#...because that one is perfectly unsubtle about this AND YET STILL DOES IT

[elainemorisi]

[fetus-cakes]

Furiosa: some jumbled thoughts

I genuinely think Mad Mad: Fury Road is one of the best modern movies ever. I rarely ever like prequels/sequels to beloved 80's franchises and yet Fury Road had me thinking and talking about the themes and storytelling for literal years after the movie was out. I even got the soundtrack and played it constantly while driving.

So! That means I had insanely high expectations for Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. I don't think I was ever going to be 100% happy with any origin story for Furiosa, as nothing can really beat the limitless potential of an untold story. I still tried to go to the theatre with an open mind. Alas I was disappointed.

My verdict: Mediocre! much like when Nux ate shit right in front of his idol, this movie fails to stick the landing.

so my first complaint is: SHE HAD LONG HAIR WHAT IS UP WITH THAT SHIT

it's not just an aesthetic choice, in a world where a person fights all the time and she got to repair the engine while the truck is moving, long hair is a LIABILITY. it's going to get caught in a wheel and rip her WHOLE scalp offfffffff her whole scalp!

plus. it looked like a perfectly coiffed wig, which is so out of place in the WASTELAND. how does hair the wasteland look? it should be DIRTY and OILY, there's no fucking shampoo. instead her wig only got a little dusty at the end. here's my actual biggest complaint: it felt that they were contractually obligated to use the exact same sets, costumes and characters as Fury Road; we BARELY got introduced to any new people or places. EVERYONE looks the exact same as they do in Fury Road, which takes place NINETEEN YEARS after the events here

it's so so fucking boring that Immortan Joe, People Eater and Bullet Farmer look THE EXACT SAME as they do in Fury Road

in Fury Road there's the implication that Joe is slowly dying of various tumours and diseased flesh, but he used to be younger and healthier. we should have seen fit, strong Joe at his prime and maybe this was the START of his health problems; if this movie was any good we should have seen why he wears that teeth mask (it's to hide his possibly cancerous jaw)

People Eater has both syphilis and elephantiasis, both implied to be diseases he got from being a cannibal, but by the time you lose your nose and your leg looks so swollen those are later stages of those diseases, he's close to death in Fury Road. if he has no nose and a swollen leg at the start of Furiosa, that means he held on to life and sanity for nineteen years, which is very very unlikely Fury Road makes a BIG DEAL that Joe cares about his "wives". He treats them like property and obviously is a rapist piece of shit, but he does care a lot about what happens to them

you're telling me that Joe of all people wouldn't rip the entire citadel inside out looking for Furiosa went she went missing?

that he's so stupid he couldn't put two and two together that a little girl went missing from his harem and later a teenage girl appears "out of nowhere" among his warboys? and this teenage girl seems unusually healthy and capable, unlike most of the children of the wasteland? Furiosa SHOULD have been about her victimization at the hands of Joe and her many many attempts to escape, WHICH ARE MENTIONED IN FURY ROAD. instead we see her trying to run away once (1) and she never gets punished by Joe. her anger at him in Fury Road makes no sense now

I wouldn't say I want to see rape in a movie like this, but we got set up to think there's a lot more sexual violence in the wasteland. it's explicit in the Road Warrior, it's implicit in Fury Road

we got set up to think Furiosa was a "wife" or was at least the victim of Immortan Joe in a way like that we know for a fact that JOE has set up a system in which women, especially healthy women who can have children, are at a premium and he gets first dibs there's a very unsubtle gender divide in the Citadel that we know is Joe's doing because he's the one obsessed with having healthy babies and knowing this, they're expecting us to believe Furiosa was never the target of unwanted sexual attention? in this society that Joe specifically set up so women could be victimized? I have a hard time believing it

I really am not saying I want Furiosa to be the victim of sexual assault, but I do want them to give us a good reason why she is NOT when the previous movies have established this is a regular thing.

like we could have a scene where she escapes the harem very violently but gets caught, Joe might decide she's too much trouble to keep as a breeding stock but she's feisty and strong so he will give her a chance as a War Boy, and he gets to imply that he will force her to bear children if it she's not a good fighter what we get instead is that she dressed up as a boy (and somehow doesn't get caught for years despite her disguise being shit) and then gets taken up under the wing of Praetorian Jack and she doesn't disguise her gender anymore; and Joe doesn't care?? huh???

I WISH this movie was more about Immortan Joe establishing his own cult of personality that we see fully formed in Fury Road.

it would have been so good to see War Boys not quite as manically loyal to him until he comes up with the idea that HE is a god-king that will take the boys to paradise (Valhalla) 19 years is a good timeline to establish that sort of lore about himself. the fact that they ALREADY have it when Furiosa comes to the citadel is so SO boring

it's so boring that basically NOTHING changed in the citadel for 19 years, there was no power grabs or changes in hierarchy or changes to the lore that Joe has about himself everything was consistent and running smoothly for Joe for nearly twenty years? in a wasteland where resources are extremely scarce and people are CONSTANTLY murdering each other for water, gasoline and food? stability? in THIS economy?

it would have been more interesting if part of the movie was that someone else had the Citadel and then Joe came and took it and established his own society; and we see Furiosa trade one insane warlord for a different (perhaps worse) one literally one of the things that makes the Mad Max universe cool and fascinating is that the more fractured society gets, the more people in their own little pocket cities reinvent society with their own set of insane rules the only good thing about Thunderdome was the the fact that they had the Thunderdome to settle their disputes!

loyalty is a biiiiiiig theme in Fury Road, both in how Immortan Joe artificially enforces it with his cult of personality and how Furiosa and Max have the real thing for each through shared trauma it's so insane to me that loyalty from Furiosa to Joe is not addressed ONCE, it's something that he would demand from her he just accepts that she works for him? Joe is 1000% the sort of man who would force Furiosa to shoot her own friend to prove her loyalty to him, but we don't see anything like that

(this point is minor compared to the rest) I never understood chris hemsworth as Lord Dementus, like what the fuck is his deal he got better towards the end of the movie, but the first half he was so over the place was he gonna rape Furiosa's mom? no? why does he want to have the pretty girl-child so badly? is HE a pedophile? no? he likes children, but not in a creepy way? then why does he act so weird with her is he a capable war lord or just an idiot? hard to tell! why doesn't he sell Furiosa to Immortan Joe as soon as Joe expresses interest? slaves are a premium resource! if he really likes Furiosa, then why does he relent and give her to Joe when it's clear she's going to be breeding stock? it's like they saw Lord Humungus from Road Warrior and said "we want this character but without the S&M gay shit, oh oops but if he's interested in little girls that's bad in a different way"

we barely see Furiosa kill anyone in this movie, she doesn't even join in the WAR (the war that she SHOULD join to show her loyalty to Joe so he would trust her with the war rig!!) in Fury Road she is both ruthless and efficient killer. She's not cruel, but she has zero time to compassionate. someone explain to me how the hell she got to that point without murdering people up close and personal as a younger woman. in Fury Road she is NOT afraid to get into close quarters violence with Max, despite not having a gun and having the handicap of missing her arm (and not having her prosthetic one on). this tells us she's someone who KNOWS how to fight, someone who doesn't hesitate to kill

final thoughts: the music was so anemic, during one of the war rig fights I literally found myself thinking "where's the music? the music is supposed to get us pumped up for the action right now. I don't feel the adrenaline these characters feel!" did they record ANY new music for this movie? or was it all from the Fury Road soundtrack?

final final thought: Lord Dementus being used as living fertilizer for the peach tree is so stupid and impossible. It would have been better to shown him as a corpse, rather than someone who impossibly stayed alive for months or years for a sapling to grow. Did she implant the peach pit in his dick?

Showing clips from the original movie on a sequel should be cardinal sin in filmmaking. It's like they don't trust the audience to remember, or they're telling us "you liked this right? remember how much you liked this, you'll have positive associations with this current one!" do not remind me I could be watching a better movie instead of this

[asexualzoro]

it’s my 22nd birthday today, and you know what that means... 

Lew Writes Wrapped 2022!

its virtually all third life this time, most of which have not been posted on main before. woe, the full weight of my third life obsession be upon ye

blood god, mortal red

(Jan, 1.2k, DSMP, oneshot) (link)

one of the Many minecraft execution fics i have written in my life, technoblade anvil edition

not to start this post off with making myself sad, but man, i miss him. 

i remember writing this one all in one sitting at work in january. i think i did a pretty good job with it from an artistic standpoint, and as an analytical piece, i think i hit the mark perfectly. that said, i don’t think i could reread it now. i do think it was fun as a writing exercise to force like, 5 seconds irl to stretch out into a thousand words

yes, the only way out is down

(April, 1.2k, 3L, oneshot) (link)

another minecraft execution fic, third life rendog edition! 

IM SO PROUD OF THIS ONE. im so fond of it it’s probably my favorite third life oneshot. ren’s execution makes me fucking rabid and this is just the most direct expression of that.

what’s funny is i actually remember being pretty dissatisfied with this fic when i finished it--there was a lot of stuff i wanted to hit on that i just couldnt swing around to--but when i stepped away from what i wanted it to be and looked at what it was, i realized i liked it a lot

the rhythm of cold fists

(May, 2.6k, 3L, onehsot) (link)

sometimes you get so worked up about the idea scar threw the finale of third life that you have to write a bunch of frenzied words on it

this one is funny bc i think its got the second most hits of any of my third life fic, but the comment number is really low comparatively. i mostly just had fun making the transcript of this scene and then fleshing that out into a full ‘novelization,’ it was a neat writing exercise! i don’t think anything in particular stands out about this one, but i’m happy with it overall

Wooden Mausoleum

(May, 3.8k, 3L, oneshot) (link)

Sometimes you get so worked up about the idea of the unactualized betrayal plotline of the most loyal man in the series that you have to write a bunch of frenzied words about it

okay this is going to sound bad but i keep forgetting i wrote this. i dont know why. i like this fic! one of my favorite paragraphs i wrote all year is in it! and yet??? i dunno.

id love to write a different martyn wins au where the betrayal isnt the sort of ‘mercy kill’ suggested in this fic, bc i still have not recovered from the unrealized betrayal plot. someday i’ll write a martyn wins au where he Means to win

i... still feel something is sort of off with the way this fic ends, but i think ive felt that about a lot of the fic/scene endings ive written of late. i think that ending scenes/fics is just ill have to work on this upcoming year! 

might be best to not look back

(Oct, 2.7k, 3L, oneshot) (link)

i’m starting to think all my oneshots are just me getting possessed by different parts of the third life. anyway i had a point to prove about scar throwing, and what might happen were he not being wildly unsubtle about throwing

i can write essays on this fic it makes me feel insane. i HAVE written an essay on it already just recently. tbh, this fic itself IS an essay written for the purpose of analyzing the penultimate third life scene. i have and could and will write more essays on the penultimate third life. this is all i have to say to avoid making this a 1k word post

i think i did what i wanted to pretty well? it was sort of confusing, by virtue of trying to talk about a point your viewpoint character won’t acknowledge, but it was a fun piece over all

missing or obstructed

(Oct-present, 6.3k, 3L, ongoing) (link) 

post third life fic but only grian and ren remember, featuring so many sleep/dreaming metaphors, because i lucid dream and have insomnia and it does a lot to me as a person

missing or obstructed has 14.7k words written but i havent fuckin posted most of it bc i got derailed by lamplight. missing i am so sorry i miss you so much but youve been obstructed. i am really excited for how the rest of this goes but i think i have to finish and completely exorcize lamplight from my head before i can go back to it in earnest. i DID post another chapter at 10pm yesterday so i had more of it to include in this wordcount tho,

missing or obstructed has been a lot of fun to write bc i lvoe stupid metaphors. it has sucked to write because it’s forced me to come up with worldbuilding shit for the watchers which has been so much more difficult than i thought. it’s been fun again cuz i love worldbuilding. it’ll be super fun when i finish the current scene i’m sitting and get to introduce martyn pov. i lvoe writing Martyn pov

Lamplight AU

(Nov-present, 20k, 3L/LL, series) (link)

renchanting dnd au. i put ren in a lantern. what else do you need

wadda hell. 

i cannot even begin to like--lamplight was literally supposed to be just 20 Questions and thats it, i wasn’t going to write more, but people liked it so much that i was like “sure, i’ll write a bit more” and you guys have been??? so kind. the amount of enthusiasm this fic has received thru kind tags/comments, asks and interest, and even art??? is equal parts deeply humbling and also incredibly likely to give me a god complex. this fic has been so much fun to write and my readers are the whole reason, i cant wait to show you what i have in store for the rest of it

six sentence sunday challenge

i also started a challenge back at the end of march of this year over on @driflew called Six Sentence Sunday. the rules are simple: every sunday, post six sentences you wrote that week.

i didn’t make it every week, but i made it a great deal of them. on occasion, i even posted 12 sentences the week after missing my six, meaning some weeks counted for two.

my six sentence sunday tag on that blog has 28 posts from the year! considering there’s only 52 weeks in a year, i started three months late, and a few of those weeks are actually two, i feel pretty good about the amount of weeks i made. not every week, but basically any week i didn’t have a good excuse not to complete my six sentences. it kept me writing all year, if only a little bit at a time, and i’ll be keeping up with it for sure!

to finish out,

i passed my writing amount from last year (25k) by over 10k words! my total number for this year doesnt even count the 7k or so from missing or obstructed i havent posted, plus an uncounted few hundred words of unposted snippets for lamplight. i’m really happy with everything i’ve done this year! 

which… this year i wrote and posted 37,800+ words! 

thank you to everyone who has supported my writing all year, as always, it means the world to me. happy birthday to me, and thank you to you for reading! 

(birthday wishes and/or reblogs appreciated!)

[palmviolet]

thranduil + the problem of immortality (ie why the hobbit movies got one thing right)

say what you like about the hobbit movies and thranduil's character particularly, but they really were at least trying to head in the right direction with thranduil, and they produced some really interesting stuff.

@the-ring-wasnt-even-pretty did a really good post on this the other day discussing how thranduil is pretty much the first elf we see on screen who has real flaws, ie arrogance, selfishness, isolationism. and they didn't just leave it there, with him as a sort of two dimensional beta villain, but they tried to (tried being the operative word) give him some sort of depth to explain why he's like this. the plot with his wife was hamfisted and unsubtle, in my opinion, but it is an interesting opportunity to explore what death really means when you're a being for whom death is not inevitable. what i really want to talk about, though, is the 'do not talk to me of dragon fire' scene.

there are lots of differing opinions on this, ie. are they actually current wounds that he hides with a glamour vs. are they a memory/manifestation of psychic damage. whatever your opinion (and i can see points for and against each side), this is maybe one of the most important moments for film!thranduil. why? because it tells us he acts out of fear.

he does not help the dwarves after smaug comes because he has been burned before — literally, if you'll forgive the pun. ideally we'd have been given more of a call back to the sacking of menegroth, since thranduil was born in doriath (?) and as such no doubt fears the avarice of dwarves, which in doriath led to the deaths of his kin and in erebor led to their own ruin. add to this his own experience with dragons, and you have a recipe for what on the surface looks a very selfish action — and indeed is a selfish action, but it is done for a reason.

one of the great things about the hobbit movies is lee pace. he does amazing things with a very limited script, and a large part of this is how he presents thranduil's fear. it is scarcely there — he's had several millennia to school his expressions — but it comes out at certain moments. see the orc telling them he serves the one, for example. thranduil decapitates him immediately, takes a second to respond to legolas, brushes it all off but is clearly shaken, and displays a little bit of sadism we never otherwise see from elves, in stamping on the still-twitching body. thranduil fought sauron, he became king when his father died in the battle against him. he is traumatised and that isn't going to come out in friendly ways — and the movies do, for the most part, do a decent job of showing it. (stay tuned for a gifset of thranduil's vulnerable moments ie lee pace's excellent acting)

why is all this interesting? well. elves, who can live for thousands upon thousands of years, are a really good vessel for exploring the impact of past traumas. middle earth is not a very peaceful place — in a couple of millennia, the horrors one elf could experience are innumerable. and yet i feel like this is neglected. so much media is concerned with issues of mortality, and here is the perfect opportunity for exploring the consequences of immortality — how do you face the next thousand years, having felt so much pain in the thousand years preceding them, knowing that it will likely only get worse? how do you prevent yourself seeing patterns in history, when you've lived for so long — how do you convince yourself that the dwarves of erebor are not the dwarves of nogrod? that smaug is not the serpent you faced before? that sauron will not rise again?

you can't, is the answer, and in the last case, you shouldn't. which is the genius of thranduil's fear. because in some places it is isolationist and selfish and in others it is perfectly wise, but all of it is a result of what's happened before. elves represent the very opposite of the problem of history repeating itself. thranduil is so paralytically afraid of such a repetition that he creates new problems. and that's what's most interesting about the elves, in my opinion. immortality would not solve humanity's short memory problem — it would make our memory too long.

[cheri-translates]

Headcanon - Do you prefer hard or soft things?

This work, 你喜欢吃软还是吃硬, was originally written by 君兮耶君兮 on Weibo, and she has given me permission to translate it 🌸

Suggestive! Not explicit but there are sexual innuendos!

[ VICTOR ]

“Victor Victor Victor, do you prefer things to be hard or soft?” Plopping yourself onto Victor, who is sitting cross-legged on the yoga mat, you snatch up the book in his hand and place it at the side.

“Idiot. Which part of the proposal do you not understand this time?” He’s especially patient with you, letting himself be squashed. Yet, his tone is merciless.

“That’s not it!” You retort loudly.

“You want an extended deadline?” His brows arch slightly, responding with a question.

“I’ve finished it a long time ago!” You puff out your chest in pride.

“Don't even think about having one more pudding.”

You huff angry, squishing and molding his face. “I’m just asking you a question. Do you always have to make jabs at me?”

“Dummy.” He smiles. “If it’s you, both hard and soft are fine.”

Recalling how you’ve often used coquettish techniques to get proposals approved, and how you spout a lot of empty rhetoric, you suddenly realise just how brave you are.

“Victor, do you know if I prefer things soft or hard?”

He pokes your soft cheeks. “Soft. Puddings.”

“Nope.” You chuckle, grinning as you get up from him, preparing to flee at any moment.

“I like things hard. As hard as Victor’s big pudding!”

And with this, you run away.

Victor is left stunned for a few seconds before getting up slowly. The corners of his lips suppress a smile. As though he has a plan in mind, he says, “Tonight, don’t forget what you said.”

[ GAVIN ]

“Gavin, do you like things soft or hard?” You toss out this innocent question, as it’s a perfectly normal query without a hidden agenda.

“Cough. You look really cute when you’re angry.” Gavin doesn’t answer your question directly.

“So does this mean Senior likes things hard?” You tilt your head to the side, planting it on his shoulder.

He shakes his head, lowering his shoulder so you can lean in more comfortably. “Even though you look really cute when angry, I still prefer it when you’re happy...” He pauses before continuing continues. “When you’re acting coy... it’s also very good.”

“So Officer Gavin enjoys both hard and soft things?” You blink mischievously.

“As long as it’s you, I’ll take them all.” His tone contains insuppressible affection, and it’s an answer within your expectations.

Lifting your head quickly, you give him a surprise peck on the lips. “This time, I’ll treat you to something soft.” With a giggle, your eyes are laced with a deeper meaning. “Tonight, I’ll have to trouble Officer Gavin to treat me to something hard~”

“Cough cough cough...” Gavin’s ears are dyed crimson. His voice is soft, and is no match for the sound of his heartbeat. But you hear it clearly.

“Okay.”

[ LUCIEN ]

“Professor Lucien, it’s time for an interview! May I know if you usually prefer soft or hard things?” Pretending that your left fist is a wielding a microphone, you bring it over to Lucien, who is currently reading on a chaise lounge chair. 

He lowers his head, planting a gentle kiss on your fist. “Is your new theme on dental research? Whether it’s hard candy or soft candy, eating too much of either isn’t good for your teeth.”

Face flushed, you retract your left hand and use it to cover your cheek, feeling its rising temperature. “Nope, it’s a personal question for you.”

“Hmm...” He supports his chin with a palm and ponders on it seriously. In the end, he simply shakes his head. “If it’s me, both work. After all, I’m not picky.”

It’s true that Lucien doesn’t express a particular preference for anything.

“No way, you must definitely make a choice today,” you insist, eyes shining as you stare at him.

“In that case, I’ll pick the soft option.” Lucien stretches out his arm, snaking it around your waist and pulling you closer to him.

“Huh? Why’s that?”

Since he’s sitting down, the height is just right. With a slight leaning of his head, he nuzzles your chest. “Because something as soft as this area is very comfortable.”

[ KIRO ]

“Kiro Kiro, do you prefer hard or soft things?” You stroll towards him with a bag of original flavoured chips, stuffing one into his mouth.

“Huh? Miss Chips, why do I feel as though this question contains an innuendo?” He scratches his head. “Am I overthinking it?”

“Of course you’re overthinking it. How could an innocent and kind person like myself ask a question with innuendoes?” You respond, keeping your expression levelled and controlling your heart rate.

“I genuinely and purely wish to know whether you like eating soft candy or hard candy.” You pat him on the shoulder, giving him determined look.

“Huh, I even thought Miss Chips wanted me to do something dubious.” His head hangs low uninterestedly, reminiscent of how Apple Box looks after it gets scolded.

“Where’s your imagination roaming to?!” You roll your eyes.

“Forget it, forget it~” He straightens up on the sofa, taking the bag from you and grabbing a handful of chips into his mouth.

After patting away the crumbs on his hands, Kiro leans to your ear secretively. “In that case, let me ask Miss Chips a question. Do you like things coarse or lubricated?”

The unsubtle words leave your face instantly red. Flying into a rage from embarrassment, you exclaim, “Kiro, could you please pry your head open and cleanse the insides of such filth!”

Unexpectedly, Kiro blinks innocently. “Miss Chips, where’s your imagination roaming to? I just wanted to know if you liked yoghurt with oats, or plain yoghurt.”

[ SHAW ]

Would Shaw prefer things soft or hard? You lower your head in contemplation, and the words unconsciously slip out of your mouth. “Probably hard.”

“What are you muttering about by yourself?” Your voice was too soft, and Shaw didn’t catch it at all.

“Huh? Nothing much. I just wanted to ask if you preferred things soft or hard.” Failing to notice Shaw’s strange expression, you proceed with your analysis. “I think you'd prefer things hard. After all, your Cola popsicles, Cola sweets and other things are all hard.”

“Cola-flavoured things are delicious.”

You nod. “I guessed correctly. Also, the rivets on the outfit you’re wearing now are hard too.”

You list down examples one by one, and feel that you should be commended for such sound logic.

“Tch.” Shaw expresses his disdain. “Why not say that the buddha beads on my wrist are also hard?”

Pretending to take this seriously, you nod. “That also counts as evidence pointing to my deduction.”

“...”

Shaw has never met such a thick-skinned person, and is left speechless for a while.

After a moment of thinking, he suddenly smiles with gritted teeth. “These things are hard. But there's something else that’s both hard and long. Want to give it a try?”

More translated and original works: here

-

[ Permission to translate ]

君兮耶君兮: You can - just note the source of the author

[littleshebear]

The Two Zavalas.

This will probably get rambly because I’m writing off the cuff but here goes. I have to say, as someone who was not a fan of the so-called unreleased lore book (Those We’ve Lost), I really, really like the Forbidden Memory lore entry. I just did not like the writing on most of the entries of Those We’ve Lost (the one about Ayane Takanome was the only one that really came alive for me). The one about Zavala and his wife just never stuck the landing with me for a number of reasons. I’m not against the idea of him having a mortal wife in his past, I actually really like the concept (I’ve written it myself) but I would prefer it if she had a character/personality outside of being a dead someone to give him angst (that’s a concern I also have with Forbidden Memory but hopefully they’ll develop her a bit more in future).

The main things I didn’t like in Those We’ve Lost were the characterisation and the thematic take-away. The characterisation was just too unsubtle for me. Zavala was portrayed as emotionally stunted, while Shaxx was a flawless mega-chad who shouted all the time (If you want good Shaxx characterisation, this is where it’s at). I don’t think this broad strokes characterisation did either of them justice. As for the take away, I genuinely feel it was massively out of character for Zavala to imply that he shut down emotionally and wouldn’t open up again because it hurt too much. That’s just not how I see Zavala and I have never seen him that way. This new, actual canon, lore entry makes me even more certain in my interpretation of him.

Zavala is not devoid of emotion, he merely seems that way at first glance because of something this lore entry draws attention to: There are two Zavalas. First, there’s his public-facing self, the Commander. The Commander is steadfast, serious, stolid, confident-sounding. But then there’s Just Zavala. Just Zavala, by contrast, is anxious, he worries, he’s a little shy and socially awkward. He’s a nerdy bookworm who dunts his head on the ground and sneezes when he’s trying to be reverential. I’ve said for a long time that Zavala is a difficult character to get a handle on because most of what we see of him is an act. The player/Young Wolf never sees Just Zavala, they only ever see the Commander persona and he’s a very different animal from Just Zavala.

The Commander is driven by duty, he’ll put his personal feelings aside for the sake of what has to be done, he has a harsh edge to him. Just Zavala loves crochet, goes out of his way to make friends with Eva, checks up on Amanda and takes her out for lunch, worries about Eris, allows himself to be emotional in front of Ikora, jokes with Hawthorne. The Commander has no time for anything softer than iron but Just Zavala? He’s soft.

So the take-away from Those we’ve Lost is that Zavala is unemotional because he’s so hampered by grief, just does not ring true to me. The Commander might always keep a tight leash on his emotions but Just Zavala cultivates personal relationships quite deliberately and some of his most important relationships are with mortals.

So why do I think the take away from Forbidden Memory is different from Those We’ve Lost? Because there’s an acceptance in Forbidden Memory, the mood of the prose isn’t that Zavala just can’t go on, he’s honouring her memory in a very specific way. He remembers and mourns but he accepts he can’t go back to those times, he has to let her go (a philosophy that’s perfectly in line with someone who loves poetry by a zen buddhist). Also, the “parlour trick” line hints at an affectionate playfulness within him that the player never gets to see. Also, his choosing to do the parlour trick at the memorial suggests that he can focus on happy times, that he in no way regrets what he had with her, despite the pain of losing her. This lore entry is bittersweet, yet life-affirming in a way Those We’ve Lost wasn’t.

For me, the take away from his relationship with this woman isn’t that it left him emotionally hamstrung, rather, it gave him an insight into humanity that some other Lightbearers might lack. It’s clear that some humans see Guardians as a strange, alien breed because many Guardians set themselves apart from humanity. But Zavala isn’t like that. To my mind, this entry goes a long way to explaining why he’s such a dogged champion for humanity. He loved her, she who was “mortal and perfect,” he sees the value in humanity because he loved (and clearly still loves) a human. His love doesn’t bog him down in grief, it’s a motivation, it’s the reason he will always put the City before the Traveler, it’s the reason he’s so dedicated to saving humanity, it’s why he nurtured Amanda’s talents, it’s why he befriended Eva, it’s why he persauded Hawthorne to stay and essentially made her an honorary Guardian. He didn’t just love a human, he loves humanity and will do everything he can to preserve it. He doesn’t just honour her at the memorial, he honours her every time he puts on his armour and along with it, his Commander persona.

[everythingsinred]

Let's Talk About NatsuMikan: Natsume (pt. 25)

Hi there.

According to Wikipedia, the term "star-crossed lovers" refers to a couple "whose relationship is thwarted by outside forces". Furthermore, "such pairings are said to be doomed from the start". Often, the tragic end of these pairings can be seen from a mile away, even though the audience may hope and wish desperately for things to be different. In fact, the relationship between Romeo and Juliet is immediately revealed to end tragically, with both of them dead. It's just a matter of watching the heartbreak unfold.

The same is true here. Natsume and Mikan are "doomed" from the start. You hope and wish desperately that fate will be kind to them, that certain things will be different, that they can be happy, but it's not to be and you know it, deep down. All you can really do is watch the specific way it all goes up in flames. Now that we know they're both romantically involved, star-crossed to be separated, we're about to see a tragedy unfold. Let's suffer about it.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty

The school was being invaded, and the only one of Shiki’s conditions that the ESP could not accept was Mikan being out of his reach. In order to save the school, Mikan allowed herself to be put into the ESP’s custody under the condition that she cannot be harmed or manipulated.

But Chapter 140 doesn’t start by checking in on Mikan or even showing the others’ reaction to her absence. Not yet.

Just in case you didn't know how this would end to begin with, Higuchi will let you know now. It will not end well!

The chapter starts with a monologue from Ruka about the lengths Natsume would go to for Mikan, but also pleading for him not to go anywhere. This is unsubtle foreshadowing. We see a glimpse of the future, of Natsume’s presumably dead body, and the misery his death brings. We can see more evidence of what we already knew: Natsume thinks so little of himself that he’s willing to sacrifice anything for others, never considering that his absence will cause utter despair in the people he leaves behind.

At this point, it becomes even more obvious that the story will end with tragedy, and Natsume's probable death will be part of it.

We finally get to the real start of the chapter. It’s winter again. Ruka is musing on life at the academy without Mikan. They all talk about her often, even after months of not seeing her. They don’t even know where at the academy she is, or what she’s been up to.

Just for a glimpse. ;-;

He recalls Yuka’s funeral. The children were instructed to leave the area, but it was the last time they’d see Mikan, so they all stay. Natsume doesn’t even have an umbrella despite the rain. Mikan was then escorted from Yuka’s grave by the ESP. Her classmates want to know where she’s going, concerned that she’s in trouble. When the ESP threatens Shiki for not disciplining them, Mikan smiles and promises to see them again.

Fate does not smile upon them.

Natsume watches, and although they’re all surprised and concerned, he seems more so than anyone else. The last time he saw her there was a lot left unsaid. She had confessed her requited feelings telepathically and he’d had to say goodbye over and over and over. But Mikan hasn’t used up all of the telepathy stone quite yet, so he’s able to promise her that he’ll do everything he can to find her. She smiles, tears in her eyes, and that’s the last image of her he has for a while. He will find her. That’s his new mission, his new reason for living.

Back in the present, Natsume finally appears to join the group. He’s been missing, looking for Mikan. He spends most of his time running around campus trying to find her. The telepathy alice stone is the only tie they have to each other now. It’s all he has to go off of.

He smiles upon joining the group. Mikan isn’t there, but he’s still smiling. It might not be entirely genuine. He’s smiled like this before, to make Ruka feel better before the Z Arc. He has to have hope, too, because he can’t die before he finds Mikan. Submitting to the misery will only mar his chances.

Ruka knows that Natsume’s long absences are due to his search, that he spends hours and hours looking for her, calling for her, waiting for a response.

Yes, Shiki, and as a minor, he CANNOT consent to being a member of a group that has "war potential" because that's against international law and you should be charged with human rights' violations. Also, since he's a child, even being a criminal wouldn't justify this kind of punishment either, on account of him not even being a teenager yet.

Natsume is still a Dangerous Ability type. Shiki urges him to transfer out, but Natsume can’t. He has to stay, because as a DA type he can search in more areas that are off limits to normal students. In general, the DA class is more comfortable now that they’re under the management of the Middle School, not the ESP. Still, it’s described as a group “with war potential” and he wants to feel like he’s doing something to protect the people important to him rather than simply standing by. Natsume’s mindset of always having to protect people, to the extent that when he cannot protect people he feels useless and worthless, is damaging. He thinks he has to do these things, and although the narrative paints the DA class choosing to remain as them choosing to protect people, it’s kind of ridiculous that a school would put such a task on students’ shoulders in the first place. They’re the ones who should be protected, not the other way around. No matter who is in charge of the DA class, sending kids on dangerous missions where they could get hurt is still child abuse and endangerment.

In any case, he’s told it’s useless to try and find her, that the barrier hiding Mikan is too powerful, but he won’t listen. He won’t let anything anybody says get in the way. Just like he said when he first rebelled, no matter how much somebody tries to convince him not to, he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two

Tsubasa is also opting to remain in the DA class. It’s easier to be in on the action that way, for one. He also wants to help Natsume because he’s concerned about his alice shape. Natsume and Misaki both tease him for this, and Tsubasa chases after Misaki. Natsume watches them wistfully. Tsubasa doesn’t even seem to realize how lucky he is. He can hug Misaki, tease her, apologize, talk to her, see her. Natsume misses Mikan and he’s jealous that Tsubasa is able to have with Misaki what he’d love to have with his own girl. So, naturally, he sets his hair on fire.

God, Tsubasa, have some sensitivity!

Back at the dorms, Yuu laments that Mikan won’t be allowed to attend the Christmas Ball, and it’s unlikely she’ll be allowed to graduate with them either. Hotaru comes up with the idea of sending Mikan Christmas presents, and everyone is immediately on board. They all try to come up with present ideas, but Natsume’s a step ahead, already making another alice stone for her.

Hotaru notices and immediately tears him apart for it. He knows the stone won’t make it through the examination, and the fact that even making alice stones takes a toll on his body will only make Mikan worry. In addition to all that, Mikan already has his alice stone, so there shouldn’t be any worries on the “love tradition” front.

Hotaru is Mikan’s best friend, someone who knows her pretty well and whose opinion Mikan cares about. This criticism wouldn’t hit as hard if it was some random person, or even just another kid in Class B. Because it’s Hotaru, he has to take it seriously. Hotaru is calling him out and he’s embarrassed and defensive, but she’s a step ahead of him, having thought of a much better present.

Natsume's like, "I'll be her prince!"

She gives him a story book, about Rapunzel. The story is similar to Mikan’s--a girl is trapped in a tower with no way to escape. She found a prince and they were able to escape together and live happily. All Mikan needs is to find her prince and the story would fit perfectly.

Natsume likes this story a lot. He wants to be Mikan’s prince. He has to be her prince. He doesn’t have a choice but to save her, because that’s all he’s living for. And letting Mikan know that a prince is on the way seems an important enough mission that everyone wants to help get Rapunzel through the examination. They will all send story books to make Rapunzel seem less suspicious. Of course that doesn’t stop Hotaru from claiming that the prince in her story is actually more useful than the one in Rapunzel, implying that Natsume is a subpar prince as well.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three

It’s time for the Christmas Ball. Mikan isn’t there, so Natsume is morose. Just like last year, he finds refuge in the tree. Last Christmas was pretty nice, all things considered, because he got to kiss Mikan.

It's just not fair. All he wants is a smooch. And to save her and keep her safe but. The kiss too.

At the time, he’d thought it was a one-off, his only chance. He was just going to kiss her real quick because he was convinced Ruka already had, and then when it was done he would run away and never do it again. She wouldn’t want to kiss him over Ruka anyway, right? But apparently Mikan loves him too, something he had never even considered a possibility, so maybe she’d want to kiss him again?

Except that Mikan isn’t around and the only way he can see if she wants to kiss him again would be if he found her.

How come everyone is calling him out so boldly lately? You guys DO realize his days are numbered, right? Not even double digits? So cruel.

Sumire is talking about dancing with him this year, but he’s only thinking about Mikan. Koko calls him out for it, saying there’s someone in the tree thinking about kissing. It was such a strong thought that it took Koko by surprise, even.

There’s a present exchange and Yuu again expresses sadness that Mikan isn’t with them, wondering if she’s spending Christmas all on her own. This spurs Natsume to get the hell out of there. He can’t sit around for too long, after all. He wants to find her and he won’t find her at the ball for sure.

He’s out looking for her, just like he does every day and every night. Shiki might be a hopeless romantic, or feeling guilty for having Mikan watch the ball on TV, so he loosens the barrier on Mikan enough for Natsume to be able to find her.

Shiki is also a NatsuMikan shipper... You a legend for that one, fam.

He hasn’t seen her in months, not even after searching every corner of the school over and over again, but tonight he has finally found her.

Conclusion

Although in many ways, Natsume's story was set up to be tragic from the beginning, these chapters establish for good that something horrible is coming, and we know that to be Natsume's death, in about a week. I'll talk more about the star-crossed lovers aspect in the upcoming parts. It's an aspect of their relationship that I find very interesting.

Thank you for reading this far!

Y'all have caught up to where I'm at, more or less. I won't post tomorrow because there'd only be a chapter of content to post and that's no fun. I'll spend the weekend getting ahead a bit and then on Monday I'll continue. In no time at all, we'll be wrapped up! It's all so exciting!

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[nellied-reviews]

Cigarette Candy Re-listen

Okay, it’s episode 5 of my epic Wolf 359 re-listen, and that can only mean one thing: 

Cigarette Candy

In which Eiffel is ill, Minkowski and Hera are out of the picture and I have way too many thoughts about how Hilbert is totally not making Eiffel sick. Nuh-uh.

Where do I even begin with this episode?

Maybe I'll start with the obvious: Cigarette Candy is a very different episode on a re-listen. It was a sinister, tense episode to begin with, sure. But knowing that Hilbert really has been making Eiffel sick adds a whole layer of uncertainty, for me at least.

Because what is the point? Largely, I think it's an episode about whether or not Hilbert can be trusted. We heard last episode, after all, that the good doctor was  willing to leave Eiffel to die in space. It's natural that we might now wonder where his loyalties lie. And so we get this, an episode that teases us with the idea that Hilbert might, in fact, be a bad guy. And of course, the answer we are left with, at the end of the episode, is that no, Hilbert’s creepy and weird and a million kinds of unethical, but ultimately he is one of the good guys.

It's a brilliant misdirect, and it relies entirely on us misunderstanding what an evil Hilbert would look like. We, like Eiffel, assume that Hilbert, if he were actually evil, would be the archetypical mad scientist. And mad scientists aren't generally subtle. They certainly don't do regular things like help Communications Officers overcome the flu. And so we assume, since Hilbert isn't cartoonish in his villainy, and does, ultimately, help Eiffel, that he mustn't be a villain at all. We're wrong, of course. The episode doesn't give that away, though. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Because as Cigarette Candy starts, it's not immediately clear that that's where this is all going. Instead, we tune in to a weirdly happy Eiffel, who claims he's trying a new, more optimistic approach to life. It's odd, and doesn't exactly bode well, especially with the occasional, gross coughing that Eiffel insists is no big deal. But it still feels like a light-hearted, comedy set-up. And hey, at least Hilbert seems to be doing something helpful, this time, right?

Of course, it's worth mentioning that Hilbert's "help" involves the titular cigarette candy, which are what Eiffel calls his nicotine lozenges. These, we quickly learn, are the reason for Eiffel's new, sunny outlook on life. They're sugary, they're soothing and - oh, yeah - they taste like "day-old ashtray". Which... eww!  But apparently Eiffel prefers that to the default cinnamon? Enough that he's consuming them in unwise quantities? I don't know, it certainly wouldn't be my choice. But you do you, Eiffel.

In any case, it leaves us in this weird situation where Hilbert is actually in Eiffel's good books, which is fun to listen to, until the doctor suddenly lets slip that hey, Eiffel, it's strange how you aren't experiencing any myalgia... yet.

It's super unsubtle, and part of me really wants to believe that Hilbert did it on purpose, just to troll Eiffel. "English such inelegant cudgel of a language", my ass. I see you there, Doc.

Funny as it is, though, it also marks the point at which the episode takes a sharp U-turn into psychological and medical horror, as Eiffel slowly begins to suspect that Hilbert has been poisoning him. Things only get worse when Eiffel faints and is taken to sickbay, and when Hilbert admits that he's not really a proper doctor, bound by all of those pesky ethics, it's downright chilling.

One phrase in particular, I think, tells us everything we need to know about Alexander Hilbert's motivations: "Always saw Hippocratic Oath as leaving one with a very limited scope. True science mustn't be so severely hindered." Hilbert, in the end, is all about the science, and he'll break the rules to get results, if needs be. It's a single-minded, pragmatic focus that we’ll see from the doctor over and over again as the show wears on. Here, then, although we don't know it yet, we're actually getting our first proper insight into what makes Dr. Hilbert tick. Pretty neat.

That said, on a first listen-through, before we learn about Decima, it just sounds like your standard mad scientist rant. It's followed up by some more mad scientist antics too, as Hilbert confines Eiffel to sickbay, ties him up and claims total authority over Eiffel's schedule, cutting him off completely from Hera and Minkowski. It's textbook nefarious, and so it sets Hilbert up perfectly as a properly sinister, if slightly cliché villain.

Of course, it's also just about plausible. We can just about see how confining Eiffel might help him get better soon, and we can just about see that he's not fit to be working, and we can just about see how a lack of distractions might be helpful. Add Eiffel's potential delusions into the mix, and we can see how the whole business could just be a misunderstanding, a product of Eiffel's fever and Hilbert’s lack of people skills. We can't 100% write the doctor off as a villain - and so the episode manages to maintain the tension, all the way through the back end of the episode. Is Hilbert really as evil as he seems? Or is Eiffel imagining it all? 

It's at this point that the first season's log format works in our favour, because if we're only hearing the personal logs of Douglas Eiffel, we're only getting the story from one very limited, potentially delusional point of view. We aren't getting Minkowski or Hera's more balanced perspectives, and so the suspense is preserved - is Hilbert trustworthy? We can't know. It's the sort of thing the show won't be able to do as easily in later seasons, at least not without finding a plot-related reason to side-line the other, more objective characters. Here, though, the nature of Eiffel's logs creates a more claustrophobic, tense bottle episode, where we can never quite be sure what's going on.

The absence of Hera and Minkowski is also ominous in and of itself. The pause after Eiffel calls out to Hera and she doesn't answer, in particular, is really eerie, at least for me. I don't know, I guess I'm just used to Hera being there?  It certainly cranks up the tension, especially when Hilbert foils Eiffel's attempt to contact Minkowski, and even more so when he reveals that he also knows that Eiffel hasn't been taking his drugs - that's why he's been giving him them intravenously.

And look, I know we've said that Hilbert isn't bound by the Hippocratic Oath. Being shady and unethical's kind of his thing. But can we just stop and appreciate just how messed up it is to drug Eiffel like this? It's not even like it's the first time this has happened, either. Remember the halothane gas? What we're seeing, in that light, looks more like an emerging pattern - a pattern of incidents where people are messed with, physically or psychologically, without their consent.

It's something we'll see again and again, throughout Wolf 359, and more often that not, it's linked less to individuals like Hilbert, and more to Goddard Futuristics, and their general ethos of dehumanising callousness. Hilbert is possibly evil, sure. But he's backed up by a whole, sucky-ass corporation, who have created an environment where consent - and all of the respect for human dignity and life that that implies - is not encouraged or valued. It's a gross, corporate attitude that is linked directly to moments like this, where Eiffel can be drugged and held captive against his will precisely because Hilbert knows there will be no official consequences for it. Goddard Futuristics do not care about human minds or bodies. They just care about the profits. It's not the same thing that drives Hilbert, as a character. But it aligns with his goals. Hilbert wants answers. Goddard wants money. Neither care much for actual humans.

That's actually one of the most frightening things about this episode - that, and the recording that Eiffel makes for Minkowski, urging her not to trust Hilbert once he's dead, which is funny, in a dark sort of way, until you think about Lovelace's old crew, and how Dr. Hilbert - sorry, Dr. Selberg - picked them off, one by one. That's essentially the exact same scenario that Eiffel's imagining here, when he worries about Hilbert going after Minkowski next, so perhaps he's not too far off the mark. Yikes.

Still, all is well in the end, as Hilbert reveals that Eiffel is cured! The knife was only for cutting Eiffel's restraints - way to not terrify your patient, doc! - and now Eiffel is cleared for duty, effective immediately. Phew!

It's a relief, for Eiffel and for us, and it's very easy to just see it as a heart-warming ending. The mad scientist turns out to be a good guy after all, Eiffel learns a lesson about judging people, and everyone goes back to their routine. Crisis averted. The episode asks, "Can Hilbert be trusted?" The ending tells us that he can. Case closed.

Only it's not that simple, is it? For one, Hilbert admits that Eiffel was infected with a tropical flu from his lab; knowing how much we now know, how likely is it that that "tropical flu" was actually Decima, or somehow Decima-related? In this respect, Hilbert's trustworthiness is actually far from established.

Secondly, though, and perhaps more interestingly, there's also the idea that Hilbert might have genuinely cured Eiffel, but might still be up to no good. A dead Eiffel, after all, means no more Decima research, and that would be a disaster for Hilbert. Keeping the crew alive and healthy is in Hilbert's best interests, and so, to a degree, he is actually trustworthy, or at least reliable. In fact, Hilbert is probably one of the most reliable characters in the series, if only because he can always be trusted to protect his own interests. Unlike the others, whose goals sometimes shift, and whose actions are often determined by their emotions or their underlying characters, Hilbert almost never acts in such a way as to compromise his goals and his work. His focus is single-minded, and it makes him very, very reliable - trustworthy, almost. But good? Ethical? Not so much. It's at best a parody of integrity, a twisted, brutal code that doesn’t care much for other people.

The story, I think, is more interesting for it. Instead of a story about how Hilbert secretly has a heart of gold, we get a more unsettling story about how Hilbert can be relied on, but only to a certain extent. Instead of a story about a good person being good, it's the story of a bad person doing good - and that is infinitely more compelling.

And of course, all this is only really obvious in hindsight. Listening to it blind, we get an episode that is funny, tense and just about the right kind of creepy. It's simultaneously the darkest thing the show has done so far, an excellent black-humour-filled bottle episode and (almost) a heart-warming tale. To have that and all the bonus, retrospective Hilbert characterisation?

*shakes my head*

This episode, man.

 Miscellaneous thoughts:

 I said already but cigarette candy sounds so gross!

Zach Valenti does such a good job of sounding properly, horribly ill throughout this whole episode

"Officer Eiffel, you look terrible." Aww, no need to sugar-coat it, doc!

"You're not making me sick, are you?" "What possible reason could there be for doing that?"  *whistles innocently*

Ugh when Hilbert says "Good night!" like that :O

Heh, the ticking clock in the background when Hilbert gets the kife out is a nice little touch

"Bedside manner is like anaesthetic. It just gets in way of what needs to be done."

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

you hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep

a little soul-baring never hurt anyone (2/3) Part 1

Find it here on AO3

Geralt/Jaskier - Soulmate AU

Word Count: 5622

I can see through you, we are the same

It’s perfectly strange, you run in my veins

How can I keep you in my lungs

I breathe what is yours, you breathe what is mine

“You should know you two are not very subtle,” duchess Emylya comments, sipping her wine with delicate hands, peering over the rim at Geralt.

Amber eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yes, denial. That always works.

The duchess laughs as she tips her head back. Geralt grits his teeth, peering into his goblet of ale that he wishes is full right about now.

“People can tell when two are soulmates. It’s prevalent in everything they do,” she says once the amusement has passed, idly picking apart the empty stem of grapes on her plate.

“For instance—” she starts, leaning over her armrest, nodding to the court, “you have looked over to your bard six times since the start of our conversation.”

Geralt resists the urge to prove her right, but even then, there is an itch to stare into those playful blue eyes.

“He needs protection from jealous husbands,” he says blankly, as if it excuses the fact he hasn’t taken his eyes off of the bard. Emylya adopts a knowing smile.

“I thought you said your bard has never been to Mellaburn,” she wonders out loud, an innocent sparkle in her eyes. “I hardly think he would know anyone here.”

Geralt grits his teeth, averting his gaze—not to look at Jaskier, mind you.

“And—” she swipes a finger over his sleeve, as if she’s wiping dust, “I’ve never seen a Witcher as relaxed as you when your bard merely brushed his hand against your back.”

“He’s not my bard,” he grounds out, almost too quick to retort. The duchess’ brows fly to her hairline.

“Not only are you insufferably unsubtle, I can hardly miss the fact the man is nearly two decades older than me and still looks like he just popped out of studying at Oxenfurt. Don’t take me for a fool.” She shakes her head, looking slightly indignant as she waves her cup of wine around. He wonders if she’s born royal or married into it. With the way she’s unashamed of acting regal at every moment, he’d bet it’s the latter.

“Also, not your bard? Twenty-three years of knowing each other and he’s not your bard?” she asks, a touch of mirthful confusion in her features. Geralt is silent, not unsure of what to say at all—considering he knows any word he says would be turned on its head.

“I was still a child when I heard of Dandelion’s first ballad of you.” At her snort of laughter, Geralt sighs, mindlessly wondering if he’d get hanged if he rolls his eyes at the duchess.

He hears the music come to a graceful end, the room echoing with applause. Geralt doesn’t need to look over to know they’re taking a break.

“What’s your point?”

If he gets drunk enough, he might be able to survive the rest of this conversation. He just hopes Jaskier’s next performance will have the room excited enough so that the duchess won’t be able to hear him over the deafening cheers.

“I am merely curious. Pray tell,” she leans back into her chair, looking far too amused for someone to be messing with a Witcher, “does the bard know you’re in love with him?”

Geralt chokes, ale dribbling from the side of his mouth. The duchess blinks, seemingly not surprised by his reaction at all. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, sending a testy glare her way.

“Pray tell, My Grace, are all duchesses this nosy?” he grits out, grabbing a napkin to dry his ale-covered hands.

“No, Witcher, just this one. One who has a penchant for sad love stories,” she merely says, not at all sounding insulted by his sarcasm.

Geralt takes a risky and rolls his eyes for real this time, sighing once again. The evening feels much longer now that there’s the prospect of being meticulously studied by one annoying yet slightly endearing duchess.

“You two are going to grow old together for as long as you live. But…” 

“Why waste time?” Geralt scrunches his nose, the old thought from years ago wringing buried emotions out in his chest. 

“He may live long, longer than any regular human. But he’s still human.” The ale tastes like ash in his mouth and he glares into his cup.

“He’s vulnerable, Witcher. How much longer until he’s in mortal danger, real danger, and you realize that maybe… maybe you didn’t have enough time together at all.” Geralt’s fingers are taut around his goblet, dignity steadfast in not looking for those wide, blue skies.

“That may happen years, months or even days further down the road. You never know. That day might even be tomorrow.” The duchess’ voice is low, yet somehow it drowns out every other noise in the room.

“I’m not saying that this is a certainty.” Geralt fights the building urge to look at Jaskier, to quell his incessant clambering thoughts.

“But sometimes, it’s just better to be safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to the people we love.” 

Geralt stares at her, gaze flat and distant. “You’re oddly wise for someone your age.”

“Not wise. Just perceptive. And I, for one, learn from my mistakes.” The duchess finished with a sip of her wine, the knowing glint in her eye never fading.

Geralt has thought about it before. How can he not? The life of a Witcher is not something to laugh at. They are mutants for a reason; no human can achieve the feats they do, they can’t learn the decades of training and rudimentary magic without wrecking their body along the way.

He made a promise to Jaskier years ago, to keep him safe from harm. And he’s yet to break it.

It’s why Geralt often tries his best not to bring Jaskier along to his dangerous contracts (which is most of them, much to the bard’s chagrin). Jaskier may be his soulmate, but he’s human and vulnerable and susceptible to things Witchers wouldn’t even blink an eye at.

It’s also why Geralt and the other Wolven Witchers decided to teach the bard the basics of combat. They don’t ever use their true strength on him—not even close—but even then, Geralt can see that that pushes Jaskier to his limits. He’s getting better with every training session but it’s still a far cry from being a master.

And that terrifies Geralt. If Jaskier can’t hold his own on an uneven match against a nearly defenseless Witcher, what would happen if Jaskier has to face something much worse than that? And that Geralt won’t be there to protect him?

It’s a string of thoughts he tries not to get tangled in.

Over the years, the fear only grew, especially when nowadays Geralt gets more heat from Nilfgaard because of Ciri. His daughter may be vulnerable, but she’s powerful enough to kill crowds of people with a scream. But Jaskier? The man may be able to jump into a tavern brawl and leave with barely a bruise, but what can he do against monsters? Swing his lute blindly and hope he wins?

Geralt shakes his head. It’s a funny image, but it’s a reality Geralt can never bring himself to laugh at.

But it does beg the question why he doesn’t reach out and bridge the gap between them, growing their friendship into something more—something he denies he wants. He just imagines it would hurt less if he lost Jaskier as a friend rather than as the love of his love, his everything.

He knows his reasoning is utter horseshit, though. He can’t quite fully fool himself into thinking that—because really, how can he? When Jaskier is already both of those things?

His eyes roam the room, looking for a mop of brown hair within the crowds.

He spots Jaskier, but his brows furrow when he sees another dark-haired man come to stand next to him, the mysterious man’s back towards Geralt.

Geralt exhales heavily, exasperated. Another jealous lover.

Considering the many times he’s saved Jaskier from this particular predicament, Geralt is actually curious how the bard has survived this long. Geralt wonders if he can talk his way out without him intervening.

He takes a sip of ale from his goblet, staring inconspicuously at the conversing pair. They seem to be in deep conversation, which has him leaning forward in his seat, curiosity piqued. He convinces himself he will step in if the man pulls out a knife or something that can maim his—the bard.

Amusement tugs at his lips when Jaskier looks more irritated than anything, his blue eyes rolling almost every time the other man opens his mouth.

Not a jealous lover then. They know each other.

Jaskier seems guarded but he doesn’t see the man as a threat; he’s not nervous like those other times Geralt pulled husbands (and sometimes wives) away from hurting the bard. Geralt snorts into his goblet when Jaskier grimaces like he’s grown tired of the conversation, picking up his speed to leave the man behind.

Only the man doesn’t let him go.

Geralt’s goblet stops half-way to his lips, following their movements with his eyes, the amusement dying away.

The man has his hand wrapped around Jaskier’s arm, his knuckles white. The bard snaps at something he says, drops his bread roll and jerks the man’s hand off him, looking furious.

Geralt slams his goblet down onto the table when the man snatches Jaskier back to him; leaning in too close for Geralt’s comfort.

He bolts from his chair, not answering the duchess’ startled inquiries.

The man is whispering something into Jaskier’s ear, and Geralt can feel a harsh tug in his chest—something hot and liquid sliding between his veins. It burns when he can see the man touch Jaskier’s face—who is wincing at it—like he belongs to him.

The court is big and crowded, Geralt doesn’t know if he can make it fast enough to get to his bard, who is—

Jaskier is—

Geralt can feel the twang of fear in his bones, their soul-bond trembling from the weight of Jaskier’s emotion spilling over to Geralt.

He’s ripping the man off the bard before he’s even thinking about it, placing himself as a barrier between the two as he shoves the man away.

“Ah—Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, relief rolling off him in waves, and—before Geralt can blink—slides up next to the Witcher, the bard’s arm winding around his waist. The tremor going through his arm (Geralt can even feel it through his doublet) betrays his self-assured smile. Geralt can hardly see through the fog of possessive fury creeping in.

“Darling, I was just about to tell you about my uh—my old friend,” Jaskier says, too bright and cheerful for that twinge of fear Geralt felt to be fake, the emotion having hit him like a wild wave against a cliff-side. Geralt’s sudden and aptly timed appearance flicked a switch in Jaskier, going from a shaking leaf to a dog happy to see its owner; not that Jaskier is happy—Geralt can sniff the anxiety on him—but the strong relief emanating from within Geralt’s soul is comparable to excitement.

The Witcher blinks, something crossing over his face when he hears Jaskier’s words in his head. Jaskier has many nicknames for Geralt, but darling is not one of them.

Geralt takes in his pale face, wide blinking eyes and quivering voice, and rumbles out softly, gentle words only for Jaskier to hear, “Are you alright? Did he touch you?”

Jaskier pauses, staring deeply into Geralt’s golden eyes for a moment, blue eyes impossibly shiny, but eventually nods. “I’m fine.”

Geralt waits for his next answer.

“Jaskier, did he touch you?”

Jaskier heart-stopping silence is drowned out by the roaring in Geralt’s ears. A deep, thunderous growl rattles in his chest, once golden eyes now looking like hot molten lava under his furrowed brows, his nose flaring as he snarls.

“I see you have your hound with you,” the man says, and Geralt whirls to face him. His tone deceptively light for the sharp look in his green eyes, still acting as if what he did won’t get him speared onto Geralt’s sword. He’s dusting his shoulders like the Witcher had dirtied him, and Geralt wonders if he’ll be able to see bloodstains on his red doublet.

Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s side, the touch nearly sending Geralt keeling over, and the Witcher glances over to his bard. His smile is terse, but those cornflower eyes are seething.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier asks, tone dangerous.

The man looks between the two of them. “You’ve gotten your White Wolf to protect you again. How quaint. Really, I must congratulate you, flower, for picking a perfectly apt name for your pup.”

Geralt doesn’t remember the number of times Jaskier has stood up for him; he’s lost count. And every time, without fail, it stuns Geralt that a person like Jaskier—someone who loves everyone and everything, someone who feels so much—can have the seemingly infinite capacity to genuinely care for a white-haired Witcher and take the harsh words of narrow-minded people in Geralt’s stead, even throwing some biting ones back.

This time is no different.

“You should watch what you say, Valdo, ‘cause I won’t hesitate to cut that tongue out,” Jaskier hisses, the threat sounding sour with resentment in spite of the shivers running through him.

“Do you need your wolf with you all the time? It seems like you’ve only a spine when he comes to your rescue.”

Geralt glowers, stepping to the side to better shield Jaskier from—wait, Valdo? Why does that name sound familiar?

“Believe it or not, I’ve had to stop Jask from hurting people more than he had to me. Even then, I don’t think he’ll stop me this time,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his shoulders, fingers curling into fists.

Valdo tuts. “Careful, Witcher. Would you truly hurt me? In a room full of witnesses? I thought you smarter than the bard.” His tone is patronizing, inherently chafing Geralt’s temper to smithereens.

“It would be a shame, after all the little flower’s done for you. Singing about your… adventures and all that. Practically birthing your reputation.” He grins, a slimy thing. His voice is grating, talking about their life-threatening journeys around the Continent as if they were innocent little children’s trips to the town’s well.

Geralt casts an eye around. There isn’t a crowd circling them, but they’ve caused enough commotion to have the closest people glance over nervously.

“I don’t care,” the Witcher grits out, gold on green, ringing in his ears from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “You touched him.”

All he sees is red—feels the echo of that twang of unbridled terror like a lute string tugged harshly—and it brightens to a rich golden fire, rage drumming through him as he thinks about how Valdo touched him, he touched Jaskier, he’ll kill that son of a whore—

Callused fingertips smooth their way into his sweating palm, ring-laden fingers lacing with his own, grounding him into earth. Jaskier’s hand squeezes around his, a tipped over boat finally having peace on choppy waters.

“Love, I don’t think the two-faced weasel is worth it.” The words are spoken to a riled-up dog, protective of its pup. He feels the words more than hears them, soft quivering breaths in half-whispers fanning across the side of his neck. It’s soothing, cooling against the red-hot cinders of his anger. But it also alights something dormant within Geralt, like a sparkling star in the darkest of nights.

Valdo’s face twists for merely a moment. Geralt tilts his head, curious. It’s the first sign of something other than cocky indifference.

It seems that Valdo has a weakness.

The bard seems to have picked up on it too and is quick to unmask it for what it is, because he’s now closing the distance between him and Geralt, pressing his front against the Witcher’s tensed side and back.

Valdo’s temples pulsate.

He doesn’t like how Jaskier isn’t his—isn’t an obedient pet.

Jaskier releases his right arm around Geralt and instead reaches up to slide it across and over his shoulder, hand coming to rest on his pec, practically draping himself over the Witcher—like a territorial cat. Jaskier noses the side of Geralt’s neck, goosebumps rising in the wake of Jaskier’s skin delicately running across his.

It’s a clear message.

Jaskier may not be Geralt’s

—but Geralt is Jaskier’s.

Geralt knows they must look ridiculous, what with Jaskier’s defensive posturing and Geralt’s cautious stormy gaze that would bring even the strongest man to his knees; but all he feels is the curl of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach, warming like a campfire when Jaskier’s cheekbone brushes against the scruff of Geralt’s jaw.

In spite of it, it seems to be working. Their staring contest has come down to Valdo’s withering glare, uncontrollable hostility clear in his green eyes. But then a smirk slides onto that whoreson’s face.

“Does he know about the times we spent in my bed chambers? After the times he would leave you?”

Jaskier goes stiff as a rock, his breath stuttering, clearly unsure of how to react to such callously thrown words, but Geralt doesn’t let the words phase him—

(—a quiet part of his mind rages, howls within its cage, desperate to claw the man’s throat out for making Jaskier feel this way—)

and only stands straighter, puffing his chest, broadening his shoulders.

(—that same part of him purrs at the way Jaskier’s fingers twitch and dig into his muscles, testing the Witcher’s strength like he’s dipping a toe into an angry ocean’s waters—)

He meets cornflower blue eyes, hardened amber sap melting into warm honey, and squeezes Jaskier’s hand. It’s his turn to settle the anxious bard back to the Continent.

His gaze snaps back to the toxic green, and the raging fire comes back.

“Do you know he’d once wished a djinn to kill you?” Valdo blinks, not expecting such a remark.

There’s a tiny puff of laughter behind him, tugging Geralt’s lips into a small smirk. “It’s a shame, really. I regret that they turned out to be my wishes. I’d much prefer it now if he’d had them.”

Geralt wants to crowd into the Valdo’s space, growling, prowling and intimidating him like the White Wolf he is, but because he’s held so gently and protectively by the bard, he won’t move a muscle as long as the bard keeps him pacified, like a docile dog kept on a leash. A small part of him withers from the lack of dignity in his thoughts, but he finds he mostly doesn’t care.

“Don’t underestimate my bard. It’s always a mistake to do so,” Geralt rumbles, the slight intonation of pride in his voice completely sincere. At the twitch of Jaskier’s fingers, he glances around and realizes they have a bigger audience now. They should leave since they’re attracting more attention. Only Valdo narrows his eyes, stepping closer, clearly not finished with them yet, opening his mouth to retort but Geralt beats him to it.

“I’d listen if he says he’ll cut your tongue out. You should just hope I’m around next time to stop him.”

Valdo turns his nose up at them.

“Geralt, do you think we get more pockets in all my doublets? I wished I had somewhere to keep the silver dagger on me this evening,” Jaskier says it so casually, so flippantly and Gods—Geralt wishes he can kiss the bard senseless at this moment.

He remembers that silver dagger, a gift for his fortieth birthday because Geralt knows he can’t always protect Jaskier from all types of monsters. He even remembers teaching him how to wield it. Another thrum of adorations rings through him as he recalls how Jaskier, with that particular silver blade, had saved his life more than once.

Jaskier had no problem with taking care of the bandits who threatened to kill Geralt, utterly ruthless with the blade. He doesn’t doubt that the bard would carry out his threat.

Valdo’s icy glare hardens. It’s disturbing to think how Jaskier used to love this person; but at the same, it isn’t because Jaskier falls in love with everybody, falls so freely with abandon, shares pieces of himself to people who don’t deserve it. 

They should leave the scene. Despite his constant complaints of needing to rescue Jaskier, he would never willingly leave the bard in danger. He needs to get him out of here, away from the whoreson.

He’s never felt Jaskier’s fear so strongly over the soul-bond before. This was the first time it’s ever happened. Not even on the more dangerous contracts did Geralt feel such horror over their bond. It rattled him to his core when he was making his hurried way to them, discomforted by how easily Valdo set off the bard.

Geralt stares at Valdo for a moment longer, disgust twisting his face. The man only has beady eyes for Jaskier, somehow looking eerie as he contemplates something.

The Witcher turns around to face Jaskier, but keeps a cautious side-eye on the threat, not trusting the man to stay silent. Geralt’s grip moves to Jaskier’s wrist, unwinding from his embrace—despite the strong urge to stay put. He brushes his thumb over the bard’s pulse point,

(—and tries to calm the beast when he feels the indentations of crescent moons dug into the skin—)

pressing a thumb into that little rhythmic beat of Jaskier’s life. A small weight lifts off of Geralt.

“You alright?” Geralt mumbles, staring deeply into the blue, blue sky. Jaskier nods and opens his mouth—

“You’re proud of that little whore, are you not?”

Fire burns his heart inside out, lightning striking back with a vengeance and Geralt is then sliding away from Jaskier and closing the distance between him and the fucking whoreson, intending to snap his neck and be done with the pest—no one has a right to talk about Jaskier like that—

“Geralt!” The desperate plea of a sweet voice stops him, freezes him in place, just a jerk of his hands away from clawing the eyes of a certain green-eyed bastard.

His fists are white-knuckled, tremoring as they clutch at Valdo’s collar with the suppressed temper of a hundred storms. He brutally yanks him into his space, golden eyes flashing.

Finally, there’s a flash of fear in those green eyes. For once, Geralt does not mind the fear directed at him, in fact he revels in it. He should be afraid. Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher, a cold-blooded monster-killing machine, and he’s a Witcher whose soulmate was just threatened, bullied.

Valdo isn’t taller than Geralt and neither is the Witcher, but his hulking size, bulging arms and barely restrained bloodthirsty mania paints a terrifying picture.

“If it weren’t for Jaskier, I’d castrate you with my bare fucking hands.” His growl comes deep from his chest, voice harsh, gnarly. His glowing eyes brighten, snarl baring a little more of that teeth. Then he smells it.

A slow grin stretching his lips, a dark wolfish thing he knows is a horror to look at. “I can smell it on you.”

The Witcher narrows his eyes. “Fear.”

The scent only gets thicker.

“What in the Gods’ names is happening here?”

Geralt doesn’t stray his gaze away from his target, the murderous glint in fiery embers still being stoked by the way the man heartlessly treated Jaskier. He’s never quite gotten worked up like this before, in regard to his soulmate—including the times the worst types of jealous lovers crowded Jaskier against his will, spitting bodily threats at the bard.

Those types of people would usually cower in seconds under the glower of one irate Witcher who has come to the bard’s rescue. But this, this is different. The violent threats can’t quite compare to the utter bullshit spewing from Valdo’s mouth; they’re more personal and targeted, aimed perfectly blow-for-blow to fish the desired reaction from Jaskier. It’s clear Valdo knows him well—they are, or rather, were close enough for Valdo to which of the bard’s buttons to push, words digging themselves to the hilt in Jaskier.

Geralt would rather not think about the other aspects of their closeness. But it’s clear they have a more than platonic history together.

And it absolutely enrages Geralt that the man would use their past relationship as a weapon, throwing words on a whim like they were daggers, with no regard for the bard’s boundaries—

(—and Jaskier is not known to have many of them; but that just makes the whole thing worse, doesn’t it?)

That a man like Jaskier, who is open and selfless and unabashedly loving, is reduced to—

(­—not weak, never weak—)

—such a vulnerable state, come apart by threats and unwelcomed manhandling.

“Ah—it’s nothing, Your Grace,” Jaskier blurts. Geralt looks at him over his shoulder, incredulous.

“Like shit it’s nothing,” Great grumbles. The whole room is staring at them now. Just for once, can he go to a ball without stirring any trouble and drink in peace?

“Witcher?” the duchess asks gently as she looks between the three of them, pausing at the sight of Geralt’s raised hackles and bared teeth. He meets the eyes of the duchess and, to his surprise, finds himself glad that this particular nosy royal has a soft spot for love stories.

“This man,” he nods jerkily at Valdo, “just insulted and threatened my soulmate.”

A collective gasp is heard throughout the room, and only by his sensitive hearing does he hear the incredulous whispers. Apparently, a lot of people thought Witchers can’t have soulmates; yet, here he is, evidence in the flesh.

Valdo’s eyes spark with realization, chuckling darkly. “At least now I know why you haven’t aged a day since we met.”

There are soft warbles in the back of Jaskier’s throat, words wanting to be spoken but unsure of its delivery.

The rage in his gut simmers. Jaskier never hesitates in dishing out the most cutting and outlandish insults. To know Valdo has such an effect on him—where Jaskier is second-guessing himself—only makes Geralt want to tear the man apart even more.

It’s so rare that people connect the dots between him and Jaskier, figuring out they share a soul-bond; but he doubts it would get any less disorienting when the fact is shoved in their faces, much less said out-loud. Their soul-bond is mostly left unspoken, a rule deemed by Geralt from the first day they met. It became clear to Jaskier that Geralt isn’t one to hold back his punches, literally, even when it comes to his soulmate.

Geralt once mused over the thought that Jaskier must assume the Witcher doesn’t see his soulmate differently from the next person when it can’t be any further from the truth.

The duchess’ lips are set into a firm line, eyes grim. She turns to Valdo and says, “Is this true?”

Valdo backtracks, voice light, “My Grace, I was not aware that the Witcher is his soulmate. And I was merely catching up with an old friend—”

“By insulting him and using emotional blackmail?” Geralt grits out, eyes glinting dangerously.

Valdo cocks a brow, as if he’s challenging him in front of the duchess.

“My Grace, whatever the bard and I discuss is only meant to be kept private, without a Witcher interrupting our conversation.”

Geralt’s hands roll back into fists. “I ­felt his fear over the soul-bond. You did something to him.”

At this, something heavy and dark is shown through the duchess’ delicate features. “You felt the soul-bond?”

Geralt nods, and more murmurs erupt from the crowd. It’s rare that one person of the soul-bond feels something so inherently strong, that their conscience calls out for their other. It’s a phenomenon not to be taken lightly. Everyone in the room knows the weight of his statement.

“Pray tell,” the duchess starts, her tone gaining an edge, “what exactly did you do?”

Valdo opens his mouth, but Geralt cuts in, “My Grace, no offence but I think we should ask Jaskier for the details.”

Geralt glances over to the bard in question, who stares at him for a long silent moment before gratefully nodding, something soft in those blue eyes. Geralt doesn’t want Valdo to spout details Jaskier wouldn’t want out in the open. He isn’t quite sure what Valdo did, but he knows it’s terrible if it ruffled Jaskier’s feathers enough that even Geralt would feel the repercussions.

He’s put the ball in Jaskier’s court, giving him control over the person who has ruined their evening.

“Master Dandelion?” the duchess softly inquires. Jaskier swallows hard, back going stiff again. He gapes and closes his mouth, deep in thought, probably trying to figure how to put what happened into words.

“Uh, well, he didn’t leave a mark on me,” Jaskier simply says, “not visible ones.”

The duchess goes stiffer than Jaskier. “But he laid his hands on you, yes?”

Something flashes across Jaskier’s eyes, meeting the royal’s gaze. The air thickens, and Geralt feels like he’s missing a part of the conversation between the two when Jaskier solemnly nods. The duchess straightens up, snapping her head towards Valdo with a cold gaze, similar to Geralt’s much more heated glare.

“My Grace, you have no idea if this bard is telling the truth,” Valdo points out, still playing the act.

“There are many witnesses. I am sure at least one person in this court has seen what transpired.”

She steps closer to Valdo and Geralt, her crown practically shattering the glass ceiling, a terrifying aura coming off the duchess.

“Even so, you shall show Master Dandelion the respect he has earned. He is one of the most famed bards, if not the most, in our time.”

The more the duchess inches closer, the further Geralt steps away from Valdo, certain the duchess can handle the man. Behind him, he hears the soft footfalls of his bard and he reaches behind blindly, groping for Jaskier’s hand, which squeezes his once their fingers lace together.

“My Grace, might I remind you I am Master Valdo Marx, also a bard of high regard.” The man does a graceful little bow, a little smug smirk on his face. Both Geralt and Jaskier don’t resist the urge to roll their eyes. Suck-up.

A finely shaped brow arches high on the duchess’ face.

“I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you.”

Snickers amongst the crowd break the silence, and even Jaskier can’t help the snort of amusement. An annoyed frown briefly crosses Valdo’s face.

“You should be aware that in Mellaburn, we do not tolerate any foul play against soulmates, especially if it’s against the most renowned bard in the Continent and Geralt of Rivia.” The duchess’ tone is one of incredulous disbelief, as if she’s reminding him how much of an idiot he is for going after a Witcher’s soulmate.

“I hardly doubt the two would hold back had I not intervened,” the duchess says, now standing in front of Valdo, somehow towering over him despite her petite stature.

“Not to forget, they are my special guests. I expect everyone to treat them the same way they do with the members of the ducal table. I do not accept anything less.” Her eyes flash, words cutting. She awfully reminds Geralt of lilac and the chaos behind violet eyes.

The look on Valdo’s face is one of subtle indignation, brows in a slight furrow as he stares down the royal. It’s a thorough dressing down even with the little words the duchess said. Valdo looks around, as if finally realizing he’s crowded in a corner, everyone’s eyes watching his every movement. The sharpness in his eyes dulls like a dagger being sheathed, and he puts his hands up in a placating manner, subtly surrendering.

Geralt’s snarl deepens. He does not want to spend another moment around this heinous snake or stand around getting gawked at.

“Duchess Emylya,” he calls out. She does not turn her gaze away from Valdo, still accessing him from head to toe.

“Yes, Witcher?”

“If you don’t mind, Jaskier and I will be taking our leave.“

Jaskier grips his hand tighter, cutting him off, “But I didn’t get to finish my performance—”

“Of course. I shall get a guard to escort you to your room and a handmaiden to provide as much provisions as you see fit for your trip tomorrow.” She shoots a look at Jaskier—like a worried mother chastising her child, and Geralt nods gratefully, but he pauses at the offer of a room.

It must be an apology of sorts, letting them stay at their palace even though they already have a room at the town’s inn. He doesn’t look at a gift horse in the mouth, however. The duke, having stood by watching the entire confrontation, calls for a guard.

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand—and has to resist when Jaskier gripped it tighter at the last second to keep the Witcher close—to walk over to the speechless group of minstrels, picking up Jaskier’s treasured lute in his hands. He returns to Jaskier, a guard already by the bard’s side, who looks absolutely bewildered by the turn of events.

He passes over the lute, sharing a reassuring look—those soft blues warming in his gaze. Jaskier nearly ducks his head, lips twitching from a flat line to a tiny smile—the sight of it unfurls a knot in Geralt’s chest, one he didn’t know he had.

The bard mumbles a soft ‘thank you’ and trails after the guard who leads their way out, Geralt at his heels—who sends one last scathing look at Valdo before they leave the pin-drop silent room.

[ballouheys]

hey there , i’m libby ( or any of the other many nicknames that come w being named elizabeth ... we’re all pals here . call me what you want to ) and i just spent way too much time trying to write this intro . but this is way to long and way too all over the place ... .. so hit that little like button and i’ll slip n slide into your dms ( i’ll probably slip n slide into ur dms even if you don’t , what can i say ? i’m shameless  ) to give you the low low on gigi so you don’t have to read this mess of an intro rip :/

𝐨𝐨𝟏. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒  .

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: gentry thylane ballouhey . 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬: gigi ,gen . 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡: june 26 . 𝐳𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧: cancer . 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞: los angeles , california . 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧: los angeles , california . 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: bisexual ╱ biromantic . 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬: fluent in english and french . literate in spanish , but is unable to properly articulate the language despite several years of studies . 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐬: a sloppily drawn heart on the side of her right middle finger, a winking and now faded smiley face on the tip of her left index finger, but out of all the unfortunate markings, the most unfortunate of them all was her own signature in girlish print across the inside of her foot. or perhaps the license plate of her first car ( that she had driven through their fence four months after it had been gifted to her )  beneath her left breast. all of which had been inked into her skin by friends, all of which seemed like a much better idea when drunk . 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: three in tight succession on each earlobe . 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜: notes penned in red ink , each individual i dotted with its own tiny heart , scuffed and sullied balenciaga sneakers and ruffled ankle high socks , the cacophonous clink of bulky anklets against one another with each passing step , applying a full face of makeup only to remove it all minutes later , a far too large collection of scrunchies varying in pattern and texture lining the top drawer of her bedside table , a plethora of practiced accents , mascara and tears leaking down the swell of freckled cheeks as the credits to a romantic comedy she could quote word for word begin to roll , long bubble baths in a claw foot tub with a streetcar named desire playing on repeat in another room , sundays spent tangled up in an array of silken bed linens , a collection of shoes that could rival even carrie bradshaw’s , a signature practiced to perfection , hearts varying in size doodled on the palm of her hand , along the underside of her arm , romanticized idealizations , wearing her finest lingerie beneath sweatpants and the hacked hem of t-shirts she cropped herself , strands of hair sticking to overly glossed lips , unsmoked and pink ringed cigarette stubs dropped into an emptied flute of champagne , the wrong number scrawled on a napkin in pink ink to match the stain of puckered lips , unsubtle flirations , a personality akin to bubbling champagne , kisses planted anywhere but on the mouth , meaningful conversations with a stranger , and long nights spent searching for love in all the wrong places .

𝐨𝐨𝟐. 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇

perhaps the one thing worse than a charmed childhood spoiling with years passed, was a childhood that had been spoiled from the very start. and poor gentry ballouhey had been brought into this world swaddled in cotton and blushing bright pink, held loose within the arms of a mother who didn’t quite want her, as her father stared with disdain at the second little girl he hadn’t quite planned on having. the family of three had already been perfect, she was nothing more than a blemish, a mistake, a pretty, little bandaid doused in alcohol and placed atop a gaping wound ( utterly useless and entirely too painful ). yes, she had been born into the quintessential white-picket fence family, all bright and toothy grins ( perfectly straight, perfectly white ), in their matching white tennis outfits as their matching white poodles gallivanted across the perfectly manicured lawn, but no childhood could be charmed when one spent the entirety of it unloved.

the ballouhey’s outcast, conceived amongst a dreamlike haze of judgement clouded by a bottle of dom perignon shared beneath starlit parisian skies, had been burdened with the expectations to conform when her entire existence stood in stark contrast to their careful ideals. even her conception had been rash and unexpected, much unlike her sister who had been dreamt of from the very moment their parents had married, carefully crafted in a lab after several failed attempts. meryl was wanted, a charming girl who lived a charmed life, and gentry? well, she simply was not. the blonde and bubbling stain on an otherwise perfect family portrait, the odd duckling among long-necked and elegant swans, gentry had felt forced to force her own self into an almost unsettling obedience. another failed attempt to please, to garner but a mere fraction of the attention marlon and madeleine ballouhey smothered their first-born in.

she was a true oddity, in more ways than one. softness epitomized, all freckles and full cheeks, doe-eyes and blurred edges nestled several steps to the left of her sharp-eyed and sharp-lined family members. an airy spring breeze in comparison to her elder sister’s chilled winter evening. the littlest ballouhey that left all spectators befuddled for she was all her father with a little something else. yet despite marlon and madeleine’s best efforts to keep their youngest tucked away from the public eye by sending her to the most exclusive and private catholic schools, and leaving her at home with the nannies while the rest of the family attended awards shows ( claiming it was simply because she was too young to attend ), gentry was sought out by one of her father’s friends to star in a film at the age of fourteen. the first time she had ever been chosen before meryl, her short lived claim to fame. perhaps an acting career wasn’t truly her calling, but the adoration she had received was.

the attention she received in the years following her debut in the film industry, turned the girl desperate for love into a girl even more hungry for adoration. she began to spent her days striving for perfection to draw her parents coveted attention ( the only thing they had ever left her wanting for ) back to herself. each straight a report card had been put up on the fridge only to go unnoticed, the nanny chauffeured her to all her extracurricular activities and sat in her parents place for all her dance recitals. and when she told her father about her time spent volunteering at the animal shelter she’d been met with a dismissive nod and a clap on the shoulder that was meant to be congratulatory as he left in a hurry to tend to something on set.  her parents immersed themselves in their work, in meryl, and gentry was pushed off to the side for the nannies to deal with even after she was well into her teens.

yet while she began to achieve the feigned perfection her family had always seemed to possess, their decline sputtered to life. at least within their home. she can still remember mornings spent splayed out on her plush queen-sized bed with her romantic comedies to drown out the noise , hair a mess and a pressed private school uniform on - all pink on pink on pink ( her pink cigarettes tucked beneath a pillow, mother’s faux lashes accentuating eyes made vacant by her pink and white pills, and the collar of daddy’s scotch soaked dress shirt stained by pillow lips painted an unfamiliar shade of pink ) as she used the edge of a polished finger to swipe the errant tear that had leaked from a trained tear duct, glossed lips once, twice, thrice before slipping out of their house ( it felt both all too large and far too small for the four of them ) unnoticed by her quarreling parents, glared at by her sister. others could see right through the act, witnessed the slammed doors rattling painting right off the walls, heard the boozy and biting insults, the tumblers hurled, scotch sloshing, ice clattering, glass shattering, and she knew that they knew. but when looks of pity, or rather discomfort, passed across their faces she’d simply smile that deep-dimpled barbie doll beam, and turn the television playing rom coms on repeat up several notches. love gone terribly awry stifled by the picturesque, perhaps that’s where it had come from … her love for love, or more specifically yearning and romance as depicted on the silver screen, when she had been raised in an environment so frosty it should have left her with a block of ice in place of her childish and sputtering heart .

𝐨𝐨𝟑. 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

not unlike her parents she loved obsessed in a way that exhausted ( far too much , far too fast ) . ashton had inherited her mother’s insecurities ,  strung her jealousy in a choke around her throat like an emerald necklace , and her father’s flighty heart that sputtered to life for all the wrong souls . it was no suprise that the two who had given new meaning to the term hopeless romantic would spawn a lovely daughter just as unlucky , if not more so , in love . but their hard , cold genes had been muddled together , creating something much worse . she loves love , or rather suffocating adoration , and will latch on to just about anyone who makes her feel a little less hollow . while gentry  is what one would deem a movie buff, it would be difficult for someone to name a movie that she hasn’t seen at least once, she loves to read just as much. tucked away in the valley as her father traveled the world to attend award shows and charity galas, there was very little to do. so she often found herself flipping through novels as she tanned alongside the pool, always the odd one out as her friends gossiped about the boys from their brother school and flipped through gossip rags. 

gentry  has an extensive vocabulary, contrary to what most might think. its a product of her extensive reading and film viewing, but she always seems to get a weird glance when she drops a big word into her sentence littered with valley girl lingo.

while she certainly isn’t a ditz, she doesn’t necessarily dispute the assumption most people make when they glimpse the spacey look that her features take to a bit too often.  perhaps she likes being underestimated, but she doesn’t typically do much to prove those who do underestimate her wrong. 

gentry  loves nothing more than spending all day in her pink silk pajamas, buried beneath sheets and duvet with her persian cat, holly golightly ( dubbed holly ) as she watches a rom-com she’s already seen at least ten times. she isn’t lazy per se, she just much prefers a night in with a bottle of champagne and her box of tissues ( if she’s planning on watching 13 going on 30 she has to be prepared for a few leaked tears ) to a night out. 

gentry is almost a bastardized version of cher horowitz, plucked right from the screen and loosely translated to fit reality. she’s a bit selfish and undeniably herself, yet yearns for, needs if one were to be dramatic, admiration. any semblance of attention that strokes her large ego and keeps her confidence from wavering a much appreciated gesture. but despite being far too self absorbed for her own good, she gives off some guise of selflessness - though her ample acts of kindness always tend to benefit her in return. and while she’s often concerned with how people perceive her, desperately wanting for everyone to find her desirable, she’s a bit too idealistic, a bit too stubborn to simply settle for people. with a collection of romance novels and romantic comedies still lining the shelves of her room that hadn’t change much since girlhood, it’s no secret that she has an insatiable love for love.

[nellie-elizabeth]

The Handmaid's Tale: Unfit (3x08)

Um. Well, that happened. That certainly was... something.

Cons:

Can we talk for a second about the utterly clumsy way this show deals with race? It makes me cringe every time. For the most part, they try to pretend this is a totally post-racial society, but obviously they can't pull that off. And then they have some casual moment where Aunt Lydia tells some other aunts that a certain couple doesn't want a "handmaid of color," so clearly casual racism is not only present here, but also condoned by the elite. Because, duh. Gender politics cannot exist separate from racial politics. And yet this show is not willing to grapple with what that means.

Especially considering June, who is the Whitest of White Feminists in this episode, and honestly, throughout the whole show. Her plot armor is seriously becoming a problem for me. June and the other Handmaids are open and unsubtle in their shunning of Ofmatthew, because they are all furious with her for turning in the Martha who was helping June. What happened to the first season, when the rebellion was deep, deep in the shadows? Now the majority of the Handmaids are allowed to be insolent. And then June is even more insolent, right to Aunt Lydia's face. She seems to think that her usefulness as publicity in the hunt for Nichole will protect her, and... that seems to be true, for some reason. But why? June could be flogged, or she could be castrated, or any other number of horrible things that would be invisible to a camera. June's cocky self-assured attitude is only made more frustrating by the fact that she seems to be right about being weirdly untouchable.

There were some things in this episode that I liked as individual pieces, but I'm still frustrated with these aspects as I look at the episode as a whole. For example, the idea of Ofmatthew cracking under the strain of her public shaming, in conjunction with her fear for her pregnancy, is a totally reasonable avenue to explore. But since we haven't spent any real time getting to know Ofmatthew, it feels instead like this big blow-out at the end of the episode is all just a part of June's story, instead of the story of a woman with her own story to tell. There was potential here, and there were moments that came close to tapping in to that potential, but the reality fell short. There are also two other reasons that the ending of this episode, particularly Ofmatthew's death, annoys me, and they are the two reasons discussed in earlier paragraphs.

1) We're seriously going to end two episodes in a row with the death of a black woman while June looks on, untouched by the physical consequences of her own actions? Yeesh. 2) She's pregnant. I give the show props for making me gasp when Ofmatthew got shot, because even as I critique this episode, I will acknowledge that I have very much bought in to the universe they've created. I was shocked that a pregnant Handmaid would be shot, because... it's shocking, and despite that moment of adrenaline, it's ultimately a stupid call for the writers to have made. Aunt Lydia is not as valuable as a pregnant Handmaid. Part of the visceral horror of Season One was the idea that the Handmaids would be punished physically and psychologically, but they never had to fear for their lives, because their bodies were far too valuable. There was something twisted and creative in how the system worked to break these women without ever being able to directly threaten them with death. And now, apparently we're just shooting pregnant Handmaids in the grocery store? That actually really broke me out of the moment.

Let's turn to the flashbacks for a moment. This is another instance where as a stand-alone thing, I quite liked learning about Aunt Lydia's past. I get the sense from other reviews that I'm in the minority on this, but I think Ann Dowd is so talented, and the story worked for me on the level of examining the early symptoms of Gilead, even before things had started in earnest. But on a macro level, these flashbacks still bothered me for a couple of reasons. For one, the themes explored in the flashbacks did not connect with the story in the present-day, other than that both were centered around Lydia. The flash-backs are about a woman who genuinely wanted to help people, turned bitter in part by her evangelical beliefs and in part by her loneliness. The present-day story is about June turning more and more ruthless, and Ofmatthew losing her grip on her sanity. What am I meant to understand by learning a bit more about Lydia's former life? And that's the second problem, honestly - from just this episode, I might get a good-ish understanding of who Aunt Lydia is meant to be as a character, but if you combine these flashbacks with what we've seen of her character so far, it doesn't really track. Aunt Lydia's characterization is all over the place. She seems to slide on the scale of devotion to Gilead depending on what the plot needs from her at any given moment. For a long time, I've held out hope that we would come to some sort of emotional core for this character and finally understand what makes her tick. But if these flashbacks were meant to provide that clarity, in my opinion they failed.

Pros:

Let's talk about June. Because on the one hand, I'm annoyed about the plot armor, as discussed above. And it's tempting to be upset and frustrated by how unlikable June is becoming. Last week, I certainly felt that way. But I'm trying to take the long view. Turning June into something of a villain is... well, it's not a totally crap idea. Maybe the final consequence of the torture she's been through is that there is no coming back for her. Maybe she'll keep being cruel and single-handed, focused on saving Hannah and nothing else. Maybe she'll nod sagely as Handmaids hold guns on her, and maybe we'll be hearing more voice-overs indicating that June is not only willing to inflict suffering on others... she's starting to enjoy it. I can't really sense what the endgame would be here, short of killing June off and letting the story continue without her. But that might not be as crazy an idea as it first sounds. This universe that they've created has legs. There are so many stories to tell. I'd be okay with telling those stories in a world where June is no longer at the center of them. Maybe that's not where this is going. Maybe I'll have to eat my words and be frustrated in the next couple of episodes at the direction the show turns. But for now, the idea of villainous June is kind of interesting!

One thing this show always does well is showing the creepiness of Gilead through the ceremonies. We have the birthing ceremony that ends in tragedy, as another Handmaid's child is stillborn. And then we have the shaming ceremony. It might be ridiculous to me that June doesn't suffer harsher consequences, but I do like the way Aunt Lydia's role in this shaming ceremony echoes her past as a teacher. The Handmaids are her students, parroting her words and internalizing the harsh messages they are forced to repeat, again and again. It's chilling, and it's meant to be, and it's a good scene, even with the flaws in the larger setup.

As I said, Ofmatthew unraveling and breaking down was actually an interesting idea, in and of itself. The acting and the pacing in that final scene was truly superb. At least in the moment, when I wasn't questioning the larger writing decisions going on, I was totally gripped. I thought Aunt Lydia might be about to die. I even thought Ofmatthew might actually shoot June, although I wasn't thinking June would actually die from it. And then when the shots rang out and Ofmatthew dropped, I literally flinched. I wish this story-line had explored more of its potential, but I did think this high-intensity scene worked really well on its own.

And again, I did enjoy the flashbacks for their own sake. I think it's interesting that Lydia was turned towards a darker, more cynical path because of her attempts to find love again. I read in another review that it seemed stupid to make Lydia evil because she was rejected by a man, but that's not the way I read the moment at all. She breaks so many of the rules she had set for herself on that New Year's Eve. She drinks, and she lets herself be comfortable, and she indulges her desires. Suddenly, she realizes that she's slipped away from the righteous path, and she over-corrects in a big way. That's interesting to me, and I hope that we can get some more clarity on Aunt Lydia's characterization moving forward.

I also like all the hints of the changing world. It reminds me of some of the Season One flashbacks. We learn that Child Protective Services has been replaced with privatized organizations, ones that ask questions like "do they go to Church?" in order to determine if a home is fit for a child. We see how Lydia is uncomfortable and judgmental of Noelle's behavior, and at first it seems perfectly reasonable, because she is neglecting her child. But there's something more dangerous underneath that, as Lydia is judging not only Noelle's parenting style, but her wearing of makeup, and use of profanity, and relationships with men. It all bleeds together, so you can see the sinister creep of Gilead's power beginning in these moments.

So... yeah. This is a very long review, and unfortunately a lot of it is less than positive. There are elements that have promise, and I'm giving this show the benefit of the doubt, because I believe it deserves that. But I'm also starting to feel like the writers need to re-evaluate some aspects of the story, and figure out how they're going to keep moving forward with June as a protagonist.

6/10

[safflowerseason]

Second question! What do you think drew Dan and Amy to one another? What you do think defines their connection?

Hi Anon - apologies that this response took a while! It’s a big question and I wanted to think it over without simply copying @thebookofmaev​, who wrote her own wonderful response to the same question that everyone should read.

I wrote about what Amy finds so appealing about Dan in this post here (essentially, she gets to be herself around him), so I won’t bore everyone by repeating myself. 

As for Dan…I tend to the view he really had written her off as a person of “interest” to him after they dated. I’m sure he was attracted to her, thought she was funny and smart and charming in her way, and obviously useful. But for Dan, none of that is enough to capture his attention permanently. I guess what I’m saying is that however much Dan might have liked Amy personally, I don’t believe he thought Amy was that different from any other D.C. woman that he’d dated (except maybe more naive). (I also really doubt she was Selina’s chief of staff when they dated, otherwise Dan wouldn’t have dumped her after just three dates…which means that professionally, she’s not quite as distinctive yet from her peers.) 

My reasoning for this is that a part of their relationship arc in S1 (and early S2 as well) is Dan’s discovery that Amy can be as ruthless and cunning and ambitious as he is, and that discovery explicitly changes his opinion of her. His reaction in 1.04 to Amy’s bargain with O’Brien is very impressed and also very unsubtle: “You’ve gone up like ten levels in my estimation.” What initially draws Dan to Amy in a real way is the knowledge of what she’s truly capable of accomplishing and that her limits are just as flexible as is . That’s when he starts to actually respect her, to regard her as a real ally, a formidable strategist in her own right that he really needs. She’s no longer someone he sees as temporarily useful. He learns that she’s as smart as he is, is even better than him at certain things, and she’s willing to go as low as him when it’s needed. All this makes her more attractive to him. (I don’t mean that Dan thinks they’re the same. But he does recognize something in her that he sees in himself—a drive for power that he thought only he held—and that makes him sit up and pay more attention.) 

In S1, they still jockey a bit longer for influence with Selina, but by S2, Dan has stopped trying to win favor by cutting out Amy. He also spends the back half of S2 consistently telling her he might quit, which is his backhanded way of implying that she should leave with him. And when he learns that she really is thinking about leaving, he officially tells her they should jump ship together. 

Once Dan learns that Amy is actually worth his time and attention, I think that opens the door for all the other stuff he does like personally about her to resonate more, to become more important to him. Her intensity, her vulnerability, her blazing temper, her coolness under fire…Amy is an intoxicating paradox in her own way, and Dan loves that (plus, he’d be bored otherwise, and he gets to be the only guy who can figure her out.) And because he respects her more than anyone else, it’s a million times more satisfying to win an argument with her or to tease her and watch her transparently react to him. And Amy is beautiful and smart and witty…in all the ways, she’s very good for Dan’s ego. (In the Iannucci years, Anna Chlumsky’s undeniable physical beauty does not seem to be a part of Amy’s Washington identity in the same way that it is for Dan, but whatever, Amy looks like Anna Chlumsky and she is absolutely lovely. The less said about how Amy’s appearance is treated during the Mandel years, the better.) 

We talk a lot about how Amy gets to be herself around Dan, but in a way, I think it’s true for Dan as well. Amy sees right through him, so he doesn’t have to pretend to be a doting boyfriend or a sycophantic staffer or even a decent human being. He can be open in his disregard for everyone else in their office (and everyone else in D.C.), he can whine constantly, plot and scheme openly, he can be a sociopathic robot and Amy just takes it in stride because she understands him and doesn’t expect him to be anything else. So we have Amy and Dan getting to be their perfectly flawed selves around each other, and their relationship works because they are exactly what the other person needs, personally and professionally. It works right up until Nevada, where Amy learns at the exact worst moment that Dan is still willing to sacrifice her in the name of career advancement and Dan learns that there are still limits to how much of a shithead he can be around Amy for her to keep him in her life, which promptly makes him furious. (I have to stop myself here before I go into another long tangent about their fight in 5.03, I could write a novel about it, I love it so much and am profoundly grateful it comes early enough in the Mandel years that it fits with their dynamic in the early seasons.) 

In addition to their fiery physical and intellectual chemistry, I also think that Dan and Amy do share the general life compatibility that is crucial for a relationship to really function. They have similar values, namely that they hate everyone else, have very dark views of human nature, and want to gain power at almost any cost (these values just manifest themselves in different character traits). They’re both workaholics (this applies more to S1-S5 Dan than S6-S7 Dan) and obsessed with their jobs. Amy’s never going to be waiting around at home for Dan to come home from work, in other words, because Amy’s at work too. While Dan might be slightly less intense than Amy, there’s nothing to indicate that he’s not working as hard as she is. 

And in their off-hours, Dan and Amy want to do the same thing, which is talk about work outside of the office. It’s not like Amy wants to go to the movies and Dan wants to go for a hike (hahaha). They’d both just rather to go to bar and bitch about work while drinking tequila or order in food and yell at the tv. And while Dan is more openly attracted by the financial benefits of a high-powered political career (and the attendant status symbols, like a fancy car or a luxury apartment), it’s not as though Amy is so pure about politics that she’s opposed to permanent financial security. Her problem with lobbying wasn’t the money, after all. So they share an appreciation for that dimension of political life as well. 

A lot of words to say: I think what Amy and Dan find in each other is the ultimate partner. And I mourn for the pre-hiatus version of S7, where they would have figured out a way to make that partnership permanent, all the while pretending not to.

[theaceace]

@hairdryertrash I hope it’s ok, but I may have written a thing thanks your amazing response to my post about the archive staff people-watching. Specifically the bit about it being from an outside perspective. Also, I don’t have the guts to write a full statement/statement-worthy background for random passers-by, but hopefully this will do! Enjoy?

Statement of Millie Wardell, regarding a group of customers; recorded? Statement begins:

I wouldn’t call them regulars, because that would imply that they have any sort of discernible pattern or routine, which I can promise you they don’t. They’re never here at the same time twice, rarely all together, and every time I see them, they look worse. There are some things that are pretty consistent across all of their visits, but for the most part, it’s all just… random.

And yes, I know that pretty much nothing is ever really random – I did occasionally pay attention in school. But if there is any sort of logic to them and their decisions – their conversations – I haven’t managed to figure it out yet.

One of them’s been coming here for a few years, on and off – I can still mostly recognise him, although he looks pretty different now to when he first started coming in. I remember he was always sort of stooped, and a bit stuffy-looking, and I don’t think his glasses ever fit right because they were always sliding down his nose. Maybe that’s why he wears contacts these days. Somehow, when I think of him, I still remember him like that – not as he is now, with shadows under his eyes fit to swallow his hollowed cheeks, and scars littering what little skin he leaves visible.

He used to come in very infrequently with a few other people that I guess he worked with – I saw them much more often than I did him, but they haven’t been by in a while. They were lovely; always had time to stop and chat for a few minutes.

I’m pretty sure his name is Jon – I’ve just realised, I’ve been going on about this bloke and I haven’t even mentioned his name. But yes, I’m sure that’s it. He got coffee to take away a couple of times, and I remember writing it on the side of the cup thinking, yeah that seems about right. He looks like a Jon.

I don’t remember what the others were called – I’m not really sure that I ever knew.

These days, he comes in trailing after people I hesitate to call his friends, because he never looks overly happy to be in their presence. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to be here. Or they’re new co-workers that he has to make nice with or something, I don’t know. There’s a few of them, and they turn up at all hours, every combination of them imaginable; but always with Jon.

Today all four of the new ones are here. They come in quickly out of the heavy drizzle, quickly scuffing their shoes on the matt and shucking off their coats as they claim a corner spot in the window. It’s usually empty when they arrive – if you ask me, it’s because of the cobwebs that stubbornly cling high in the corner and on the ceiling, no matter how much we wave the end of the hoover up there. It never seems to bother them, though. That or they’ve never noticed, and I’m not going to be the one to point it out to them.

Jon usually orders for everyone, and it’s never quite the same thing twice.

He walks straight up to me; the line that had been almost to the door five minutes ago is gone. It always is when they arrive. He orders two coffees today (one in the largest size we do and as strong as I can make it, one with peppermint) one mug of tea (the only consistent item of his order, I know exactly how he takes it) and a large strawberry shortcake milkshake. I open my mouth to tell him that we don’t do milkshakes, but something makes me pause. I turn to look at the specials board, frowning, and sure enough – there it is. On the board that I wrote first thing this morning. I then open my mouth to tell him a little white lie that I’m very sorry, but we’ve run out, and close it again. There’s no point. I know the recipe. I know where the ingredients will be. I tell myself that at least today it’s a fairly sensible flavour combination.

Jon hands me the exact change before I have a chance to tell him the total, and then drops a couple of quid in the tip jar on the counter. In his defence, he’s always been a reasonable tipper, and I’m willing to forgive a lot for that.

I tell him I’ll bring the drinks over as soon as they’re done; he nods, heads over to their table, and I try very hard to focus on what I’m doing rather than the snippets of conversation I can hear over the radio. It’s a moderately successful attempt – people tend to forget about me when they’re having important, confidential talks. Not that these guys ever seem to talk about anything too important or confidential, as far as I can tell. Mostly they just people-watch.

Alright, look. I like a bit of people-watching; who doesn’t? It’s a pretty good way to pass the time on the tube, or waiting for a bus, or during a slow shift or something. But them? They people-watch on a whole other level. Like a competitive sport or something. Champion people-watchers, ha!

Sorry.

By the time I make my way over, they’ve finished talking about the fire at one of the BP offices that’s been all over the news – and for the sake of my sanity, I decide it’s best if I ignore the way they talked so familiarly about Jude up to her old tricks again. They all murmur thanks as I set their drinks down in front of them, and by now I have a pretty good idea of who is having what.

The extra-large, extra-caffeinated cup goes to the young woman sat closest to the window. She never meets my eyes, very rarely shifts her gaze from the outside world, but she is unfailingly polite, and always stacks everyone’s mugs to bring back to counter as they leave, so I think she’s my favourite. Her hijab today is a soft blue, and when she reaches for her coffee, I see that her nails have been shakily painted to match. Her hands are always perfectly steady, so I suspect it’s the handiwork of her – partner? Friend? I’ve never been too sure what the deal is there, but they seem to be getting pretty close. I’m glad – there’s always been a bit of weird vibe between them.

Peppermint coffee next – she always has strong flavours that one, but never anything too rich. I remember the first time she came in with them all, she ordered for herself; so that was already pretty strange, since everyone else had always just let Jon order for them. Normally it wouldn’t even register – people ask for weird things all the time – but for some reason, her word choice really stood out to me. She shivered a little, stared me down, and said she didn’t want anything heavy or cloying. She then gave her name as Daisy, asked for a takeaway cup, and marched unsteadily out of the door as soon as she had her drink in hand.

I mean, I just figured she was one of these people that was really sensitive to certain flavours or something, but now I don’t think that’s it. I don’t know what it is, and I suppose it doesn’t really matter. She’s never complained about any of the drinks, so I guess it can’t be too bad.

I smile at her and Daisy smiles back, quick and sharp and I’m taken aback all over again by how much yellow there is in her brown eyes; it takes me a moment to unfreeze my muscles long enough to put the drink down. The grin falters and drops. Without looking, her possible-girlfriend – I want to say Basira, but I might be wrong – reaches across and places a gentle hand on her knee. It looks like it should be reassuring, but she only twitches slightly and shifts until Basira’s hand slides away.

It isn’t hard to continue like I didn’t just see that slightly awkward exchange – I used to work in retail, I’m accustomed to pretending I didn’t see all kinds of things.

The milkshake I set down between the other two women – Helen has already produced from the miraculous depths of her bag a couple of those curly straws that make everything three times as hard to drink. I didn’t know they made them iridescent now, but they look pretty cool. She and… Melanie? Yeah, Melanie, they always share a drink, which is pretty cute. I try not to stare too much. Not just because it’s rude, and I don’t want them to think I’m being – I don’t know, homophobic or something – but because it always gives me a thumping headache.

And finally, I set Jon’s mug of tea down in front of him. He’s tucked the furthest into the corner, almost sinking into the ancient armchair. I barely hear him thank me as I turn to hurry back to the counter. Not that there are any more customers to see to; it’s just that I can’t bear to be so close to them all for any stretch of time. The prickling on the back of my neck becomes unbearable, and I always feel like I can’t catch my breath.

But that, of course, is their cue to begin.

It’s usually Melanie that starts off their weird little game – her movements unsubtle and impatient as she points out some poor passer-by. Pickings are slim today, and she points to the lone soul daft enough to brave the weather without a coat.

“Desolation,” she says boldly, like that’s a normal thing to say while pointing to a total stranger. I mean, I try not to judge them too harshly – apart from Helen, they all look exhausted, and I guess this is some sort of weird stress relief. But still. Desolation? What? I start wiping down the machine and idly sorting the dishwasher in an attempt to look like I’m not listening.

“Not saying I disagree,” Daisy says in a tone that sounds a lot like she does disagree and doesn’t care who knows it. “But we’re going to need a little more than that.”

Jon interrupts, an odd faraway look on his face at he picks up – oh shit, is that one of the corner spiders? Oh fuckfuck, it’s huge, what is he; oh, god, he’s put it back on a web in the corner what the fuck?

“Martin can’t make it,” he says, and I guess that means something to them all, because they nod with varying degrees of disappointment on their faces. I hurriedly turn back to stacking cups, and try very hard to forget that I ever saw the damn spider. If it’s still there by the time I need to close up I’ll have to get Ed from upstairs to come down and deal with it.

“Don’t think that means you’re getting out of it,” I hear Helen say, and it sounds like she’d smiling a little. Well, no. I’ve seen her smiles and none of them are little. They stretch wide across her face, although her eyes never seem to change shape with it.

“Yeah yeah, I know.”

I start to shuffle the cutlery around a little louder than is strictly necessary – I never like this part.

At first, I remember thinking they were some sort of weird writing or improv group or something. It’s not completely unheard of – we get quite a few, um, hipsters would probably be the polite way of describing them, so I just assumed that that’s what they were doing. But then I recognised Jon after a couple of visits as the dour academic-looking guy that hadn’t been in for nearly a year, and that theory sort of fizzled out.

So now I don’t know. The stories they come up with are – well, they unsettle me. Some of them are genuinely frightening, and I’ve woken up from more than a few nightmares to visions of insect swarms filling the pockets of all my clothes, and my shadow leeching up my legs leaving necrotic flesh in its wake, and my fingernails peeling away from my hands with long ribbons of skin still attached. Some of them are just a little weird, but I can never predict what sort of a day it’s going to be, so the less I have to hear, the better.

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. From what I’ve heard about their job, it sounds intense.

I only catch snippets today. Melanie talks about a fever, about refusing to wear a coat in the depths of winter, then a jumper, about trips to a doctor, a specialist, about thermometers beeping too high to read. I don’t hear the end – I’m luckily distracted by the phone ringing. It’s with no small amount of relief that I chat about delayed deliveries – apparently there’s been some sort of tunnel collapse on one of the routes. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Jon sink further down into his chair when I repeat that, clutching his tea like a lifeline. Or maybe I’m just projecting, because when I turn to properly look, he’s once again sat staring intently outside with his elbows on his knees.

By the time I hang up, they’ve moved onto a new target. Helen and Basira argue good-naturedly about whether someone called Jared would be interested in this one; they keep going on about body-image. Daisy teasingly asks Basira for evidence, which starts them off again while Melanie laughs around her straw and Jon tilts his head, greying hair hanging low over his eyes.

For a while, their banter almost sounds normal. Melanie chimes in with a comment about how this person looked lonely, before tensing suddenly with a panicked look at Jon, who waves a hand like he needs to physically brush the words away.

“With the size of that bloody family she may already be, and no-one would ever know, least of all them,” Jon says, and Melanie’s surprised bark of laughter is echoed by Helen’s soft titters and a disgusted noise from Basira.

“Is that a yes?” Melanie asks excitedly, leaning forward so fast she nearly knocks her glass over. Helen steadies it, although I don’t know how – she doesn’t seem to move, and I know there’s no way she could reach from where she’s sat without moving at least a little.

“Better luck next time, I suppose,” Jon shrugs. “You too, Helen, Basira.”

“Tell us then, Archivist. Don’t leave us in suspense.” Helen doesn’t lean forwards, exactly, but I suddenly have the impression that she’s much closer to Jon than she was a few seconds ago.

Jon’s eyes flick between them – the only part of him that moves – before he looks at me. His eyes have a sheen to them, I realise. I’ve never really looked too hard before, always kept my gaze somewhere around the bridge of his nose, but now I feel. I feel.

God. I feel seen.

“What, it isn’t obvious?” He asks, and his voice is light. Teasing. I try to blink and find that I can’t.

Finally, finally, he turns back to them, and across his face, every one of his freckles – no.

No.

I will not say they blink, I won’t, I fucking didn’t see that, I –

“She’s for Beholding.”

I don’t hear anything else. I don’t know if they don’t talk, or if I’m just oblivious to the rest of their conversation, but they leave quite quickly after that. I go through the motions of closing up automatically, even though we should be open for another hour and a half. I can’t bring myself to care. I know there won’t be any more customers today.

I don’t know why I’m so unsettled. Of all the things I’ve heard come out of that man’s mouth, this is nothing. It’s nothing. I’m not thinking about it, I’m just focusing on sweeping, then mopping, and I’m definitely not, absolutely not, thinking about the horrendous itch that’s been burning at the outside corners of my eyes.

Except I am – I blink rapidly, although there are no tears gathering, and pull my phone out of my pocket. I don’t know who to call. My brother’s still at work, my parents won’t want to hear my rambling about this, and none of my friends are the sort of people to take it seriously. I don’t even know that I take it seriously. Honestly, I don’t even know what it is. I scroll down through my contacts twice before I come to a decision.

“Hello?” she says on the third ring, and I take a shaking breath.

“Hi, sorry, Georgie? Are you free? I think I need to talk to someone.”

[minniemonu-reverie]

SRK Part Six - Roses and Blanket Forts

~Super Rich Kids~

Master List in bio

Part Six- Roses and Blanket Forts Genre: Humour, Fluff, Smol Angst

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

You and Jimin had gotten your ice cream and were taking a stroll at the waterfront. There were benches lining the path along with lush greenery. The echoes of Jimin’s adorable shrieks of glee had people staring as he jumped excitedly, approaching an area covered in flowers. His fingers wrapped around your wrist forcing you to be dragged in his wake, almost knocking the ice cream out of your hand. “Y/N! Look at all the flowers, this is so beautiful! Surely you can find inspiration here! Is there anything specific you have to write?” “Naw, she said for our first editing project it could be whatever we wanted.” Your eyes scanned the field of flowers, feeling the urge to lay amongst them. Jimin followed suit, the two of you laying beside each other staring at the afternoon sky. Suddenly, the weight of all the recent events came crashing into you, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Jiminie, why does he hate me so much? What did I do?” You rolled over to look Jimin in the eyes, plush petals dancing around his face. “Oh, Y/N-ah. You didn’t do anything. I feel that Namjoon actually likes you. The two of you just keep meeting under stressful circumstances...” “Why do I even care what he thinks anyway. He’s just a giant ughhhhhh.” You flung your arms over your face an exasperated sigh leaving you. Jimin rubbed your arm comfortingly. “It’ll be okay, you still have me and Remi and the rest of the guys. Namjoon will have to come around eventually.” You sat up, shovelling the rest of your ice cream into your mouth with a grunt. “I can’t help but fight with him every time we run into each other, and why do we keep running into each other? Like I literally ran into him. Full on, collided, landed on top of him. He was so not impressed.”

             Jimin roared with laughter, which made your face burn with embarrassment. “You fell on top of him? Dear lord, that is too funny. Maybe it’s fate Y/N. Maybe the universe is trying to insert him into your life in the most unsubtle way possible.” “Well the universe needs to do a better job, because this is absolutely awful.” You sighed and reached into your bag, grabbing your notebook. “Oh, what’s that?” “Hmm? Oh, I keep a notebook on me, so when inspiration hits me, I can write it down before I forget. It’s full of random ideas and stuff.” “Aw, that’s so cool! I hope you let me read your stuff one day.” “Of course! I don’t mind sharing things that I’ve finished, and I do need someone to run ideas by other than Remi.” You looked around at all the bright petals and pulled at the emotions that were rattling you. As ideas popped into your head, you began scribbling them down. Jimin watched as you wrote and couldn’t help but smile. It was different seeing you in your element. You had a fierceness about you that he couldn’t quite describe, but it was beautiful to watch.

             You clapped your hands together as you finally wrote something that you felt was good enough to hand in. “Hey, you want to read this over?” You asked Jimin, handing him your notebook. He quickly sat up taking the book from you. “Is it this little short poem?” “Yeah, I know it’s not much, but I was going more for impact than words, you know?” “Okay, makes sense.” He became quiet as he read your words over, different looks crossing his face as he processed. “Wow, Y/N this is so pretty. Do you mind if I read it out loud? For effect?” “That’s actually a good idea. That way I know if I have to change anything.” Jimin cleared his throat and looked at you intensely.

“Roses Fresh rainbows with Velvety silk petals Falling in gentle silence Defeat.” Your heart started hammering in your chest as he read the words out so perfectly. “How was it? Did it sound okay? Did I make it weird?” Jimin looked concerned as he handed you your book back. You shook your head furiously. “Not at all. You read it so beautifully.” You put your book off to the side of your bag. When you looked back up, Jimin had a white rose in his hand. He leaned forward, tucking it behind your ear. “You look really cute like that Y/N.” You blushed profusely, quickly scouring the area and reaching for a flower then putting it in his hair. “There, and now you match me.” He gave you his full smile, nose scrunching up and eyes closing. You stood up, gathering your things. “We should probably get going…” Jimin stood up as well, brushing his pants. As much as you wanted time to yourself, you were enjoying being around Jimin and his healing energy. He knew just what to do to calm and relax you, bring you back from the depths of your mind. “Ah, did you want to come over and hang out at my place? Namjoon shouldn’t be back yet, so you don’t have to worry about him. If Remi isn’t busy send her a text and invite her too!” And there was your ticket to not having to be alone. “Yeah, sure!” You blurted before he could change his mind. 

The two of you walked back to his house in comfortable silence. When you got there, Jin was in the kitchen making food, bright pink apron tied loosely around his frame. The width of his shoulders always took you by surprise, especially seeing how tiny his waist was. This man was a true dorito.   “Jin! Is anyone else home? I brought Y/N over to come chill.” “Ah, I think Tae is in his room. Kookie’s probably playing video games in the living room. Y/N how are you? Are you hungry?” You walked over to the stove and sniffed the contents of the pot. The fragrance overwhelmed your senses, making your mouth water instantly. “Yeah, even if I wasn’t hungry, I’d eat anyway. Jin this smells so fricken good.” A wide smile spread on Jin’s face and he picked up a spoon, dipping it into the pot and holding it out to you. You leaned forward and slurped from it. You instinctively moaned at the savoury flavour, it was phenomenal. “Oh my God Jin, this is amazing.” “I know, I’m handsome and I can cook. I’m the whole package babe.” He gave you a wink and blew a kiss at you before turning back. You playfully hit him in the arm causing him to yell. “Hey! Don’t hit the person who is feeding you!” You jumped back and ran out of the kitchen from fear of retaliation. Just as you looked back, you tripped on a cord and flew forward landing on someone. “YOU. I. MY. GAAAAAAAAAAAAME!” Jungkook screamed and flailed, the controller in his hand getting dangerously close to your face. You scrambled off him apologizing.  “Omg, Kookie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the cord, I didn’t see you. Why are you on the floor anyway?” “Y/N I swear, if it wasn’t you and if you didn’t look so adorable with that rose in your hair, you would be dead right now.” You started pouting and begging for his forgiveness. He sighed heavily and moved over slightly, patting the empty spot beside him. “You any good at Mario Party?” “Uh, debateable…” “Well get ready, cause for my revenge that’s what we’re playing, and I’m going to make you regret falling on me in the middle of my game.”

             Jimin sauntered in and sat on the other side of Jungkook. “Hey! If you’re playing Mario Party, I want in!” “Jimin, no offense but you come in last every time.” “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to play.” “Hey! Guys! Food’s ready!” Jin called from the kitchen. The three of you looked at each other and nodded. The challenge would begin after food. Just as the four of you sat at the table, you heard Taehyung come out of his room. “Ayyyyeee, I smell food! Jin did you leave some for me?” He hollered down the stairs. “Yeah! Come and get some!” “Alright!”  His heels tip tapped as he ran down the stairs. As he got to the main floor, the doorbell chimed through the house. “Are you expecting anyone?” Taehyung shouted. “Oh! That’s probably Remi!” You replied. The creak of the door and the shuffling of Remi’s footsteps resounded. “Jesus Remi, what the hell is all this stuff?” “Supplies! If we’re hanging out here all day, and possibly all night, I needed to come prepared! I have snacks, board games, blankets and of course some pjs for me and Y/N. I know she didn’t pack any overnight things. Also face masks!!” “Face masks? I’m in.” Taehyung chimed, “I’ll help you carry this stuff, we can put it in the living room.” “Thanks Tae, you’re so sweet.” “Sweet is my middle name, honey.”

             After everyone had settled and almost all of the gang was there, you guys enjoyed the meal Jin had graciously made. Everyone was always impressed with the things Jin would whip up, and he was baskin in all the compliments. “Hey, hey. Guys.” Jin clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta.” You and Remi groaned, Jimin started laughing and the rest of the guys sighed. “Here we go again.” “Hey, hey wait! I have another one. Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?” All of you sighed, “No…” “Great food. No atmosphere.” Taehyung stood up and gathered his dishes. “Wait! Wait! What did the grape do when he got stepped on?” “Jin. Please.” “He let out a little wine.”  Jimin was now holding his stomach, unable to stop laughing. The screeches of chairs against the hardwood signalled everyone abandoning Jin and Jimin at the table.  “Let’s set up the game.” Jungkook said, walking over to the living room. “Hey! You guys need to clean up, I cooked!” “Sounds good, Kookie. I’ll grab some cushions and blankets.” Taehyung continued, ignoring Jin’s angry banter. You and Remi looked at each other, the same idea crossing your minds. “GUYS WAIT. WE SHOULD BUILD A BLANKET FORT.” 

             The house went silent before erupting into cheers. Some of the guys went running upstairs to grab more blankets and pillows, you and Remi started pulling things out of the bags she had brought. Soon enough you had decked out the front room in a giant blanket fort, the TV being included. There were mismatched pillows everywhere and you all settled in to begin the Mario Party tournament. You had brought out a whiteboard and developed a tournament bracket. Bowls of chips and popcorn surrounded you, and there was a case of pop. Rules were established and controllers were handed out. You played rock, paper scissors to decide who would go against who. Jungkook and Jin were fighting over a bet they had made with each other, trying to figure out what the punishment would be to whoever lost. Amidst the chaos, the door opened and the other three were finally home. You immediately clammed up, and Jimin crawled over to you for support. The six of you sat in silence as Hoseok, Yoongi and Namjoon entered the living room to figure out what all the commotion was.

             Hoseok hooted in excitement as he saw the display before him. “Blanket fort! Video games! Count me in guys!” He jumped up and down and dove into the middle of everyone, ready to go. “What are we playing? Is this a tournament?” “Mario Party tournament.” Remi said, a blush staining her cheeks as she watched Hoseok’s attention turn to her. He gave her a bright smile and a thumbs up. “Yeah! Alright!” Yoongi walked over nonchalantly and settled himself in with a gummy smile. “I’m ready to annihilate all of you.” Namjoon stood outside of the circle of us, looking at you with a straight face, expression as unreadable as always. At least this time you couldn’t feel malice dripping from him. It had seemed that his aura had calmed, but you didn’t want to take chances. You looked away, not wanting to start anything when you were finally in a good mood. “Are you joining us Namjoonie?” Jimin asked, putting a hand on your leg for emotional support. Remi had abandoned you for Hoseok and those two were happily chatting. You put your hand on Jimin’s, still not wanting to meet Namjoon’s gaze. Namjoon watched what you did, and his mouth twitched. “Yeah, you know what? It’s time I had some fun.” You turned around to look at him, your eyebrow raised. “You don’t care that I’m here?” His eyes glanced at the floor, hands shoved into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. “We can settle all of our differences in the game.” A smile creeped onto your face as he made his declaration. Maybe Jimin was right. Maybe he was just stressed. This was the first time you weren’t yelling at each other and watching him watch you with an apologetic look did make you a little soft. You could give him a second chance. “Don’t hurt my Y/N-ie!” Jimin whined and leaned on you. “Nothing is fair in love and war Chim.”  You and Jimin exchanged confused looks before Namjoon gathered his rather long limbs and shoved himself into the now cluttered area. He perched himself across from you, giving you a final glance before turning his focus to the challenge at hand. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest and Jimin winced as you put his hand in a death grip. “Y/N, my hand.”  “Oh, shit. Sorry Jiminie.” You released his hand and turned away, heat radiating through your body. “Let’s get this party started my dudes!”

[bookmawkish]

I’m Not Getting Him, You’re Getting Him (Heckyl in the MCU)

a random piece of random for the lovely @worldoftherandom and no I don’t know where this came from, nor do I particularly care because it amuses me to write this rubbish XD

It is required listening while reading this fic. 

https://youtube.com/watch?v=4G6QDNC4jPs

All the Heckyl in the MCU stuff

“We were having dinner.”

“Yes. You said that ten minutes ago.”

“And it’s still true.”

Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff hurry along the sidewalk, doing (for those who don’t know them) a very believable impression of a perfectly normal couple trying to get home or into a taxi and out of the rain as quickly as possible. It is February, and the chill has been hanging over New York for weeks: the sort of cold that gets into the bones and leaves a person miserable.

Clint is doing a good job of being miserable, cold or not, and perhaps this time with good reason.

“This is exactly why I don’t bring my phone with me when I’m trying to relax. I take a couple of hours off, get dressed up, go out -”

“Is there something you know about Director Fury that suggests he is in any way bothered about your personal life?”

Clint gives this due consideration.

“I don’t want him to even think about my personal life,” he says, swerving to avoid a deluge of drips from an oversaturated restaurant awning, and peering down the next intersection. “Is it this one? 57th and Third?”

Natasha consults her own phone, and the co-ordinates sent to her. She nods. They pick up the pace.

It’s a little after eleven in the nightclub district, and while the restaurants may be starting to wind down, the dance clubs and the bars are just starting to get into full swing. As the Black Widow and Hawkeye head down the side street indicated by Fury’s note, they have to sidestep increasing numbers of people spilling out from any number of bright doorways: the thump of heavy bass can be not only heard, but felt underfoot. Clint pauses, rests his hand briefly on the wall underneath a virulent neon sign, and stares up, his face harshly lit in the green glare. Natasha reads it aloud: The High Voltage Room.

They’ve arrived.

There is a huge line of clubbers waiting to get in, much longer than at any of the other clubs. Word seems to be getting around, because more and more excited people seem to be flocking over as Clint and Natasha turn down the back access alley and start their assault from the rear.

“I’m not getting him,” Clint says, as Natasha gives him a quick boost up onto the back wall that seals the club’s kitchen and dumpsters off from the public alley. “You’re getting him. I‘ll provide backup. Or possibly just laugh from the sidelines.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

Clint disappears over and Natasha follows, landing silently. They find the door to the kitchens unlocked. Lucky.

“I don’t have to like him. It’s not in my contract.”

“You got a contract? Huh.”

Inside, the bass is not so much a sound now as it is a physical thing. It vibrates through the walls, the floor, every cell in the human body. Natasha frowns slightly as she navigates through the staff sections, dodging fry cooks and haggard-looking bar staff heading out for a smoke break. Be covert, Fury’s message had insisted. Don’t cause any more trouble than he already has. They are, of course, not seen, and being heard in this cacophony would be practically impossible. Then Natasha pushes a swing door, the noise intensifies to almost unbearable levels, rig lights swing to glare and flash into their faces, and they’re out into the main club.

According to the excited chatter of the cheerful clubbers that press in on all sides, it’s Classic Dance Night. As if Clint couldn’t have guessed. Not that classic club dance hits are his thing. Not at all. And he’ll tell you so quite emphatically if you ask. The place is packed to what seems like almost illegal capacity: it’s barely possible to move in the crush of bodies. Hot skin, sticky floor, sweat and overexcitement. And yet people are still coming in. There’s a general thrill of overwhelming anticipation across the crowd, and Clint rolls his eyes in exasperation that this is somehow his life. He’s picked up on the telltale overarching scent of ozone and heavy cinnamon smoke that’s lacing the whole room. And Natasha wonders why he doesn’t like him.

It’s Clint that spots him in the end - and he taps Natasha’s arm, pointing deliberately, before leaning in to her ear and shouting:

“Get him before he does it again. Then we can -”

His last two words fall, suddenly too loud, into an abrupt lull in the music.

“ - go home!”

There’s a brief, blessed moment of silence. Then the crowd roars, releasing their pent-up anticipation, as the intro to the next song begins.

 I still hear your voice when you sleep next to me

I still feel your touch in my dreams

 There’s a very small, almost perfectly circular clearing opening up in the very centre of the dance floor. Probably no more than a metre or so across. And in the very centre of that circle, there indeed is Heckyl, the Cause Of Nick Fury’s Ire, the Unwitting Ruination Of Dinner Dates, and apparently New York Clubland’s Most Wanted On A Rainy Friday Night.

He’s wearing a shriekingly neon blue singlet that is startlingly tight, and what Clint suspects are Loki’s leather trousers, plus - are those Nike Air Mags? Clint smells Tony all over this. Nobody sane can afford those. Plus, annoyingly, Heckyl is somehow making the whole ridiculous ensemble look good. He has his eyes closed, body hitching to the intro, sweat sheening his exposed skin, his expression beatific. God, Clint hopes he isn’t high. The idea of Heckyl on MDMA is just too horrific to contemplate. He gives Natasha an unsubtle shove in the back, and she glares at him, gesturing in front of her. The crush of the crowd has reached almost immovable levels. She can’t get through without stabbing someone, and judging by the look on her face she’s seriously considering it.

 Forgive me my weakness but I don’t know why

Without you it’s hard to survive

 Heckyl flings out an arm, and the crowd bellows again in renewed excitement. He flings out the other, and Clint groans inwardly as blue light begins to curl and pool in the alien’s palms. He knows this track and he’s pretty sure this is Heckyl’s regular performance piece, because, yeah, as soon as the main song refrain powers on in, here it comes -

 ‘Cause every time we touch I get this feeling

And every time we kiss I swear I could fly

 Heckyl’s eyes snap open, glowing blue-white from within. His whole body wreathes in lightning, snapping and flickering over every inch of him, gathering and intensifying in his out-thrown palms until it seems to get too much for him to control: it overloads and arcs out in long, crackling lines across the crowd, who are screaming and dancing and crushing in even more. Clint’s hair stands on end as the spreading tendrils of Heckyl’s power burns over him, his entire body tingling with mild electric shock, then it’s gone, conducting out into more people and the floor and the ceiling.

The lighting rig is shocked into overdrive, the lights suddenly much brighter, flashing faster. Bulbs pop in twenty places. The giant disco ball, rotating in illuminated glory high above, takes the brunt of it all and explodes into gleaming, electrified dust, showering the crowd in mercifully harmless glimmering sequined plastic pieces. The crowd, if it’s possible, goes even more crazy, dancing harder and faster and pressing in closer against Heckyl until he’s almost lost to sight in the swarm.

Natasha elbows Clint and leans in.

“I’m not getting him,” she shouts. “You get him.”

Clint, watching the undulating, joyful crowd in a kind of awe, shakes his head solemnly.

“Man’s got his Cascada on,” he says. “You don’t interrupt a man mid-Cascada.”

[chronotopes]

3. favorite line/scene

in standard "katia chrono topics" fashion, i reblogged an ask meme and forgot about it.

ground rule, i'm going to divide answers for fic into "al2rnia" and "not al2rnia", because it is my blog and i will be convoluted about it if i want to. thus, fav straightforwardly homestuck scene is the meteor era terezi/kanaya confrontations in the truth must dazzle gradually, just because writing both the pre- and post- retcon versions of it was a big breakthrough (if an unsubtle one in the excerpt below) for how i handled body language in fic!

You’ve never seen her with your eyes, same as Karkat, but you know enough from smells and sounds to fill in how she carries herself; perfectly self-possessed, so aware of her body, its signals, and its movements that she does not have to think about them to keep them in check.

All you have ever managed is a deliberate rigidity of form, desperately conscious control in place of genuine self-possession. A born-and-bred legislacerator in contrast with... someone who is much more than that, better than that, somebody who gets to kill and live past it. A swing of the chainsaw and flowery-violet blood, sunk into the meteor’s stones, and she still gets to be good. Loving an objectively insane light player so much it hurts and she gets to be loved in return with an ardent, tamed devotion (well – not tamed, but curbed; not tamed but… changed?) that you can’t think about too long.

You hate her for it sometimes.

in al2rnia, there's a lot of options because it's my baby, but one that comes to mind is the entire as-yet-unpublished prologue to aivide the epilogue (colloquially titled 'heartbreaking! the two worst women you've ever met have their first encounter'). it turns out i love writing deeply bastardly adult women, who would have guessed?