his task. Coming to a finish, he finally meets your gaze in the mirror, and the look in his eyes is intense. He sets the brush on the dressing table and sweeps your hair to one side, exposing your neck and he leans down to press a long, heated kiss to your delicate skin. You shiver as he follows this with shorter kisses trailing down your neck to the juncture where it meets shoulder, and it’s a sensitive point that draws a sigh from your lips.

He stands up straight and urges you to turn in your chair and face him. His fingers possessively trace along your jaw, tilting your chin up. “Did you miss your king?”

You couldn’t say you missed your husband and not your king, not yet, so instead of mincing words or spinning together something else true enough to say, you bring your hand up over his, and turn your head to press a kiss into the palm of his hand.

You try to move to kneel before him, but he says, “Oh no,” instead insisting on luring you up and pulling you into a kiss, fully flush against his body, and he leads you in no uncertain terms to the bed, shoving you down to sit at the foot of the mattress. He draws back and both of you are panting heavily. He stands between your legs, and he doesn’t take his eyes off your as he pulls his tunic up over his head and drops it to the floor. His breeches quickly follow, and his cock springs free, hard, and ready to take you. Already breathing heavily, you’re able to hide your reaction somewhat – which is a confusing mixture of both excitement and trepidation.

He urges you to scoot back, crawling up to join you,

Midway up the bed, he presses on your shoulder, “Lay back for me. “

He rucks up your nightgown around your hips, and crawls over you, using one hand to guide himself into your already slickening folds before caging you in on either side of your head and thrusting deep inside your cunt, filling you completely with the first thrust.

He adopts a frenzied pace to fuck you. It’s hard and fast. He’s no longer looking at you, his head dropped and buried into the crook of your neck. You can’t catch your breath. This isn’t what you wanted.

He holds your thigh up around his narrow waist, spearing into you again and again, his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising force. You let out a quiet sob and he abruptly stills, raising his head to look at you, but you can’t look at him.

You’re not fast enough to brush away the tears though, and you know he sees them slowly rolling down your cheeks, tears you had fought to keep at bay.

He utters your name as if in pain and draws away completely, sitting back on his heels.

You turn away, rolling to your side, feeling so much more of you has been exposed than merely your naked body before him.

After a moment that stretches on between the two of you, his fingers tenderly caress your calf. He murmurs your name tentatively this time, a question.

You sense him shift on the bed, and suddenly you feel him behind you. You are wrapped in on yourself, but his hand brushes softly from your elbow to your shoulder. He lingers there for a moment, then you feel him shift behind you again, and he props himself up, so he can look down at you over your shoulder, and his hand moves purposefully now to your cheek to wipe away your tears. He plants a kiss on your shoulder. Then he brings his hand back to your shoulder and softly urges you to roll toward him so you’re on your back again and he can look directly at you again.

“That was too rough. You are a queen and deserve better treatment from a king.”

You turn your head away. “No, it’s not…” You bite your lip. Even the way he apologized was too detached and it made your heart ache.

“Not what?”

More hot tears spill silently over your cheeks. How can you explain? You hardly understood the tempest in your heart yourself.

But then he cups the side of your face, brushes his thumb over the apple of your cheek, and when he draws your gaze back to him, there is something in his eyes so searching and raw that your heart longs for more of that version of him. “It wasn’t that you were too rough, it was that I don’t want to be merely used and discarded.” Your admission is out in a rush before you could second guess your words or their consequences.

He frowns. “Far from it.”

He moves closer and plants a kiss on your forehead, then rests his forehead against yours. Eyes closed, for a moment you both simply breath each other in being that close, one of his hands still cupping your cheek. At length, he speaks again. “I was desperate for you.”

“Desperate for me?”

He breaks away and laughs softly, but there’s a pang of bitterness to it. “Yes, desperate.”

He sits up, facing away from you.

You sit up next to him, smoothing your nightdress down, unsure how to proceed, you don’t want to lose him in the present. “Steven?” you try to coax him for more.

He sighs. “I’m afraid you will find me to be a fool.”

You wait for him to continue, needing to hear what he means.

“I was serenely independent and content before we wed, and inexplicably in a matter of days you somehow seem to have seeped into my bones, because from the first of your absence my mind turned so often of you. I found myself wondering what your opinion would be, wanting you to try some of the delicacies alongside me, wishing to see your smiles and your frowns throughout the course of the day. When I returned to my chambers each night, they were empty instead of peaceful and solitary. I’d grown accustomed to your voice, accustomed to your face, accustomed to your place at my side.”

He pauses again for a moment, and his expression pained. “But it was more than accustomed – I truly yearned for you and was angry to feel so much unlike myself when I’ve ruled for more than a decade without you, lived a life I thought was very much complete before you, devoted to the crown and happy in my reign, and now…”

The sentiment lingers in the space between you. Surely, he must hear your thundering of your heart in your chest. Finally, you say, “If you’re a fool, I’m a fool.”

His head snaps to look at you.

You take a deep breath and expose your soul to him, too. “We were both born and raised for our royal duties, you to be a king, and I to marry and become a useful and reliable queen. In the days before we married, it was evident we had the same expectations of our union, no sentimental notions. It made sense, and we were well-matched. At our wedding, we became king and queen. Away from our royal expectations, alone with each other, I think we both fell into becoming husband and wife. I’ve yearned for you these past weeks as well, and I couldn’t abide how impossible I thought my situation was, so sure I confident I would make for a good queen but discovering I wanted more. It was only when you went away that I felt the lack of something – an affection as I’d never had before, both for you and from you.”

He turns fully toward you and kisses you again, and instead of the demand and hunger, as he kisses now it’s driven only by the unrestrained yearning he confessed and that you admitted in return.

He pulls you into his lap, and you straddle him. He breaks the kiss to rid you of your nightdress entirely now instead of only pushing it out of the way as before, and then his lips immediately seek yours again. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his broad, warm hands are splayed across your back, pressing you flush to him, and you are just as eager to feel every inch of his skin seared against yours

He pauses his kiss, both of you utterly breathless now. You put a hand on his chest over his heart. He looks down and smiles at the gesture before looking up and beaming at you, but his small falters a fraction at the concentrated look on your face.

“What is it?”

You speak the notion that’s newly bloomed in your chest. “We are the only two people in the world with whom we can be totally ourselves, husband and wife, not the king and the queen, just a man and a woman.”

He nods fervently. “A new vow then between us: to both guard and embrace this as a true and unfettered love.”

You kiss him, but he only returns it briefly before pausing it again. “Do you swear it?” he asks.

You bob your head eagerly, seeking his lips, but he grips your chin, holding you back. “Words.”

“I swear it with everything I am.”

“As do I,” he affirms, then captures your lips again with his, moving you both again, this time lowering you worshipfully to the mattress. His mouth begins moving slowly down your neck, and you shiver, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair, the other clutching his muscled bicep. When he reaches the base of your neck, his tongue laves at the sweet spot he discovered there in your first precious days together, making you whimper. He then mouths at the spot and plants one more kiss there before moving lower. His lips skim lightly down your chest, kissing over where your heart is thrumming. He kisses the swell of your left breast, and then moves to mirror that action on the right. He brings his right hand up to palm one of your breasts as his tongue flicks across your nipple. He works to bring both to stiff peaks, licking and sucking the right while his hand plays with the left. Your back arches in pleasure at his ministrations.

He moves his mouth back to the other breast, and before you can think to miss his hand there, it’s confidently parting your thighs, seeking your now extremely wet folds.

“Steve.”

“That’s it, my love, let me make you feel good,” he says, and you whimper again. His fingers stroke your labia slowly. Your eyes close as he stokes your pleasure. He slips a finger into your core, pumping in and out. When he adds another finger, you can’t hold back the little noises that escape you. He presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles, and those little noises morph into a moan. Steve moves up now to hover over you, watching your face as he works you up to your first climax that night. You would feel too exposed if he had studied you this way during your first days together, but your confessions tonight to each other leave you now feeling safe being so intimately on display. When you cry out, hips bucking, he continues to stroke, working you through the orgasm.

He removes his fingers, and you need the moment, but lament the emptiness. His eyes are still on your face, and when your breathing is close to normal, you open your eyes and look back at him. Then you glance lower to see he’s pumping his hard, thick member with the hand that was still glistening with your slick of arousal. His eyes are aflame with his need, and he moves in to kiss you again. You welcome it, parting your lips and sliding your tongue between his. He opens for you, and as your tongues tease and delve, you roll and hungrily push him back on the mattress.

Steve grabs your hips with both of his hands and moves your body to straddle him. In place just where he wants you, chest to chest, you drop down to your elbows, planted on either side of his head. As you continue to kiss, he presses his hand down to the base of your spine and brushes his cock temptingly against your entrance. You push your hips back against him, and his chest hums with approval.

“Please,” you plead.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, using his other hand to guide his length into your quim. He doesn’t rush this push into you, but it’s not slow. Once fully sheathed, he moves his arms to circle around your chest, holding you close to him as he sets a steady pace thrusting up into you. He swallows your moans of ecstasy. When it begins to overwhelm you, you have to break off the consuming kiss to gulp lungful’s of air. Seeing you desperate like this above him drives his voracity.

Still buried inside you, he rolls to bring you beneath him once more. You cling to his shoulders, and he continues to advance toward release for both of you. He shifts the angle of his hips, and he’s rewarded with a pure keen from you. He continues to hit the spongy spot up against your pubic bone. You sob, so close, and this time the tears are pure pleasure. He grasps at one of your hands, and your fingers twine together. A few more thrusts and your walls flutter around him and then he your orgasm hits. Your spasming channel is too much, and with a groan he spills inside you right after.

He collapses against you, and you welcome the weight of his body. You’re both quiet in your moment of satiation. Your free hand draws lazy patterns over his shoulder blade as your breathing returns to normal. You wonder if he’s going to drop off into sleep, but then he repositions slightly, and asks, “Are you comfortable?”

“Mhmm,” you respond. You’re comfortable physically and intimately in this moment with him.

He brings your joined hands to his lips, and he kisses the back of your hand, then tucks it close to his chest and begins conversing with you – about the mundane, the important, things from the past few weeks apart, and from your lives apart before. There’s more kissing, followed by more pleasure, pulling each other apart in turn, and no sleeping until long after midnight.

You groan when he wakes you at what seems to be daybreak. You close your eyes again swiftly, and open your mouth to protest, but he cups your jaw and his thumb brushes over your parted lips. “I know it’s early,” he murmurs, “but I want to have you once more while we’re alone and unbothered.”

And when he says it like that, with such tenderness and longing, you wouldn’t dream of denying it for either of you. You hope to grow accustomed to many more stolen mornings over your lifetime together now.

COMPANION/PREQUEL PIECE: The Thrill of Knowing How Alone We Are

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My askbox is always open.

[sublimecatgalaxy]

Hi! I saw you were looking for requests!

Maybe 12 and 17 with Aaron Hotchner? Happy end though, please 🥺 We can't hurt this man more than necessary..

Thanks so much!

I LOVE THE AARON REQUESTS YES! I'm assuming you meant these quotes from my theme night and not the prompt list in my masterpost (I can't remember if you sent this in during the theme night or not) so I just went with it :D

"You're missing the party, ya know." Aaron looks up from his phone, the previous tight line that his lips were pulled into relaxes into a lazy smile, back relaxing as he leans into his rolling chair.

"I'm not one for parties, you know that." He answers simply and I sigh, looking out at the Bullpen as JJ pulls Reid into her side, 'Jingle Bells' playing louder than all of the songs that came before it.

I step into his office, shutting the door behind me as a wave of anxiety sweeps over me at the thought of mentioning what's been bugging me for the all day.

"Did you need something?"

You.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something, uh, non-work related." Sitting down in the chair across from his desk, I fold my hands in my lap as he leans towards me, giving me a simple nod of acknowledgement, silently urging me to continue. "I overheard the team teasing you about me this morning." He clears his throat, eyes widening briefly before letting out a strained sigh.

It was probably innocent. The team realized that Hotch and I must've gone home together after we returned home from a case in Arizona because Aaron showed up in the same suit this morning that he wore last night, something he would never do. Until me and our hidden relationship that's been going on for a little over six months behind the rest of our friends backs.

"Look, I know that we agreed that we'd talk about it and we will-"

"How could you let them say that about me?" His lips part in quiet shock at my sudden interjection, shoulders drooping and a disappointed look passes through his expression. "I mean, really Aaron? I'm a teachers pet? A kiss up?" I can see the gears turning behind his eyes, trying to figure out a way to dissolve the tension in the room before it goes too far but there's fury bubbling in my veins that doesn't appear to be going away any time soon.

"Rossi knew months ago that I wanted to ask you out. They knew you would say yes and they were just pointing out your apparent eagerness." I scoff, eyes slitting and he huffs, realizing how poorly his words came out.

"Oh because I'm so desperate to be with you?" I spit, rising to my feet and placing my hands flat on his desk to look down at him. "I'm a fucking catch, Aaron." My voice wavers and bottom lip wobbles as he takes a sharp intake of a breath, rising to his feet before quickly making his way around his desk to stand beside me.

"You are, I know." His fingers reach out, trailing down my arm until he can rest his hand on mine on the desk. "I don't do this. I don't do relationships let alone workplace relationships." I scoff, giving him a stern shake of my head to let him know that I wouldn't take that as an excuse this time. He can't just keep blaming it on his awkwardness and lack of experience.

"You're hurting me, Aaron." I can see the heartbreak riddled all over his face, his shoulders drooping and hand clamming up as he removes it off of mine, the lack of contact breaking my own heart. "You could just tell them it's mutual, tell them that I'm not just pining over you-"

"I never said you were pining over me, that's ridiculous." His voice sounds more like a coo, like he's comforting a small child- his son- and it makes me inch away from him, not up to being accidentally patronized by my boyfriend and his caregiver attitude.

Though I usually find it endearing, it's not appreciated in disagreements.

"You make me feel like I'm not desirable- like this is one sided." I explain and I feel like a weight is lifted from me the minute the words leave my lips but I see it only add to Aaron's anxiety as he reaches out to me once more. "Do you know how it makes me feel to realize that you'd rather the team think that I'm so obsessed with you rather than them to just know that we're two adults in a normal relationship?"

"No, I don't know how it makes me feel so tell me." He pleads, still maintaining his cool composure but based on the way his hand grips mine once more, I can tell there's a slight desperation about him.

"Horrible, Hotch- it makes me feel horrible."

"I don't want you to feel horrible." His hands lift to rest on my shoulders, urging me to come closer to him and I allow him to hold me closer to him, his arms sliding down to rest on my waist. "It's not one sided. I'm just terrible at representing my side." I crack a smile, knowing that his words are true and, as hard as I am on him, I know he's still getting used to being in a relationship again.

"It's just so much more simple than you make it out to be." He looks at me expectantly as if he wants me to spell it out for him, and I do, but not before laughing, tension finally breaking. "If I ask you to kiss me, to be with me, in front of all these people- our friends- would you do it?" He hesitates but the shy smile that slips across his lips doesn't hide his answer as he mutters it under his breath.

"Yes."

"Why?" My hands reach up to rest on his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly behind his ribs. Though he's so put together, so chivalrous and timid, there's times like these where his body gives his nerves and bashfulness away.

"Because I want to be with you, contrary to popular belief." I almost cave into him when his strong hand reaches up to cup my cheek, his smile calming any insecurities that could be running through my mind.

"I needed to hear it." I whisper breathlessly.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it clear." His voice is heavy, regrets lingering on the tip of his tongue but he doesn't continue, even when it's obvious that there's more to it, that he has insecurities of his own. "I'll work on it." He promises, leaning towards me to press a kiss to my forehead before tugging me to his chest.

"Thank you." I mutter, hands sliding around his back to grip at his shirt, breathing in the smell of his cologne that puts an immediately smile on my face.

"Thank you for being patient with me." He mutters against my hairline before his chest rumbles in a rare chuckle. "You are a bit of a kiss up though-"

"Aaron, oh my god."

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[apparitionism]

Appreciation

A week of appreciation. I wasn’t going to do this, but then I foolishly had An Idea. (Not a good idea.) So I’ll be writing a Bering and Wells... thing. Rather, a series of things. Seven things. The overarching title is, naturally, “Appreciation,” but each piece of the whole will be a thing unto itself. Mostly.

So, okay, here goes with the day one prompt (Dancing), which led me to what I found to be an illuminating quote (from Christgau, below).

Architecture

Robert Christgau, “Writing About Music Is Writing First.” Popular Music 24 (2005): 415–21.

  One of the many foolish things about the fools who compare writing about music to dancing about architecture is that dancing usually is about architecture. When bodies move in relation to a designed space, be it stage or ballroom or living room or gymnasium or agora or Congo Square, they comment on that space whether they mean to or not. The comment is usually oblique, absorbed below normal levels of ratiocination. And it can make itself felt that way, subliminally inflecting the meanings of dwellings, edifices, and meeting places. But if we want to understand it more fully, we’d best reduce it to words.

  And why is that? .... [A]s we’ve been told ad infinitum from Saussure on down, nothing can be reduced to words, not even words. Writing about writing is also like dancing about architecture.

****

Myka knows she’s not the world’s most poetically inclined person, but she understands the figurative, if clichéd, sense in which any relationship is a dance. Some people probably enjoy the literal action as part of that figurative whole, but while Myka as a rule likes to keep her definitions tight—literal—in this case she’s been relieved that the applicability of “dance” to her romance with Helena has been thus far been figurative. She’s been committed, in fact, to ensuring that the “figurative only” condition continues to obtain.

Until.

(Being in, so deeply and inescapably in, a relationship with Helena has run Myka headlong into an inordinately high number of situations that represent such an “until.”)

“Do you remember—” Helena begins one night, as they’re preparing for bed, and Myka cuts her off with a brief “yes.” Given the architecture of her brain, she could hardly help but do so.

Helena, undeterred, continues, “—that hallucinatory retrieval, so long ago, in which the artifact compelled us to dance together?”

“No,” Myka revises. “Aggressively, no.” She puts the aggression into her very posture: her body, she hopes, is refusal.

Helena immediately kicks her poorly set, insufficient legs out from under her: “Liar.”

The kicking: figurative, but effective. Myka has no deniability. “It was terrible,” she says, reexperiencing the frustration, albeit on a smaller scale, both at wanting Helena so desperately and yet seeing no path to having her... and then at being forced to dance. With her. Against her... Myka manages to step back—just barely; it’s a teeter—from entering the memory in its fullness.

“Thus proving my last statement true. Why was it terrible?”

“Because I hate dancing,” Myka says.

“That doesn’t seem to be a lie.” Helena cocks her head—to the right, her “thinking” side. “But does this hate apply in every circumstance?”

“Yes,” Myka says, no hesitation or revision required.

“That too has the ring of truth.” Another head-cock, now (not unexpectedly) left, with an additional raise of chin. That’s the teasing-but-with-an-undercurrent movement. “Yet would it apply even to dancing with me in another circumstance? Given that I’m the putative object of your affection?”

Myka considers keeping her mouth shut but concludes it would most likely be taken the wrong way, given the undercurrent to the tease. Hoping to thread the needle correctly, she says a vaguely interrogative, and hopefully discussion-ending, “No?”

“Perhaps I’ll summon Steve,” Helena says, and it’s a threat—well, “threat”—that identifies the needle as very much not threaded.

If anyone else had ventured such an idea, Myka would have sparked her usual worry about their use of Steve, but he, however strangely, doesn’t seem to mind playing lie detector for Helena. There’s an elusive sweetness to their burgeoning agents-in-the-field partnership; Myka sees it, but she can’t, no matter how she tries, locate its underlying concept.

“Look,” she says, trying to imbue her voice with placation, “even if I wanted to dance with you, which I’m sorry but I don’t, because I hate dancing, I can’t get away from my resentment about having been forced into it by an artifact. I also resent that it was to house music.” She shudders as her brain now rebelliously recreates the experience: earsplitting noise underlain with disturbing vibration, all so loud and so physically overtaking that she could barely formulate any thought at all, despite her desperate need to formulate thought, because her body had found itself forced to press against Helena’s in ways that were infinitely more disturbing and created so much more noise than the music and she could find no way to think herself out.

Helena taps a finger against Myka’s left collarbone, a precise one-two-three-four clearly intended to call Myka back to the present. She says, deftly, “It was at the very least rhythmic. Aggressively.” The echo is playful: a different tack now, jollying. “But tell me,” she continues, still playing, but with focus, “why do you hate dancing?”

Finally, an easy one. “Because I’m terrible at it.”

“What does ‘terrible’ mean in this context?” Less whimsy now: she’s working her way toward something, but Myka can’t tell (and isn’t sure she wants to know) what. “Are you referring to some objective skill level? Some need for instruction? I would think that if one’s partner is willing and able to appreciate one’s movement, one could abandon such—”

“One—and when I say ‘one’ I mean ‘me’—is always observing oneself. Myself. Judging. There’s no such thing as real abandon.”

That gets her a little not-quite-derisive snort. “Of course there is.”

Myka doesn’t—genuinely doesn’t—believe that. Certainly she can move in response to emotion: a twirl to express a settling of satisfaction, a flail of arms to accompany a burst of belonging... but still always with that observing other inside, outside, seeing, evaluating.

That Helena can more fully inhabit a moment is really no surprise. That Helena has a hard time imagining how others’ interiority may differ from hers isn’t much of a surprise either.

Myka sighs and, for the sake of peace, tempers her absolutism with, “Not in public. That’s a bridge too far.”

Helena takes a moment, one involving no tilting of head. It renders her inscrutable. Then she says, “I’m not overly familiar with the American legal system.”

Are they through with dancing as a topic? Myka holds out a (probably vain) hope that they are, so she hurries to offer, “I’m no expert, but I was pre-law for a while, so if you want to know something in particular, maybe I...”

She trails off, for Helena’s head is moving left again as she says, with full disingenuity, “Are you aware of a law restricting dancing to public spaces?”

Myka is both disappointed (that dancing is still the topic) and cautiously pleased (that Helena is inflecting it this way, rather than insisting that Myka revise her feelings about public terpsichory).

Helena goes on, “And yet I doubt such a law exists. Consider a quite private space: for example, a bedroom. In theory, but also, in specific, for here in a bedroom we stand. Certainly it’s a space in which bodies have been known to move.” She says this without a salacious cast, which gifts Myka a quiet space in which to think. About this space. About how Helena moves in it. About how she herself moves in response.

After a time, Helena ventures, “My intent in mentioning that small slice of the past wasn’t to upset you.”

Myka believes her—is happy to believe her. “That’s not my intent either,” she says. “When I respond poorly. To anything... but particularly to a slice.”

“The past has many pitfalls,” Helena says, but not with gloom, as is sometimes the case when the past, as a concept, is at issue.

“It does.” A universal truth, regardless of how it’s said.

Helena shrugs, and she smiles now (her winner’s smile) as she says, “We could dance them away.”

Comedian, Myka thinks, and she laughs. “I honestly don’t think we could. Unless we’re in a musical and I’m not aware of it.”

“Would you be aware of it if we were in a musical?”

“That’s a good question,” Myka says, hoping—obviously against hope, but she goes with it—that they can shift to epistemological inquiry, because Helena does find musicals fascinating... but not all musicals: only the ones in which the numbers simply happen as part of the diegesis. “Like operetta, but more alchemical,” she’s said, and Myka has been glad of her own knowledge of Gilbert and Sullivan, as well as her familiarity with the musicals Helena is newly encountering, so as to understand how Helena is thinking her way to an appreciation, how she is enjoying that thinking.

“If that is a good question, then so is this one, I hope.” Helena holds her head still again, offering no preview of whatever utterance will follow. “Might we dance, such that the pitfalls of the past fall away? For the duration of the dance?”

In those words Myka hears the heft of what Helena tries, always, to keep at bay. “You don’t have to work so hard,” she says, meaning, as far as she knows what she means, that Helena could have just asked for what she needed. For Myka does give in when Helena asks, because another of Myka’s commitments, a far more constitutive one, is to trying—trying—to spare Helena the need to work so hard.

A slight right turn of head accompanies Helena’s response: “But what if I’d like to?” She adds a wisp of smile. “Work hard to change your mind,” she clarifies, though she doesn’t need to, and Myka knows she knows it.

Perhaps in response to all that knowledge, Helena extends her arms. “There’s no music,” she says. “You can very easily pretend it isn’t dancing at all.”

The concession is a jewel: a gift Myka is grateful to know for what it is.

She’s grateful because of another thing she knows: she gets things wrong. So, so often, she takes up situations, thinking to bend them into sense, but errs, twisting them wrong... but she can appreciate this. She can appreciate that Helena needs to know that she has worked hard to arrange for those pitfalls to fall away. For the duration of what may or may not be a dance.

Their arms are around each other. This is what is necessary. Regardless of any movement that might literally be defined as dancing, that is the definitional, essential, architecture.

END

Note:

I hope it’s apparent that I appreciate Bering and Wells as themselves—that is, as characters brought into being by Joanne and Jaime. But I appreciate also that “Bering and Wells” (for want of something better to call this televised catalyst and all it encompasses) has (have?) introduced me to invaluable, treasured friends; produced mind-boggling experiences; and all along motivated (forced?) me to do a lot of thinking, including rethinking my own writing, as well as the claiming of authorship, in contexts that extend well beyond the fanfictional.

I’m not going to enumerate the rules—or “rules”—I’ve set for myself here. Just know that there are rules. Writing is hard: sometimes making it an intellectual puzzle greases the wheels; sometimes it makes the wheels throw off sparks of grinding difficulty. This puzzle has worked both ways for me.

I find Bering and Wells to be, quite literally, something else, and I honestly don’t remember or understand how it (they) caught me. I don’t. Since the beginning, I’ve been playing catch-up with my nervous system—“Wait, how did this happen? What actually did happen?”—and the answer is, “Doesn’t matter, just keep writing it down.” This changed my life. And I am trying, always trying, to write like it did. (Having said that, most of these pieces aren’t as coherent/smooth as I’d like. To my shame. Seven is a lot, but that’s no excuse.)

[wish-i-wasnt-a-coward]

Family Cuddle Pile

a/n: I actually wrote this a while ago but it was perfect for the request. Theirs like, no content for this ship an I love it so much! Thank you for reading :) @arodynamic-enby

Pairings: romantic Anxceitmus and kid!Patton also super background Logince

Warnings: tattoos, less than ideal parent mentions, food mention, and light cursing

Word count: 1,844 

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Remus flopped out of bed, throwing his body carelessly across the room. He hastily threw on his clothes. Short shorts, ripped fishnets, a vest that was more patches than original material, really big clunky shoes, and a ripped up band-t. He also hooked his favorite bone earrings in his tattered earlobes. 

He stomped into his apartment’s kitchen. He grabbed a stale piece of bread he soaked it in coffee. Yawned and grabbed his bag, racing out the door. 

His brother was waiting for him at the tattoo shop, sketching a new idea. Unlike him, Roman only had a few tattoos, including not one, not two, not three… but three Disney quotes, a frog on a mushroom, a rose on his arm, and a constellation. Most of his tattoos were covered by tasteful burgundy overalls and a white button-down shirt.

Remus’ tattoos were also mostly covered by his clothes. But he had a tattoo sleeve depicting the garden of Eden, a matching frog on a mushroom, a quote from one of Roman’s books, medically accurate bone structures on his hand, a realistic spider on his neck, and a snake wrapping around his non-sleeved arm. And those were just the visible ones. 

Suffice to say, the twins were very different. 

Remus threw his bag onto the floor in the backroom, “Ro, when’s the first appointment!!” he yelled. “Your’s? At 11. FYI, Jan n’ Pat are coming over at 12, for motivation” Remus smiled, fuckin’ superb. 

He busied himself in collecting the ink and preparing the tattoo gun. The client wanted a fucking orange on their wrist, it should only take an hour or two but Remus was not excited to do a frickin’ orange circle. 

The prissy orange bitch came in and Remus got to work. They didn’t move much and only cried a little bit when the needle started jabbing at their skin. Remus liked this part of the process, stabbing people consensually was his favorite thing ever… also the art part but stabbing people!

Almost exactly an hour later the door jingled open. “Dada!!” a tiny voice called back into the store. “I’ll be there in a minute patty-cake” Remus called from his spot hunched over the client's arm.

He added the final touches to the fruit and helped the orange bitch off the chair. Roman swept the client away, Remus practically ran to greet his partner and son.

Janus wore a leather corset over a black collared shirt and baggy pants, their long platinum hair framed their face under their signature hat. They were holding hands with a toddler wearing mostly pink and blue, his blond hair (that matched Janus’) was a mop of curls barely held together by a few butterfly clips. 

“Dada, Dada!!! I got you a flower” the little boy cried, letting go of Janus’ hand and stumbling towards the tall man who scooped him up. Patton giggled and held out a sweaty flower clenched in his chubby fist. 

Remus accepted the flower with a gasp, ”this is really for me?” he said joyfully. Adjusting the small boy in his arms Remus turned towards Janus who was looking at the pair with a disgustingly sappy expression. 

“What are you lookin’ at hot stuff?” Remus teased. “Shut it you,” Janus said, pressing a kiss to Remus’ check. Patton made a noise, “icky” he said pushing Janus away. They laughed, “yes darling, we’re very icky”. 

“When’s verge-“

“he’ll be home at 4” 

“Dope”

“Stop by the Sleepy Café before you bring Pat to the apartment?”

“Can do scootal-lo!” 

Remus turned back to the little boy in his arms, “looks like you're stuck with me squirt”. Patton beamed and snuggled into Remus’ chest. Janus smiled again, “I’ll see you, boys, at dinner,” they said, ruffling Pat's hair and peaking Remus on the lips quickly so as to not upset the toddler. “Bye-bye Janny!!” Patton called after Janus as they left for work. 

“Righty-o,” Remus said, carrying Patton into the back room. “I know Ro’s got a couple coloring books, wanna do those for a bit?” Patton nodded and reached towards the ground to be put down. Remus plopped Patton on the couch and pulled out the book and pens as well as a sketchbook off his own. They sat together coloring and drawing until Roman came back to hug Patton. 

“Ah, my favorite nephew!” Roman said, scooping up the little boy. Patton laughed and pulled Roman’s hair. “Roro, can I color your arm pictures??” he asked, pointing to Roman’s rose tattoo. Roman plopped the toddler back down on the couch and handed him a pen. 

Patton went to work on the rose, scribbling reds and pinks and greens across his arm. Roman gave him complements each time Patton paused, and each time Patton shushed him and went back to work. Remus finished up his sketch, adding it to the pile of tattoo ideas they were eventually going to put up-front, and sat next to the toddler. 

“That’s really good pat-” 

“Shhhhhhhh”

Remus nodded and mimed zipping his lips. He liked spending time with the kid. They weren’t biologically related but who gives a fuck about blood, unless it’s outside of your body, then it’s fun. 

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“I don’ wanna” Patton wined his dad sighed “I know bubbles but we gotta go home to Papa and Janny, isn’t that fun” Patton considered this, “but Roro’s pretty arm picture” he argued. Remus scratched the back of his neck, “Pffffff- Ummm, how about this, we go home now and I’ll take you back to the shop tomorrow after pre-school” 

Patton brightened considerably, “ok” he chirped. “up please” the toddler’s chubby hands reached towards Remus who obediently scooped him up with a coo. After all who was he to say no to uppy hands. 

“See ya tomorrow, have fun on your date with the nerd” Remus sang as he snatched his bag juggling the still fussy Patton in his other arm. “Fu- Frick off Re. Say hi to your partners for me,” Romans said affectionately and waved as his twin left the building. 

Remus happily trotted out into the road. The tattoo shop was located on a quaint little street in the more commercial segment of their town only a short walk from Janus’ job. 

A light drizzle floated around them and the air was warm and comforting. Patton squealed as a large drop of water hit him in the head, prompting a laugh from Remus.

A jingle sounded through the peaceful cafe, the brown room was illuminated by those cool old fashion lights and a lovely array of pastries made the air smell of chocolate and blueberry scones. But the scones, as delicious as they were, weren’t the snack Remus was here for

“Hey babe- Remus why are you soaking wet”

“Puddle” Patton screeched. 

“Kid’s right, Puddle.”

Janus pinched their eyebrows, “ya know what, I’m not even surprised anymore. Just make sure Patton doesn’t catch a cold” they scolded. 

Remus nodded and saluted in mock seriousness, “yes captain” he said and pressed a kiss to Janus’ face over the cash register, “I’ll see ya in a bit” Remus grinned and led Patton back out of the cafe. 

Janus sighed lovingly as they watched their boyfriend and son turn to cross the street, Patton’s hand clasped around Remus’ happily. “Stop looking so happy, you're scaring the customers” Remy teased from across the counter. “Ha, Ha,” Janus glared and went back to work” 

Janus’ apartment was a cute two-bedroom space on the fourth floor of the building. The furniture was an interesting combo of vintage and things from the side of the road. The vintage parts came from their parent’s house, their father had died two years after Janus’ had run away and hadn’t thought to write them out of the will. 

The three of them had made a date out of customizing the few pieces that Janus wanted to keep. The customization mainly included darkening everything and adding more gothic touches. Virgil had done the fabrics, Remus the painting, and Janus moral support/ director. 

The three partners had also painted the kitchen/dining room/living room black with one yellow wall. Janus and Virgil’s room was dark purple instead of black with highlights in the same yellow. Patton’s room was the only one that didn’t  look marginally like a cave. 

The walls were a cream-yellow that lit up in the morning sunlight. After Janus announced that they were going to have a baby Remus had spent three hours painting the grey ceiling with white fluffy clouds. It was one of his favorite projects. 

Patton of course had no regard for the work put into the entirety of his home and was the usual menace of a toddler. And today a toddler with cheerios, truly a sight even god would tremble before. 

Remus plopped down next to Patton who was pushing cheerios around his highchair tray with an intense focus. He smiled at the little boy and flicked on the tv, “got any requests pip-squeak?” Remus asked. Patton looked thoughtful, “dead lady!!” he cried excitedly hitting the tray with his fists, cheerios flew everywhere. Remus nodded, understanding, “Corpse bride coming up!” he picked a few cheerios from the couch “you really are Verge’s kid” 

When Janus got home Patton was curled up on Remus’s chest. Both slept soundly despite the dead folk on the screen in front of them singing about the wedding. 

Janus smiled, their family was fucking adorable. They slipped off their shoes and snuggled up into Remus who hummed happily and pulled Janus into the hug still asleep. 

----------------------------------------

Three hours later Virgil trudged up the four flights of stairs huffing indignantly with each step. Of course, he could take the elevator… but it might break down and he would be stuck for hours. Or someone could get into the elevator with him and he would have to interact with a stranger. So stairs it was. 

He rummaged around his baggy hoodie, running his fingers through his dark purple hair in annoyance when he couldn’t find the key. Once he found it Virgil carefully (as he did everything) opened the apartment door. His combat books clunked satisfyingly against the hardwood floors as he entered his house. Virgil felt the tension leave his muscles, he was home. He glanced across the room, looking for his family. 

Virgil’s face lit up like a god damned Christmas tree. 

Across the room, both his partners and his son were curled up sleeping happily. Drool covered Remus’ face and Janus was snoring, they were the most precious thing Virgil had seen all freakin day. 

The three of them woke as Virgil wrapped his arms around them, Patton squealed in excitement. “Hello, darling” Janus mumbled sleepily into Virgil’s arm. Remus just groaned and nestled into the hug. The toddler wriggled between his dads squealing profusely. “Shhh, s’ sleepy time” Remus mumbled, rolling deeper into the cuddle pile and shutting Patton up. 

Virgil smiled and pressed a kiss to his partner’s cheek. “Mmm, love you” they purred. “Love you too Jan,” Virgil said, nestling his face in their neck. Virgil knew he would have to start dinner soon but that could wait, for now, cuddles.