#and its all planned out in such an exact way. its really fascinating and impressive

[seraphidae]

perfect example of movie magic: the hand towel on the oven handle falls down at the beginning of the clip, but the next zoomed out shot its back up on it. and its not because he picked it up while christine is talking, because she keeps making eye contact with matthew as she talks! but the scenes flow together so seamlessly you wouldnt be able to tell its from different takes-- wait. where are you going. no, no, no, this is interesting. listen, just hear me out,

[d-emeter]

Johnny Mactavish who realizes he likes his girls a little bigger when he visits a museum for the first time — plus-sized!fem!reader x Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

CW: mid/plus-size reader! this is absolutely far from body neutral, talk of bodies/body image

Some love for my curvy gals🫶🏻

Johnny's first encounter with the beauty of the female form is as expected, almost stereotypical — staring at the pictures in the playboy magazine he stole from his older cousin. Usually hidden under his mattress, only coming out in the dead of night with a flashlight in hand. The girls are pretty. Scantily clad, sultry expressions, and Johnny quickly learns that this is what is considered hot. He sees girls like this in films, too — films shown to him by that same cousin, God forbid his ma ever found out he watched it — and he hears his cousin and his friends drone on and on about how sexy Megan Fox is as she bends over the hood of a car. Desperate to impress the cooler, older boys, he joins in too. This is what he should find hot.

It is what he thinks he finds hot. That is, until his final year of secondary school. He's freshly turned eighteen, overeager to enlist (his ma had insisted he at least finished school before he did), and taking what he thought were the easiest electives to try and coast through to graduation. He finds he actually really enjoys art class, unlike most of his mates who had the exact same plan he did (he's particularly talented at drawing anatomy, and tries not to preen too much when the teacher compliments him for it to avoid teasing).

Said mates and him are fucking around during the busride to the school-mandated museum trip, none of them particularly excited to spend the day between what they deem boring paintings and sculptures. Well, Johnny is actually quite curious — his family never really took him on trips like this — but he pretends to be just as annoyed as the others.

Find a work that calls to you, and use it as a drawing exercise in your sketchbook. That was the assignment. Johnny's friends take the easy way out — beelining towards the modern section of the museum, finding the paintings that are simple squares of colours. He's planning on following them, but then his teacher lays a hand on his shoulder and points him towards another hall — classical sculptures. He's torn, not wanting to be left out of his friends' fun, but also not wanting to disappoint his teacher. He decides to follow the direction of his teacher's outstretched finger.

He's surrounded by white marble and plaster. The genuine old-as-fuck sculptures are displayed on a plateau in the middle of the hall, the plaster copies piled along the walls. He wanders, pausing here and there to sketch a hand, or a nose. And then he spots her.

It's like he's hypnotized, body moving of its own volition, bringing him towards his object of fascination until he's face to face with her. His eyes flick down to the plaque on the floor — Venus. She's a goddess of... something (he wasn't paying attention during that class, okay?). It doesn't matter. The first thing he notices is that she looks nothing like the girls in the magazines, or films — no, her body is softer. Well, it's not really, it's plaster, but she looks softer. There's a roundness to her shoulders, a fullness to her thighs, a pudge to her tummy, the skin in rolls where she's bent to the side. Hot, is the first thing that comes to mind, but then he shakes his head at himself. No, hot doesn't do her justice — she's beautiful. Gorgeous, stunning. He scoffs; she's tucked away in a corner, like she isn't the most breathtaking thing he has ever laid eyes upon. He spends the rest of the afternoon taking down every detail in his sketchbook.

—

Johnny's been searching for her. Or, rather, for that pull he had towards her, all those years ago. He knows it's stupid. His Venus was perfection in plaster, she was made, without faults. No woman can measure up to that, not a real one. And yet he searches. He flirts with the curvy girls, the ones that rarely get any attention among their group of friends. He enjoys the way they react; some fluster, some flourish, none of them expecting his undivided attention. He takes home pretty, plump birds from bars, spends a night worshipping them. Nothing about it is not real, per say. He finds them attractive, frothing at the mouth at the way his hands sink into soft flesh and roam wide curves — but they're not her. He searches.

And then he finds.

It's the day you come waltzing into his life. Or, more realistically, you come waltzing onto base. Price was getting a new secretary, courtesy of Laswell. Johnny hears the comments — she's a pretty thing, young, and smart. He doesn't think much of it. There's plenty of those walking around base.

Then he catches sight of you and — bloody Jesus. You are young, and you are smart, but you're not just pretty. You're beautiful. Plush in all the right places, sending Johnny into overdrive, an incessant need to get his hands on you as soon as possible. It's out of his control, the way his legs carry him over to you until he's face to face with you. He's already decided he'll worship you, if you'll let him.

His goddess. His Venus.

[mikarchive2]

what i read in february 2023 📚

1. teatro grottesco by thomas ligotti - ★★★★ - picked this up because i randomly read one of his short stories on a train once and was so enamoured ... a short story collection centered around a subtle existential sort of horror that is less about gore and violence and more about something unknown but dreadful lurking in your peripheral vision . some of these, especially the ones from the deformations section, felt very welcome to night vale . delicious . makes you feel like a kid listening to scary campfire stories . i enjoy hanging out in the world created by this narrative voice so much

favourites: purity, the town manager, the clown puppet, my case for retributive action + in a foreign town, in a foreign land

2. the raven and the reindeer by t. kingfisher - ★★ - i think what im doing here is trying to read a fairytale retelling every month 👍 ... this really did not work for me though . the writing style felt so childish ( this could have been a book for twelve year olds ) + the story did not go anywhere and stayed extremely surface-level throughout the whole book . yeah sure there were lesbians but no actual substance whatsoever . the reading process was somewhat enjoyable because the humor was alright, but thats pretty much the only redeeming quality

3. the world keeps ending, and the world goes on by franny choi - ★★★ - i believe this is a case of ‘its not you its me’ because even though the way the author plays with language is straight up fascinating something about her poetry never clicks with me . i had the exact same issue with soft science as well - there is a certain detachment and coldness to her style that doesnt allow me to properly process the poems on an emotional level . still, i really liked the fourth section, it was so imaginative and full of the kind of resilience that is only born out of utter hopelessness

4. the passion by jeanette winterson - ★★★ - unfortunately i have the same issue here as with franny choi - something in me just always refuses to click with jeanette winterson . the author is trying to lead me somewhere by the hand but she is always slightly out of reach . this is my third book by her and while i can see and appreciate her craft it just never leaves a lasting impression on me its so strange ... i enjoyed the imagery + the philosophical ideas about love and passion but the story itself ... i dont know

5. the sandman: world’s end ( vol. 8 ) by neil gaiman - reread - i am not rating these god bless and putting them in the review post is probably not a good idea either since i ramble about them enough as is . what can i even say about a series that pretty much formed the way i understand the world and the human condition . stories within stories within stories . the foreshadowing here is insane and probably unnoticeable unless you are rereading . its hard to say what the writing process here was actually like perhaps it was way more spontaneous than i imagine but it all seems so meticulously and purposefully planned its just stunning

( + two books i left unfinished last year because of my broken ebook reader and decided to finish this month: )

6. wyrd sisters by terry pratchett - ★★★ - ( looks above ) my reading order here is very ‘frequently bought together’ ‘do not separate them’ huh ... this was very shakespearean which was fun but not ideal for me personally because it means some things definitely flew right over my head . i think i enjoyed equal rites a little more ? however at the end of the day its just your typical discworld novel i laughed i witnessed some well-written women and losermen i laughed some more . what else could i ask for

7. when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities by chen chen - ★★★★ - wonderfully heart-warming and radiant and witty and has the power to restore your belief in love and tenderness at least for a moment . this kind of literal and confessional american poetry usually isnt for me but miraculously chen chen made it work ! basically the hype is well deserved

up next: im actually not sure im trying to slow down since i need to get through some college textbooks 💔 ... + im sure want to finish the sandman which is really enough for the next one thousand years . considering mrs. dalloway by virginia woolf too someone called it a spring read once and ive wanted to read it during this season ever since

[probably-haven]

Kaeya Alberich & Why his Failure is Inevitable

A theory on Kaeya’s reaction to- that event in his backstory.

take everything with a grain of salt , because it’s heavily based on assumptions, most of which are centered around his reaction to- backstory stuff, so gonna put that under the cut-. i actually originally said this in a reblog to someone asking the exact question awhile ago

im kinda in a content drought though so i might as well bring it back, hopefully some people find it interesting in this context though. Lol a lot of it is just seeing how angsty i can make it too so- ehe

actual content under the cut: (spoilers for kaeya’s backstory, diluc’s backstory, Khaenri’ah lore, and a bit of Childe’s backstory)

so the exact verbiage used in kaeya’s story for his reaction to Master Crepus’s death is: “Even someone like Master Crepus would submit to such a dangerous and evil power…” Sinister thoughts flashed through Kaeya’s mind, and he simply smirked— “This world is truly… fascinating.”

-

Now I’m actually pretty sure this quote ties in, not to the destruction of khaenri’ah, but to the cataclysm before it. Specifically, it deals with the Khaenri’ahn alchemist Gold who started it.

Canonically, Gold was an incredibly ambitious alchemist specializing in khemia 500 years ago. Their most well know achievement is corruption of the dragon Durin, but concealed much deeper in Teyvat’s history, a number of Gold’s legacies include incorporating the powers of the abyss into their alchemy(and eventually being corrupted by those very same powers, tho it might be a translation error), followed by the destruction of Khaenri’ah’s Eclipse Dynasty(including the royal family and the royal guards tasked with protecting the people of Khaenri’ah), and this was followed shortly by ‘using their talents to create an army of “shadowy monsters."’

these monsters, blood filled with the corruption of the abyss, would only continue pouring out of Khaenri’ah in waves until the fateful day that it was destroyed. The era of suffering these monsters caused would come to be known as the cataclysm.

-

taking those facts into account, it could be a remark about how even someone as kind hearted as Master Crepus could fall to the temptation and corrupting aspects of power that caused his people’s fall so long ago, even without the naturally corruptive effects of power from the abyss. that’s sad- but if you get into the theory of it its even sadder the further you go.

Now theory wise its important to make a few connections- I am under the impression that the “fall of the Eclipse Dynasty” that Gold caused through abyssal power was actually the first instance of Khaenri’ah’s curse, and the monsters of the cataclysm- were among the curse’s first victims.

a bit sadder with the fact that his statement can now refer to his feelings of there truly being nothing that could have been done to prevent the very same exact curse that has caused him so much suffering through his life. There was no resisting the corruption of power, only delaying it. It hammers in the fact that the reason he was sent to Mondstadt truly might be the destiny he had many times been told it was. A cruel joke from Celestia perhaps?

but not sad enough. let’s pull out the big one. The Khaenri’ahn Royalty Kaeya theory. (there’s a lot- im not gonna cover the explanation behind that one here)

Gold, the most powerful alchemist in Khaenri’ah would likely have worked under the Eclipse Dynasty, so assuming the theory of Kaeya(and Dainsleif) being the last member of the Eclipse Dynasty, its reasonable to say he would have known Gold. Now whether Gold was a good person or not is irrelivant because it remains the same either way. Kaeya has twice seen the corrupting abilities that come with power strip him of all those close to him, shouldering him with an additional responsibility to carry out in their memory that he never wanted. Yes this hurts more if he was close with Gold and Crepus managed to make him feel safe enough to get close to people even after that- but I’m here to provide the facts and theories, not the emotions, though theres a lot

but…. its a stretch(like a big stretch)… but for the sake of going all out on a limb, we can take this one step further.

In Childe’s story it references the abyss by saying “this dark realm had sensed the burning ambition in this boy’s heart” and it can be assumed that the powers granted by the abyss, as the natural opposition to Celestia(natural as in abyss magic literally opposes the magic of Celestia by nature) might just opporate in a similar way to the gnosises. Kaeya has no knowledge of gnosises though so for now lets use the word visions.

The powers of the abyss that were given to Gold would likely have been favored over visions from the gods in a godless nation like khaenri’ah afterall. and if he knew Gold, a known genius, he likely wouldnt have noticed anything off until it was too late. A sudden fall from his perspective. Visions, delusions, power from the abyss, what difference truly is there to a child raised to shun the gods. All are granted through ambition, and all will only end in suffering

afterthought:

However the main thing behind the Khaenri’ahn Royalty aspect of this angst fest- Kaeya would have been extremely young during Gold’s corruption and Khaenri’ah’s fall… like i cant help think of that one tik tok audio “that must be so confusing for a little girl” but it really does fit because now i can’t shake the imagery of Kaeya, faced with the imagery of the man who raised him dead as a result of a power he chose to use. And he finally understands what he was too young to understand back then. the world is not fascinating in a way that he is interested in it or wants to know more about it, but more interesting in the way that people’s eyes are involuntarily drawn to images of tragedy. It’s an expression of cruel irony, of truths he was forced to face, of knowledge he doesn’t want to know, but that he needs to know- if he plans on carrying through with his destiny- siding against Mondstadt. but siding with Mondstadt would cause him to turn against Khaenri’ah as Gold had all those years ago, and is that not fulfilling a cycle of fate all the same?

It’s an expression of mourning. He is chained by the legacy of Khaenri’ah and there’s nothing he can do to escape it. Either way the cycle will repeat. This fate gives him a unique power and even he will eventually succumb to it, doomed to be viewed as a corrupted betrayer no matter who he sides with, to doom yet another civilization in return. Such is his preordained role as the last hope of Khaenri’ah. The unescapableness, the way it all becomes so sure and clear and nauseatingly relevant in that very moment are what drive him to say that as he finally realizes that he cannot win.

-

of course a lot of this is a stretch and just theories, but the angst potential was there so i decided to run with it lmao

additional afterthought: this isn’t something kaeya would know, but the corruption of Durin by Gold was actually predicted by a priestess in dragonspine before Celestia destroyed it and made it like it is now.

just angsty because it reinforces the idea of a repeating cycle of foretold destiny that no matter hard hard Kaeya tries, he will never be able to escape. Really puts Mona’s “He believes he has made a clean break with his past, but one day fate will catch up with him” line into perspective.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Fic: The Instructor chapter 6, Crossed Blades

Chapter 1: Lesson One | Chapter 2: A Rash Decision | Chapter 3: Good Intentions | Chapter 4: Chicken Soup | Chapter 5: Knotted Strings | Chapter 6: Crossed Blades | Chapter 7: Christmas Party | Chapter 8: Lesson Two | Chapter 9: Shopping Spree

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: We Can Be Heroes

Relationship: Marcus Moreno/Original Female Character (Kate)

Chapter summary: Marcus wants to resume his sword practice and to her chagrin, Kate falls for his moves.

Chapter tags: Definitely eye fucking, sparring, sexual tension, swordfighting, language.

A/N: This story has been on ice for a while but here we are again! Thank you for your patience, I hope you like this, even if it feels a little like a filler chapter.

Seeing Marcus at work became really awkward after that sex dream. It didn’t help that it wasn’t the only one. It was the start of a nightly wet dream marathon about Marcus manhandling her into orgasm after orgasm. Kate would wake up in the dead of night, panting and sweaty, her core throbbing with a desperate yearning to be filled up. The shame was greater than her arousal, and her early morning runs turned into midnight runs, because running was the only way for her to get away from the memory of his hands on her skin.

It was sick. It threw her off course completely, and she fought to act normal around him whenever he made an appointment. Thankfully, Marcus didn’t do that too often. It was hard enough as it was without Kate having to touch him to help him out with alignments.

During one of their few sessions together, however, Marcus remarks that she looks tired.

“Still not rid of that flu you had?”

“I’m fine, Marcus. Focus on the exercise.”

Her gym, her rules, he knows that, and doesn’t bring it up again. But when they’re finishing up, he tells her that he’d like to take up sword practice again.

“Sure,” Kate says easily. “Same time next week?”

“That would be perfect, thank you.”

Sword practice. Kate’s slightly rusty with a blade herself, so extra hours are needed to catch up. She unlocks the tablet and checks her schedule, puts in her planned overtime. Her upcoming week is booked full, which she counts as a blessing. It’ll keep her occupied and hopefully tired enough to sleep without dreams.

***

“I brought my own swords, but I guess you want me to start with padded ones?”

Marcus is walking up to her with a sheathed blade in each hand. There’s something different about him today: his back is straighter, his shoulders more squared. Kate has seen it before: there’s something about carrying a weapon that does something to the body. Makes it grow tall and confident. Brings a certain kind of awareness to movements, especially if the weapon is large or very pointy.

Kate has always been fascinated by how a person can become one with a weapon, ever since that day when she was five years old and saw a kung-fu master train with a pair of nunchucks. The chains sang in rhythm with his breath as his body moved in an exact choreography, older than time itself it seemed. The wooden sticks of the nunchucks whirled around him, and he made it look so simple, so graceful. Kate was a child and did not see the lethality of the weapons: all she saw was a man dancing with sticks on chains. And she wanted to do the same.

That first impression has not changed much: Kate still admires the dance, but today she understands the control, the dedication, the time required for it to come together. The admiration is even deeper because of her knowledge of what it takes. And she can’t wait to see Marcus perform that dance.

She now extends her hand towards him. “Let me see.” He hands over one of his blades, and she weighs it in her hand before pulling it out of the scabbard. There is a faint hiss as the metal slides out, and she inspects its sharpness, finding it to be deadly.

She swings the sword a couple of times, feeling the balance, before sheathing it again and handing it back to Marcus.

“Not as heavy as I expected. If you want to, you can warm up with them.”

“Afraid I’ll overdo it?” Marcus grins at her. Kate doesn’t bat an eye.

“When was the last time you trained with them?”

“Touché.”

“Now focus.”

Kate retreats out of his way and watches him warm up, giving him pointers when necessary.

“Don’t raise your shoulder. You’re gripping the sword too tightly with your right hand. Tuck in your tummy, hips forward.”

He accepts her corrections without complaints or irritated looks, and that makes her job a lot easier. She watches him intently, and without noticing it, she starts to note not only the technique, but also the way he frowns, just a little, when he swirls one sword in his hand. His lips form the hint of a pout right before he pivots, and his eyes narrow in silent protest against a move which clearly wasn’t as easy to perform as it used to be. His biceps swell as his arms move the deadly blades around him, and when he moves into a crouch, her gaze lingers on his thighs a little too long.

He's good, despite his retirement. He’s really good. His sword technique is on point, he truly is one with the blades, but the rest of the movements are a little rusty. No, not rusty, but off.

Kate frowns as she tries to ignore his ass and instead redirect her focus to his flow. What is it that disturbs her so? She walks around him, assessing every move as she tries to spot what it is that disturbs her so.

Marcus pirouettes and leaps into the air, the swords extensions of his arms, and his feet barely touch the mat before he rolls forward and comes to a stop, one knee on the floor, the other knee bent, arms out and swords pointing in opposite directions. He’s panting, and she can tell from the way he’s tightening his shoulder he hurt his back doing the roll.

“You’re holding back,” she tells him, having figured out what’s wrong. “You work the swords like you never took a break from them, but the rest of your body moves like you’re afraid of getting hurt, or hurting someone else.”

Marcus stands up, swinging the blades around so they’re pointing down, and wipes his forehead on the back of one hand. “Yeah, well, maybe I am worried I’ll pull something.”

“And it’s going to hurt you for sure. How’s your back?” Kate points out dryly. Marcus grimaces as he puts the swords to the side, sheathing them.

“What does it look like? You were staring at my ass all the time.”

Kate purses her lips momentarily when she realizes that he noticed.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she finally retorts. “I was checking on your form.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Trust yourself, or don’t attempt anything extra,” Kate tells him sternly. “You have an extraordinary confidence with the katanas, but the rest of you moves like an old man afraid to slip and fall.”

“I’m not going back to active duty,” he shrugs, “it doesn’t matter. I just want to stay fit.”

“You can stay fit without sword practice.”

“I like working with them.”

“And that’s perfectly fine and understandable,” Kate allows, leaning against the boxing ring. “But you have had those blades for so long they are part of you, your natural balance. You need to learn how to work without them. Or, if you prefer to use them, do it properly.”

Marcus stares at her, intelligent brown eyes attentive. She can see him putting the pieces together, weigh pros and cons, analyze risks. A true leader.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “What are you suggestions?”

Kate turns around and walks to the weapons wall, where she picks out two unsharpened training swords. Returning to Marcus, she hands one over to him.

“I’ll show you.”

They move to the sparring area, where the gym floor is covered with the same felt as in the boxing ring, and assume starting stances. Marcus’s eyes are piercing through her, but Kate is not intimidated. Eye contact is the first rule of sparring. If you look into your opponent’s eyes, you will know their move the very second they make it.

Marcus makes the first lunge, and she parries it easily, having seen it coming before he even made it. It’s a common first attack, and he leans forward a little too much.

“Pull back a little with your upper body,” she tells him, “you’re overreaching. Had this been for real, I’d have cut your arm off.”

Marcus lunges again, striking air.

“Too slow. You’re not even trying.”

“You want me to go harder?” he grins, and while Kate’s heart misses a beat at the double entendre, she manages to keep her face composed.

“Focus!”

Marcus rolls his shoulders back before charging again. This time, it’s not playful or held back, and as Kate parries his sword with hers, she pivots on one foot, ending up on his flank. His reflexes are quick and he parries her next blow to his side before dropping into a crouch and spinning around in a whirl kick along the floor. Kate nimbly jumps to avoid it and directs a kick of her own against him when in midair. He’s still crouching, and ducks to avoid her foot. She lands gracefully and retreats a couple of steps, allowing him to get up.

“Better,” she nods. “The drop was good. Rely on your lower body, not just the armed upper body.”

He rises gracefully, nods as he takes a deep breath to steady himself, and takes a stance again.

Sparring with Marcus, Kate finds, is fun. She has seen him train enough to know the basics of how he moves, but she has not done fight techniques with him before, so she needs to be extra alert. Her other clients do not surprise her anymore, she knows their individual techniques too intimately. Marcus challenges her, and that’s more exciting than she cares to admit.

The strikes he delivers grow quicker and harder, yet they are precise and deliberate. He gets in a few hits, stopping after the first to make sure she’s okay. Kate immediately has her blade by his throat.

“If you get attacked on the street, do you check if they’re okay after you kick their asses?” she asks rhetorically before releasing him and taking a step back.

“Point taken,” Marcus nods with a wry smile, and the sparring continues. Kate starts to break a sweat, and when getting up close to Marcus, she can smell the rich, salty perspiration on him as well. Something coils in the pit of her stomach, making her lose focus for a second, and Marcus immediately takes advantage of the situation, sweeping another low kick at her feet, effectively flooring her with a low thump against the felt. She’s up on one knee in a heartbeat, blocking another strike, her pulse roaring in her ears as she allows herself one second of chiding.

Don’t let him get to you!

His movements are graceful and it is easy for Kate to admit that he’s a much better swordsman than she is, but he is still predictable, and she uses that against him. When he attacks, she parries, foresees his countermove, and responds with an advanced attack that forces him back against the ropes of the boxing ring. To her annoyance, Marcus only smiles.

“Touched a nerve, didn’t I?”

“This is not a game.”

“It isn’t?”

Kate hates it when he teases her, because of the way his voice creeps up her spine and makes the hairs at the nape of her neck rise. Her skin suddenly feels hypersensitive, her clothes restrictive. The need for his fingers to follow in the wake of his voice up the bumpy path of her spine makes her mouth dry.

The heat of her sex dreams about him seeps into her already warm muscles, and she feels her face start to flush.

“Focus,” she barks, more to herself than to him. “Your time is almost up and you don’t want to waste it talking, do you?”

“Definitely not.” There it is again, that dark stare that makes her feel equal parts aroused and ill at ease; the latter because it’s eerie how can single look can throw her so completely. She’s a mouse hypnotized by a snake, and she is going to get eaten.

She wants to get eaten.

Marcus charges again, and Kate’s instincts from her competition days awaken. Not holding back, she matches his attack with renewed energy, forcing him back.

“Lighter on your feet,” she admonishes him when his retreats takes a second too long because of heavy heels. Marcus listens and adjusts, becoming a fraction quicker the next time she advances. They’re both breathing heavily, Kate with more control, Marcus clearly getting tired but still refusing to give in. She sees the determination in his eyes and reminds herself to be professional. The situation can escalate and become dangerous. She should step back.

And yet, she blocks another attack, counters it, and dances back, enjoying the physicality of the practice and the treat of watching Marcus sweat. When they come to another standstill, she glances at the clock on the wall, and lowers the sword.

“Time’s up, Marcus.” She can’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

He draws a deep breath, strong chest expanding, and Kate can see that his legs are trembling.

“You okay?”

“If you want to know whether or not I overstrained myself,” Marcus chuckles, “I’m a lot tougher than I look. I’m good.”

He looks poignantly at her. “Yourself?”

“Don’t you worry about me.”

“How was my… form?” he winks. Kate pretends not to know what he means.

“You still hold back a little. It’s like you’re hitting the breaks with your lower body, but the upper body wants to move. You noticed how much easier it was with an opponent?”

Marcus nods.

“Find that strength and confidence when working on your own, as well.”

She looks at him, the short dark hair plastered on his forehead, the golden skin glistening with sweat.

It’s not fair.

“Take a moment in the sauna,” she tells him shortly as she turns around and walks back to the weapons wall with her sword. “You’ll be sore tomorrow.”

Marcus follows her, and just as she’s put her katana back on the rack, he crowds her against it. She feels the heat of his body, the quick breaths against her neck, and then the katana lands on her ass in a surprisingly hard smack.

“There,” Marcus tells her in a low voice, “now we’re even.”

Kate turns around, staring at him in fury.

“What the fuck – “

“You think I didn’t notice you enjoying yourself?” he asks her, his voice perfectly calm. “I know exactly what losing control looks like, Kate.”

She swallows tightly, the stillness of his voice penetrating her muscles, forcing them to stay still, yet quivering with energy. Her sex is throbbing all of a sudden, and the crotch of her panties feels wet. The fine hairs on her arms rise.

“You have to make up your mind, Kate,” Marcus tells her, almost gently. “Either you give me another chance, or you don’t. But if you don’t want to go out with me, you also can’t eye fuck me in the gym.”

Gym works as a magic word, snapping her out of it. The gym, her domain. She squares her shoulders.

“How dare you,” she tells him coldly. “When you step into this gym, you submit to my rules.” She snatches the blade from his hand and holds it up. “And using these for anything but sparring is out of line.”

“My apologies,” Marcus nods his head and holds up his hands. “Just wanted to get your attention.”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Kate raises her voice. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

Marcus arches a brow in question, but doesn’t protest. He turns around and saunters out with the confidence of a man who knows he has caught what he wanted.

Kate stares after him, her head roaring with conflict. She knows he was right all along, of course, but couldn’t own up to it. She lost control, was unprofessional, definitely checked out his ass, and is infinitely angry with herself for having been caught doing it.

“Fuck,” she mutters, as she puts back the katana. She draws a deep breath and shouts out: “FUCK!”

[shes-a-gryffindor]

Hypothetically

Just a feel good one-shot, with a bit of Jily fluff and lots of Marauder banter.

As the air grew steadily warmer and the stress of exams seemed to melt away, the end of their schooling loomed ever nearer; until, as if all at once, the weeks had come and gone and they were sat in The Three Broomsticks, having a final drink as students of Hogwarts.

From a table in the middle of the crowded haze of the pub, Sirius Black’s voice could be heard over the raucous laughter of his friends… “No really, hear me out,“ he said, “she’s the type you can tell used to be sort of fit in her day.”

Lily choked on her drink mid-sip, Remus shook his head in amused exasperation and Peter was doubled over the table in a fit of giggles.

“I suppose McGonagall does fit the bill,” said James through his own laughter.

“Ah Prongs, a man after my own heart!” Exclaimed Sirius, clapping James’s back, “see... he gets it,” he added, looking smugly at the rest of them before taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, I get it,” said James, nodding earnestly, “Pads doesn’t mind ‘em stern and a little scary, do you Pads?” Then looking pointedly at the other three added, “ mummy issues,” causing Peter, who’d only just recovered from his last bout of giggles, to dribble a mouthful of Butterbeer down his chin, sending them all into a fresh fit of laughter.

“Gits,” said Sirius, scowling half-heartedly at them before laughing in spite of himself and downing the last of his beer; setting his empty glass back down with a thud, Sirius smacked his lips. “Right,” he said, “anyone up for a stretch of the legs?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Lily, downing the last of her drink as well, “… looks like Slughorn’s requested another song from the band and I don’t fancy another round of karaoke, d’you?”

“Absolutely not,” agreed Remus, so with the scraping of chairs against stone and the clattering of sickles and knuts being left on the table, they weaved their way through the crowd of tables and out into the village of Hogsmeade.

Filing out one after another onto the cobbled street, they began walking aimlessly along the path towards the far end of the village. It was a gloriously warm day, the sky was scattered with only faint wisps of cloud and the sun beamed happily down onto the thatched cottages and bustling shops, picturesque as ever.

Sirius and Peter made a game of trying to step on the each other’s heels, dancing around one another and occasionally running ahead, Remus strolled casually behind them, hands in his pockets and Lily and James trailed along last, James with an arm hanging loosely around Lily’s shoulders, talking and laughing as they went.

“I’m going to miss it here you know,” mused Lily, as they passed by a group of younger students excitedly rummaging through their shopping.

“You won’t get a chance to miss it too much, we’ll still come here all the time,” James responded, smiling down at her.”

“Oh will we ?”

“Well, you didn’t think we’d be spending all our time at the Cokeworth pub, did you?” He teased.

“Hey!” Laughed Lily, elbowing him playfully, “Cokeworth has… it’s charm,” she said, sounding rather like she didn’t much believe it herself.

“The only charm Cokeworth has, is you love,” he responded.

“James,” she groaned through more laughter, “you got me, I’m dating you, please enough with the awful pickup lines.”

“Never.” He said, grinning that lone-dimpled grin she loved, before pulling her closer to swiftly kiss her through her smile.

“Keep up lovebirds!” Sirius yelled out to them.

The bustle of the village was now behind them and a wide, beaten grass track replaced the cobbled stone of the street. The cottages that lined either side of the track were becoming fewer and farther between and they seemed to be walking steadily downhill.

“Where are we actually going?” Asked Lily.

“We’re going, Evans, to a rather special little spot,” Sirius told her, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Special?” She said questioningly; James’s lips were now also tugging at the corners.

“Here we go,” sighed Remus.

“Well, if you must know,” Sirius began, “I happened upon this particular spot whilst looking for a bit of… privacy,” an insolent grin now spread across his face, “brought many a sexual conquest here in our day, eh Prongs?” He finished, winking at Lily.

“Right… so just each-other then,” she responded before James could interject.

Sirius pushed her playfully into James, his bark-like laughter drowning out the others.

They continued much in the same fashion until finally, they reached a low, cobbled wall lined with coarse, unkempt grass; walking along it until they came to a very old, very splintered stile. Sirius stepped over the first few rungs before leaping over to the other side and the others followed suit.

It was easy to see why privacy had been the main selling point of this particular spot; the wall was alarmingly eroded, with chunks of stone jutting out it looked on the verge of collapse. The thick, thorny brambles that flanked either side of them created somewhat of an alley, opening up to a desolate clearing that stretched out of their line of sight, eventually turning up into hilly mountains.

“Charming,” said Lily, her cheery tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sirius, obviously unaffected by her assessment, simply winked at her. “Make yourselves at home,” he said before slumping down onto the grass to lean against the decrepit wall.

Peter sat on the lowest rung of the stile while the others slumped down next to him, joining Sirius on the grass. Lily sat with her legs crossed over James’s and Remus on her other side sat next to Sirius, who was wrestling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Should we be worried? You’re not planning on snogging us all are you?” Asked Remus with mock concern.

“This,” Sirius began, flipping open the packet, “is why we’re here,” and he pulled out what looked like a cigarette with its top twisted off.

“Where’d you get that!?” Asked Peter.

“You know I have a certain talent for sniffing these things out Wormy,” he responded.

Peter and James chortled, “Wow,” said Lily, “that is some James tier humour, Black,” making Remus laugh now too. James looked at her with feigned offence.

“Put it away before it’s confiscated Padfoot,” he told Sirius, smirking and nodding in Lily’s direction.

“Pfft” scoffed Lily, and with a mischievous grin, snatched the joint from between Sirius’s fingers.

“Lighter, Black,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

Sirius obliged, tossing it to her.

Pressing the joint between her lips before lighting it, she took an exaggeratedly long drag. All four boys stared at her incredulously. Removing it from her lips, she held her breath momentarily, winking at Sirius before turning to blow the smoke at James.

Sirius whooped and snatched the joint back from her, before taking a drag himself.

James was still staring, a little dumbstruck, at Lily, “Merlin you’re sexy,” he told her.

“Oh please don’t ruin smoking for me” groaned Sirius, handing the joint to Remus.

“You’ve already ruined it for me,” mumbled Remus with the joint now between his lips, “for all I know you’ve shagged some poor bird in this exact spot,” he said, gesturing to the patch of grass on which he was sitting.

“Nah, not there,” responded Sirius in earnest, waving a hand dismissively, “I have there though,” he added, gesturing with his thumb to where Peter was sitting.

“Ergh!” Peter jumped away from where he was sitting to slump against the wall next to a laughing James.

“Don’t be such a prude Wormy,” said Sirius, grinning lazily.

“Can we talk about anything else,” said Lily, trying to stifle her own laughter.

“Please,” agreed Remus.

“All right then… I’ve got a hypothetical question,” said James, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth, “say, hypothetically, there’s no war… you have your pick of anything after Hogwarts, and, hypothetically, Auror is off the table… what are you doing?”

There was a moment of silence before Lily asked, “is this hypothetical?” The boys hooted with laughter. The effects of the smoke having kicked in, everything was much funnier in their bleary state.

“Go on then,” chuckled James, taking another drag and passing the joint to Peter.

There was another moment of silence as they all considered it; then, with a stony look on his face Remus spoke first, “pretty sure... war or not, I’d have about as many options as I do now,” he said despondently, absentmindedly ripping clumps of grass from the ground.

Sirius and James exchanged a grimace, Lily however, smiled ruefully at Remus; squeezing his hand in her own, she rested her head on his shoulder, “come on Moony… hypothetically,” she said, pouting comically up at him in her best impression of James. James thought his heart might explode with love for her.

Remus smiled stoically back down at her, “well…” he sighed, allowing himself a moment of self-indulgence, more to appease the group than anything else “… I suppose I’ve always found my dad’s job interesting, Boggarts at least are fascinating…perhaps something like that.”

“You’re braver than I am Moony,” said Sirius, clapping him on the back, “couldn’t pay me enough to go looking for one of them fucking things,” he added with an exaggerated shudder.

“Can’t face a Boggart, but you’ll go running ‘round with a Werewolf once a month,” he responded sarcastically.

Sirius rolled his eyes, “you fold your underwear and you won’t eat a meal without tucking a little napkin into your collar…yeah Moony, you’re a real monster,” he jeered, before continuing, “I reckon I’d fancy something like The Three Broomsticks, like old Rosmerta… y��know a pub, open my own...”

“I can see that,” said Lily, picturing in her mind’s eye a too-charismatic-for-his-own-good Sirius getting into all sorts of trouble in his own pub, “you’d be a right menace to society behind a bar though, with all that free alcohol,” she added.

“As opposed to the perfect angel he usually is,” sniggered James.

“Fair point,” she agreed, laughing.

Sirius appeared to still be musing over the idea, staring hazily into the distance he mumbled, “could call it Hair of The Dog or something…”

They roared with laughter, “that’s actually not bad,” spluttered James between coughs.

“And you Prongs? What are your hypothetical post-Hogwarts aspirations,” Remus asked.

“I’ll venture a wild guess… something quidditch related?” Said Lily, grinning at him.

“Reckon I’d be a shoo-in for the Cannons,” he answered, grinning cockily, “… or England for the cup,” he added.

“At least he’s modest,” said Lily, ruffling his hair the way he usually did himself.

“All right Head Girl, Slug Club protégée, potions extraordinaire… what’s life after Hogwarts look like for you then?” He teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She weaved a hand through his at her shoulder and thought for a moment before answering, “a Healer perhaps, or a Mediwitch… think I’d be good at that,” she said conclusively.

“Very fitting” said James, smiling down at her, “although to be fair, you’d be good at anything you decided on,” he added.

Lily smiled warmly back at him before turning to Peter, who hadn’t yet given his answer. “What about you, Wormy?” She asked brightly.

Staring distractedly off into the distance, his eyes glassy and unfocused, Peter appeared to be deep in thought, “… We’re never coming back to school,” he said slowly, as if only just comprehending this fact.

They burst out laughing, jolting Peter back to the present, “caught on, have you?” said James, coherently as he could through his own hysteric laughter. Sirius was now howling, sprawled across the grass on his side, clutching his stomach.

When they’d finally managed to compose themselves, Peter was still looking ahead, his brow slightly furrowed, “I genuinely have no idea what I’d be doing…” he said quietly, more to himself than in response to the question, his eyes darting side to side as if he was beginning to panic a little.

“I think we’ve broken Wormtail,” laughed James.

“Blimey mate,” said Sirius, laughter edging back into his now voice too, “just as well a bunch of lunatics are trying to kill everyone then, or you’d have ended up polishing Prongs’s broom or something.”

Peter laughed half-heartedly along with them.

“Don’t listen to him Wormy,” said Lily, “he’s just jealous he doesn’t actually get to polish James’s broom …” she finished, using two fingers of each hand to draw imaginary quotation marks around the word 'broom', sending them into another bout of laughter.

They continued like this for a while, making jokes at each other’s expense and laughing much too hard at things they ordinarily wouldn’t find nearly as funny; the minutes ticking on until there was no reprieve from the very bright sun that had sunken a little lower in the sky, blaring down on them.

Groaning and grumbling about how hungry they were, they began the trek back to the castle. Lily and James trailing behind again, hand in hand.

“Many a sexual conquest, eh?” Said Lily, grinning lazily.

“I’d hardly call them conquests… Sirius was just winding you up,” responded James, pinching her nose playfully.

“hmm... Personally I’ve always found the spot near the shrieking shack to be much better,” she said, “much more privacy.”

James laughed, pulling her closer again, “is that where all that howling's coming from? Merlin Lily, what have I been doing wrong?”

“Not funny!” Remus yelled over his shoulder.

Lily threw her head back in laughter and let go of James’s hand, skipping ahead to link arms with Remus, “oh, come on Moony!” She said playfully.

Watching her for a moment, stumble and laugh, arm in arm with his friends... James thought he very much knew exactly what he’d like to do after school. With or without a war.

[riacte]

Let’s appreciate the recent HEP/ Mycelium Heist

I don’t know if this was planned, but they (Etho, Impulse, Grian) entered the HEP factory through the chimneys, and I find this so funny because last time the HEP did a heist, Tango “hacked” in the vault, but this time they legit saw behind-the-scenes architecture and was like “hey, this is probably hollow right” AND IT’S JUST SO THEM TO GET IN THROUGH SOMETHING THAT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE SHOWN ON CAMERA MWJXJAK

I honestly had zero idea how they were going to get in— they didn’t have a key, the windows were all sealed, there wasn’t an obvious “trapped” entrance. So it was really nice to see them enter in a creative way

I think moments like these are when Scar’s detailed builds truly shine. Scar’s builds always have character and a story behind them, and he briefly explains it to us in his episodes, but there’s nothing like the hermits exploring Scar’s builds in the middle of a storyline. You can see they’re genuinely so confused yet impressed by... well, everything. They don’t have any what MooPop is, but they’re FASCINATED

And it’s not just some tour of the factory, or a casual fly-by, they’re legit exploring the factory and trying their best to uncover its secrets. Seeing Scar explain how he built a factory ladder is very different from seeing Grian actually go down said ladder. It’s just so... beautifully immersive. And Scar’s wonderful builds go perfectly well with the storyline.

THE MINECARTS. Oh man. They’re hilarious. When I saw them in Scar’s video, I was really impressed by his creativity but thought “oh well, that’s just for the aesthetic. As fun as it is, no one’s gonna ride it.” WELL. Seeing the MR gang on the railway/pipe thing that connected the chimney to the main room and actually using the minecart to go down was so fun. Like the minecarts were a Chekhov’s gun. It’s just so satisfying to see Scar’s “aesthetic” details have practical use.

Not only the building’s fantastic, the redstone was also spectacular. I don’t have time to watch all the hermits (mainly watching Scar and Grian rn) but I could instantly recognise Tango and Cub’s redstone. The redstone was so cleverly created. Like, they could’ve used TNT and boom boom the place up ala Resistance style. But no. A skeleton that shoots flaming arrows, the freakin vibe check (hilarious), the clouds of potion particles, the multiple levers in different rooms that all result in traps— it gave me very Season 6 Team STAR traps vibes. Cheeky, but not always deadly.

AND OF COURSE THE RAVAGER! The slow descent of it when Etho activated the trap... everyone immediately getting Decked Out flashbacks... experiencing the “oh damn we didn’t think this through moment”... and the resulting PURE PANIC.

They tried to put the Ravager in a minecart, which again is a nice touch. They’re actively trying to use their surroundings to help them instead of immediately cheesing it

TANGO’S NONCHALANCE IN THE CHAT... casually watching HEP security slay the Resistance...

Grian respawning and quickly dying was also hilarious because it reminded me of the prank he pulled on Scar at the Upside Down, so is this karma?? Maybe?? XD

Dude was so desperate lol. He ran, he flew, he enderpearled— and still died. Tango’s probably crying tears of laughter seeing the death messages.

Speaking of Grian, what a coincidence that he lost his Bdubs head and had to kill Bdubs, only to get massacred by the HEP in like the exact same day.

THEIR ATTACHMENT TO THE BDUBS HEAD. Truly the face of the Resistance and Hermitcraft (see: Lime Liches in Minecraft Championship)

Seeing Cub log on and log off was making me nervous HAHA. I half-expected him to show up in the middle of the heist kinda like how Doc did when False gave Grian and Ren the Area 77 tour.

I feel the one (1) block of mycelium was a callback to the one (1) diamond in the fake vault... and naturally the Resistance thought they had been bamboolzed, because they pulled the same trick on HEP. Then they realised the mycelium was there all along and they were bamboolzed AGAIN.

There were so many mycelium blocks on the floor... so many shulker boxes. Hilarious how the MR spent so much time pulling off (and failing) the heist only to leave the majority of their treasures behind...

The heist was a hilariously epic failure. HEP put in so much effort and hard work. It felt like everything was meticulously crafted

Kudos to everyone involved in this heist!! Everything about it is excellent— the lore, the story, the architecture, the redstone, the humour, the panic— everything. This is one of those Hermitcraft episodes that I’ll rewatch tens of times and still never get bored. Thank you hermits for the serotonin <33 can’t wait to see what happens next!

Feel free to reblog and add more!

[redrobin-detective]

Delayed Mourning

Going Angst Day 5: Death

_________________________________________

It was 3pm when there was a knock on Maddie Fenton’s door. She huffed and set down the meal she’d been working on. Of course the one day she had time to pre-plan a nice meal from her family was the day she’d get interrupted. 

“Yes? May I help you?” Maddie asked, opening the door. She had expected a salesman. Possibly even a neighbor coming to complain, again, about the noise or the smells that came from Fentonworks. Instead she found a small woman who couldn’t have been much taller than 5 ft with dark brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She was wearing a sharp white shirt and suit jacket with a matching white skirt.

“Mrs. Fenton, hello,” the woman gave a polite little head nod. “I’m from the the Government Institute of Interdimensional Warfare though I hear the locals like to call us the Guys in White.” She said with a knowing smiling, “of course, as you know, it’s not only the guys who are interested in ghosts. May I come in?”

“Oh yes, hello,” Maddie blinked, opening the door to let the agent in. The petite woman stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Her small frame, her oversized glasses and soft nature seemed so at odds with the meatheads Maddie usually found in the GIW. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Perhaps,” the agent demurred. “It’s more there was something I wanted to inform you of. If you’re not too busy, may we sit down and talk? Your husband and children are not home.” Maddie thought that last statement was a bit odd, framed as a statement of fact rather than an inquiry but moved on. 

“Yes, Jack’s out of town visiting a relative and my kids won’t be back for a little while,” Maddie said. “Let me just finish putting this roast together, I’m almost done. Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” The woman said quietly. “And please, continue while you’re doing. Let me give you a little bit of background.” The agent adjusted her large glasses with her tiny hands. “Let me introduce myself, you may call me Agent S. I work primarily out of Washington for the Institute but sometimes I am deployed on site for... special cases. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, your town is very special.”

“Now, as you may have noticed, I am not particularly built like the normal Institute agents you have probably come across. That is because I do not work in the field but behind the scene in Investigations. My job is study the history and happenings of hauntings and spectral entities.”

“Oh that sounds fascinating,” Maddie beamed as she finished with her final preps and put the roast in the over. She looked over her shoulder at Agent S while she washed her hands. “Jack and I dabble a bit in history and folklore but we’re more versed in the hard sciences of ghosts.”

“Yes, I’ve read some of your papers, you and your husband truly are the frontrunners in the field,” Agent S nodded. Maddie preened at the praise and sat down, delighted to have a sophisticated conversation with someone in her field who she wasn’t married to. If more of those GIW agents were like Agent S then Maddie would get along a lot better with them. “So, Maddie, may I call you Maddie? What date and time did your portal start working?”

“It was August 28th,” Maddie said proudly. “It didn’t work at first when we first plugged it in. I’m afraid I don’t have an exact time it started up as we weren’t here. Jack was convinced one of the electrical conduction pieces wasn’t fully connected and was preventing ectoplasmic distribution. We ended up driving 4 hours to Springfield and back for some specialty parts only to find the portal working when we returned.”

“I can help you there,” Agent S said with a soft smile reaching into her white briefcase and pulling out several thick folders. She laid them out gently on the table and Maddie was unnerved by some of the information: schematics of Fentonworks, past and present financial records, transcripts of public statements. Her shoulders tensed when she saw Jazz and Danny’s names on some of the files. “Toll camera captured your vehicle on the Jane Addams Memorial Tollway at exactly 1:26pm on August 28th. We can confirm you and your husband’s vehicle traveled to Springfield and back via video feeds and credit card statements at 10:45pm that same day and were therefore out of the city all day.”

Maddie suddenly felt very trapped by the woman’s sharp grey eyes as she plucked a piece of paper and pressed it towards Maddie. 

“At 3:18pm, the majority of the residential power in town went out for a period of 2 and a half hours. The cause was determined to be from a massive power surge that blew out the transformer. You may recall being blamed for this outage given your history with previous outages but the news that you were out of town settled that argument. However, I was not convinced.” She pulled out another piece of paper and Maddie bristled to see it was a Casper High attendance sheet.

“Your daughter, Jasmine was at her final summer cram session which ran from 2pm until 5pm. I spoke to her tutors and she never left the whole time and, in fact, stayed late to help a fellow student work through her study materials. But what about your son?” Agent S asked with with a curious smile but her eyes belied the fact that she had her own answers. 

“How dare you spy on my family, on my children,” Maddie hissed, crumpling one of the papers in her fist. “Get out of my house, I will sue the pants off of your organization for this invasion of privacy! Get out!”

“Now Maddie, don’t you want to know how your son started up your Portal?” Agent S asked coyly, that drew Maddie up short. Danny? No, he couldn’t have possibly. He had no interest in their work, in fact, now that she thought about it, Danny had been sick that day. Agent S pulled out a set of blueprints for the Fenton Portal. Some small component inside the Portal was circled.

“You left at approximately 1pm and your daughter presumably left not long after. Phone records indicate Daniel called both Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson. Your neighbor, Mrs. Benson, saw them coming into your house not long after but before the 3pm power outage which I was able to triangulate did in fact originate from your home.” Agent S tapped the circled part of the inner portal mechanisms. “Now did you happen to push the on button in the Portal before plugging it in?”

“On button?” Maddie asked with a dry mouth, overwhelmed by the amount of information being thrown her way. All she could think about was how Danny hadn’t seemed sick when they’d left that afternoon but had looked awful when they returned. Would he have really gone downstairs and messed with the Portal? Had he gotten hurt? Been contaminated down there? Images of Vlad’s sickly visage after his accident flowed through her head. She should have paid more attention but she’d been so excited about the Portal working...

“It’s right here in the blueprints you submitted to the patent office, buried under dozens of other hardware bits. Its small, such a little thing compared to all the moving parts required to open up a dimensional portal. Daniel was a bright boy, his middle school records prove it. A bright mind, friends to impress, no parents around to chastise him... I think you can see where I’m going with this.”

“No, no,” Maddie said, burying her hands in her hair. “No, I’m not. You’re saying -what? - that my teenage son turned on the Portal when we were gone? No, my Danny wouldn’t lie to me about that... Why wouldn’t he say anything?”

“I don’t blame him for not mentioned in because, if my hunch is correct, he was inside the Portal when it turned on, killing him instantly,” Agent S said with a carefully neutral face. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m afraid this haunting has gone on long enough.”

“My child is alive!” Maddie screeched, standing up in her chair. “Danny is alive and healthy and he is not a ghost!”

“I will admit the evidence of how he died is circumstantial but the fact that Danny Fenton is deceased is not.” Maddie fell back into her chair as he legs gave out underneath her. 

She watched the agent put paper after paper in front of her and detailed all sorts of data about her son that Maddie, who lived in the same house as him, had missed. Unusually high ectosignatures picked up by GIW (and their own) detectors, Danny being spotted in some form before most ghost attacks, faked signatures of hers getting him out of nurses’ visits. Maddie barely felt alive herself as she stared at a red light camera photo of her baby sitting atop a light post late, late at night. His eyes were a toxic green color.

“I know this must be distressing as a mother but your child never left that basement, never attended high school and will never achieve his dream of working for NASA.” Agent S said with carefully measured sympathy as she gathered up her papers and put them back in her case. “But you are a brilliant scientist, unlike your husband, you should be able to look past your emotions and see that your child is gone and the ghost he left behind is dangerous.”

“My husband?” Maddie asked blankly, running a finger down Danny’s unnatural photograph.

“I approached Jack two days ago, mistakenly believing he would be the most understanding of you both. He refused to believe the evidence and was, in fact, going to warn your son’s ghost that we planned on taking him. He is safe but he presently being held at one of our facilities until the capture is complete.” Maddie should feel outraged at her husband’s kidnapping but all she could think about was the fact that her son was dead, dead, dead, killed by her own invention over a year ago and she never noticed. How could she not have noticed?

“Daniel’s ghost is extraordinary, not only able to pass as human so accurately for so long but immensely powerful. We need to make sure he doesn’t harm anyone else. Think of his friends who are probably being forced to aid him and keep his death quiet. Think of your husband, your daughter, living in the same house as a dangerous ghost.” Agent S dropped some of her professionalism and plucked the photo of Danny out of Maddie’s hands and replaced it with her own tiny hand. 

“I know this is impossible thing to ask but I must do it anyway, will you help me capture what remains of Danny? There is a chance with his charade exposed, he will be able to move on and so will you. You have been wronged, Maddie. You have been denied the right to process and grieve your child by his own ghost. But a delayed mourning is better than none. Danny’s death is a tragedy but please don’t let it become someone else’s.”

“Maybe he’s not-” Maddie’s breath hitched, “he’s never shown any signs of aggression. Jasmine spoke of benevolent spirits... maybe-” Agent S sighed roughly and retracted her hand to grab another photo from her case. Maddie was surprised when she held up a picture of Phantom. 

“Ignore the glow,” Agent S instructed. “Change his white hair to black, his green eyes to blue. Think of how often Phantom is spotted in your neighborhood, around Casper High. Remember how he always has his hands on your technology,” the agent frowned. “Think of how he grins when he sees you, like he knows something you don’t. Like it all just a big joke you’re not a part of.” Maddie felt like she’d been slapped.

“Your son is dead,” Agent S said more forcefully, throwing the picture of Phantom next to the spooky one of Danny. “And his ghost has taken his place, taunting you, stealing energy from your family, from the portal that killed him. Phantom’s power is increasing too rapidly and soon we won’t be able to contain him. It’s why I was brought in to identify his haunt so that he could be stopped before anyone else died.”

“I will state this plainly, I am giving you the chance to participate in putting your child to rest but you are not required for this operation. If you refuse, you will be confined with your husband until Phantom is taken down. Do not let this monster with your son’s face trick you any more. So I ask again, Maddie Fenton, will you help us stop Phantom from making a mockery of your son’s memory?”

XxX

“Mom! Jazz! I’m home!” Danny announced, kicking off his shoes and grabbing a paper out of his backpack as he walked into the kitchen with a grin. “And I have a present! Jazz’s tutoring paid off, look at this A I got on my history test! Well A- but a solid A-!” 

“Oh... that’s great,” Mom muttered quietly. She was sitting at the kitchen table, not cooking or tinkering with some gadget. Just sitting there quietly, twiddling her thumbs and not looking at him.

“Is everyone okay?” Danny asked, dropping his bag on the floor and walking over to his mother. “I saw Jazz at school but is Dad okay?”

“No, everything is not okay,” she said turning and looking at him with tear-filled eyes. “Someone died, someone I love dearly and I’m not ready to let them go,” she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “But they've been gone for a long time, even if I’m just hearing about it now. I’m upset but it’s better to know and be grieve than to go on in ignorance, living a lie.”

Danny was about to ask who had died when something was jammed into his neck and he was shocked within an inch of his half life. His body spasmed to escape but his mother was gripping his arm to hold him in place. He transformed unconsciously but that only made it worse. He fell to the floor, ectoplasm leaking off his form as he could barely hold himself together.

“Mom,” he croaked, reaching for her despite everything. She stomped on his hand which was practically goo from such a vicious, destabilizing ectoplasmic shock.

“Don’t you ever call me that,” she hissed through angry tears. “I didn’t want to believe it but the proof is right in front of me you horrible, selfish ghost.” She kicked him in the side and half of him ended up on her boot. “How dare you, how dare you impersonate my son! How dare you string me along all this time, make me look like a fool who had to told that her own child was dead! I bet you just laughed and laughed at our stupid, human ignorance of what your were!”

“‘lease,” he begged through the ectoplasm in his mouth. “I’m still your....”

“My son is dead and he has been for a while,” Mom said, throwing the ecto-taser away from her. Danny vaguely heard the door being kicked in and in his rapidly diminishing vision, he saw black boots and white suits. “With you gone, I can finally come to terms with it and not be tormented by an inadequate replacement.” She turned her back to him. “Get that filth out of my house, I never want to see it again.”

“Of course,” a quiet feminine voice said as his goopy arms were restrained with ghost proof cuffs. “I know this is hard, Maddie but you made the right choice for your family and Danny’s memory. Jack will returned to you within the hour. I spoke to my superiors, for your cooperation, the Institute will take care of declaring Danny dead as well as covering costs for your boy to be laid to rest, the first step in moving on.”

“No, the first step will be removing that duplicitous monster from my home. It’s stolen enough of my baby’s life. Now please leave, I have - I have a funeral to plan.”

[hp-fanfic-archive]

an introductory rec list (that nobody asked for) for some of my favorite (platonic and/or romantic) pairings: severitus [2/10]

First fic I read for the pairing: Of Potions and Phobias by tt22123 [1k,G] Severitus story with nightmares [i stumbled on this fic on accident and it was short and sweet (and a little bittersweet at the end).]

Fic that really sold me on the pairing: Leo Inter Serpentes (Series) by Aeternum [746k,E,6 works] (WIP) Just one conversation between two eleven year old boys goes slightly differently, and the world changes. Just how much will be different with Harry being sorted into Slytherin, and how much will stay the same? [i will never not recommend this series: it’s amazing, it’s well-written, it’s true to all the characters and relationships and it feels more canon than canon (of course, it’s also significantly more gay than canon but i said what i said).]

Absolute favorite fic(s) for the pairing: Nobody Cared by etherian [360k,G] Harry is 11 years old and looking forward to attending Hogwarts. Why, then, does he miss the Welcoming Feast? (warnings for: child abuse, bullying, depictions of violence) [this fic is really well done (but has a lot of angst and definitely mind the warnings above (although the author doesn’t include warnings on the fic)).] Family Means More Than Blood by WingsOfADream [422k,M] A prophecy made in 1975 drastically changes the life of the boy who should have been known as Harry Potter. [this is yet another fic with a really well-written and fascinating plot with excellent characterizations and plot lines. i definitely would recommend it to someone with a lot of time on their hands.]

Most recent fic I’ve read for the pairing: Blackberry Tart by starknjarvis [33k,G] One year after Severus Snape offered to become Harry's legal guardian, Sirius Black shows up at Hogwarts. [the fic is a part of a well-written and pragmatic series and this fic also includes the development of a remus & severus and a sirius & severus friendship so that harry can have a larger and supportive family and i’m living for it (i believe the exact tag that the author used was “coparenting with your childhood nemesis” and i am living for it).]

Favorite AU(s) I’ve read for the pairing: Alternate Sorting AU (Slytherin!Harry): Malfoy Flavor by Vorabiza [199k,E] Harry’s ready to banish the Golden Boy image and take charge of his life. Unfortunately for him, or fortunately, there are surprises in store for him. [Slytherin!Harry but it’s not an entire canon rewrite like most of the alternate sorting fics i love so much, so that’s fun. also drarry and just the right amount of painful but realistic angst. oh and it has a delightfully fluffy little sequel.]

Favorite Series for the pairing: Forgiveness & Redemption by waitingondaisies [130k,T,2 works] Severus Snape was discovered as a spy mere days before the start of the school year. Thankfully, Albus had been working on a vague contingency plan for this possibility. It had been inspired by the question, “What would it take for Severus Snape to see that he was wrong about Harry Potter?” The answer? Force Severus to go undercover as Alfonse “Eli” Hopkirk, a sixth year Gryffindor. (that’s technically the summary for the first fic but i think it serves well enough in lieu of a series summary, which the author did not provide. also warnings for child abuse.) [this series is such an interesting concept and it feels very realistic in how it played out and i’m honestly here for it.] You're a Parent, Severus by acmparker [210k,G,6 works] (WIP) When Lily got home from her first year at Hogwarts, she found a new distance between herself and Petunia. As a result Severus and Lily became even closer to each other over that summer. The next year Lily found a book in the Hogwarts Library that describe an ancient ritual for creating a blood bond that would make two unrelated people kin. She convinces Severus to undergo the ritual with her and they become brother and sister. This means that when Lily dies there is another whose blood relationship with her is recognized by the blood ward Dumbledore places on Harry. To Severus Snape's chagrin he finds himself the last line of defense between Harry and the forces of the Dark Lord. (again, no series summary but i think this works well enough.) [i love a good remus and severus friendship plus severitus so this series really works for me. and it’s a canon rewrite (love those).] Bruised Words by starknjarvis [49k,G,2 works] (WIP) After Harry blows up Aunt Marge, Dumbledore decides it's not safe for Harry to spend the rest of the summer at the Leaky Cauldron, and instead sends him to stay at Spinner’s End with Professor Snape. It's tense, awkward, and teeming with misunderstandings...but it might be the best thing that's happened to either of them. They're both been without a family for a very long time. (apparently all my favorite series aside from Leo Inter Serpentes, which i’ve already listed above, don’t have series descriptions, but the first work’s description seems to work well enough. also warnings for child abuse.) [this is the series that blackberry tart belongs to and may i just say: it’s excellent and well-written and pragmatic and i would recommend it.]

Longest fic I’ve read for the pairing: A Year Like None Other by aspeninthesunlight [789k,T] A letter from home? A letter from family? Well, Harry Potter knows he has neither, but all the same, it starts with a letter from Surrey. Whatever the Durleys have to say, it can't be anything good, so Harry's determined to ignore it. But then, his evil schoolmate rival spots the letter and his slimy excuse for a teacher intercepts it and forces him to read it. And that sends Harry down a path he'd never have walked on his own. It will be a year of big changes, a year of great pain, and a year of confronting worst fears. It will be a year of surprising discoveries, of finding true strength, of finding out that first impressions of a person's true colours do not always ring true. It will be a year of paradigm shifts. And from the most unexpected sources, Harry will have a chance to have that which he has never known: a home ... and a family. A sixth year fic, this story follows Order of the Phoenix and disregards any canon events that occur after Book 5. (warnings for: graphic depictions of violence, self-harm, severe medical trauma) [the fic has some really dark parts but the plot is so intricate and fascinating and the relationships and dynamics are excellently written and the characterizations are spot on and i would definitely recommend it to anyone with a lot of time on their hands.]

Fic(s) with some of my favorite tropes: Sickfic + Hurt/Comfort: When He Called Me Dad by MarauderChaos [31k,Not Rated] It was only however as the end of his second year did Severus collect enough evidence and enough of his own courage to step in. The boy looked as though the world was ending when Severus brought him to his private quarters to see Madam Bones, and for a moment Severus felt the world was ending when someone recommended him as guardian. But that was how it ended, with Harry Potter becoming the ward of the Potions Master. It was kept a secret from the press and the students of Hogwarts – even his own Godson didn’t know, mainly because Lucius was bound to hear of it if he did and Severus didn’t want to risk their lives. They had their ups and downs, screaming and shouting, hexes and slamming doors, crying and hugging, laughing and actually having fun. But there was one moment that Severus would always remember, with its own fair share of good and bad, was the time he called him Dad. [i’m a sucker for hurt/comfort and accidental revelation of feelings, which in this case is the strength of harry’s platonic feelings, and this fic has all that so… yeehaw.] Accidental Bonding (but make it platonic): Love is... (series) by atiaahmed [133k,G,4 works] (WIP) This series revolves around how Snape starts to care about Harry because of a charm put on him by Ron and Hermione. The first story "Love is a charm" explores how their relationship changes because of the charm and what happens when it expires at the end of the year The second story explores how their relationship develops after the events of "Love is a charm". In "Love is a haven" other paternal figures, namely Lupin and Black will threaten Severus position with Harry. [i kind of like the platonic severitus take on one of my favorite hp tropes tbh and i like the way that their relationship develops and the realistic trust issues and such.]

[falsebooles123]

Dairy of a Horror Buff 8.20.22

CW: Horrors beyond your mortal ken. nah we're watching some fucked up shit today so maybe sit this one out if you don't want to see that.

UGH BITCHES BUT LIKE IN A GOOD WAY.

I was looking for a gif from there Shiny Happy People Short were there like Happiness more like Hap-penis lmoa gottum but apparently you whores can't appreciate fine art.

I got over that period of self doubt have formulated an action plan and I'll be OK. I just needed some time to emotional process shit which I think is like a good thing. Like is nature healing, like is daddy not repressing his emotions anymore???

I love that tumblr is 50% nihlistic goth mood boards. Keep up the good work ladies, gents, and assorted gentry.

so I was watching Betty Boop cartoons yesterday and I was like hey I haven't seen a lot of animated horror. Surely it exists maybe I should pop some of that shit in my gullet so today lets watch a bunch of fucked up shit online.

but first I kinda have to tell you about what I watched last night.

Stigma (1977) dir. Lawrence Gordon Clark

ok so this and the next one are a diversion from the original format of AGSFC. the last two of the original series are acutally original screenplays. This one was written by Clive Exton. This is also the last film of the series to be directed by Clark.

so the film is pretty basic plot wise. It involves a mother moving to a cottage out on the moors??? the heath??? whatever the fuck its called. one of those british prairie things shes there. and guess what else is there spoopy stones. specifically a stone circle along with what the discription calls a menhir. which is like a stone circle but its just like a single rock.

anyway there like

UWU LETS UNBUWWY THE ANCIENT EWWIL.

the momma gets hella cursed, starts spontanious bleeding, serving us titane realness.

I'm obviously talking about the whole body horror bathroom scenes but this is the only gifs on tumblr for what I feel is obvious reasons.

this film was actually pretty refreshing it gives us this 1970s banality horror vibes which I love. The plot is vague and ambiguious which is what a good ghost story should be. I really liked this.

The Ice House (1978) dir. Derek Lister

Ok so this is the last AGSFC episode of the original series and was also the only one not directed by Clark. Who the fuck is Derek Lister? Apparently he was a theater director who branched into television dramas I imagine hes a famalier name in certain circles but if your not into 80s british theater you like myself have no recollection of him.

Now am I horrible impressed by this film but lets be honest this is television movies meant to appeal to old stodgers. This stuff probably had no budget.

That being said Lister wasn't a poor sport at all, I like the sort of uncanny vibe of this. We have a health spa, creepy incestious siblings, and an ailing protaganist whose convinced theres something spooky in the old ice house.

This honestly gives me poe vibes, (might be the incest), it definetly feels like a classic ghost story in a lot of ways, the way that the horror is slowly metered out, the questioning of sanity, the sort of vague lore thats never spelt out.

Most people find this film to be a poor send off of this series and sure its not creepy and gothic but I honestly did love them trying new things out.

Ok so that was the end of the orginal AGSFC. Might watch the reboot might not now lets watch something fucked up.

The Scuzzies (2019) dir. Jimmy ScreamerClauz

so what got me on this path was rewatching Nyxfears Disturbing Movies megacut and she mentioned this creator. and I'm like this is the exact shit I'm looking for when it comes to horror shorts.

so one thing that fascinates me is that kind of uncanny 3d animation. I've never been the biggest fan of 3d animation, (through I unirionically like RYBY so take it with a grawn of salt), so that sort of early 2000s look where everything low poly and badly lit is never something I was exposed too.

HIs style feels like a low letter to that sort of thing.

The Scuzzies are what I am assuming are a reace of brownies or similer house sprites who live in some sort of fucked up crack house.

The owner has set up traps and the scuzzies are murdered brutally through a variety of methods that I don't want to describe.

The scuzzies then proceed to go back to their nest, sacrifice an elde3r to create a eldritch hivemind??? who proceeds to seduce the owner of the house and then brutally murder him.

This shit is like an acid trip. everything is disguisting and hard to look at and its feeled with blood and cum and shit, and a bunch of things that are also some combination of that. It's captivating in a really messed up way but I also could never show this to my family.

ok lets move onto something that doesn't involve bloody ejaculate.

Muse (2022) dir. Lunely

Ok I love how Letterboxd will literally not have some random B-Movie but will absolutely have a random animated youtube short. This is not tea nor shade I just love finding stuff like this on Letterboxd. It gives a kind of validity to a lot of smaller works out there in a weird way.

Anyway there are so many horror animations on youtube that they could never show them all but this one was cute. A young artist wakes up in the middle of the night and walks downstairs to her studio, she sharpens her sketching pencil as her muses silolette is cast by the flash of lightening.

it was cute I like this I need to watch more Calarts Short Films.

I Live In The Woods (2011) dir. Max Winston

Ok but is this a regular show character or a jojo character asking for a friend. This was horrifric. it starts out so cute until it goes entirely insane and is like how realistic do you want your stop motion gore and viscera.

Down To The Bone (2009) dir. Peter Ahern

Ok so this gives me big Don't Starve Energy.

Michael is a boy with really bad allergies. when his shitty babysitter kicks him outside he manages to sneeze so badly that he flips inside out. bloody nonsense ensues.

Who's Hungry? (2009) dir. David Ochs.

No little german boy don't get icecream.

oh mein gott zis haus es full of kinder-munchen.

so this is another calarts film and also one that I have seen before a couple years ago. Essentially two little kids are stolen by a ice cream man who turns out to be a cannibal. its definetly one that I recommend.

The Backwater Gospel dir. Bo Mathorne

OK so I'm not sure who Bo Mathorne is but I am obsessed. we're being served dark western which is one of my favorite genres/aestetics. Essentially we watch the townspeple of backwater get ready for church as the local tramp plays his guitar.

The Underaker comes to town, a shade that comes to take one life before he leaves. the local preacher rips the town into a fury to kill the tramp who he sees to be the cause of the harbringer. As you can imagine its a monster are do on mulberry street moment and thre is carnage bloody carnage.

Absolutely iconic we stan.

Felix the Ghost Breaker (1923) dir. Otto Messmer

so felix the cat actually has a really interesting history. It was made by either Pat Sullivan or Otto Messmer and was acutally rather big in the silent film era. At his point in 1923 it was beggining to lose relevency since fleischer and disney were having there pissing contest at this point and that urinating was captured in stunning surround sound.

Felix was also apparently a comic strip before this and it definetly shows, the animation isn't as fluid as I'm use to with 30s cartoons and the way that the style and the word bubbles are written are vary reminscent of early comic strips. Its almost an animated comic strip in that sense.

I can't say Iove this film but it is a cool part of film history.

Ok one more.

The Haunted House (1929) dir. Walt Disney

ok so this is pretty much the same vibe as the last couple classic animation shorts. Mickey Mouse goes to a house thats super fucking haunted sweetheart and the ghosts and skeletons and shit are like nobody leaves without singing the blues.

what an iconic movie. directors don't be afraid to put an entire fucking music number in your fucking movie.

so yeah theres some dancing skeletons bois and mickey mouse does a couple sight gags.

OK bitches I'm gonna simp for Elisabeth Shue in Adventures in Babysitting (1987) and watch Salad Fingers while bullet journaling.

[winterhawk-olympic-bang]

Emotive Writing

Guest Poster: @thepartyresponsible​

Emotive writing is about making people Feel Things. People use this all the time to sell you stuff, but we’re out here giving emotions away for free. Here are a few tips and tricks I’ve found to make people feel the most emotions.

Word choice:

This is the most straightforward part of emotive writing. Your word choices add an extra layer of complexity to your message. You aren’t just telling readers what happened; you’re signaling to them how they should feel. Most writers do this unconsciously, but being deliberate can make it especially effective.

Here’s a non-emotive, just-the-facts sentence: The soldier lifted his weapon and turned toward the enemy.

Here’s the same sentence reworked to make you care a bit more: The exhausted soldier raised his broken shield and faced the invading army.

The actions here are fundamentally the same, but exhausted and broken invoke sympathy while invading skews negative.

The words you choose are sign posts for the reader. They indicate how to interpret the story and help your readers orient themselves and form expectations. Subtly building expectation is important because, while surprise can be effective, shock is generally numbing and confusion tends to be irritating, so word choice helps you frame things and guide your reader along.

One of the keys here is to attempt some subtlety. If every sentence about your protagonist reads like an ad campaign (effervescent, brilliant, impervious) and every sentence about your antagonist reads like a political diatribe (cruel, spineless, malicious), you’re probably overusing your sign posts. People want to know who to root for, but too much emotive language can make them feel manipulated.

Think of word choice like adding spices to food. If you put oats in boiling water, you’re making oatmeal, and the spices you use won’t change that. But if you throw in some honey and cinnamon, I know we’re headed somewhere wholesome. If you sprinkle in little discordant notes of garlic powder and cayenne, what we’re cooking is a tragedy. And if you upend an entire bottle of cinnamon, a quarter cup of nutmeg, and toss in seventeen whole cloves, I am not staying for breakfast.

Narrative distance:

Narrative or psychic distance is the space between the reader and the character, usually navigated by the intermediary figure of the narrator. Your narrator can be an omniscient figure that knows the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of every character in the world. Or your narrator could be sitting on the shoulder of your main character, close enough to hear their thoughts and know their story but not so close that they speak with the character’s voice. Or your narrator could be your character.

If you want to ramp up emotion, you usually want a narrator who is very close to one character (or, alternatively, to separate characters in turn). But you don’t have to stay at one distance for the whole story, and, just like word choice, shifts in narrative distance can be helpful indicators to your reader about the story and the characters.

A sudden, dramatic shift in narrative distance is quite jarring, like a sudden zoom-in during a movie. It can be effective, but it’ll lose its punch if it’s overused. Generally, if you want to shift narrative distance, you should build to it slowly. Here’s an example of shifting from a distant third person to a closer third person:

They wake the Soldier because the archer is missing. He has a habit of slipping his lead, disappearing post-mission. The chase grew tedious years ago, but the Soldier runs it just the same. He’ll do as he’s told. But it bothers him, when he lets it. The why.

Why does he do this? the Soldier wonders, when he shouldn’t, when it isn’t his place. Where is he going? he thinks, when he can’t stop himself. Who is he running to? But he tries to think nothing at all.

Another trick of narrative distance is to suddenly pull back to show a character who’s been compromised, shocked, or deeply hurt by something. Imagine spending a long time in a close Bucky perspective, hearing his thoughts, and then being abruptly walloped across the face with: The machine went quiet, and the Soldier opened his eyes. Zooming out can emphasize what’s been lost. Because you aren’t just taking the soul of Bucky Barnes right out of him, you’re also taking that closeness away from the reader. You’re silencing the voice they’ve been listening to.

Whether you zoom in or out during highly emotional moments depends on what you’re trying to accomplish and also on who’s involved.  Some characters have loud, messy emotions that will get louder when they’re hurt. Some characters will freeze over and push a narrator further away. You can use narrative distance to show a character slowly opening up or suddenly slamming a door. But you need the reader to have a solid understanding of the character in order to follow what the shift means, which leads to the next component.

Know your characters:

So, here’s the thing. You gotta Velveteen Rabbit this. Every character is Tinker Bell. If you stop believing, they die.

If you want people to care about these characters, you have to treat them like living, breathing, fully feeling people. They have favorite colors. They have phobias. They have Friday night plans and blisters from new shoes and sesame seeds stuck in their teeth. They have superstitions and secrets. You don’t need to know all of these facts, but you should try to give the impression that someone could know them. The more real your characters are, the more we’re going to care about them.

Since this is fanfiction, you start with a receptive audience. Your readers are fond of these characters. Figure out why. Figure out which parts of the character you can relate to and dig in until you feel like you can understand the parts of them you can’t relate to.

Try to collect things that make you feel close to that character. I always have music playing when I’m writing, so I make playlists for characters and playlists for stories. If I feel like I’m losing a character, I’ll go back to their playlist. But you could also use Pinterest boards, reread favorite fics or comics, rewatch movies or fanvids, or spend an unreasonable amount of time researching bows and tactical knives. Whatever works!

Also, remember, your characters don’t know what story they’re in. They don’t know it’s going to end well (or terribly). Maintain that tension, because that’s where the emotions are. When you watch a good horror movie, you’re not really scared of the monster. You’re scared for the characters, because they don’t know if they’re going to survive.

Emotions come from the characters. That’s why it’s still sad that Tony Stark dies, no matter how many times you watch it happen. Tony Stark was brave and flawed and usually right and often sarcastic, and it hurts to watch him die because that’s a full, unique human we’re losing. We know him well enough to know he’s choosing to sacrifice himself and why he made that choice and who will mourn him.

Know your characters, and let them be messy and weird and wrong and hopeful and cantankerous and unique. Fear is relatable, flaws are relatable, and awkward, ungainly, stubborn progress is relatable. Just remember what it is that makes their progress their progress because, if you can swap Dominic Toretto in for Ted Lasso and have the exact same story, you’ve probably lost your characters.

Plan your emotional trajectory:

Okay, time to get a bit technical. This is for people who like to plan. For those terrifying, godlike writers who just sit down and write, this might not be helpful. For my fellow planners:

There’s a theory (which you can get a general overview about here or, if you’re very into data, right here) that there are six core emotional trajectories in narratives:

1)      Rags to riches (rise)

2)      Riches to rags (fall)

3)      Man in a hole (fall then rise)

4)      Icarus (rise then fall)

5)      Cinderella (rise then fall then rise)

6)      Oedipus (fall then rise then fall)

Since rise and fall can mean different things, I find it helpful to combine these building blocks with emotional axes, which you can find some examples of here.

So, basically, for my winterhawk baseball au Got a Heart in Me, I Swear, I planned to follow the “man in a hole” trajectory (fall then rise) along the anxiety-confidence emotional axis with some bleedover from the humiliation-pride axis. Which basically means Clint started comfortable enough, nosedived deep into anxiety and humiliation, and then slowly built his way to confidence over the rest of the fic.

If the listed axes don’t appeal to you, you can very easily create your own. Just think of an emotion, identify what links it to its inverse, and then list the related emotions between the two opposites. Disgust and adoration are opposites, but they’re linked by attention, right? You can’t ignore something you find disgusting or adorable. So, here’s an example emotional axis you could follow: Disgust – Resentment – Obsession – Fascination – Reverence – Adoration. Enemies to lovers, anyone?

Emotional axes help provide a natural framework for your character’s emotional trajectory. They can be subtle; you don’t have to start on one end of the spectrum and go all the way to the other. A story that moves just a step or two on an emotional axis can be incredibly compelling. That small progress from discomfort to hope can hit really hard if the progress feels fought-for and earned and real.

Tips for writing emotions:

·         Get physical: If you want to show an emotion instead of telling it, describe its impacts on the body. Most characters won’t think I’m embarrassed. They’ll feel a drop in their stomach like someone cut the elevator cables and a hot stinging in their face like they’ve been slapped by some disappointed version of themselves. The more visceral your descriptions, the more the reader will feel them. If you want your reader to feast on feelings, you have to set the table.

·         Dramatic zoom: When something very intense happens, shift the narrative distance. In or out is fine, but a sudden, dramatic event should result in a sudden, dramatic change in focus. Characters might hyperfocus on their physical bodies (the mechanics of breathing, the ringing in their ears, the mad animal urge toward flight) or they might be kicked so far out of their own heads that they feel like they’re dreaming or watching the scene play out from overhead. This distance is useful for two reasons: it feels real, and it allows readers to absorb the situation in pieces, without being overwhelmed by it.

·         Unreliable narrator: Some emotions can be so charged that people don’t want to own them, like grief, shame, jealousy, rage, lust, and guilt. Characters might unconsciously misrepresent these to themselves as something else. A grieving mother might insist she’s tired. A rehabilitated assassin who’s fallen in love with an absolute dork might tell himself he’s just tracking a target. Everyone knows what it’s like to lie to themselves, so this makes characters relatable. And, also, everyone likes being in on a secret, so, sometimes, this is just fun.

·         Face the monsters: We’re often conditioned not to dwell on unpleasant things, which is part of why it can be powerful to examine them in stories. From small things like inglorious emotional states (envy, cowardice, resentment) to character flaws (recklessness, withdrawal, arrogance) to personal tragedies (loss, betrayal, abandonment), the negative parts of human emotional life pack quite a punch. Acknowledge them. Not only are they relatable experiences, but redemption and recovery arcs are some of the most compelling stories we have.

[thatotherfooltheycallweaver]

Another test

A completely different fic that im working on

Tuesday afternoons are always oddly slow, regardless of the location Cordelia found herself in. Earlier that morning, her brother had asked her to take on the role of his receptionist for a few days, as the woman who usually worked at the front desk of his office was unable. She sat at the desk, reorganizing papers out of complete boredom. Men had been coming in and out all day, but she felt like there was nobody she could talk to. She was more than happy to help whenever she was needed, but it was, in her mind, ridiculous that there was nothing to do. With a sigh, she tapped her fountain pen against the loose papers--schedules, notes, and other things--it almost took on a pointillistic look on the page. She leaned on the desk before noticing that her hair was a bit of a mess and started trying to pin stray strands back into place--she knew she should have been more careful when she was doing her hair that morning. She hated having her it pinned up, but attempted to be more professional, for her brother’s sake. She had heard rumors of a baronet all the way from England--she couldn’t remember if they had specified from where in that country--would be visiting Buffalo for the time being. A baronet, no less. That title was uncommon enough to warrant questions, as nobody she spoke to understood exactly what it meant. She made it a point to ask her friend, Edith, later--she would likely know. Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the door open and shut. A tall man dressed in all black walked in, carrying a wooden case. The only other visible color on him was the silver chain of a pocket watch. He removed his top hat as he approached the desk, revealing short, dark, slicked-back hair under it. His eyes met hers for a moment and he smiled.

“Good afternoon, miss. I’m looking for a Mr. Baker. I have an appointment, though I suspect I’m a bit early.” Cordelia looked through the papers to find if there was something written down. “It’s for Thomas--ah, I’ve a card, my apologies.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. Printed across it, in neat black ink, was the name ‘Sir Thomas Sharpe’ and the title of Baronet under it. She had no idea how accurate the rumors would have been, but each of them mentioned he was attractive. They were inaccurate, as none of them could accurately capture how handsome the gentleman before her truly looked. Though tempted to keep him in the lobby until it was time for him to go back to speak to her brother for answers--she was curious, wanting to know more about him--she decided against it.

“My brother wouldn’t mind if you went back early, actually. If you’re ready to, of course.”

“Really?” He asked, a bit surprised. “Yes, miss, I am ready. Where do I go?”

“I can show you.” She stood, deciding against prying for information and resigning to interrogating her brother later--she didn’t want to risk seeming nosy or inconsiderate. “My name is Cordelia Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Baker.” He nodded with a smile. They reached the end of the hall and she knocked on the doorway.

“I’ll be right there.” A voice from within called.

“I wish you the best of luck.” She looked at Thomas, smiling.

“Thank you.” His eyes met hers for a moment. “I might just need it.”

“I have full confidence that everything will go well for you.” There was a look in his eyes; as if he was unused to warm smiles and genuine words with no hope of recompense--no cynicism or idle words. He was unsure, for the moment, if it was how America simply operated...or if she was one of those rare, kind souls. The type that would set him free from all the horrors, all the burdens--he pushed the thoughts away from his mind, reassuring himself that he needed to take things one step at a time. Thomas brushed off his coat in an attempt to make himself at least feel more presentable. The door opened, and a man a little shorter than the Baronet was standing there. He had strawberry blonde hair and was wearing a blue shirt with a tawny vest over it.

“Sir Sharpe.” He held out his hand to the dark-haired man. “I’m Anthony Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” Thomas shook his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, I truly appreciate it.” He let go, the shorter of the two opening holding the door to his office open, motioning for him to follow. Cordelia left, wanting to give them privacy if they wanted.

“Please, just call me Anthony.” He said with a smile, gesturing to the chair. “I don’t know what you plan, but do make yourself comfortable.” Thomas found it odd. Other investors had not been anywhere near as considerate, or kind. He did not understand it, but he wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity.

“I have a model. May I?” He asked, gesturing to the box.

“Of course.” Again, much to his surprise, Anthony actually picked up some of the papers and things to make a bit more room for him to work. He was ready to take notes and already seemed interested. As if he was half-expecting the redhead to change his mind, the baronet quickly set the small model up, taking the jar and box that was inside. The man across from him watched, allowing him to concentrate. Taking a breath, he did his best to steady his sudden nerves.

“The Sharpe clay mines have been royal purveyors of the purest scarlet clay since 1796. In its liquid form, it is so rich in ore and so malleable that it can produce the strongest bricks and tiles.” He gestured to the jar, left of the machine model.

“May I?” Anthony asked, gesturing to the smaller wooden box with a clay tile in it. Thomas nodded. “I've never seen anything that vibrant a shade of red in my life.” He mused, letting him continue explaining.

“Excessive mining in the last 20 years has caused most of our old deposits to collapse. This is a clay harvester of my own design. It transports the clay upwards as it digs deep.” He turned the machine on. “I have absolutely no doubt this machine will revolutionize clay mining as we know it.” Anthony looked at the machine, amazed.

“This is very impressive.” Thomas looked up, a bit caught off-guard, unused to compliments. Now he had to wonder if it was those two siblings, or it was the country.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have you had a chance to test it, full-scale?”

“Not yet, but we’re very close. We’re hoping that with funding, it will work. I've built the harvester on my estate, but more parts would be needed to keep it running smoothly.” He explained.

“Of course, of course, my apologies. Do you happen to have schematics? Sketches?” He asked. “I would like to look into this more before I make a decision. I believe it will take a bit of time. Research and all that, I hope you understand.” Thomas nodded, a little surprised he got this far.

“Of course.” He nodded, grabbing a folder from the case. “I have everything right here.” He handed it over--inside were schematics, other information that would hopefully be useful.

“This is genuinely impressive--I apologize for repeating. It's just so well designed.” Anthony smiled for a moment. “I will have to look into it, though I can't make any promises.”

“I understand. It is a bit risky but I wholeheartedly believe it's worth it.”

“I will do what I can to respond quickly. How long are you still staying in Buffalo?"

“I believe we are--my sister and I--staying until autumn. I’m unsure of the exact dates. My sister hasn’t told me anything, yet.” Anthony nodded.

“Well, I can at least guarantee it won't take that long to get an answer.” He chuckled softly. “I'm sorry to cut this short, but I do thank you for being here.” He stood. “It was nice to meet you. I'll have my sister…” He said that as if trying to show a bit of solidarity, or they at least had something in common. “...show you out." As if on cue, there was a rhythmic knock, a code of sorts. He got up and opened it. Cordelia was there. Thomas felt a little less uncomfortable...something about her, something about the way she carried herself.

“I swear I wasn't eavesdropping,” It was honest, but she was a bit nervous about how it came across. She pulled on her sleeve, letting out a soft snicker. “I just came by to drop off some letters for you. Including one from a certain Miss Cushing." She teased Anthony, who blushed a bit in embarrassment.

“Had it not been for witnesses…” He hissed. “I’ll trade you. Would you please show Sir Sharpe out?”

“Do I have to give you the letters?” He gave her a look and she handed them over, begrudgingly. Not that she didn’t want to spend the time with Thomas, she just wanted to see Anthony’s reaction.

“Shall I leave anything here for you to examine further?”

“No, thank you; if you want to take it, please do.” Thomas nodded, packing up the machine and carefully stowing the jar and box.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

“And thank you for yours.” Anthony smiled, looking over his notes. The baronet looked at Cordelia with a soft smile. Her presence was almost comforting, in a way, he couldn’t quite explain it. She shut the door behind them both.

“Hello.” She greeted as she began to lead him back to the lobby. “How did it go?” She asked gently.

“I believe it went well--at least it seemed to.” He looked at her, tilting his head slightly. “Your brother is much kinder than others I’ve gone to.” He mused, finding the situation rather refreshing, in a way.

“Anthony loves listening to people talk, and their ideas. And from the look at the machine I got when you were putting it back in the case, it was rather interesting.” The comment caught Thomas off-guard. He wouldn’t have guessed a lady like her would have found his clay harvester fascinating. There was a level of intrigue they both felt, curiosity between strangers. The tall Englishman who dressed in dark clothing and spoke with a gentle elegance she was unfamiliar with; the American woman in rich lavender who took an interest in his work, unprovoked, not to just be polite--each unusual to the other, and yet it felt captivating. “So...you've got an accent. English, right?” She asked. “Sorry, I don’t know many people from Europe…”

“No, no, Miss Baker, you don’t need to apologize. I don’t mind answering...though I suppose others will have the same questions, no doubt.” He looked at her with a small smile. “I am from England.”

“Is it nice there?” She asked, looking up at him with a curious smile.

“Where I’m from, it’s rainy and dark in some of the most beautiful ways.” He smiled at her, finding the curiosity endearing. “Not like Buffalo.”

“It sounds beautiful, really.” She smiled, listening intently. Cordelia definitely loved his accent, though she knew there was more to him than what everyone else might care to ask about. High society had a tendency to gloss over personality, beyond the obvious and surface level. “I’ve always wanted to go to England. Everyone I know who’s been there speaks highly of it.” He looked over, a little intrigued. Her smile felt...reassuring, in a way. Her curiosity was almost comforting.

“I think everyone should go to London at least once in their life. It’s quite amazing--the art, architecture…” He looked over. “Perhaps I could be the one to show you, someday.” She looked over, unable to tell if he was subtly flirting, or if he was just being kind. She didn’t know if she was misinterpreting things.

“How could I possibly refuse an offer like that?” She looked over. “If you want, I could show you around Buffalo...make things even?” The idea of spending time with her was inexplicably something he wanted--no, needed. He was drawn to her, he needed to find out more about her. The fact that she would even suggest that she’d give him a tour was astonishing--nobody else he met up until then had brought it up.

“That sounds like a fair deal. I would love that, actually.” He admitted with a smile--it made her blush faintly. It was unexplainable...she had no idea how this man had an effect on her already. They reached the lobby, the door in sight. The soft evening light started filtering in through the glass.

“You know...I’m hosting a party on Friday night--this Friday…” She got irritated with herself, internally, wondering if she was embarrassing herself by talking too much. “...if you would be interested, you are more than welcome there.”

“Really?” He sounded a bit stunned. “I would very much enjoy that. Would it be alright if my sister came along with me? I’d hate to leave her out.”

“If she wants to, of course she can.” She looked at him with a soft smile.

“Well, that’s great.” He smiled back, brightly. “Until then, Miss Baker?”

“I’m already looking forward to it, Sir Sharpe.” He took his hat, putting it on and chuckling softly as he left. With him gone, she sighed. There was something about him that she couldn’t describe. Cordelia immediately set off to bother Anthony for information. She knocked on the door and opened it. Her brother had a completely smitten look as he was reading over the letter. “So...how’s Edith?” She teased, amused.

“She’s fine.” He muttered, closing the letter and putting it on top of the papers.

“Have either of you told the other, yet?”

“No. Stop asking.” He looked at her, half-glaring. “And don’t ask about the baronet. I’m not giving you anything, yet.”

“Fine, fine.” She shook her head. “Then I’ll get back to planning the party.”

“Alright. Have fun.”

[for-i-am-dying-of-such-love]

a prelude (...the wanting comes in waves...)

Happy Valentine’s Day my loves! I’ve been working on this fic for a week or two now, and I was hoping it would be finished in time for today. Only, it’s not quite there yet. Buuuuuuuuuuuut, I was really tied to the idea of sharing something with you, so I’m going to post the first half of it here for you to enjoy while there’s still some Valentine’s Day left on the clock (at least here in the EST time zone).

This isn’t on AO3 yet, but it will be once it’s complete. In the meantime, you can read some of it below the cut.

Thanks to @moddieeee and @tunemyart for filling my brain with all of the WFC feels. I love you both dearly; you inspire me in so many ways. Smooches!

UPDATE: you can now read this on AO3! 

a prelude (...the wanting comes in waves...)

It’s a curiosity at first. After the curtain call, before the reception. The single red rose that falls at her feet. Tossed in a soft arc from the balcony of the Imperial Box. From the hands of the Empress, no less. Gabrielle is careful to retrieve the lady’s favour from the stage, in clear view of the woman who was so moved to offer it. Bends low with delicate fingers to scoop it up to join the bouquet already nestled under one arm. Gaze intent on the keen eyes that cut through the distance between them, because, she tells herself, it would be impolite to look away. Adds the bloom to the others - nonchalant now, attention elsewhere -  as if it were just another token bestowed upon her by any other appreciative fan. But even as she tucks it away, her fingers wind around the long, smooth stem and linger there, like the peculiar feeling that suddenly creeps across her chest and down her spine to settle in the dangerous spaces behind her knees. 

She thinks she hears her name, a whisper dancing on the shell of her ear, a voice most familiar though she’s sure she’s never heard it. She scans the faces in the audience, listens behind the sounds for the murmur that is so close and yet so impossibly far, but is met with generous applause and nothing else. Except that peculiar feeling again. This time pulling her attention upwards once more. To that gaze, those eyes, only this time when her own eyes sweep the balcony she finds it empty. It’s something like grief that washes over her then, as her fingers tighten of their own accord around the Empress’ rose, and she prays to Aphrodite for the crowd to give her leave. They clap on instead.

When, at last, she steps backstage after the final round of bows, someone from her troupe offers helpfully to take the flowers from her. To put them away in the cozy dressing room she’s made into her writing space during her stay in Rome - so she can go on ahead to the splashy little soiree Caesar’s people have too loudly announced is in her honour for it to be anything other than just an excuse for the city’s most vapid and ambitious hangers-on to primp and preen and be seen by the Emperor. But Gabrielle declines the stagehand’s offer, hugs the roses a little closer to her chest, hopes no one notices the protective embrace, and makes some private joke about needing a few quiet moments to herself before being thrown to the wolves. There’s a shared chuckle, and then she’s making her way through the din and disarray of actors - unencumbered by further professional obligations and hungry for Rome’s after-dark delights - planning their evening’s exploits as they go about packing up for the night.

And it isn’t a lie - her excuse for wanting to hang back a while - at least not exactly. It’s no secret among her players that she hates these types of events - the lavish parties; the vanity for vanity’s sake; but maybe most of all, the prideful, boastful, gilded arrogance of self-important men and their mistresses (never their wives) as they condescend her intelligence with feigned interest in her plays and their insipid conversation. No, she’d much prefer to while away her free nights in whatever seedy-looking tavern she stumbled upon, with its day-old stew and watered-down port, trading bawdy jokes with the locals and flirting with the busty barmaids. Until a drunken fight cleared out the place. Or the sun peaked above the horizon. Whichever came first - though, Gabrielle always, not-so-secretly, hoped for a fight.

There was something oddly nostalgic, unusually comforting about the back-alley watering holes she’d wander into, though she could never reason why. She almost never visited the same establishment twice. Hadn’t even set foot in one until she found her way to Athens. Fresh-faced and hellbent on making a name for herself with her stories. Fuelled by a dewy-eyed confidence born from leaving behind - by way of an open window in the middle of the night on the eve of her wedding - the lonely, unfulfilling life she’d endured in the small, farming village of her youth. Mostly, though, it seemed her favourite spots were dimly lit; smelled of stale ale and horseshit and someone’s stomach’s misplaced dinner; and were almost always the preferred refuge of at least one soused lout with a lecherous grin and a pair of wandering hands. But they reminded her of the strange and fantastic adventures she once dreamt of having - back when she was still a slip of a girl who looked for pictures in the stars, and wished on the falling ones for someone special to share her secrets with - so she kept finding her way back to them, watching the door between rounds, waiting.

There would be no tawdry tales to tell from the underbelly of Rome tonight - at least not from her lips. Because, as it turns out, even the most sought-after wordsmiths - yes, even those summoned to Rome at the behest of the Imperial Court - have bills to pay. And stuffy parties - no matter how dull, or overflowing with pompous pissants - sparkle with the promise of patronage, enough to pay the bills and then some, when Gabrielle plays her part well. After all, what good are her words and the lessons they teach if no one ever hears them? So, she had long ago learned to smile obligingly, and swallow the impertinence on her tongue with the sip of her wine. 

She just needs a moment to centre herself first. A few deep breaths and a head-start on the wine - just a quaff or two or three - reinforcements for the long night ahead. Nothing unusual there. Nothing except the red hot flush at the back of her neck; the bloom of curious wonder in her belly. She picks her way through the whorl of bodies and props and cloth in the theatre’s back of house, the peal of laughter, the good-natured ribbing being tossed in her direction as she passes. Her mind is leagues removed from its routine musings about the tedium in store for her this evening. She can’t seem to shake the Empress from her thoughts, and it prickles at her senses - some portent of danger? A spell to stupefy her? Indigestion from too much garum splashed on her supper? 

She sighs, and pushes the fascination from her mind as she pushes aside the heavy curtain to her makeshift workspace. But images of the Empress -  impressive and alluring in her height and bearing, draped in diaphanous gold silk and completely disarming with her patrician beauty - slip back into her thoughts as easily as she slips into the quiet of the small room. And, those eyes. The way they cut to the quick of her. She searches her memory for their exact shade, but can’t quite see beyond the shadows cast over the balcony by flickering lamplight. Remembers, only, that they reminded her of the sea under a new moon - so deep and dangerous in their pull that even Poseidon would be powerless to help anyone caught up in the eddy of her gaze. 

And even now, nearly half a candlemark later, Gabrielle can still feel the Empress’ eyes on her, as surely as she can feel the Empress’ rose in her hand - pressing up against the flat of her palm - as surely as she feels the bite of imaginary thorns as they dig into her flesh. She knows the stem is bare but the sting is real, and when she looks down at her clasped hand, she still half expects to see a trickle of blood peeking out from between her fingers, stark against her fair skin. 

She sighs again, and with the shake of her head, moves with quick, purposeful strides to the water jug on her writing desk. It’s only half-full, and the roses will make it a little top-heavy, but there’s no time to look for something else, and the flowers are much too beautiful to let go to waste, so it will have to do for now. Her hands shake in time with her nervous breath as she slips the bouquet into the carafe, though she’s careful to lay the one from the Empress aside. She’s confused by it - the power it seems to hold over her - but also by the Empress’ arresting stare; the swell of curious feelings that she just can’t escape; the fact that she should even be in Rome in the first place. A farmer’s daughter who stole away in the middle of the night to chase after stories and… love. 

She decides she needs a drink. 

So, she turns to the decanter of brandy left out by her hosts, pours a generous swig into a finely-etched glass snifter, throws it back in one quick swallow, then repeats the process for good measure. The brandy’s thick and just barely sweet, and it licks a delicious trail down her throat to warm her insides. It’s a slow and delicate burn and it reminds her of the sting she still feels against her palm from the rose that now lays on the desk in front of her. Gabrielle sets the glass down and turns her palms over to inspect them more carefully, to see if the Empress has, by some magic or dark art, left her mark upon her. But there are no scratches, no smear of bright red blood, no brand seared into the flesh there - her hands are fine. Calloused and maybe a little sweaty, but unmarred. 

“Have I gone mad?”, she asks in a breathless whisper, decanter in hand once more. 

The trickle of brandy spilling into her snifter doesn't propose an answer, but she finds the sound of it reassuring all the same. She brings the glass to her mouth, then moves to put some distance between herself and the desk, as if that might somehow break the spell; clear her thoughts. She makes it three steps before she’s back. Her resolve eclipsed by her curiosity. She trades her glass for the rose. Twirls the stem between her first two fingers and her thumb as she takes to pacing. Watches closely, the play of light from the oil lamp nearby, as it caresses the delicate folds of the flower. Runs the pads of her fingertips along the petals’ edges and is lost completely in the softness she finds there.

Her feet drift across the mosaic floor, as her thoughts drift back to the Empress. 

“Maybe they’re green? Or blue? Or black?”

And, her eyes. Of course.

Their pull is irresistible. Gabrielle is helpless to it. And to the mystery of the way the Empress looked at her. The way her own heartbeat skipped in the moment. The peculiar flood of feeling that danced along her every nerve, like a static shock and a lover’s kiss all rolled into one. And then, all orderly thought abandons her. And she wonders why she’s even holding the Empress’ rose. Wonders if it had been genuine admiration or just polite courtesy that had inspired the Empress’ gesture to toss it at her feet.

Wonders if, maybe, she herself had been the...

She doesn’t let herself finish that thought.

“This is ridiculous.” Another incredulous shake of the head, hands thrown up in exasperation. 

And then she’s standing in front of the makeshift vase trying to tuck the rose in amongst the others, as if it was just another token bestowed upon her by any other appreciative fan. As if she could ever lose sight of it, even surrounded by a dozen or more just like it. As if her mind hadn’t already mapped every one of its fine details into her memory. 

Her clumsy, unwilling fingers are mid-jab when she is interrupted by the scuff of sturdy leather boot soles against stone, the brush of heavy fabric being pushed aside, the gentle clink of shifting metal settling again. Her hand stills, but she waits for the polite cough from her doorway before she turns her head to acknowledge the stranger she finds standing there.

She lifts an inquisitive brow at his intrusion, a question as much as an appraisal. He is handsome, she supposes, in a rugged sort of way. Not that she cares about ruggedly handsome men. Or, men in general. Or, men who are generals, and this man is a general -  she is certain of it - the polished armour gives him away immediately; the red velvet cloak affixed to his cuirass. Even without the obvious signs of his rank Gabrielle would know it. Sandy-haired, square jawed, broad shouldered, compact - a fine son of Rome - he wears his station in his manner and his air, and he is here now on business.  She lets her brow arch a little higher.

“My apologies for the interruption,” his head bows slightly, gracious, conciliatory, “but, the Emperor asked that I might escort you to the reception.”

She keeps her gaze fixed impassively on the man in the doorway, but doesn’t speak a word in return. She had long-ago discovered that the quickest way to useful information was to keep quiet. So many people found silence uncomfortable, and in the face of it would trip over their own tongues trying to fill the void it seemed to create. She watched her escort shift in his place, swallow around a dry throat, and she smiled knowingly to herself - even Roman strongmen were immune to the effects of careful, exacting scrutiny.

“That is, if you’re ready to go.” He seems caught between impatience and fluster.

She lets the corner of her mouth tug upwards, slips into the indulgent smile she’s picked out for the evening, like it was just another pretty peplos to be donned for a special occasion. But, she doesn’t turn to face him fully. Doesn’t move from what she is doing.

“How lovely,” Gabrielle says, and the cheer she injects into each syllable isn’t nearly as put upon as her smile, recalling, then, with sudden and vivid detail what - who - might await her at the party. This time the softness in her expression is genuine.

“It’s just that you’ve found me in the middle of something.” She tilts her head in the direction of her hand, still raised mid motion, rose resting between her fingers, its stem half buried within the bouquet. His eyes track briefly over her work before finding hers again, and the tension in his posture relaxes when she explains, “I’m nearly done. I only need a moment or two more, is that ok?”

Her heart has suddenly taken up a noisy hammering in her chest, and she can feel a violent blush creeping into her cheeks. She feels exposed, her hand on the Empress’ rose, thoughts of the woman’s commanding beauty circling the edges of her mind, threatening to steal the last of her concentration and betray her all the same. Not that her Roman general has a single clue what he’s witnessing. Still, she holds her breath.

“Of course,” he says, and Gabrielle feels her insides let loose. “I’ll just be outside,” and he gestures towards the curtain. “Please, take your time.”

She tries to keep the relief she feels from creeping into her voice. 

“Thank you….,” she says, letting her tone indicate there’s a request in her statement as well.

“Brutus,” he supplies, in understanding.

“Thank you, Brutus. I’ll be along shortly, I promise.” Her hand, still on the rose. 

He bows, gently, at the shoulders, and with a small smile turns on his heel to disappear through the fabric door, all cold, brusque efficiency; the only sound of his exit the whisper of his velvet cloak caressing his leather lappets, the brush of the curtain falling back into place. 

She waits - a heartbeat. Then, another. Lets her breath push past her lips, slow and shaky. Her eyes drop back to the scene in front of her, fingers still engaged in trying to rearrange the roses packed into the water jug, trying to hide away the evidence of her preoccupation, the source of her growing fervour. Her brows knit together, bewildered, vexed. She has never been so unnerved by something as inconsequential as a flower. She should just toss it aside and be done with it. 

And if Gabrielle had any good sense, any resolve left she would. She would absolutely pick it up and, and… A sigh. Instead, she watches as her traitorous body spurns whatever reason remains, and her hand moves, lifts, the rose with it, to bring the bloom to her face. Oh, sweet Aphrodite, how easily she breaks! How soft she’s gone for the memory of the Empress’ gaze, so open and unguarded; the pierce of it. The petals brush against her cheeks, nose, and she smiles at the feel; lets the flower rest a spell against the curve of her upper lip, inhales the delicate perfume. It tugs her eyes closed, and she imagines the smell of rosewater on the Empress’ skin, warm under her touch, and aching. 

And it’s like a thousand-thousand tiny explosions up and down her spine, like Greek fire in her veins. Her head spins and her knees buckle and she’s grabbing at the table’s edge to keep her legs beneath her. And somewhere from the depths of her mind’s eye she sees it, a vision - of the Empress, but not the Empress - so familiar and clear, like unlocking a memory, only how could it be? Long shadows and the golden glow of firelight; long ebony hair fanned out on a pillow of furs; long, lean limbs with their long, hungry reach, searching, gripping, pulling closer and closer and harder and closer still; long, graceful arc of a strong back pushing off the ground, hips angling desperately, as fingers push deeper. Gabrielle’s mouth at the valley between her breasts, tongue tracing the same word over and over again: mine mine mine mine. And the flash of the clearest, brightest blue.

Her eyes fly open, and with them a flurry of thoughts blossom in her mind, wild and crazed. She clutches at the stem, wanton with misplaced desperation, feels it ready to give beneath her fingers, such a delicate thing. Like her sanity, surely. Her mind possessed by two insistent, competing thoughts. To tuck away this precious thing - the Empress’ favour - to keep it soft and safe and secret; for her eyes only, in the deep of night; the brush of it against her lips, and the raging, pulsing thrill of possibility in her blood. And then, all the more ludicrous, dangerous, the rush to pin it to her breast and walk into that reception - for all to see and know and whisper about - an audacious declaration, unequivocal in her intent, her offer; to see the Empress turn her way, a shrewd and feral glint in her eye.

But before she can register what’s happening - or do anything so foolish and provocative as to imperil her safety- her free hand is reaching for the latch on the writing box arranged neat and unsuspecting atop the corner of her desk; tossing aside a few extra scrolls, a quill or two, to make room. And then she’s gently placing the Empress’ rose inside and knocking back the rest of her brandy and smoothing down the front of her dress. 

She turns on her heel, and feels dizzy; wonders briefly if the drink has gone to her head so soon. But the delightful shiver of anticipation that creeps along her warm skin seems to settle and curl around her belly, and she knows explicitly that she’s not woozy from the brandy wine.

“Utter madness,” she whispers, headed for the curtained door, thumb rubbing aimless circles against her unblemished palm, round and round and up and down, chasing away the lingering sting. She squares her shoulders, brushes an errant curl behind her ear; wishes she could brush off these lingering thoughts of the Empress as easily, but they’ve settled deep within her, like raindrops caught within the folds of a rose. And so, Gabrielle thinks as she slips into the hall, and on to Brutus’ waiting arm, it would seem - rose or not - the Empress has marked me just the same.

[argumentl]

The Freedom of Expression, radio version - Ep 41, July 2016 - Underwater band Aquasonic, Tracking a spouse with GPS, Ichiro beats Pete Rose's world record.

Kaoru starts by commenting about how close he came to not being able to play Utafumi on the last show. He thinks Hiranabe was talking so much on purpose. He then asks listeners to contact the show as usual, and reminds them of the ongoing new jingle campaign. He will play some more entries on the show once he has a few more gathered up.

Kaoru's first topic is about a 5-piece band from Denmark named Aquasonic, who perform music entirely submerged in water tanks. They have specially designed instruments, and use no oxygen tanks, but come up for breath at timed intervals during the performance. Kaoru thinks this band is cool. Joe says the sound that they produce is very mysterious, and Kaoru agrees. He is pretty perplexed as to the types of instruments and methods the band uses. Joe comments that when we usually hear music, it comes via vibrations in the air, but with this we are hearing the sound vibrate through water. Rather than the freedom of expression, this is more like seeing the possibility of expression increase. It may be possible to produce sounds in this way that human ears have never heard before. Watching the video of the band's performance, Kaoru felt an entirely new sensation, and felt inspired in regards to the possibilities that are out there. Joe mentions that he recently interviewed a musical saw player on his other radio show, who claimed that when he played his music in the mountains, the bugs and birds sang out in unison with him. Joe thinks that in this age of everything digital, there is a whole world of discovery waiting to be unlocked in the natural world. Kaoru mentions that playing underwater could also be different if done in the sea, due to the effect of the waves etc. The vibrations in the sea would be different from in a water tank. Joe thinks that although this idea comes with a certain physical danger (being submerged underwater), its great if something that has been overlooked for so long could give new creative ideas. Maybe he is a bit of a romanticist. Kaoru repeats that he finds this idea quite fascinating, and Joe suggests using underwater music as this show's bgm. Kaoru replies, no, this is not possible.

Tasai joins them next for the Tokyo Sports corner. He congratulates Kaoru on the public revelation of the new single.

His first news story is about the comedian/impressionist Kintalo, who gave some marriage advice to her newly married friend, Yashiro Yu. The advice was, 'Don't track your husband with GPS'. The reason for this is that Kintalo herself had used GPS to track her own husband 24/7, and it had soured thier relationship. Joe is not surprised that it affected thier marriage. Tasai questions the idea of a woman wanting to spy on a man who she likes 24/7. Kaoru says it works both ways though, it would be just as bad for a man to spy on a woman. He also says this type of thing infringes on the relationship of trust between close people.

Kami then joins the conversation to say that he agrees with using GPS to track a spouse. Joe and Kaoru disagreeing with the idea makes them look like they are guilty of something. Kaoru says even if he is not guilty of anything, he just doesn't want anyone to know if he's been to the amusement park, and rode on the roller coaster or that type of thing. Kami insists that there are so many deceptive people out there, its definitely better to track them. Joe asks Kami how he would feel if he was tracked with GPS by a girlfriend. Kami says he would be completely happy with that. He isn't like Joe. Joe says its not really the GPS thats the problem, its just not a nice feeling when someone doubts you. Kami says there is nothing about him that would get him into trouble if discovered, so Joe asks in that case, why does he use that weird voice? Kami gets angry and accuses Joe of discrimination. This is his natural voice! Kaoru suggests that Kami, being a god, ought to know the whereabouts of everyone anyway, even without gps. Kami says he does, and that is why he's happy to wear a gps device himself. Joe asks Kami if he can see what Hiranabe is doing right now. Kami says he can, he is out drinking. Tasai confirms that this is true. Kami then repeats his assertion that anyone who refused to be tracked with gps must be harbouring some kind of guilt. Tasai admits he wouldn't like to be tracked skipping work or something, and says that everyone has little things to be guilty about in this way. Joe aks Kami if he's never skipped work on his night-shift. After a very brief, but telling pause, Kami says he has never skipped work. The others get the feeling that he probably has. Before leaving, Kami comments on how short the new song Utafumi was, and Kaoru has to remind him that this was the promotional edit. version.

Tasai's next story relates to baseball, specifically that Ichiro has overtaken Pete Rose's world record of 4256 hits. This is a total of his combined hits from in Japan and the USA, which causes some people not to recognize the record. Pete Rose himself does not recognize it, comparing hits in Japan to high school hits. On the other hand, some point out that fewer games are played in Japan than in the states, which makes Ichiro's tally all the more impressive. Kaoru says that record or not, there are always gonna be people who are stingy about this kind of thing. Tasai says that even Japanese comedian Ariyoshi had half-jokingly called Rose a piece of trash over this issue. Kaoru states that a record is still a record, to which Tasai responds that Ichiro could claim the world record and Rose could claim the major league record.

Kami then appears again to suggest that Ariyoshi's use of the word 'trash' (クズ/kuzu) could be a play on words with the food 'kuzu' (*I think*). Joe aks Kami if has any records of his own. Kami says his record is that he has never skipped work, and never been late for work. The others are not that impressed with this. Kami ends up calling them all 'trash' too.

To close the show, Kaoru plugs the release of Utafumi, and the upcoming DSS tour. He mentions they will play at Nakano Sun Plaza for the last time during this tour, as the venue is due to close. They will also play new music other than Utafumi on the tour. They may even play some of the songs that were rejected from the new album. Next he mentions that a 'Best of' album is in the works for the following year, reminds listeners of the new jingle campaign, and plugs his blog. He says his blog is due to feature a guest for the first time, namely LM.C's Aiji. Joe asks Kaoru if he has any summer vacation plans before the next tour starts in September. Kaoru says he will only be in Tokyo working on new music, so maybe they could think of something special to do for this show. Kami appears once again to tell them to wear a gps device if they make any plans. Joe suggests Kami must be late for his night shift by now, but Kami says he has taken the day off. Also that Dir en grey shouldn't worry about being tracked with gps because they surely have nothing to hide. Kaoru says he prefers to remain a little mysterious. They finish by repeating thier desire to make some kind of summer plan for the show. Kami will have to take time off to avoid being late for work, which is the exact opposite of Hiranabe who is unapologetically late for everything.

Songs - Dir en grey/Utafumi, Snot/Joy Ride.

[my-writings-and-musings]

Hi, I really like your berth sharing headcanons. They're so cute! But in the post about Thunderclash there was something about the medics starting to wonder if recharging next to a human had benefits. I was thinking it would be cool if you maybe considered making headcanons about the medics, maybe trying to test it. Feel free to take as much time as you need. I really like your headcanons, and I hope I don't come off as pushy or anything!

You don't have to apologize for absolute GOLD, anon! You're not pushy at all either!

For the sake of simplicity, I'll leave who the human is dating vague, so you can imagine whatever bot you'd like spurring this scientific wonder. Each medic discovers something a little different, but they're all based on ideas I have regarding how bots and humans are ultimately a great team when they're cooperating.

Ratchet

·This mech considers himself to be a solid and unwavering voice of reason, so while he's seen them performing their duties more effectively than ever, he's still positively baffled when the bot you've been cuddling turns up for their next exam and appears to have improved on every physical level. Their reaction time, fuel efficiency, speed, stamina... it's all better than ever before!

·It's a great development, obviously, but he's bothered he can't make sense of it. Sure, he's well aware that a good relationship can be a benefit to mental health, which obviously has an impact on physical well-being, but this is well beyond what simple positive thoughts should be able to accomplish.

·For the sake of his sanity, and because he's genuinely interested in the potential medical benefits of your species, he proposes conducting a study to you and your significant other. He knows it sounds silly, but his reasoning is solid enough to convince everyone involved to try.

·Always putting the well being of his patient's above all else, he keeps the tests simple and (mostly) unobtrusive, and a great deal of the data is gathered by simple scans overnight or through questionnaire. He's especially interested in whether or not this phenomenon is found in all humans or just you.

·It's hard to be put off when you see how serious he is about the whole thing, particularly as he starts to put together all the ways humans and Cybertronians are alike, and the results absolutely fascinate him and get him genuinely excited.

·Drift has suggested on a few late night research sessions that he may just be underestimating the power of positive thoughts, but he doesn't push that answer, not so much to avoid a wrench but because he too is quite curious about the potential interspecies benefits. Like Ratchet he reasons that, if the two races can find such benefits with each other, it would go a long way to encouraging harmony through the universe.

·After many nights of brainwave mapping and days of simple physical exams, Ratchet announces that he has developed a theory! He's beaming, partly because he's been proven sort of right, but mostly because there does appear to be some solid evidence of a medical benefit!

·From his studies, he reasons that humans are capable of triggering a number of hardwired responses in Cybertronian biology, and those he's managed to confirm are all related to social interaction, protective instincts, and even stress reduction.

·In essence, he concludes that humans just naturally appear "cute" to bot's once they've formed a bond with them, and the instinctive drive to protect smaller lifeforms as well as socialize is satisfied to fulfillment and beyond by regular physical contact, which leads to a boost in all systems and a general sense of elation.

·You're incredibly surprised to hear bots would have an internal drive to label you as "cute", but that pales in comparison to your shock when Ratchet suggests more humans be brought on board for study. He then gives you complete medical clearance to share a berth with your partner every night, along with the promise to provide whatever resources or assistance will make it easier for the two of you, especially if you'll offer to help any of the other crewmembers on their quest for human partners.

First Aid

·Always one to look for new solutions, he immediately notices when the bot you're with has a huge boost to their wellbeing, well beyond what he'd expect even from your particularly positive relationship. Without hesitation, he calls you both in to discuss potential implications.

·His enthusiasm is convincing in its own way, particularly as he begins to theorize that Cybertronians being so ostracized from other species means that a great deal of potential benefits from interaction could be waiting to be discovered! Thus, the rarity of your relationship makes this quite a unique opportunity.

·His ideal study would involve a number of humans, but if you're comfortable with it he'd love to see if you have the same effect on other bots as well, as that could provide some absolutely fascinating data!

·Scans of your entire physiology are requested, along with samples of whatever you feel like providing, though he quickly realizes he'll need to study humans in general to make sense of his results. The process of learning everything related to the biology of a new species keeps him enraptured for days at a time.

·He's especially interested in whether or not you've experienced similiar benefits to your bot partner. This means he has quite a few questions regarding your wellbeing and would like detailed answers. After all, if the process benefits one species but hurts the other, that's important to know too!

·At times you're absolutely baffled by what results he seems intent on analyzing. The exact number of hours you slept, down to the second? What kind of pajamas you wear? The total number of breaths you take each night?

·His insistence on the importance of details at least convinces you to let him continue. Though he keeps it to himself, he clearly has something to be excited about, but will deny absolutely anything when pressed.

·Finally he calls you and your bot partner in to share his findings, at least before he plans to propose an official theory. His board of data is covered in notes and miscellaneous papers, most of which you can't even begin to understand, but his tone is calm and his delivery smooth when be finally speaks.

·He's elated to explain the countless benefits he believes both species derive from sleeping in close proximity, some of which he's only just begun to scratch the surface of, and many which he believes can be confirmed by studying more individuals. Humans receive exceptional stress reduction and an increase in bonding hormone production, and bots see something similar but also appear to experience a boost to their self repair! By the time a half hour has passed he's listed so many these are all you can remember.

·You're impressed and fascinated, especially because you and your partner were mostly just... cuddling? It's hard not to be amused when he starts proposing a serious interspecies initiative, and lays out his plans to do so, complete with contacting the leadership of each species to request volunteers.

Velocity

·Ever the more observant and subtle of the medics, she initially keeps her awareness of the boost your partner has been experiencing to herself, quietly taking note of the phenomenon and accumulating a small file of her observations and thoughts. Once she determines there is indeed something going on, she decides to get some concrete answers.

·She approaches each of you individually for an actual examination, which is relatively routine so you think nothing of it. Checking for any potential explanations in your anatomy, she doesn't find anything out of the ordinary, which is good news because it means nothing is amiss and she can begin to do some real science!

·Sitting you down in the privacy of the medical bay, but only after assuring you nothing is wrong, she lays out some simple notes and explains what she's been observing. Describing the unique benefits your partner has been experiencing, she lays out her desire to learn more, because bots need all the help they can get staying healthy.

·Not one to be obtrusive, a lot of her research is focused on the mental health aspects and their benefits to the physical, which she accomplishes mostly by asking questions to measure your feelings.

·With your permission she gets a bit of assistance from Rung on these matters, as his understanding of the Cybertronian processor and how it relates to mood, as well as his experience with emotional wellbeing, make him an excellent guide on the information she gathers.

·She's less focused on testing a specific theory than she is on simply putting together information and analyzing it, mostly because her "sample size" is much too small to rule anything out to her satisfaction, but she is absolutely determined to prove something is happening.

·Being more cautious means she's going to take her time to properly analyze everything she gathers, which takes a little while both due to her tendency to prefer hands on study and her fascination with what she starts to put together. It's actually hard for her to keep everything confidential once she gets an idea of the positive implications of what she's seeing.

·Almost out of the blue she sits you down and starts to delightedly relay her observations, going so fast at times it's hard to keep up. Thankfully she catches herself and backs up to clearly state her thoughts as well as answer any questions you may have.

·For Cybertronian benefits, she actually believes this sleeping in close proximity to a human is having a kind of healing enhancement to your partner, specifically to their brain. All bots have endured trauma, but for your partner the effects of their unique mental struggles have been lessened, as if they're recovering at a supernatural rate.

·While she admits to being less experienced with humans, she confidently states that your own body appears to be experiencing a similiar phenomenon, and while its obviously not "cured" your brain is showing an incredible capacity for handling new stressors and processing old ones effectively. To say she encourages the two of you to continue is an understatement.

[believe-that-you-can-my-friend]

Elisabeth & Noah in the origin world (2/?)

First date

He is not sure if he should text her or not.

On Monday, upon waking up with every ounce of alcohol finally off his bloodstream and after he has spent the entire Sunday recovering from the worst hangover he’s experienced since his college years, Noah is back on his reserved nature, the timid one, the one lacking the amount of whiskey-infused courage it takes for him to deal with matters revolving around human interaction, especially with women. He’s not a social outcast per se, but his confidence mostly accompanies him in the career-oriented side of his life.

It’s not like he’s not interested. He crossed the line of “interested” when he stooped to the lowest level possible, looking her up on Instagram, of all things, via Agnes’ account.

(His little sister has a long list of questions and he has a long list of brotherly favors that he promised to fulfill in exchange for her seven-digit password.)

She doesn’t have a vast presence on social media, a quality they apparently share. He keeps a long forgotten Facebook account and a professional LinkedIn one and acts blissfully ignorant towards any other platform that isn’t YouTube. Her Facebook account - oh yeah, he checked that one too - is a mix between personal and business, opinion posts about socio-politcal matters on the grounds of their country to the entirety of Europe to the endlessness of the globe and take-action events in regard to the causes she supports, occasionally interrupted by a reunion selfie with an old friend or a brunch date with her mom and her sister. That particular post redirected to some Instagram link, so, unwittingly, his curiosity was peaked.

Her Instagram account is colourful, vivid, filled with adventures and laughter. Just from an idle scroll, Elisabeth Doppler - Winden born, age twenty-four, Energy Engineer, Berlin based - can easily be perceived as someone that quite enjoys life. Her group of associates and friends seems endless and her gallery consists of photos of dinners with young professionals, pub-crawling with girlfriends, road tripping across Europe, Erasmus Programme memories, tree-planting projects, women’s rights marches, snorkelling, paragliding. Noah spends the whole Sunday afternoon feeling overwhelmed and in awe, tapping picture after picture, mesmerized by her lovely smile that adds a softer undertone to her busy bee of a life.

He finds it fascinating, her mindset and her lifestyle, but, at the same time, he fears that their personalities may clash, his more keeping-to-himself attitude the polar opposite to her seemingly outgoing one. Then, it’s also the age barrier. He thinks that thirty-two might be a little off-putting for someone in their early twenties, a decade that comes with a whole other set of expectations and milestones than the one he is currently in. The major problem, though - a chronic problem of his - is that he’s thinking too much.

Fortunately, that’s not a thing they have in common.

Elisabeth texts him on Monday morning, at 9.54 to be exact. He’s in the middle of a lecture, teaching History of Religion 101 to an auditorium filled with sleepy freshmen, when his phone screen lights up, its glow illuminating in the dimly lit room. It’s a simple “good morning” paired up with a smiling face emoji but it’s enough to cause his heart to race and his mind to short-circuit, leaving him reciting things off the projection screen without really registering what comes out of his mouth until the lesson is over. With sweaty hands and in the mist of internal panic laced with excitement, he texts her back at 10.38 an equally casual “hey, hope you’re having a good morning, too”. He beats himself up for not asking her anything the minute he presses send, like, how she’s doing, if she’s at work - literally anything, Noah, Jesus Christ, now she’ll think that you don’t care, nice work, you idiot - especially as the hours pass and there’s silence from her end. He spends the rest of the day drowning in miserable self-pity, checking his dead phone literally every minute, until there’s a new message from her, telling him that she had a very busy day at work and asking him how his day was.

(Thank God, because he was about to send her an embarrassing word vomit apologizing for having zero social skills whatsoever.)

They continue their back and forth texting for the rest of the week, casual conversations about their everyday lives turning into debates about the best places to eat and the best movies of all time to metaphysics and social justice that keep them up till the small hours of morning, Elisabeth sending him blowing-a-kiss face emoji’s for goodnight and Noah smiling like a silly teenager at his phone screen. Right in the middle of one of their more “serious” conversations, Elisabeth venting about income-based discrimination, Noah asks her out. It’s abrupt and totally irrelevant to the context of the rest of the bubbles that litter their personal chat at that moment but he can’t really help himself. She is a woman he wants - needs - to know more about, not through a screen, but in person, sit there and watch her express all the things she has in her brilliant mind.

They arrange to meet on Friday night, after she finishes work, since Noah has to attend a seminar in Dresden on the weekend and since both of them are too impatient to wait any longer. Noah arrives first at the bar she gave him directions to and decides on waiting for her outside but decides against smoking a cigarette, even though he’s itching to, out of habit and nerves. She rounds the corner barely five minutes later, strutting towards him in an electric blue pantsuit and a plaid maxi grey coat, her whole face brightening with a stunning smile when she notices him, and, just like that, everything else fades, his anxiety about their first official date, his mental fatigue after holding office hours, his insecurities, his worries and she is the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters.

A wave of panic washes over him momentarily, his inner perfectionist making a huge deal out of not having a clear plan of how to greet her. A handshake is too impersonal, a kiss too presumptuous. Ultimately, he attempts an awkward, one-arm kinda hug - which is ridiculous because a) he’s a freaking grown-up and b) her tongue has already been inside his mouth and he doesn’t recall his hands being particularly respectful the night of Jonas’ wedding, when she pushed him against a wall and stole his breath with a glorious kiss - an action she probably misconstrues as a leaning in and this results in them doing a clumsy dance right there on the pavement, but she giggles and her eyes shine with amusement, so his self-deprecating frown gives its place to a handsome smirk, when she moves closer to him and leaves a soft peck on his cheek, as a belated greeting. She smells of sensuous jasmine and intoxicating amber, her perfume aery but with a spicy twist that succeeds in stimulating all of his senses. He holds the door for her to enter and his hand lingers lightly on the small of her waist, as they make their way through the tables to the bar.

They settle on two empty barstools and order their signature drinks, Gin and Tonic and Whiskey on the Rocks. Elisabeth takes her phone out of her tote bag but before she gets to type anything, Noah holds her attention. He thinks for a moment and then makes his hands move, forming tentative gestures that lack any grace or flow but succeed in signing “It’s nice to see you. How have you been?”.

Elisabeth beams, impressed, her lips mouthing an excited “how?”. He just shrugs and shyly pulls out of his messenger bag a thick sign language book, a recent purchase of his which he’s been studying with every chance he got. Her whole face softens, touched by his sweet gesture, before she types on her phone.

That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you. Even though you shouldn’t have; apart from technology’s assistance, I’m pretty good at reading lips.

He uses his phone to reply. Yeah, I gathered that much. I just want to talk to you in your language.

The look that she gives him under her fluttering eyelashes is so tender and lovely that he can’t help but stare, a foolish grin plastered on his lips and a hot blush painted on his neck, creeping from the collar of his grey shirt.

They talk - type, to be exact, with the occasional mimic of a word or two - about everything and nothing, fast thumbs trying to keep up with their effortless conversation on the notifications’ section of their phones. He learns about her childhood in Winden, her hellish pranks to her older sister Franziska, her loving parents that separated when she was a preteen but never stopped caring about each other or being there for their daughters. She talks about her hometown friends and her honor roll high school experience, moving to Berlin to attend university and falling in love with the lively vibe of the city, getting her Master’s in Energy Engineering and recently landing her first job on the field at the Tiedemann Enterprises, a very prestige corporation in the industry of renewable energy. She’s still particularly excited about this, being part of a team of researchers thriving to improve energy efficiency based on an environmental friendly strategy.

Noah tells her about his memories as a young boy in Vechta, how he lost his mother when he was only six, due to complications while giving birth to his sister, how his father was never really in the picture after that tragic incident. How the local church and especially Sic Mundus, a church based organization for neglected children and troubled teens, contributed to his and Agnes’ well-being and education, helping him land a university scholarship and get a job, so he could afford moving his sister to Berlin, too, after he got his bachelor degree, and offering her a more stable living situation and a normal life. How, apparently, his aptitude for the humanities and his upbringing in a religious environment drove him to follow an academic career in religious studies, a field that he finds beyond interesting, especially its anthropology aspect.

Somewhere along the conversation, too absorbed into their own little world to register the fewer people in the bar and the clock ticking towards closing time, his hand, as if it has a mind of its own, slides slowly over the wooden top of the bar, her slender fingers meeting his hesitant approach halfway. They’re barely touching but it’s electrifying, the feeling of even an inch of his skin against her skin so exhilarating and powerful, like the impact of meteors colliding or the universe exploding into pieces. It feels like a Déjà vu, like a glitch in the Matrix, like they know each other from the past or recognize each other from their future. It’s a feeling both of them kept seeking, a feeling that they silently vow never to lose.

Noah pays for the drinks, despite her objections, and Elisabeth insists that, next time, the bill is on her. He smirks, a tad tipsy on the whiskey, a lot tipsy on her, and teases her that he must have done something right, because this is the first time a girl agrees on a second date with him this fast. She just shrugs, a cheeky smirk playing on her lip-glossed lips, as she types, if I left it up to you, we’d still be on the PG-13 “good morning” texts. He laughs, an effortless, loud laugh and he catches her staring - no, not staring, checking him out - the corner of her longing smile trapped between her teeth. He fights the insane urge to kiss her senseless right here in this empty bar with the bartender mentally plotting their death for keeping him past his shift.

He accompanies her to the U-Bahn station and his heart skips a heartbeat at the prospect of sharing ten more minutes with her, according to the information display over their heads. She wishes him to have fun in Dresden and he confesses that he wishes he could stay here, to spend the weekend with you, he wants to add but refrains, in fear of confessing too much too fast. Instead, he tells her that he had an amazing night and he’s so relieved and purely happy when she nods vigorously in agreement, her low ponytail bobbing lightly and her beautiful face radiating even under the harsh fluorescent light of the station. The atmosphere around them is suddenly very charged, their bodies gravitating towards each other, and their eyes engage in a stare off that speaks volumes and holds so much unresolved tension. He can hear the bright yellow train approaching and his breath quickens as he takes a brave step forward, invades her personal space, and his eyes declare defeat, falling to her lips. He’s the one to kiss her this time, a soft peck that turns into a needy battle of dominance when she melts into his arms and angles her face to kiss him more, deeper, hungry mouths dancing together in passion, his shoulders hunching over her smaller figure, his hands cradling her cheeks. Her own hands sneak under his coat and suit jacket, delivering a heavy caress over the material of his shirt before she closes her arms around his waist, Noah letting a trembling exhale into the kiss and his lips forming a lazy smirk against her giggling ones. Smugly, Elisabeth tugs lightly at his lower lip with her teeth, a naughty essence to the playful action, and this fuels another round of heated kissing, their bodies pushing and pulling, their heavy PDA a thing they’ll be embarrassed for in the morning. For tonight, though, they’re just two people getting drunk on each other in the middle of a train station, as if tomorrow will be the end of world and they’ll cease to exist.

When they pull back for air her lips are lipgloss-free and her eyelids, still closed, are fluttering over scarlet cheekbones. Noah has never witnessed a most beautiful sight in his life.

Elisabeth gets on the train with a dazed and dazzling smile, promising to text him when she arrives at her apartment. They refuse to let go of each other’s eyes until the train vanishes into the dark tunnel and Noah is left there, on the empty station, a finger reaching to his lips, not quite believing that the fruity taste of lipgloss that still lingers in his mouth or the woman whose lips left their trace behind are real and not a product of his wildest fantasies. There’s an extra hop in his steps as he walks up the stairs to catch the train to the opposite direction, boarding the vehicle at the last minute and sliding quickly on a seat, lovesick smile intact and a newfound feeling of contentment and thrill nested in his chest.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and types, unable to wait any longer.

I get back early on Sunday. Would you like to have dinner with me?