#character study sort of

[carpettmuncher]

real men don't flinch or bleed in public, oh, i think i'm a real man.

[beebeedibapbeediboop]

The last light holder

[puppyeared]

these two are so interesting to me

characters belong to @canisalbus

[iicaru2]

so you know how when redeemed durge rejects bhaal withers shows up and basically tells their dad to fuck off because thats his kid now. i have a lot of thoughts about the dark urge and all of them are emotionally devastating but anyway. do you guys think astarion saw that and felt some horrible kind of numb, resigned jealousy because years ago he desperately prayed to every one of the gods to free him from cazador and got no answer— then this bhaalspawn haunted by the narrative turns up and Fucking Jergal intervenes just to save their life and flips both ao and bhaal the bird at the same time. because ive been thinking about that ever since my durge run and i need to inflict that pain on everybody else now.

[pettyprocrastination]

Silent Treatment

Word count: 941

Warnings: angst, lack of communication within a relationship, that's about it? Anyways silent treatment is bad communicate with those you love this is purely for fiction purposes don't do this in real relationships.

An: wrote this on my freewrite for a word sprint whole heavily sick on the couch (still am🤧) so if there are any major spelling or formatting errors blame my Samsung and the tumblr app.

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

If there's one thing Simon Riley can't stand it's the silent treatment.

He's used to anger. Knows it well and knows his own. Something nasty and rotten that boils inside of him, festering until he can extract it from his veins through the catharsis of violence under the command of his captain or splitting his knuckles open in an empty gym late in the night.

A man who spent his childhood fed insults and violence at the hand of his father has no qualms with a belly full of rage.

But oh, your silence all but starves him.

It isn't passive aggressive avoidance. There's no tight lipped smile as you insist everything is fine when the truth is standing before you both, because that'd give him plausible deniability. There'd still be that surface level communication no matter how empty it rang.

You offer him something so much worse.

Absolutely nothing.

At first, he's content to roll his eyes and let you stew. You want to act like a petulant little child? Fine by him. You can't beat Ghost at a game of solitude, he'll win every fucking time, sweetheart.

But then you slip by him in the hall, turning your shoulder to avoid his own brawny frame when before you would reach your hand out by just a millimeter so your fingertips would graze his own if only for a second.

By Christ, you might as well have backhanded him.

It makes him feel something ugly knotted deep in his chest. His body begins to itch down to the very bone when days past and you've yet to speak or for fuck's sake acknowledge him in anyway.

It's stupid and immature and childish.

YOU are stupid and immature and childish.

He's content to simply sit in his own silence and be done with it. He's left men and women for less than a passive aggressive attempt at an apology.

But while you slide into your stoic silence like a hot bath after an exhausting day, Simon singes his skin down to the bone on his. 

Perhaps it's ironic. That a man called "Ghost" is so uncomfortable with his own silence being gifted back to him that he turns to mild annoyances to gain a reaction from you.

Knocking your shoulder as you pass by one another, looming over you to grab something off of a shelf, entirely invading your personal space when it's unnecessary to press his body to yours in some hope of a twitch, a sigh, anything for you to show him that you're still in there aside from a closed mouth and empty eyes.

He'll find himself scratching at his scalp until the skin is raw and his fingers are tinted red.

Scream at him. Insult him. Hit him. Use him. All that is familiar territory.

Anything but silence.

When you return back to your apartment and find the entire place overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, he hopes it's the catalyst. That was your cardinal rule afterall, no smoking inside. One he could only get away with after he's fucked you to exhaustion and you're too comfortable to lift your head from his chest to scold him for indulging his self-destrictive habits in your own bed.

The pack is three quarters finished by the time you get home, the cigarette between his fingers is all but crushed flat as he watches you slip off your shoes and take soft steps towards him until you stand between his knees.

A myriad of comments sit behind his teeth, ready to be spit in your face. Wanting to ask if youre done with your childish charade and gotten it all out of your system, or maybe you've finally cracked because youre so lonely you can't help but come to him for a proper fuck because nobody will make you feel like he does.

But he says none of it. Simon Riley simply waits, and stares at you with tired eyes like a discarded shelter dog.

"I'm tired, Simon."

Your voice, my God had he missed it so much, sounds almost raw to his ears. A rasp to it that makes him wonder if you'd been crying.

Beneath the guilt, a sick part of him, just big enough to whisper above his conscience, feels a satisfaction in knowing he matters enough for you to shed tears in his name.

"I know."

"I don't like this. I don't like feeling like-" your words die in your throat as your face begins to scrunch up, forcing the whine in the back of your mouth to halt so you can uphold the facade of strength and resilience you told yourself you would on the car ride over here.

But then you look down and see the tired eyes of the man you don't know what to call to you and feel yourself wanting nothing more than to crumble in his arms.

“I know.”

A scarred hand gently grasps your thigh, slowly guiding you closer until you fold into his lap. Your own hands rise to cup his face, savoring the way he leans into your touch.

"We can't keep doing this."

"I know."

Despite his lack of words, you hear him perfectly.

You know he'll say sorry. He knows you'll say it as well. He'll tell you he's going to try and you'll accept it.

He knows he'll fuck it up again. As do you.

But now, as you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder and pretend to not feel him shake and tremble in your arms, he vows to himself to make sure he never drives you to silence again.

[canisalbus]

[wikiangela]

we don't know where this is going now (don't be afraid of heights, let me open your heart wide)

bucktommy rating: G words: 5.6k summary: Tommy cuts their first date short, but to his surprise he gets a call from Evan just a few days later. or, 7x05 from Tommy's POV.

[read on Ao3]

It’s honestly a surprise when just a few days later, late in the evening, Tommy’s phone rings, and Evan’s name pops up. His traitorous heart beats a little faster when he answers the call and leans against the kitchen counter, where he’s been finishing up making a late dinner. “Evan?” he asks, confused but trying to play it casually. He’s good at that. He thinks years of pretending, trying to act straight, playing off gay jokes and even joining in to not make anyone suspicious made him way too good at acting cool and unbothered. He’s definitely surprised and excited, though. “Hey.” he smiles to himself. “Uh, hey- hi, Tommy, hey.” Evan stutters, and Tommy can imagine that flustered smile.  “Hi.” Tommy greets him again, grinning now. “Gotta say, I didn’t really expect you to call.” “I- I know, I just- I wanted to talk?” he says it more like a question, then huffs quietly, takes a breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee. With me. Tomorrow morning?” he says, sounding nervous but hopeful. And Tommy- Tommy has had a very hard time trying to say no to Evan, especially when he doesn’t actually want to. Besides, they can be friends, if whatever potential for romance didn’t work out. He’d be fine with that. He’s friends with Eddie, anyway, so he’ll surely have to be around Evan sometimes, and he doesn’t want it to be weird. “If you’re not- if you’re not busy? “Yeah, okay.” Tommy responds, trying to ignore the excitement swirling in his stomach at just the thought of seeing Evan. “I can do morning. What time?” “Uh, how’s nine? There’s this place I usually go to- I can text you the location? Or we can meet somewhere you like, that’s totally-” “Evan.” Tommy interrupts softly, still smiling. Even over the phone, even still this nervous, Evan is just adorable. “I’m sure your pick is fine. Just text me, and I’ll be there. Tomorrow at nine.” he assures. He thinks if Evan wanted to meet right at this second, he’d be there in a heartbeat. Which is a surprising thought. He really didn’t want to get attached this fast, but there’s just something about Evan… “Okay.” Evan breathes out. “So- so I’ll text you.” he repeats. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.” “See you tomorrow.” Tommy says, before Evan stumbles through a goodbye and hangs up, and Tommy just chuckles to himself. He’s curious what Evan wants to talk to him about. But he also needs to be careful, because he can see himself falling for him so fast and deep and easy. He shakes his head at himself. He’s being silly and ridiculous. Evan makes him feel silly and ridiculous and giddy, and Tommy doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

[read on Ao3]

[royalrebelpropaganda]

faybelle, in the books, does not believe that villains are allowed to be happy. in some ways, maybe she's right. she says: "villains aren't supposed to be [...] happy. we fester, we dwell, we're prone to years of melancholy. you know, proper villain emotions" (fairy's got talent). she keeps herself incredibly busy to the point of overworking herself for one reason or another--head of the cheerleader team, straight-A student, auditioning for the school play, running herself straight into the ground for the sake of making herself miserable and little else. villains, of course, are not allowed to feel things like happiness or glee.

this is an interesting in contrast to the faybelle we get in the show. we see in forest fest that she is bitter over never being invited to places, the tale of two parties displays her insecurity of others favoring people more than her. there is still that level of negative emotion present; but the part where they differ is in show!faybelle's laziness. she sets up a sweatshop to use people's pets to get out of doing detention, she calls up the fairy mafia to get out of cleaning the school. we never see that drive that characterizes her in fairy's got talent, we are just left with her as a character that delights in other people's pain.

book!faybelle is envious, bitter, and uses evil as a tool for success. show!faybelle is envious, bitter, but her use of evil is something that seems to bring her genuine joy, and her sadistic and unempathic role in the story is interesting in contrast to the more "human" take on her in the books. which one do you prefer?

[autisticrosewilson]

Hello to the one blog I've been loving to read for the past few days :) <3

Just wanted to add a little something that I started thinking abt after reading a few of your really cool posts, I think we should also discuss abt how Bruce's argument abt killing (with Jay) are often framed with "you're not the judge, jury & the executioner" which is really telling of who he thinks can exersise this legitimately? ? ?

I think it'd be constructive to actually properly discuss this aspect of Bruce's philosophy too. Plus, we get more nuanced Bruce characterisation. (Also keeping in mind uh... comic book propaganda of the writers and DC themselves)

YES ABSOLUTELY! Like what if someone is given a death sentence by a court of law? Does Bruce still care? I'm sure most writers would tell you no because Bruce has become a cop allegory. He's a violent enforcer of the law, and he seeks to uphold the law. Which is a recent switch! Batman comics used to be more radical, but now they're being written by old white men. So it's another one of those things where you can ignore it for your PERSONAL INTERPRETATION but you can't say that it's not A Thing because it's been like this for at least a decade.

His argument would likely be that everyone deserves a fair trial, that everyone has the right to be seen in court. Something which I do think Jason would agree with because when he's being written well he's not just shooting petty criminals! Jason's stance comes in with the big players, the disgustingly rich or well connected upper class who get away with murder. This has been true since the Garzonas case, the whole point was that Felipe was virtually immune to the law, and Jason couldn't allow that.

I think what it comes down to is whether they believe in reformative justice or punitive Justice, and I can most assuredly say that Batman believes in the latter. You can argue that Bruce is an advocate of prison reform but we don't really have evidence of that. He considers himself a punishment for criminals, he considers himself an equalizer but that's not true because he just delivers criminals into a system that is fundamentally corrupt and unfair. Do you actually think a trial in GOTHAM of all places is going to look at a rich man vs a petty crook the same way? That rarely happens even in real life.

And I don't think that Bruce does what he does out of inherent malice. Bruce is a deeply empathetic person, the core of Bruce Wayne is that he cares. But that's not enough, Bruce was allowed to grow up sheltered and it gave him an intrinsic idealism. He only has a Birdseye view of what the common people go through, that is not enough to stand there and say that he understands . Because he doesn't. He literally can't. And I think this bias, certainly one projected by the writers but that's another issue, comes through the most with Jason and Steph.

As far back as Jason's Robin era - widely regarded as Bruce's peak of being a good dad - he still makes some pretty big mistakes. Because he finds this homeless kid whose family has been ripped apart by the corrupted systems, who has actively experienced the worst Gotham has to offer, and he comes to the conclusion that if he doesn't take Jason home Jason will inevitably become a criminal even after Jason explicitly says he doesn't like stealing. So he takes Jason in but he makes that position as his son synonymous with Robin. And this is where we have to talk about meta because Jason is intrinsically tied to meta narratives. I'm not sure if you saw my other posts about Robin, as a concept, but I'll summarize here.

Child sidekicks are fine, in early comics. When things were campy light hearted whodunnit mysteries with a few action sequences, when you always knew that the child hero would come out unscathed, would always live till the next issue. And so when Bruce makes Jason Robin you have this veil of suspension of disbelief. But Jason's era is where you start seeing these kids' storylines get worse. More gruesome, more violent, more cruel. They start really testing the limit of Bruce's morality.

Batman: The Cult - Robin Jason has to crawl through a pile of dead bodies and while Bruce is having a mental break this MAYBE 14 year old is trying to get them out. The Diplomats Son - Jason watches a rapist be let go, because he's powerful and his dad has money. He sees exactly the kind of damage it does to the victims, he's the one who finds Gloria Stanson. A Death in the Family - Jason is murdered. Tortured and murdered and betrayed. He's dead and he was always intended to STAY dead. And all throughout Tim's run and then into Steph's the writers retroactively change everything about who Jason was because it has to be HIS fault, because if it's not Jason's fault then it might be Bruce's. Because how can audiences see Bruce as just and good for taking in new kids after what happened to the last one?

The suspension of disbelief shatters. Because now Jason is back and he's angry. Because maybe we as readers know that Tim, and Steph, and Damian need to be Robin because Robin makes money with young readers. But you know who doesn't know that? Jason, who no doubt assumed that his survival depended on being Robin. Who was sold out because he was Robin. Who was badmouthed and disgraced the entire time he was gone by people he loved and trusted. Jason doesn't know that he's in a comic book, but I argue he knows he's in a Batman story.

If not from his first appearance then definitely in recent ones. What can you do besides lay down and forgive and keep coming back when you know that the universe revolves around one man? How do you get rid of the terror and anger at realizing that you can never leave, that no matter how much he hurts you the universe will bend itself in half so that he is still just and right? When you realize that the love that has defined you is a disease rooted so deeply that to rip it out would be to kill yourself, that you can't even stay dead because Bruce does not want you to be.

And they couldn't even stick to Jason being the problem! Because then Steph dies. And all I could think was "Of course she did. She's an East End girl whose been compared to Jason constantly. Or a version of him. Of course she would be tortured to death trying to get Bruce's approval." Here we are, history has literally repeated itself, and...Tim is Robin again. Why? Because this is a comic book, and Batman needs Robin.

But what do you think everyone in-universe thinks? What do you think that looks like? How can you possibly still call Bruce a good parent under these circumstances? Bruce calls Robin a blessing, a gift, a necessity. He relies on Robin, physically to watch his back and emotionally to keep him in line. He trains them, he molds them, he loves them.

But sometimes love just isn't enough and the good Robin does shouldn't negate the harm they get in the process. Robin then becomes this horrible force of change, you get it and you know that this has doomed you, one way or another. Because Bruce believes that suffering is noble, that pain can reform people. It's baked into his character. Even if he doesn't intend to hurt his kids, it's not like we haven't seen him justify it to himself and others. "I love you, I did this for your own good, I thought I could help you, it was your fault I did that, it won't happen again, I lost control of myself but only this once, we can be a family again if you just come home." It reads an awful lot like an abuser trying to convince you or himself that he's not in the wrong.

This was longer than I intended it to be, but I guess my main point is that Bruce and Batman can't ever be fully separated. Something that I think his relationship with Cass shows us he's aware of but chooses to ignore. We know that Batman is dangerous, that he wouldn't hesitate to hurt his kids, we saw that with Zurr-Batman (WHO BRUCE ADMITTED WAS A FACET OF HIMSELF YOU CAN'T SAY IT WASN'T HIM BECAUSE HE HIMSELF SAID THAT IT WAS). So why try and act like it's this impossible out of character thing for Bruce to be harmful? For his kids to feel angry and hurt about his actions or for their feelings to be as or more valid than Bruce's. Batman has and will hurt his kids and Bruce will try to rationalize it all away because he loves them, he would never want to hurt them. And the narrative will tell us that Bruce is right, that this is good and fair and just, that Bruce's perspective is the correct one, that his kids deserve this, because this is a comic book and outrage sells. Or they'll retcon it and pretend it never happened. Or they'll just never bring it up again. Or Bruce will be forgiven regardless just to hammer home how good and right he is.

Because this is a comic book about Batman, and Batman is a hero, he is our protagonist, and so he is reliable and we should never doubt him, or call him out, or be mad at him. Naturally.

[astranauticus]

soliloquy

(edit once again i drew something with my ipad screen brightness too high and now that i've posted it nothing is visible. sad!)

[bg-brainrot]

Alone in a Crowded Camp

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: A short Astarion reflection, where he realizes that company isn't so bad.

Tags: Astarion POV, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings

A/N: My ~mood~ persists and I wanted to make this real angsty, but even I couldn’t do that to myself hah. A short little oneshot to try to get me out of my funk!

Word count: ~1.1k

Alone.

Astarion has gotten quite good at being alone.

For two hundred years, he's been surrounded by people– their faces, their bodies, their sickly sweet words and insincere affections. But all along, he has been deeply, achingly alone.

He's had his siblings, ugh, if that's what you could call them. They’ve been a constant, annoying, and at times cruel presence in his life. They’ve felt like a growth he could no more remove than he could ignore. And, through the misery and the pain, he somehow still managed to feel gods awfully alone.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the source of his loneliness. After all, he has nary a moment to himself. But no matter how many people, no matter how frequently he’s with them, something is missing. There is no connection, no kindness, no caring. He simply is alone.

As such, Astarion has grown downright skilled at solitude. A practical art form, he's certain– someone else may call it a method of coping. Either way, it’s not a skill he's comfortable to admit.

Especially not when he suddenly finds himself surrounded once more, veritably drowning in the same disgusting familiarity and the startling newness of companionship. Because this time, he's free. Or as free of Cazador as he's willing to believe for the moment. And his companions don't expect much from him. At least not more than he's willing to provide.

So when he settles into the motley crew, he’s prepared to face the same discordant discomfort of isolation, all while being a hair’s breadth from falling into someone’s bedroll.

Instead, what he finds is an unconventional, at times chaotic, symphony.

The loud sheering sound of weapons being sharpened.

The heat of bodies surrounding a late night campfire.

The beautiful, desperate joy on the faces of those who may not live to see another day.

Astarion soon discovers that, despite the dirt, despite the tentacled doom lingering over his gorgeous head of curls, the boisterous mundanity of daily life is oddly… welcome.

For so long, as long as he can remember honestly, he’d dreaded meeting someone new. Meeting someone new meant as much a death sentence for them as it meant a detestable evening for him, a night lost to his inevitable withdrawal into the deepest darkness he could muster. 

But here, in the warm glow of firelight, the darkness abates. 

Against all of his efforts, he actually learns about the group.

How Lae’zel single-handedly took on her entire crèche while training, how many rooms Gale’s tower boasts back in Waterdeep, how far Wyll’s travels have taken him along the Chionthar, how Shadowheart didn’t need her memories to remember she hated bad wine, how Karlach once defeated a Pit Fiend in the hells themselves. None of them are things he expected to learn, nor care about. But he finds himself listening, chortling along all the same.

And then there’s you.

At first, he’d kept you a careful arm and knife distance away– an asset surely, but just as surely a dangerous one. He’d learned early in his time with Cazador that anyone who could wield both blade and charm was not someone to be trifled with.

What he hadn’t expected was the way that you made him feel: Distinctly not-alone.

Whether it be catching the mischievous twinkle in your eye from across the room or finding himself wrapped in your arms, feeling your body heat slowly seeping into him– he simply can’t understand how you make the world feel so full.

Astarion isn’t sure if he loves this new feeling of overwhelming closeness or misses the solitude. He wonders if he’ll ever feel alone again, and the idea that he may not both thrills and terrifies him.

Because there is something soothing about being alone, a type of insidious succor only his own thoughts provide.

The ache loneliness has carved in his chest is as lingering as it is deeply rooted within him and, like a plant desperately trying to survive, he finds the roots digging deeper and deeper in an attempt to stay grounded.

His moments of actual time to himself have been scarce, of course. So, in his fear, Astarion has gotten used to finding his solitude among the chaos, sequestering himself away from any who might hurt him before such a chance could arise.

Retreating from their kindness, reciprocating with sharply worded barbs, shooting utterly underserved glares in every direction. Their wounded looks mean nothing to him– why should they? They are just another group of strangers, one vampire lord away from becoming another pile of corpses.

However, much like every other of his carefully thought out plans, you are ready to thwart him. For every attempt he makes to withdraw, you’re right there, proving time and again that you are no stranger. Not anymore.

“Astarion.”

It’s a simple thing, his name. The last remnant from a mother he no longer remembers. It sounded wretched upon Cazador’s lips, a curse he could never break. Upon yours though? It may as well be a blessing. 

With that one, simple name, his loneliness is allayed. The roots embedded within him pull back, if only for the moment.

Despite his best efforts, he remembers that he is not alone. Astarion feels at ease.

His heart opens, little by little, and not just to you.

Living hundreds of years as he has, faces had begun to meld together, names began to lose their meaning, voices their distinct candor. But for the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself seeing, listening, connecting to others in a way he no longer believed himself capable of.

It’s… nice. Not that he’ll ever tell the others.

Naturally, his past doesn’t simply up and vanish. His mind still drifts, and he finds himself retreating into the damning safety of solitude from time to time. But each and every time, a hand reaches out– at times jovial, sometimes tentative, other times caring– ready to pull him back to the present.

“Astarion?”

One such hand comes into his field of view, and he takes it instinctively. It’s warm, comforting, and scarred with the beautiful history of an adventurous past. He could get lost in the look and feel of this hand.

“Astarion? Are you alright?”

Your voice is soft, tone gently questioning– yet still worried. Adorable, but you needn’t worry about him. He doubts he’s ever been better.

“Mmm, yes, darling. Quite alright.”

“Good.” 

Your hand squeezes his as you respond and he’s certain that, as long as you’re next to him, he may never feel alone again. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing after all.

[dyed-indigo]

i may or may not have written a fanfiction

[ID: Shang Qinghua and a human Mobei-Jun wearing a doctor's coat sit at a table together eating a bowl of bugs. Mobei-Jun looks satisfied with a pair of wings sticking out of his mouth, while Shang Qinghua has a cricket leg stuck to his face and is crying. Shang Qinghua is also thinking about himself at an earlier point in time, gaming on a livestream and saying "Chat, I'm not gonna eat bugs!" /End ID]

[guardsembush]

He’s My Man, I’ve Been Damned, No, Nobody Has To Understand

- AKA a short drabble I posted on my AO3 earlier detailing what I think happened to Airachnid after the events of the TF One movie, and how she became a Decepticon!

-By short I mean its like 5000 words and some change

- Some of her characterization and actions are based off of her TF Prime iteration, since she received only a few minutes of screentime in the movie ^^

- The relationship between Airachnid and Sentinel can be interpreted as platonic or romantic or any other kind of relationship, it’s pretty fluid in this imo

- In Airachnid’s POV!

______________________

Airachnid always saw things before they happened.

Not in a divination sense, but in a predatory and analytical sense. She saw what others could not, how faceplates always twitch and tick in particular and predictable ways to tell her everything she needed without even lifting a claw.

Watching and observing for eons as a first lieutenant and surveillance officer hones such skills to near perfection. So much so that she could predict what a bot would likely do from a single movement, a single glance.

However, she never could have foreseen this.

The pathetic cell she was kept in could barely be considered one, as it was clearly meant for prisoners with much smaller frames. That didn't stop the new Prime from shoving her inside one and throwing the key away.

It was laughable, really. Once the second in command to the mech she was devoted wholly to, now reduced to nothing. It all ended so fast. Cycles passed like this, with Airachnid simply staring at the empty walls surrounding her. She was cut off from the rest of the surveillance networks, so she couldn't look at anything even mildly entertaining.

Now and then, the unrightful Prime and his weak underlings would visit her cell, speaking of peace and unity and other naive topics that they knew nothing about. They even briefly talked of freeing her to use her skills to their advantage. Not that she would agree to it, even if they did.

She never once spoke back to them. What was there to say? She wouldn’t join their lost cause. A civil war was just beyond the horizon of Cybertron’s future, but they couldn't see it. Nobody could. But Airachnid saw everything, even beyond the walls of her cell.

Airachnid always saw things before they happened.

She knew how the elite members of Cybertron’s past society felt hesitant to live alongside the previous lower classes, and she saw how Sentinel’s death was dividing more and more bots by the minute. It was only a matter of time before the Quintessons would become the least of Cybertron’s worries.

Pathetic. All because a couple of defective mining bots didn't learn their places in their society. It was times like these that made Airachnid reflect on her time with Sentinel.

He was the one who acknowledged her strength, even when the Primes did not. She was left to waste away as the head of surveillance operations, forever recording and processing battle footage and data but never participating in it.

She remembers the day Sentinel approached her for the first time, completely lacking fear or repulsion but instead showing genuine admiration and curiosity for her skills. He promised that the war would no longer be unwinnable, that she would be a warrior who could wet her blades with energon as often as she wished.

Sentinel kept his word. If nothing else, he kept his promise to her. For it, she swore her loyalty for all time. Over reason, over question, over her own life. For it, he was slaughtered as she watched.

Airachnid thought that she could see things before they happened.

She had to watch from the broadcasting tower as he was torn in half by the silver mech, the one who dropped the newly appointed Prime. The cog of Megatronus Prime was then ripped from Sentinel’s color-drained chest cavity, and she watched as his killer placed it inside his own chest.

She was battered and scratched, forcefully held against the broadcasting input panel as her memories betrayed her. Betrayed him.

None of it felt real then. It still doesn't feel real now. In a way, she was denying it still. She was meant to protect Sentinel, and now he was dead. Everything she ever did, she did for him. But now he was gone, and she was still here, rotting away in a cell that didn't even fit her.

An unfamiliar aching pain in her chest made itself known ever since that day.

She was not familiar with the concept of emotions, only with their capability of revealing weaknesses in her enemies. Anger leads to irrationality. Loss leads to impulsivity. Sorrow leads to openings.

So she kept that feeling locked away, unseen and unknown.

It stayed like that for cycles, and Airachnid counted every single moment of it. The distant window at the end of the hall where her cell was placed was painfully small, but it was just enough for her to tell when day turned to night. She never recharged. It unsettled the wardens when they left their shift only to return and find her in the exact same position she was in.

She was used to staying alert for days on end, working until Sentinel would not so subtly suggest a break. Even after they became more acquainted, he still couldn't comprehend that Airachnid didn't have downtime, let alone hobbies or personal preferences.

That pain in her chest only got worse the longer she thought of Sentinel. It seemed to dig and claw at her very spark.

Airachnid knows many things, but emotional connection isn't one of them. She and Sentinel shared that trait, she recalled him telling her. He played the part of a dutiful and devoted Prime, one that happily interacted with his subjects and praised the lower classes, but he didn't care for them at all. Nearly every last relationship he fostered was superficial.

However, there was…an understanding between them. He never bothered to keep up his act around her. She saw through the mask regardless. She saw what he was really like. However, he saw something in Airachnid too. Something that even she didn't realize or think was there.

There was one memory in particular that often crawled across her processor when she thought of Sentinel.

——

“Can you imagine waging a war could be this dull?”

Sentinel was visiting her working area again, an isolated and screen-filled room that was far away from potential prying eyes. It was dark and hidden, unseen and unheard, just like Airachnid herself. The large blue and gold mech was leaning against the doorway, simply watching her work. Sentinel’s gilded presence stuck out from the dim surroundings, but it was not…unwelcome.

She didn't look up from her work with her main optics, but a couple of the ones on the side of her helm flicked to him, a subtle indicator that she was listening. The mech tilted his helm at her action, having seemingly learned a couple of her unspoken signs.

“If it is varied action you desire, I suggest requesting more field assignments.”

His face fell just a little at her response, but it was enough for her to make her prediction. He would be disappointed by her lack of ability to humor him and leave her workspace, never to return. He wasn't the first mech to try and converse with her, and he likely won't be the last. Perhaps he would finally become unsettled by her.

Airachnid always saw a thing before it happened, after all.

But to her surprise, he didn't move from his spot near the doorway. He moved further into the room, like he was…intrigued. Fascinated, even.

He wasn't like the other bots. He wasn't deterred by her pragmatic demeanor or unnerved by her appearance and skills. Even if he was, he truly hid it from her gaze well for her to believe it, and that warranted her respect.

“Do you think we can win this war?”

His usual smile was gone, replaced by a slight frown and a surprising amount of awareness in his optics. It was like he was gauging her reaction, trying to pry open her helm to find the thoughts she buried so deep even she forgot they were there. Sentinel sparked something in her mind that she thought she had suppressed.

She couldn't tell that to him, obviously. He may be laying out a trap. She couldn't trust him so easily. However, she didn't want to ignore his question. For some reason, she decided to entertain him.

“My thoughts on this war are irrelevant. I am not the one behind the plans for battle and strategy.”

“But if you were, do you think things would be different?”

Silence. At least as silent as it could be with her slowed clicking and constant readjusting of her helm optics. Even though she was taller than Sentinel, she felt the need to shrink under his gaze, like he could see what she could not.

He could see her most hidden thoughts, and for the first time, she felt…vulnerable. It was thrilling. Horrifying. Was this how other bots felt when she entered a room? She felt her spark hum just a little faster than it normally did.

“We’ve been taken for granted, don’t you think? If the Primes weren't so self-insistent and hypocritical, we might be winning against the Quintessons.”

His usually outspoken and confident demeanor was stripped away, revealing something he had kept tempered and cleverly hidden in front of others, especially the Primes. But not her. Not anymore.

Pure ambition sparkled in those big blue optics of his. He was peeling himself apart for her, showing her what he would never show others. She knew it was there since she first laid her optics on him, but now he was completely barren of masks and walls and acts.

“Every last one of those Primes wastes your potential by keeping you hidden away. Don't you want to prove to them that you're more than a surveillance expert?”

Airachnid realized that Sentinel was now much closer than she anticipated him to be. How he managed to sneak behind her, she had no idea. Perhaps this was a plot, a ploy to get her to lower her guard-

She swiveled her helm fully backward to meet Sentinel’s painfully blue optics, her indigo ones burning for a reason she couldn't fathom. Her helm stayed completely still as the rest of her body turned to face him, her extra limbs unfurling to give her some extra height.

She was angry, angry at him for interrupting her life with his sincerity both true and false, angry at the losing war she was forged to serve in, angry at herself for letting anyone ever get this close to her true thoughts. The carefully placed walls of her stoicism had started to crack once Sentinel started visiting her workspace.

An unstoppable force had reached an unmovable object, it seems.

If he were any other mech, she would have gutted him for his insolence long ago and hid the evidence. Even tampered with footage systems to make it seem like he left and betrayed the Primes and their forces. But he was not any other mech, and he was still standing.

He may be her superior, the aide to the Primes themselves, but she never cared for ranks or titles.

Sentinel seemed surprised at her angered reaction, but not afraid. He didn't take any steps back, instead opting to stand his ground and look at her with an expression she still couldn't decipher even after cycles of knowing him. The closest description she could ever find was understanding, but even that felt wrong and inaccurate.

It stayed silent like that for what felt like eons, and every bit of it was tense and insufferable. Airachnid was used to sensing tension whenever she was around other bots, and she had grown used to it, but with Sentinel, it just felt…wrong.

“I…”

For once, Airachnid was at a loss for words. Maybe she didn't understand all of Sentinel’s facets after all. The thought of him having more hidden beneath his charm and confidence made her want to peel him open herself, to dissect him piece by piece to try to understand why and how he makes her act so…unlike herself.

Sentinel slowly reached for her servo with his own, an act that would have warranted dismemberment if he were any other mech. But he wasn't, so he lived. She didn't even realize he slowly guided her extra limbs down so that her pedes were touching the floor once more, thoroughly unraveling the web of frustration and barriers she put up.

“You’re held back by what others decided for you. So am I. One day, we’re going to be who we were meant to be.”

Her optics widened, surprised at the sincerity in his voice. If he were feigning his emotions, then he was very good at it. She was going to say something in response to his admittedly comforting fantasy, but he held her servo a little tighter and spoke before she could.

“This is a promise. I'll give us the destiny we deserve. I'm going to make sure of it.”

She didn't have any sort of response to his conviction. His smile wasn't like the practiced one in reflections or the one he used around the Primes, it was…different. Smaller. Personal.

Airachnid always saw things before they happened. She had expected the war to be lost, and to die not in battle with wetted claws and blades but in this cursed workspace that became her life. But now, she cautiously imagined a future of glittering cities and future cybertronians who knew nothing of war.

She could tell Sentinel saw the same future, and he was willing to turn it into reality through any means necessary. The thought of getting to spill energon once more thrilled her.

If Sentinel was lying, Airachnid didn't notice. More accurately, if he was lying, she didn't care.

——

Airachnid now knew that Sentinel was not lying. He effortlessly deceived working-class miners and even the Primes, but she discovered that he never lied to her. Not even once. He told her everything from his desires for Primacy to his plans to keeping someone quiet, and she was always there to wait, watch, and assist.

He was always there to provide her cover, always present to perpetuate the simple little lie that held the foundation of their society together. But when a few unsuspecting bots slipped through the cracks? That's what he had her for.

She was Sentinel’s shadow, the one who happily killed in the dark so he could bask in the light. He knew this, and he made her feel…seen. He never once told her to hide away in some distant lower floor, to hide who and what she is. He was happy to gloat about her dependability, happy to praise her skills in covering up brutal murders to look like unfortunate accidents.

He…

A distant explosion forced Airachnid to open all of her optics and receptors. She couldn't hear what could have caused the noise, but she could feel just how close it was to the walls of her prison shaking from the force. She wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if the disruption was caused by the new Prime’s inability to keep his own forces from dissent. He knew nothing of what it meant to keep someone in line.

Another explosion, and the quieter sounds of blasters firing. They seemed to fade in and out, but they all seemed targeted at her prison building. A riot or escape plan, perhaps.

Airachnid did not know anything to try and make a prediction. It was maddening, having so many eyes and yet unable to use any of them to know what was going on. She was blind in every possible way except physically.

She was defenseless, only having just enough energon in her systems to prevent deactivation. Her weapons were useless without the energon required, and her extra limbs had been removed long ago to prevent transformation or retaliation.

More blasts and explosions. This time, they sounded-

An impossibly loud sound erupted directly next to her, and pain traveled all across her frame in waves. Each of her optics was damaged, even the ones carefully concealed by her helm plating. She wasn't blind, not yet. She had just enough vision left to see that a giant hole had been made in her cell, revealing the outside. Just outside the gap was a jet of red and white and just a bit of blue-

Starscream. She recognized that imbecile easily. That high and mighty pathetic fool whom she so easily captured for Sentinel. High Guard exile scrap. He and his Seekers probably came for petty revenge for killing some of his forces, back when he was -and still is- an ignorant coward who hid as soon as he struck.

Without thinking, Airachnid jumped out of the opening made by the jets and onto Starscream in his aircraft form, clawing and tearing and prying at the metal of his wings and any other area she could reach. Even without her extra limbs and weapons, she knew how to fight, and she knew how to fight dirty.

Sentinel used to commend her for that. For being brutal yet efficient. For being swift and strong and vicious and-

Airachnid screamed out. She clung to the Seeker like a second set of armor. She didn't care that he transformed to try and counter her attacks, didn't care that she was being reckless and risking her life for nothing. She had nobody to fight for, no cause to follow.

These ignorant fools, Autobots or Decepticons or whatever they chose to call themselves were dooming Cybertron more than Sentinel ever did. Why couldn't they see that? Why couldn't they see that Sentinel intended to betray the Quintessons and liberate their planet once and for all, that he did what he did to protect their home temporarily?

She saw things before they happened. She saw how things were supposed to happen. But then these filthy half-wits got in the way.

Her senses came back to her once she realized she was falling, that some other Seeker had torn her off of their commander. She didn't panic. Though she would have liked to be able to fight with more than just her servos, she would gladly pick dying while fighting rather than rotting away in a cell or in a surveillance operations room.

One of the Seekers shot something towards her, and she wasn't able to dodge without the propeller that would usually be on her back. Whatever the thing was made contact with her helm, and everything glitched and burned before going dark.

——

“…Wake her up, and fast.”

Airachnid’s systems hummed to life, and she was immediately overwhelmed by all the notifications of her injuries and the critical state of her energon reserves. There was nothing but red registering in her optics, an unusual sight devoid of the details she was so used to processing.

Familiar surroundings. This was on the surface, nowhere near Iacon City or energon train routes. Red lighting. Nighttime. Distant burning.

Bright blue dotted and smudged against every single one of her optics, a searing pain washing over the injuries despite the lack of sensory inputs around them. Those cowardly imbeciles must have damaged her optics to prevent her from gaining any information.

She was forced up and forward with the distinct sensation of a blaster pressed to the cabling on her nape, the slight heat from the barrel nearly activating and the sound of it charging up being more than enough to make the assumption. Her servos were clamped behind her with the distinct heat and hue of energon cuffs, and she was forced to walk forward with shaky steps.

Her optics clicked and shuttered to process her surroundings fully. It was made very clear where she was now.

Bots and mechs of all kinds created a rough path for her to walk through in what she realized was their run-down base, all branded with the same symbol somewhere on their wings or limbs. The base was filled to the brim with other mechs and femmes alike, all bearing that same symbol. The simplified helm of Megatronus Prime was now an insignia for a band of miserable fools.

Airachnid would narrow a singular pair of her many optics, but the bright blue energon leaking from them prevented her with a sharp sting of pain. The equally bright blue energon cuffs holding her servos behind her back certainly didn't help.

It was humiliating to be paraded in front of these exiled High Guard miner-following imbeciles. At least with kneeling to the Quintessons, it was an unspoken rule with Sentinel to never bring up those moments of submission. But here in this dingy wrecked ship (a poor excuse for a base if she's ever seen one, especially after she and her fleet destroyed most of it), these red-eyed dimwits had already started to chatter and gossip amongst themselves.

“Look, Starscream and the other Seekers came back! They managed to catch Airachnid!”

Airachnid had to hold herself back to prevent gutting the insolent mechs where they stood, something that became increasingly harder to do as her propeller parts were either broken or no longer present to aid in her typical slaughter. She kept marching forward, not just to prevent herself from doing something she'd regret but also because a blaster was pressing against her spine as she walked.

Fearful cowards.

Even with a limited range of vision with damaged and bleeding optics, Airachnid was still acutely aware of her surroundings. The supposed warriors before her were nothing but fools with weaponry. She saw everything. The way some of them shifted uncomfortably when she glanced at them, how others narrowed their optics at hers to hide their dread.

Predictable.

She resisted smirking to herself upon seeing just how many of the High Guard were missing. She knew what happened to them, of course. She sliced them to ribbons with her blades. Perhaps that was why her presence here was such a spectacle to behold. She stood just a little taller as she walked, savoring how some of the surrounding bots shrank under her gaze and physical presence.

Starscream sneered from behind her, his glitched voice box causing some of his words to crackle and be pitched much higher than normal.

“Keep walking, freakshow.”

The null ray on his arm pressed into her back even more, causing her to stumble forward ever so slightly. She said nothing in response, only opening up the back of her helm for just a split second to let her many bleeding optics gaze at his crimson ones.

She couldn't help but smirk a little once she heard and saw his determined expression turn into a panicked one for a split second.

The rest of the walk through the pathetic base was uneventful, save for a forgettable mech or two from the sidelines who tried to shout at her for killing their best friends or Conjux or whatever it was they said, outbursts that were quickly hushed with a glare from Starscream and shushes from the other surrounding bots. It was almost funny.

Airachnid and her escorts ended up reaching a throne towards the end of the room, one that was fashioned from various junk scrap metal pieces and stray cables. Fitting for the mech sitting upon it.

D-16. Or Megatron, as he now insisted on calling himself. Either way, he was still a petulant brute. Even with his new silvery armor plating and tank alt-mode, he still reeked of inexperience and an innate lack of proper control over his forces.

Starscream kicked one of her legs from behind, causing her to kneel awkwardly to avoid falling forward. He and his Seekers then emerged from behind her to join their leader in stoic positions, their pure red eyes rivaling the crimson moons of Cybertron itself. Starscream’s torn plating and sparking wires brought her immense satisfaction, though nobody would be able to tell from her expression.

Someone tried quietly suggesting he get checked out by a medic, but he rejected the notion with glitching hissed words. A small spark from a bundle of exposed wires made him curse quietly to himself, and Airachnid’s gaze narrowed at the sight. Even without her extra limbs and her weapons, the High Guard were still complete jokes.

For a while, it was mostly quiet. There was the occasional distant whispering in the background as Airachnid tried and failed to regain some of the sight she lost after the fight with the Seekers. Megatron continued to glare at her with disgust from his throne as if he was some battle-torn warlord and not an upgraded miner.

She said nothing. She did nothing. She knew how to easily break the energon cuffs holding her servos back. War and surveying battles provide such tricks. She should slaughter all of these imbeciles where they stand.

She should have killed D-16, but she struck him only once. It was all she needed to do to subdue a forgettable miner. Sentinel wanted him alive, after all.

But here, she was surrounded by other soldiers with fully loaded weapons. It was best to watch and wait. To do what she has always done.

Her main pair of optics narrowed to match Megatron’s. His faceplate twisted with revulsion even further if it were possible. Starscream seemed all too eager to tear her spark from her chest if the silver mech demanded it.

“I should have you torn apart right in front of everyone here just for being alive. For working with Sentinel to keep up a lie that was bound to be revealed. For hunting anyone close to the truth. For many things that would take me too long to list.”

Megatron’s faceplate contorted with detestation and far too many other emotions, ones that he didn't have the skill to hide from Airachnid’s perception. Anger. Hatred. Disgust. Reminiscing. Regret.

His words prompted the other High Guard members- the Decepticons- to ready their weapons and point them all at her. Some had even stepped forward as if waiting for their leader to give a silent cue.

However, the silver-plated mech held a black servo up to subdue them. The other bots around him turned their heads in confusion, clearly all too eager to kill her if only given the chance.

“Lord Megatron, what is the meaning of-”

Starscream was hushed with a sharp side-eyed glare, and he hesitantly lowered his damaged arm weapons. The other Seekers and Decepticons slowly followed his actions, all of them reduced to meager insects underneath their leader’s gaze. Airachnid held in a scoff at how easily they were corrected.

“As much as I wish to rip each of your optics out one by one…”

Airachnid braced herself for whatever may come next, the energon cuffs around her servos straining with pressure. The back of her helm split just ever so slightly, just enough for her to use her damaged optics to seek a way out, any way to escape. Her main pair and the ones on the side of her helm all focused on the mech in front of her, his grey and black frame still mostly covered by shadow.

She could escape, though not easily. There were gaps in the plating of the upper rafters, cables and wires parted just enough for her to slip through. She would need to subdue the Decepticons around her. Prioritize the strongest. Starscream, then Soundwave, then-

“…You would be more useful to me with them intact.”

Airachnid lifted her helm slightly, the back plates closing completely. So that was what he wanted. Her skills. With how Starscream and his Seekers made their entrance in Iacon City, it was clear that the Decepticons didnt have anyone who specialized in stealth or covert operations. It was painfully obvious that they needed her experience.

But working for a leader like Megatron? It wasn't worth staying alive and becoming a warrior again. It was an embarrassment. A stain on her history of working for someone like Sentinel.

What would he think, seeing her like this? What would he think of her now, joining a group of inexperienced imbeciles in order to survive?

No. She was not getting involved with this meaningless war. Whether it was with the Quintessons or the Autobots or whatever they called themselves, Airachnid wasn’t interested. Cybertron was doomed either way.

Nothing will have any meaning, and none of these imbeciles cared.

Megatron, however, seemed to be the most delusional of all. He acted as if his word was law here, and so did his minions. They were blinded, but not by the new Prime’s so called deceptions.

The energon cuffs linking her arms behind her back were suddenly removed, and someone forced her to stand upright. She must have been trapped deep within her own mind, otherwise how else could someone approach her without her detecting it?

The optics on the sides of Airachnid’s helm shuttered and blinked individually, each of them reflecting her confusion and sudden tuning into her surroundings once more. There were more Decepticons around her, nearly crowding her but clearly too afraid to actually approach her. Some of them had malicious, almost satisfied smirks on their faces, others had disdainful and disapproving frowns.

It started off quiet, then it quickly became loud cheering and chanting, each of the Decepticons looking in the distance at something. Airachnid followed their gazes, and her optics narrowed.

A red-hot branding iron was being carefully carried over to her in the servos of a large mech, aimed directly at the center of her chest plating just beneath her neck cabling. The insignia was the helm of Megatronus Prime, now desecrated and pathetically symbolic of the Decepticon cause.

Airachnid never cared for the Primes in the first place- except perhaps a certain pretender one- but even she raised an optic ridge at the sorry excuse of immortalization this was. Her secondary optics focused on the different Decepticons around her, each bearing the violet symbol on them somewhere. Wings on one, chest plating on another.

Through this symbol, she would be bound to the Decepticons until her spark gave out or until it was torn from her by her enemies. Through this, she would be loyal to them. At least, that was their definition of loyalty.

The mech with the branding iron approached her slowly as he got closer, the visor over his optics unable to hide his uneasiness as Airachnid didn't move an inch. Her optics hardly narrowed as she gazed at the sizzling metal meant to mark her place in the faction for the rest of her existence.

But these fools knew nothing. They don't know what it means to hold an oath to someone, to swear to stand by them with everything they have, everything they are. To kill and lie and fight not as a servant to their leader but as a complement, as a missing piece to something greater. As someone who understands their leader and is understood in turn.

The searing pain of branded symbols was nothing. It was insignificant compared to the true bonds that forged themselves underneath, carving them into a spark and into life effortlessly. The connection that inspired someone to their greatest good and their darkest evils.

Airachnid only stared directly in front of her at Megatron- her new leader- as the hot metal was placed on the center of her chest plating, not even flinching at the steaming heat as it pressed harder than it probably should. Megatron stared back at her, helm raised as if he had conquered an army. As if he had broken her in.

The other mechs around him didn't share the sentiment. Starscream, in particular, had a displeased and sour expression. His position as second in command was threatened. He was threatened. Predictable. An easy target to make an example of.

If playing weak was what it took for Megatron to lower his guard, then Airachnid would do it. She would play along with his meaningless words and his insufferable band of fools for as long as it took. She would play the part of a faithful and dependable little soldier for Megatron and wait. She would wait and watch, just like she always has.

Airachnid always saw things before they happened. She could see the path unraveling itself now.

While every other Decepticon had careful fear of their leader, she would wait and watch, weaving in between the shadows and the light. She made very little mistakes when it came to her duty, her purpose. Sentinel always told her that. However, there was one mistake that led her here today. She struck D-16 only once. She left him alive.

But now, a new opportunity has presented itself. Airachnid would be damned if she ever let go of it now.

So, she will keep her optics open. She will weave a web and familiarize herself with her new circumstances. She will wait. She will watch. And when the time finally comes,

Airachnid will strike twice.

[expectiations]

The Husbands of River Song is not and has never been about the Eleventh Doctor being a deadbeat, distant husband (gross mischaracterization by the way) and the Twelfth Doctor being the "better, more mature, affectionate" husband.

It was about River Song. It was about River and how the events in Manhattan took such a toll on her. It was about letting us see River dealing with grief the way The Snowmen showed us how the Doctor coped after losing believing he had used up all his time with River.

Looking at THORS now with The Ruby's Curse in mind, I get the instinct (for lack of a word that I cannot remember) that the Manhattan incident Blue Roach read from River's diary was not the Manhattan episode that we saw in series 7.

On that note, I'd also like to bring up the fact that the Doctor grounds River and River grounds the Doctor. As Tree talked about in one of her tags, River's empathy is more cognitive than emotional and after musing on it for a bit – considering that the Doctor can no longer go to Manhattan (which may have changed in later series but I wouldn't know at the moment because I have yet to overcome series 7b) and that River does spend time with her parents in Manhattan post-TATM, would the latest Manhattan incident in River's diary be the funeral for Amy? Amy's death? Perhaps even Anthony's? I mean, we already know Rory died five years earlier than Amy. So, knowing how deep River's love for her mother is, it's not too farfetched to say that River spent that time with them. River was by their bedsides as they drew their last breath.

Then Rory's gone, Amy's gone, Anthony's gone. Where does that leave River? Where is the Doctor? (sulking on a cloud on top of Victorian London? trying to figure out the mystery of his newest companion? all while constantly mentioning a certain Professor Song who actually turns out to be his dearly sort of departed absolutely beloved wife?)

Without her parents (and her husband) to ground her, she goes on this maddened, grieving space Robin Hood spree. She seeks fun to fill in the void and takes up marriage as a hobby/side quest. Does she look for the Doctor? Perhaps. Yes, actually. Considering she crashed her latest sort-of-husband's ship onto a planet where she purported the TARDIS to be.

But... she's stealing the TARDIS. She could have just called the Doctor, yeah? So, she doesn't want the Doctor to know then. Well... yeah, considering she has two sort-of-husbands in hand.

So, River would just have gone on from one space Robin Hood spree to the next had the TARDIS not sort-of-stranded herself on Mendorax Dellora to make sure her Water stopped being stubborn and reconcile(?) with her Thief?

Also taking note of how River has read stories about them and knows that Darillium is purported to be their last night together (I could also bring up the fact that this is why I find it easy to digest the "River meeting regenerations of the Doctor younger than the Tenth Doctor makes sense and doesn't break cannon nor ruin SITL/FOTD" but that would take a whole other post). Does this River believe her time with the Eleventh Doctor has ended? The same way series 7b Eleven believed his time with older versions of River has ended? Is this all part of some grand fuckup in communication all thanks to their tangled timelines?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But has River not just been running from her family's death? Has River been running from her supposed last night with the Doctor?

"But River doesn't run." Oh yes. Yes, she does. She knows when to stand her ground. She knows when to charge. And she knows when to run.

"That's out of character for her." No, it's not. She's not invincible. She's this well trained assassin, yes. But invincible? No.

Invincible from the tendency to be blinded by their emotions? Obviously not.

River lies. And River runs.

She is not afraid of her death. She is afraid of the day when her husband, her Doctor, looks into her eyes and looks right through her. And it shouldn't kill her but it does. It did.

So she ran and ran until her bigger-on-the-inside Mum gently reached out and put her back together with the only person left who could ground her. Who she didn't recognize at first but still fell in love with (and would have loved even if he hadn't been revealed to be her actual, long missing husband). Who finally found out their last night wasn't just any night – it was a twenty-four year long last night. Who finally gave her a breather from all the running she'd been doing.

And oh what a night that was (it was the talk of the universe).

[kingslionheart]

tlk never beating the queer show allegations 🌈 part 3/? | the life of a queen can be somewhat lonely, at least until you find the pious lesbian you are willing to die for

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

sometimes I see David Tennant's face in Doctor Who as he monologues about time travel/immortality/the eternal loneliness and I go...that's him. that's my rotten lil guy. my wretched wreck of a dude. wreckage in humanoid form. the lonely divine corrupted by himself forgiven by himself made by himself made by his companions made by the universe. horrible and horrifying and far too human and not human enough. the worst thing to ever happen to so many (Martha, Adelaide, Astrid, everyone else who flashed through that whole montage thanks to Davros). a corrupter. a corruption. a cleansing. a man carved out of grief and love and pathos and hatred and grudges and forgiveness who can only make the worst decisions with the best, most selfish of intentions. a man who loved until he lost everything. a man, more than any other doctor, who should never be left alone, and yet he dies alone, with the shortest regeneration speech of any doctor. desperately lonely, desperately tragic, a disaster of a man who is too careless with everything and everyone around him.

And yet I care about him so much, because he is also the man who at the end of it all, after he lost everyone and everything he held dear, after he lost rose and donna and sarah jane and jack and martha and mickey left him and he was more alone than he's ever been, he does the right thing. the kind thing. he stops the time lords from descending on the earth. he once again gives up his people because he understands that the Time Lords Victorious cannot and should not ever be the way to go. he steps in and he saves wilfred mott. he lets himself become the doctor once again. he doesn't want to go, but instead of taking that one final step into godhood, he gives his next self a chance at being a better doctor than he ever could be.