#(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.)

[tododeku-or-bust]

Thank you for clarifying things like capitalizing Black and saying "[noun] of color". I have a related question that your recent anon has prompted. I usually use Latinx as that is what I've come across. Is that right or should I be using Latine? I'm guessing Latine is more proper since that is what your anon used. I've tried looking it up on Google and the answers are mixed. I'm worried about being rude. I wasn't sure if you might have a more insightful answer?

I am not qualified to speak on the topic myself, so I asked a Black Latine peer for their perspective and I think they put it beautifully, so I'm going to quote them directly (I did ask permission):

"I was one of those that had a visceral reaction to “Latinx” because I viewed it as USAmericans trying to change Spanish to their benefit. That and the fact that Latinx isn’t pronounceable in Spanish, not really. But looking deeper into it, I came to the realization that a lot of discussion around Latinx is purely reactionary. I think I noticed it when a Black American on Twitter used “Latinx” in a tweet criticizing Latine antiBlackness. Instead of focusing on what she was saying (which was all true!), it’s as if the entirety of LatineTwt united to harass her and call her all sorts of “stupid American” over the use of the term. And worse because this is LATAM.

Everybody seems to credit the USA for the term, but nobody knows where it actually came from. All sources just keep quoting the same professor who once said the term originated in New York back in the 2000s. I even saw claims that the term originated from Brazil during their own queer rights movements in the 90s and that “Latinx” was a term for protest signs [this is something they heard from Latine queer elders].

My point is: the term Latinx is a non-issue that Latines like to focus on to distract from the overarching issues (racism, queerphobia, etc)

I do think the term Latine is better because it’s easier to pronounce and fits better into our vocabulary. But I think that if anybody sees this HUGE outrage over the word Latinx, they should definitely investigate the source. There ARE queer Latine who use Latinx, but I’m not personally one of them. It’s probably for the best if Americans/people who aren’t Latine use Latine instead to avoid The Harassment (tm)."

*they would like to clarify that they didn't mean the necessity for a gender neutral pronoun is a non-issue! And that they agree inaccessibility is an issue for disabled Latines as well.

[greypetrel]

From the Oh Hellos prompt list: "Death, she is cunning and clever as hell." - Eat You Alive for whomever it fits best!

Aaaaah thank you because you picked one of my favourite songs by them! :D I ended up with Alyra, in a little tryptic because I am an indecisive bitch and I couldn’t decide which stanza to take as a quote.

Tis the prompt list

A testament, a prophecy.

  "Death, she is cunning and clever as hell." - Eat You Alive

[ Female Mahariel x Morrigan - Female Mahariel x Alistair (open couple, everything is consensual) | 3754 words | CW: VIolence, death, blood, dead bodies -non described graphically, said open couple, King Alistair + Queen Anora (mentioned that it's a façade but still ]

He said to me: “Child, I’m afraid for your soul, These things that you’re after, they can’t be controlled, This beast that you’re after will eat you alive, And spit out your bones.

Denerim, 9:31 Dragon

It held something poetic, she could say.

Chaos ended, once the Landsmeet had stopped talking about the Blight and progressed to the next coronation, Mahariel had slipped out of the great hall. All she came to do, she did.

Secure Ferelden against the Blight, trick Eamon in giving the throne to Alistair, sure, but not on his own, get Loghain out of the way.

And now here she was, standing in a side corridor in front of the corpse of the general, his blood at that point dried on her armour, facing one pale hand that slipped out of the sheet they covered him with.

A testament to her results, and a prophecy of the future.

It mattered little if the servants were evidently ill at ease with her staring. She didn’t care for them, wouldn’t have bothered with their work, and couldn’t understand why they were intimidated like so by an elf standing by. None of them would have paid her the same level of care if she was the dead one, she was sure. Elves were not even good to take care of the dead body of General Mac Tir, after all, humans had been sent instead. Why should they mind her now, then?

“Why lingering?”

An extra voice called, from behind her. After the last half a hour, Morrigan’s presence was a balm to her ears, and she hated herself for it, right now.

“He shouldn’t have been the one to die, today.”

The servants turned to her with surprise in their eyes, but she glared them back to work. Incompetents.

“You-”

“I’m not talking of myself.” She hissed. “Not now, not anymore.”

She could admit it, even if just to Morrigan, in barely more than a whisper. After she picked her up when Tamlen showed up again, it was a pointless secret she guessed. She confirmed it, when she heard the Witch exhale, slowly than her usual. It irritated her, and she spoke again, louder, before the other could answer.

“I’m just staring at the failing of command, which I can relate since I distinctly remember I asked you not to come, today.”

“Do not take it on me.”

Alyra scoffed at the answer and marched away, a brisk in her step, as if she didn’t care. It pained her that her heart did a double leap when she heard the noise of steps behind her. She hated the burning in her eyes, when Morrigan sped up to keep at her side, and was quick in turning her head away. Lest the witch saw her and understand.

“He really is an idiot.”  The witch snorted.

“He made perfectly sense.”

“He hurt you.”

“I hurt him first, we’re even. He didn’t want the crown.”

“He told everyone he did.”

“That was duty. And that waste of breath of his uncle whispering in his ear.”

“So, was it still his uncle the one who rejected your hand in marriage?”

“Leave it, Morrigan.”

“Not until you answer me.”

Morrigan grabbed her arm and stopped her. Better said: Alyra let her stop her, resisting both urges to wiggle herself free and just run away from a confrontation she wasn’t in the mood of having, and the one to just fold on the woman and start crying. In the middle, barely collected enough not to break, she recoiled in that bit of contact, let herself be stopped and moved, enjoyed how the hand didn’t leave her arm. Didn’t flinch if it was dirty and bloody, the leather torn over a deep gush. The physical pain was better, at least.

“Did you mean it?” Morrigan asked. “Did you want to become queen yourself, enter this circus, and possibly end up like Loghain? Did you, or was it just guilt?”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Alyra.”

She finally looked at Morrigan. A frown on her face, eyes burning, lips drawn in a thin line, breathing heavily herself. Her eyes fell on Loghain, once again. They were further down the corridor, but it was still visible, and it was her lips now to drawn in a thin line. A bloody shroud over what remained of a person who saved the country, years ago. Now alone and forgotten, killed after the wrong bet, as his country went on without him, as if he was nothing. As if they weren’t all there, free and independent, thanks of him.

A testament to her results, and a prophecy for the future.

“I thought there could have been a future, after the Blight.” She admitted. “I thought I was good at politics. I liked it.” The burning in her eyes was stronger, but she fought it. “But they will only ever see the shape of my ears before everything else. Alistair will only ever see the shape of my ears before the rest.”

One and two tears rolled over her cheeks. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyelids, trying to make the tears stop. They didn’t.

Morrigan bent forward, her hands relenting on her arm and the other coming to cup her cheek. She kissed tears away from one cheek, and rubbed those on the other with her thumb, with a delicacy that only brought more tears to fall.

“He is an idiot.”

Alyra hung to her like she was drowning, and for the second time in a year, ever since she entered those cursed ruins and her life changed, allowed herself to break down.

---

She’ll string you along and she’ll sell you a lie There’s nothing but pain on the edge of a knife There is no courage in flirting with fear To prove you’re alive.

Dragonbone Wastes, 9:32 Dragon

Rising one eyebrow was enough to silence the doubts that Ariane was about to voice.

She saw the huntress instantly closing her mouth and looking down, cheeks taking some colours.

Sir Ironjaw Bonecrusher barked and ran to her, wiggling his butt at her, and Alyra looked down, gifting the mabari a smile as she scratched his cheek where he liked.

“You-”

Taking her eyes away from them was apparently the wrong choice. It figured, she supposed: a couple of weeks of travelling together wasn’t enough for her instructions to stick. And Finn was too open mouthed from the start.

“You chose a terrible spot to set camp up.” Alyra interrupted the mage, looking back up with annoyance. “You’re both lucky it was just me who found you. Ariane, I expected better.”

She marched back in the small encampment with a purpose the mantle of the Warden-Commander falling back on her shoulders and in her gait. It felt more hers than it has since then, which was a small consolation as she examined the camp and was stung by the comparison with what she had just left.

A single tent, decently set up, close to a fire circled with stones and a pot to cook beside it, lid bubbling as whatever it was boiled.

“The fire and the smoke will attract unwanted attention.”

“I- Uhm, I made sure there was no one around.” Ariane tried to justify herself, instinctively handing her a cloth she used to touch the pot.

“Next time, set camp high up on hills.”

“But then the fire will be visible from a distance.”

“The smoke is visible anyway, and you’ll be at a vantage point. Not trapped at the bottom of a hollow ready to be ambushed.”

She sat on her knees and rose the lid from the pot, examining the content. A simple soup made with provisions, the smell of herbs familiar and cozy, reminding her of her clan. Small portions for three people, but it would have done.

She ate plenty in the Crossroads, when she had to leave the baby to Morrigan for his own feeding.

Ariane and Finn were a little puzzled, but they fell back on track soon enough, as Mahariel simply started to give orders. Wards were placed, another tent rose. Dinner was served, it was little but it was good, earthy, tasting like another life Alyra didn’t miss.

The night was spent, and the next day they started on the road back early, Alyra at the start of the line and leading the way as if it was the most normal thing to do. The day was cloudy but it wasn’t rainy, so the quick pace she set was just out of not wanting to spend more time than necessary out there in the Wastes.

After a couple of hours and a bigger number of complaints on Mahariel’s part, it was Finn who finally snapped.

“We weren’t expecting the need to put up with your impossible standards ever again, you know?”

The atmosphere froze. Ariane hissed something and pulled on his robe to have him stop and apologize. But Finn, although getting embarrassed and blushing after a minute that Alyra spent staring at him without blinking, went on.

“I- I mean, you disappeared in that mirror. We waited for you, but after a day, we supposed that you-”

“-you supposed I left my duty, my command, my order, and disappeared into a mirror without even a note.”

“Well, I never-”

“It wasn’t a question.” She noted, and the mage finally looked down.

She appreciated him for standing up to her and putting up resistance, really. It didn’t change that she turned back and started walking again, expecting to be followed. She fixed her backpack on her shoulders when she heard the noise of steps -she shouldn’t be hearing that-, dog trotting obediently at her side, when Ariane finally spoke.

“You… You knew Morrigan.”

“Your deduction ability is incredible, you should be a detective.”

Somehow, neither Ariane nor Finn caught the irony, and she heard them mumbling between them with a note of embarrassment. Sir Ironjaw Bonecrusher snorted, and Alyra turned to caress him in a silent thank you for actually understanding her humour. No one ever did, she didn’t know why.

“I only meant… You seemed… Uh, close. And-”

“We weren’t expecting you would have returned, that’s all.”

“Finn!”

“What? It’s true.” The mage spread his arms to the side. “She talked to the Witch like her life hang from her lips and entered the mirror. Not a word, not an afterthought, she bossed us around for weeks on everything, included how to go and relieve ourself in the correct way in the wild, and then the Witch appeared and she didn’t even look back at us. She left us alone for a week, what were we suppose to think? She wasn’t planning on returning, or she would have told us where to wait for her, and for how long.”

Alyra felt their eyes on the back of her neck. The same way she felt Nathaniel’s stare when she left Amaranthine and lied to him, saying she would have been back. And the mage, right now, stroke a point she couldn’t really deny.

Truth was, she hadn’t meant to get back. She smelled the freedom, stepped through that mirror, and had the best five days of her life, with the woman she loved and their son. She had, indeed, changed her mind looking at the pair. And it has been more difficult than deciding to leave Vigil’s Keep after all the bother she took to keep it standing.

But that was for her. It had been for Morrigan, it may be with Alistair, if they somehow managed to patch their relationship. It wasn’t for the pair at her shoulder to be aware of. They were pleasant company and both of them had potential. It didn’t mean that they were in her confidence. Not yet, at least, but she had plans. So, she just huffed through her nose, encompassing everything like that.

“I’m here, now.” She simply stated, and for once in the last two years of crazy cults and un-deads and monsters, she was sure of it. “And I would suggest you both to get back to Vigil’s Keep with me. You’re not such wastes of breath.”

As much of a compliment she dared to give them. As much of a profession of thanks she could. Take Finn out of the Circle if he wanted a way out, give Ariane the chance at something bigger, something else. A choice, like that she never had.

Herself, she knew what she was facing, coming back, because for once, coming back had been her choice. Her own, no one else’s. She knew the politics, and tricks and itches and thorns of it.

The picture of Loghain’s void eyes, his pale hand slipping out of his shroud, came back to mind.

A testament to her results and a prophecy of her future.

But she had plans.

And well, apparently, she also had a family in a magic world beyond a mirror.

And oh, she fully intended to work to make her Keep safe for them.

---

I’ve seen the true face of the things you called “life” The song of the siren that holds your desire Death, she is cunning and clever as hell, She’ll eat you alive.

Vigil’s Keep, 9:38 Dragon

“I’m sure the answer will be yes, but I feel obligated to ask anyway.”

Alistair flipped the last of the documents he was presented with on the neat pile they came up with. Lists and lists of numbers, calculations and outcomes and planning. Years full of work, no doubt, judging from how yellowish the pages were.  Everything neatly piled and summed, written in her sharp, clear calligraphy, as if it was but another to do list for the next Court assembly.

Easy to read made it easy to accept, made it almost like it was the only logical solution.

The same way she conducted a speech until you didn’t understand how you could possibly disagree with her in every single Court meeting and Landsmeet they faced in the last years.

He passed the pile to Anora, to his left, and looked up to the rest of the table in the Warden Commander’s personal quarters. A round table full of papers, a map signed with pawns and pins, notes in red ink here and there over number of troops and the exact locations of the Grey Wardens and their numbers. Wards shining green at the door and all around the room, keeping it safe and private.

Nathaniel was frowning down at the map, a hand brought up to his mouth, deep in thought. Velanna looked as per her usual, as if the whole situation bored her greatly, if one didn’t know her enough to notice the glint of mischief in her eyes. Sigrun, who had a big smile twisting her tattoos, and just looked at the elf at centre stage with trust in her eyes and the thrill of a new challenge. Not so weirdly enough anymore -for albeit they had a rocky start and spent the first months at Court trying to outsmart the other, they now were fast friend and an unstoppable force when they agreed-, Anora was smiling too, and the smile grew at each new paper she read.

And then there was her. Alyra, totally basking in that way she had when she knew she had the upperhand and could allow herself to be more open about her feeling, was smiling. She stood there, at the centre of the table just opposite of him, and had that glint in her brown eyes that meant she was just about to score a victory, usually. Arms crossed on her blue gabardine, red hair neatly tied in braids. She let it grow long, these years, and somehow it suited her even if it was not practical as she preferred.

And she was looking at him, waiting for his answer with expectation.

“It’s weird.” He managed only to utter, the decision in front of him too big not to hesitate a little.

“What?” Alyra frowned. “He’s scum.”

“Oh no I agree, he definitely is. It’s really peculiar the stupidity he shows in not listening to your every wish and insisting on you respecting rank. The audacity!”

Sigrun laughed, Nathaniel snickered in agreement and both got a fulminating glare for it. Velanna was as per her usual more clever, and waited until Mahariel was turned to the other two Wardens to allow herself to smile. Anora smiled because she didn’t fear the Warden-Commander.

“So?” Alyra returned to Alistair, rising one eyebrow. The annoyance was fake, he knew her well enough to read it in the minute contractions of her lips that hid a smile. It made everything the more surprising, the realization the sweeter.

“It’s just weird that for once you’re actually waiting for my opinion on the matter and not just informing me of your decision when it’s done.” He noted aloud, smiling at her when she wouldn’t. “I’m glad of it.”

He knew her well to expect her reaction. The rolling of her eyes to the ceiling, the mouth that opened to let a huff out, and the dismissive wave of her hand. She changed, but she still was terrible at accepting a compliment.

“Our gracious queen is here, and her opinion I respect. You’ve learnt a thing or two in these last years, too.” She simply stated, and interrupted Nathaniel before he could add a comment. “You lots should learn from him.”

“She got you.” Sigrun teased Nathaniel.

“I run the place when she’s away!” Nathaniel protested. “She never complains for more than ten minutes when she returns.”

“As if you acted alone and didn’t ask our opinion constantly.” Velanna teased him, with a smile.

“It’s democratic, you should appreciate it.”

“Hey, I’m not doing such a terrible job at this monarchy thing, ouch!”

“As long as you’re not democratic when we’re around, Howe.” Anora concluded, placing the documents down on the table with grace.

The room fell silent again, there in the middle of the night, outside of everyone’s ears. Vigil’s Keep was strictly controlled, and the Arlessa was notorious to allow people in her service only after she herself interviewed them. Vigil’s Keep was a safe place, most people there were bound by loyalty directly to the Arlessa. She notoriously preferred elves from the Alienage, the ones that struggled finding work, people she found on the streets, and all the former Blighted Orphans she had managed to track down and scare shitless, when they thought she was there for retaliation and not to offer them a job.

“So? What do you think of it?” She prodded them, that sly glint returning to her eyes. “Do the Wardens have the support of the Crown?”

“I think that you’re totally crazy, and that we’re all gonna pay for this with our pretty, pretty heads. Mine’s the prettiest.” He sighed, looking back down at the pile of documents. The numbers, the lists. The two missives that she hadn’t just thrown in the fireplace without even opening the envelope.

“Anora?” Alyra asked.

“For once I agree with my dear husband. It’s a crazy plan, but we can make do with it. Promise the Wardens to help the Crown in the future, and the Crown will protect you in turn. We’ll need a treaty signed.”

“It can be arranged.”

“A treaty that I will write.” The queen specified, with a sly smile on her face.

Alyra smiled back, the same slyness on her face, and nodded at her, conceding the victory with a huff just for show.

“So, what does the King say? Is it too crazy for you?”

“Oh no, on the contrary. If as a Warden I have to keep be under some other person, I’d much, much rather it was you.” A pause. “Double-sense included, by the way.”

Alyra rolled her eyes again, Anora sighed, and Velanna snickered.

“Do it, for all that concern me, 5 different contingency plans are more than enough should the worst happen.” He shrugged. “I’ll sleep better knowing he won’t claim my crown any time soon, and that he won’t be able to come here and study how you’re still alive.”

“But?”

“I told you my opinion, there’s-”

“Alistair.” She leant her head that way and looked at him not impressed. She knew him as well as he did her, after all. In that moment, Alistair was happy that whatever happened between them, they had managed to get closer again. It was nice, to be known like that. It was nice, there, to be in the open on how much his marriage was a consensual façade.

“… Buuut-” He conceded. “… Are you sure of it? Declare the independence of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden from Weisshaupt... That’s a change If the Landsmeet can’t accept it, or if the First-Warden decides to march south… Mind me, I would love to tell him to fuck himself too, right now, I would sleep better knowing he’s not out there after us. But if things go badly… Five of six people in this room will be dead.”

The risks were all calculated, the risks were all taken into accound in the documents he revised, but Alistair remembered the exact moment Loghain’s life left him. The way he had stopped moving and fallen to the ground in the Great Hall, a loud metal clang on stone filling the space as everyone caught their breath. Alyra’s shoulder rising and falling with heavy breath after the fight, blood dripping from her dagger.

In that moment, the face of the general was Alyra’s, staring with void eyes and a slit throat at the ceiling, blood trickling out of her mouth, redder than her hair. It wasn’t an inviting option, as many disagreement they may still have, even with ten years of experience more.

If Mahariel was thinking of the same thing -and Alistair knew her well enough to know that she was, that she constantly had Loghain as an example on one hand, a cautionary tale on the other-, it didn’t show.

Mahariel threw her head back and laughed, loud and hard.

“That’s not a major set-back for us, love.”

She told him when she was done, the smile finally breaking up and curling her lips up, the blue of her Vallaslin raising on her cheeks.

“We’re Grey Wardens, one side or the other, and we’re all already dead.”

[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. :)

[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."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi @crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the heart @vampviolets@haylee-e @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife

@officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr @aaaaslaaaan @witxhy-lexx @minjix @luvroseee @tee-swizzle @savageneversaw @admiringlove @hysteriahall @piceous21 @starlightandfairies @igotmajordaddyissues @drewstarkey-wife1

[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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[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.)