#cleaing out the drafts

[stocious]

part two

[flailingart]

these are from the beginning of quarantine back when we still thought it was going to be a normal spring break lmao

[redisaid]

Beneath the Blue Moon - Chapter 10

Blue

Whew, it's been a while huh? I've sat on a draft of this chapter for months that I wasn't happy with because it did not match with my original plan to make it more confrontational. But I just couldn't get it there because the girls were too tired and sad to fight. What a mood.

Anywho, I'm gonna roll with this as is, though it's changing the tone of the story to be a tad bit more pensive. Expect a new poll soon for chapters 11 and 12.

5073 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Change for better or for worse Move much deeper to immerse Drape your spirit in the words Some kind of ghoul Small exception to the rule

It was hard to express what she felt in words. Sylvanas was always a woman of action. Her state of being was one of action. She preferred to show her love rather than tell of it. She enjoyed fussing over finding and then giving the perfect gift. She found herself addicted to the light that would kindle in Jaina’s eyes when she showed her something new or interesting—not to mention the hitch of her breath, the keening whine that would slip past her teeth as Sylvanas showed her new pleasures in bed.

Sylvanas was simply not meant for writing flowery letters, sealed with pressed flowers and perfume, in lieu of all that. If Jaina expected as much for her, she would be sorely disappointed. Her writing skills were better utilized in direct and concise military reports. Those she could easily churn out.

Yet a letter to her soulmate was a struggle.

Clea sat swinging her legs upon the great gilded mahogany desk of the Ranger General, offering little in the way of helpful advice. “You’re quite lucky she’s stuck with you, you know.”

“Your confidence in me is truly inspiring,” Sylvanas drawled back at her.

Even her famous wit and verbal stings were a thing that needed playing off of. If Jaina were here, she could easily have her laughing her pretty little laugh within minutes, and watch as her eyes widened and an intrigued smirk formed on her lips at the continuous, rapid pace of their banter. But Jaina was not here. Her soulmate was off playing nice with the arrogant fop that was Prince Arthas Menethil, somewhere in the great pine forests of Lordaeron.

And Sylvanas was stuck here in her offices in Silvermoon, trying to write a love letter in between mountains of other paperwork. But, when all was said and done, she was quite terrible at saying how she felt. She would much rather show it.

In fact, if Jaina were here, Clea would be politely asked to leave the room so she could show it in the way she truly wanted.

Instead of pouring forth her very soul through her quill, Sylvanas was left to look toward the wrist of the arm that held it instead—to the soft glow of the soulmark that Jaina had lit for her. In her mind, Jaina was there too, a quiet presence of focused intensity. She was thinking about something. She was often thinking like this. Imagining what puzzled her today always brought a smile to Sylvanas’ face, sometimes when one wasn’t necessarily warranted from a woman who had earned a reputation as a stern but fair General.

It was then that Velonara walked in with a stack of even more reports for her, and Sylvanas knew that with her, all hope of getting her thoughts out onto paper today had left the room.

“Good afternoon Ranger General, Ranger Clea,” Velonara said with a mocking air of formality that disappeared as she slapped the stack of paper onto what little surface area of the desk remained uninhabited by other work or Clea’s backside. “Pray tell, what requires so much of your rapt attention on this fine afternoon?”

“I caught her writing to her pretty mage and decided to help,” Clea announced before Sylvanas could even try to think of an excuse. “It’s not going well.”

“Tell her she has nice tits,” was Velonara’s sage advice.

“That’s the first thing I said,” Clea informed her.

It had, indeed, been the first piece of advice Clea had given. And while true, it did not help.

---

What seemed like entire lifetimes later, Sylvanas stood upon the cliffs above the twisting wreckage of stone and mana that was once Theramore, once again lacking for words.

The space between her and Jaina might as well have been filled with such cursed rubble itself. It felt just as tainted and impenetrable. A canyon miles wide—a distance too far and too treacherous to be crossed, or to even consider crossing.

But Sylvanas was here. She was here and she was whole again but dead. She was here to offer the crumbling remains of what she once was back to a woman who had become so much more than she could have ever imagined in these intervening years. Jaina was an Archmage. She was a leader of nations three times over. She had conquered and defended. She had both lost and won so much and lived to tell the tale.

All the while, Sylvanas had been dead. Walking, talking, but dead. How could she explain it all, when back in those happier times, without war and apocalypse threatening at every turn, she couldn’t even express her budding love for her pretty Kirin Tor apprentice?

Now, to the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, she stood like a stone, unable to speak, unable even to begin to go through the list of things she’d thought to speak on, the apologies she prepared, the explanations that had been so clear to her when she’d muttered them as she paced through the Warchief’s chambers in Orgrimmar, hours before.

“I’m—”

“If you’re about to say you’re sorry again, save it,” Jaina stopped her before the second word could even enter into existence.

Only she was very sorry. It was hard to be anything but sorry. Surely, Jaina could feel it thrumming along their bond. If Sylvanas’ heart still beat, she would likely feel that too—the panic, the deep, twisting guilt.

Even Theramore was something she could blame herself for, though it was Garrosh who used the bomb. Still, she had not stopped him. She had not risked it all to defy him. And though strategically, it would have been utterly foolish to attempt it, standing here, watching the arcane scar upon the land that was once a bustling settlement twist and rot all the more, Sylvanas felt as though she should have tried.

Had Jaina thought of that, when she chose this venue for their meeting? Had she wanted to rend more grief from her, more guilt?

It was hard for Sylvanas to say. The woman who she had once loved was just as much a thing of the past as the cocky Ranger General of Silvermoon. Jaina was just as changed by her losses, just as scarred, and just as hard to read for all of it. The setting sun and the swirling arcane mixed their glows in the white of her hair—violet and orange. She looked aflame for it, and her eyes burned too, demanding.

So Sylvanas had to think of something to answer them. Some words, though none would ever be good enough. She started with a question, “You wanted to know why I wished to meet?”

It took a moment for Jaina to offer a simple nod in return, as though she considered leaving just then, finding all this unsatisfactory. But, her feelings as they traveled over their bond spoke a different story. Sylvanas focused on these instead, taking every ounce, every fiber of the intrigue, the hesitancy, the worry, and that little shred that might be wanting.

That, she could certainly understand. She wanted nothing more than to reach out to Jaina. To hold her to her chest. To breathe in the fire of sun and magic that played on the soft white of her hair. Even her gold had been stolen from her.

“I need you, Jaina,” Sylvanas explained. “I need your support. I need you to understand that I am truthful in what I say about the Jailer, the realms of death, and that I have everything to lose for it if I’m wrong. We all do.”

She watched Jaina stiffen at this. The words took their time in washing over her, and Jaina let them echo beyond her into the wreckage, and into the sea beyond before she deigned to respond. “Surely you did not retrieve your very soul from hell then, so you say, to ask for an alliance?”

“No,” the word echoes hollow. Putting that into words does it no justice. Yes, Sylvanas sliced her soul free from the very fingers of the being who kept it prisoner. She did it for so many reasons. She did it for her freedom. She did it because she was missing a part of herself. She did it, too, for love.

But Jaina did not look at her with love. Her eyes were hard, crystalline. They too sparkled with flecks of dying sun and untamed magic.

“I did it for myself,” Sylvanas answered honestly. “And for Azeroth. The things the Jailer asked of me seemed cunning and clever in the beginning. He had a plan. He offered me what I wanted, what I needed, and did not ask for much. It all seemed so clear in the beginning. Death is a cruel and broken thing, and he would free us from it.”

That too, was difficult to explain. What could she tell Jaina of that first death of hers? Of leaping from Icecrown hoping for release—hoping for an end to the mockery of life that still preserved her, only to find terrifying nothingness, then Zovaal, looming. He showed her the unfairness of it—the loss of self, the lack of rest.

Worst of all was when she asked, pleaded, begged him to see her family again—mother, father, Lirath—to know that they were resting safely somewhere would bring her the most peace she’d known since she was alive with Jaina in her arms, listening to her bare her burdens, her loneliness since their loss. But there were no such people left for her to meet. No, Zovaal had told her, what remained of the souls that were once half of her immediate family would not know her anymore. They would not judge her for all she’d done. They would not welcome her to run with them in the great hunt, as elven mythos would often picture the afterlife. No, they were perhaps an angel with blue skin, a trickster faun, a plotting vampiric courtier, a proud gladiator, a thousand other things, or even just loose, aimless anima. The person they had once been was gone. They would not know or remember her, for better or for worse, ever again.

Anything, it had seemed, was better than enduring the cruelty of that fact, and to bear the idea that it was the same for every soul that had ever been willed into existence. To be tied so deeply to others in life—only to lose them forever in the eternity of death? It was beyond cruel. And worst of all, that part was entirely true and real, and not just one of Zovaal’s lies.

It had been easy to dwell on that. Even missing half of her soul, it had been hard to follow the agenda to put an end to it when it dragged on and on, seeming just as cruel.

It had been impossible for her to follow it any longer as it directed her to hurt Jaina.

“No doubt you heard what I explained yesterday aboard our ships. No peace awaits us in death. He had promised me a way out. His domination magic made it seem so convincing, so clear. But I began to have my doubts that it was possible, that such a solution was even what he was driving me toward. Those doubts were solidified when he asked me to raise your brother, willing or not, and turn him against you,” Sylvanas explained.

Those words, it seemed, hit home. Jaina’s eyes widened at the truth Sylvanas had otherwise not revealed.

Yes, she was her tipping point, and yes, she should know that.

“You defied this master of yours then, for Derek?” Jaina asked.

“For you,” Sylvanas told her.

The sun clung to one last sliver of the horizon, lighting the western sky to brilliance in orange and gold. Belore would abandon them soon, but perhaps it was for the best. No doubt Jaina would struggle to look upon her as she did now. Devotion and apologies alike meant little if they came from such a wretched creature as she. Her beautiful apprentice turned Archmage deserved better than a mournful corpse.

“If you’ve known all this for so long, why not come to me earlier? That’s what I don’t understand, Sylvanas,” Jaina said, seeming confused at the end by the name that fell so readily from her lips.

The words met her along with a softening in the back of her mind. It was not what Sylvanas expected, not what she rehearsed for. She prepared for Jaina to be stony-faced, civil, but enraged. She prepared for eyes that would not meet hers, not these that stared, and danced with flame and fire and want and this bone-deep desire for an understanding.

Sylvanas held up her hands, bare for the occasion, glowing soulmark on display on her wrist. “Would you have believed me? Would you have even as I explained all these things yesterday, if not for the attack that came after? You wouldn’t have, and I have given you little reason to. I doubt it would have been any different had I sailed here straight from Lordaeron, Grand Marshall Garithos’ blood still wet on my hands.”

“You don’t know that,” Jaina told her. “I grieved for you. For so long, I mourned you. You didn’t even tell me you were—” she trailed off, lacking the correct words to finish that sentence.

“Still alive? Because I wasn’t. I’m a monster. An abomination. An affront to the gods themselves. I still am, even with my soul intact,” Sylvanas reminded her. “Back then, the Alliance saw my people as nothing more than mindless zombies, temporarily bending their feeble wills away from the Lich King’s control, soon to be consumed by it once again and be made to betray them yet another time. You mean to tell me you would have thought any differently?”

“How can I answer that if you didn’t let me try?” Jaina immediately snapped back, her frustration boiling through, both in the movement of her hands and like a pot of boiling oil in the base of Sylvanas’ skull. “If you had come to me, if you had—”

“If I counted back the hours to you I have wasted, dwelling on the past, one by one, we would be here all night and another day,” Sylvanas told her. “I don’t know how you would have reacted. When, where, or why. It doesn’t matter. Could have and would have do not help us now. They do not help the people of Azeroth.”

“They did not help the people of Teldrassil either.”

Ah, there it was. Sylvanas had speculated she would have to answer for her greatest of crimes here. Really, letting the Jailer in had been the greatest, but if it were not through her, then surely it would have been some other pawn that would have taken his power to Azeroth. She just had her anger, her reasons, her vulnerability in having only half a soul to judge by.

“It was not supposed to end that way,” Sylvanas told her frankly, voice low, finding for the first time she could not look into Jaina’s eyes as the dying sun behind her was too close to the memory of the roaring flames. “And while I know it sounds no worse to say this, only one key person was meant to die that day. I left the job to Saurfang, but his odd new sense of honor let Malfurion escape. The strategy to burn the tree was the extreme alternative I was driven to, though no doubt it is what the Jailer wanted all along. That is often how it worked. I would plan something sensible, direct and discreet, it would fail, and then I would be driven to the mad answer, every time.”

The silence stretched on long enough for Sylvanas to have to look up to gauge Jaina’s reaction. She wondered if SI:7 had heard of her original plans for the invasion of Darkshore. But what did it matter? They were doomed. All of these failures, time after time, all this falling back and having to rely on desperate measures—it had all been him. The taunting hand that had held a piece of her soul had pointed her in the wrong direction only to watch her damn ever more souls to his hell in her attempts to make it right again.

The fact that Jaina seemed to be thinking on it still, her mind grinding the words down to powder, as the sun flashed one last brilliant ray behind her, sinking below the horizon, was not lost on Sylvanas. It meant that she did not know. It meant that she was trying to understand.

“Tyrande would have killed you for it all the same,” was what she finally said.

“Perhaps I may yet welcome the mercy of her blade,” was all Sylvanas could say in reply.

There was another silence, but this one ended with a bitter, short laugh against the coming dark of night. “I don’t wish to feel what it’s like to die with you again, so let’s avoid that,” Jaina offered.

There. That was something. Just as the tension dropped on the edge of her spine. In the night, Sylvanas’ wrist glowed like a guiding star. There had to be something left of this, something worth saving. Even if all she had to offer Jaina was to share her life with a dead, bitter war criminal, who had been manipulated into some of what she’d done, and had gladly chosen other transgressions without so much as an ounce of that evil influence.

“I cannot say that Zovaal is to blame for everything I’ve done. I cannot draw an exact line for you of where he ends and I began. That, I think, is the worst part of it. The terrifying part. It all made sense in some way, because that was what he wanted. I wasn’t able to see it so clearly until the day I clutched my soul in my hands. His chains did not hold me then,” Sylvanas went on.

Feeling welled up in her along with the word. Bright and bold, crisp as the cold air of winter, burning as the summer sun. The extremes of emotion save that of anger had been a foreign thing, and still were to her. She felt too raw, too new, her skin newly shed.

“If I were thinking as clearly then, or any time, as I am now, I think I would have come to you,” Sylvanas told her.

She wanted to cry. Not in the screaming, raging way she’d cried for her death and the constant struggle that followed. No, she wanted to cry because this was all just awful. She wanted to cry because it was all like a bandage ripped from a scabbing wound that would not and could not heal. The world itself was even scarred—she had seen the tip of the great hilt of the sword stuck in its side even on her flight over here.

Jaina didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve planet-sized swords and magic-sundered cities. Only the purple of Theramore’s arcane painted her now, and she was beautiful in it. A stunning woman if ever there was one, powerful and stern in the way she stood and thought about those words.

She deserved a lonely Ranger General, whose life she had brought light back into just by existing. She deserved warm, languid mornings in a bed draped with the finest Quel’thalan silk. She deserved to laugh and smile easily, without worrying if she could or should for the state of things. She deserved the smile that even Sylvanas could feel a thousand miles away when she read her terrible attempts at love letters. She deserved the life they were supposed to have together.

But Sylvanas supposed it was not for her to say what Jaina deserved. White-haired and once-dead herself, her heart still beat, but she knew what it was to fail, what it was to have it all come crumbling down, and to be the one picking up the pieces yet again.

All Sylvanas wanted was a chance to be a brick in that new foundation they might both build together. Anything else, well, she would just have to see.

“I don’t know how I could have helped, but I would have tried,” Jaina told her.

“I know. I should have known,” Sylvanas told her. “And I know now it’s too little too late.”

Jaina reached for her, and just as Sylvanas had done when she’d first arrived, let her hand drop empty. It was covered still by the clawed gauntlet, hiding the mark that Sylvanas knew burned beneath it. Jaina was clearly not ready to divest herself of such armor around her, nor did she blame her for such caution.

Still, she reached.

“I can’t say I didn’t wish you did this all of this much sooner, but if you were manipulated as you say, I understand how hard it must have been to do at all,” Jaina said, looking down at that hand before clenching it, the metal of the gauntlet creaking. “But know that I don’t accept that as an excuse.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Sylvanas told her. “Or anyone. I deserve far worse than Tyrande’s blade at my neck, which I’ve no doubt she still wants to deliver to me.”

Tyrande’s absence on the ships was noteworthy. Even though the ceasefire had caused all Horde forces to be removed from Darkshore, she had pursued them to the last—apparently culling them from the boat ramps and swinging ladders hanging from hovering zeppelins. When Sylvanas had posed the question of where she was to Anduin at the beginning of the summit, he’d simply shaken his head.

“I only ask that if I am to be punished, that I do so after we have defeated Zovaal, at least in some measure,” Sylvanas went on. “I will be of no use rectifying my crimes if I am to be in chains once again.”

“I fail to see how that helps any of us,” Jaina concluded. “There is no doubt in anyone’s mind you have been truthful about this, you know. Not even mine. You were correct before in saying you had everything to lose if you weren’t.”

“Delivering oneself into the hands of one's enemies spouting madness they cannot prove is not the strategy of a woman with secrets left to keep,” Sylvanas noted. “I am done with secrets. Truly. Ask of me what you want, what you need to know and I will answer. I owe you at least that, for coming to hear me out.”

Sylvanas watched as Jaina’s lips wrapped around a question, then held it in, like a sigh she did not want to allow to escape. A prayer, maybe. A complaint, perhaps. There was so much to talk about, but the moon was rising, following her ardent and fruitless pursuit of the sun. Tonight, it was only a small crescent, still regaining its form and power. But, it was waxing, not waning.

And while Jaina seemed to debate what question she should ask first, she was asking.

Her pause left Sylvanas enough time to wonder what she would ask, if Jaina were to open herself up this way.

That answer was as simple as it was impossible, really. “Did you love me?” would be what she wanted to know. Ever, at all, still? It didn’t matter. But it wasn’t a question she’d been invited to ask, or one she could give voice to even if she was. Not now, at least. Perhaps not ever.

Perhaps she might never know. Perhaps, she might have to be content with her soulmate standing at arm’s length from her, struggling to find the right words, offering only distant hope of a truce, an alliance of needs, and nothing more.

But loved or not, Sylvanas supposed that was better than the alternative. Still, Jaina was here. She’d listened.

She opened her mouth again to speak.

“Can we maybe sit a while and just, well, talk?” Jaina asked. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear more about this Zovaal and the Maw.”

It was something. Anything at all.

“We can talk, yes,” Sylvanas answered, as she watched Jaina sweep aside her skirts, and sit upon a nearby boulder.

She gestured to the same rock, where a flat place was left empty just beside her, waiting, inviting.

It was the closest Sylvanas had been to her—no. That wasn’t right. Jaina had reached out to her the day before, touched her skin, asked for her to meet. No more melodramatics, no more comparisons of the years and years she’d lost to death and dominance, the wrong and the right of it. These would not serve Sylvanas in her goals, her atonements. Her actions would.

Sylvanas sat next to her soulmate, and though she desperately wanted to reach out to touch her again, she held her bare hands still in her lap. She would tell Jaina everything she wanted to know, everything she was willing to hear. Sincere words were never her forte, but as a career soldier, she could report like no one’s business. If Jaina wanted a report, she’d get the report of her lifetime, so long as she was willing to listen.

And Jaina, it seemed—sitting beside her, back straight, arcane fire dancing still in her eyes and on the strands of her hair—was still listening.

---

Another day, another lifetime ago, and Clea had once again perched herself on the edge of the Ranger General’s desk, legs swinging, without invitation.

“What has you grinning with your ears pointing straight to Belore like that?” she asked as she unceremoniously took up her favorite seat in all of Silvermoon.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was a report from Vereesa on supply lines?” Sylvanas offered, not looking up from the letter that was decidedly not that.

“No. Well, wait, it depends on the type of supply lines. I know you love a good artillery shipment, but maybe not that much,” Clea said.

Sylvanas huffed a laugh. While she would indeed be delighted to get some new ballistas requisitioned for the weaker points of their defensive lines on the Amani front, the likelihood of King Anasterian prioritizing that was far lower than her chances of even finding her once in a lifetime soulmate, whose letter she was actually smiling over.

Clea took this opportunity to peek for her answer and snorted her own response, “Well, I doubt Vereesa writes to you in Common, so I’d say you’re drooling over a letter from your pretty mage instead.”

“I don’t drool,” Sylvanas retorted. “But I also don’t wish to waste time lying to you. Now, Ranger, was there a purpose to your visit other than to pester me about my love life?”

“You love her then?”

Sylvanas knew that the question was meant to be teasing in nature. It was hardly meant as the existential blow that it felt like, a slap across the face that reality must be answered to.

Of course she loved Jaina. That much she knew. The truth of it was so odd though. She’d met the woman for only a week, and still knew precious little about her. Fate had decided to place them in each other’s hearts, forever bound by their souls, and while Sylvanas had relished in the idea of no longer being alone in this world, she had not done so with love in mind. Odd as it was to say, she sought her soulmate for wholeness’ sake as much as anything else really. It was a thing one did, a lifelong pursuit in the long life of an elf, one she was lucky to fulfill in her relative youth.

But yes, the answer was easy. She loved her. She loved Jaina with every fiber of her being, every steady beat of her heart, every calming reminder of their bond as Jaina’s thoughts and feelings leaked so subtly into her mind across the vast distance that separated them, and likely would for much of their lives. They were still figuring out where they would live, where they might even meet for the next time, once Jaina was finished with this silly little jaunt around Lordaeron.

She wanted Sylvanas to come to Dalaran, of course. That was the topic of this letter, apparently sent just before she left the city of mages to accompany Prince Arthas.

Sylvanas hated Dalaran, but for Jaina, she could try. That, she supposed, was what love really was, at least to her—a willingness to put all aside, grievances and gratitudes alike, just to be with someone. Even if that meant dealing with an entire city full of snooty magisters. Jaina deserved that much from her—to do as Sylvanas had done with her in Quel’thalas, and take her to meet her friends, to eat at her favorite restaurants, to see the things and people and places that were important to her.

It was all so strange how this worked with soulmates. It felt like doing love in reverse. The deep, unfathomable bond was there already, but Sylvanas didn’t know what wine Jaina liked best yet, or what she would do to cheer herself up or clear her mind when she was feeling weary of the world and its trials. She didn’t know her favorite color. She didn’t know what animal she’d most often pretend to be when playing make-believe growing up.

Sylvanas, of course, had been a fearsome lynx in her childhood games. What animals were even so prevalent in Kul Tiras for Jaina to assume their imaginary form in her play? Sylvanas didn’t know. She almost jotted down a note to herself to find a natural atlas of the island nation to familiarize herself with the possibilities, but remembered that Clea was there, now looking strangely at her as Sylvanas hadn’t responded in her musing.

“Of course I do,” she answered.

Because she did. She loved Jaina Proudmoore, and was looking forward to spending the rest of whatever time the gods might allow them to have together to get to know her, however and whenever she could.

[violence-uncut]

Distractions. ( j.m. & e.k. )

pairing: jon x eddie

warnings: m/m, smut, oral, daddy kink, blood ( small ), mentions of sex toys, shower sex

type: one-shot

words: 2,673

summary: eddie helps mox one of the only ways he knows how.

( based on the episode of dynamite/winter is coming! )

a/n: two years. . . geez im so sorry. but i've had this in my drafts forever so forgive if it's a bit rusty. hopefully another one will be posted in a few weeks. enjoy!

AEW Dynamite / Winter Is Coming! 12-2-20 - Jon Moxley vs. Kenny Omega for the AEW Championship.

It was supposed to be a clean fight. He was so stupid to think Omega would play fair. It just proves to Jon just how much of a coward this guy really is. So much for the fucking Gentleman’s agreement. He currently lays in the center of the ring, blood dripping into his eye.

Mox’s body feels like lead even though the anger made it feel like his entire being was set on fire. Despite the dazed look in his eyes, he really wanted to punch something or someone right now.

Jon could hear commotion out on the stage, hearing a certain New Yorker spit curses towards a specific man named Lance Archer. When the brawl breaks out on the stage, Jon works his way under the ropes and stumbles over to the barricade with help from officials.

He just wants to stay and wait for Eddie but he's urged to the back so the Doc could stitch him up. Once he's cleared and free to go, Jon storms off down the hall towards the locker room. He's breaking things and shoving equipment carts out of his way as he rages, a headache brewing at the base of his skull.

All Mox could think of was Callis and Kenny running from the building with his championship.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" He yells out, shoving a cart particularly hard that it topples over, spilling its contents all over the floor. A member of the crew rushes up, trying to calm Jon down. "Get the fuck away from me!" He couldn't remember the last time he was this angry. He feels it boiling under his skin as he gets bombarded.

He just wants to get to the damn locker room. He can feel the tears begin to form behind his eyes as he starts shoving people away from him out of pure fight or flight.

“Hey!”

Everyone freezes at the sound of Kingston’s voice. “Move, Move! What the fuck is going on here?!” Jon’s back is to the commotion as he takes deep breaths.

One of the security guards explains what happened to Eddie, a few words later and he walks over, placing his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “C’mon Mox, let’s go.” He gives him a shove towards the locker room.

Mox does what he’s told and makes his way, shoving the door open. All the wrestlers in there look up when the two enter and all Eddie has to do is glare across the crowd and they’re all scrambling to gather their things. Jon walks over to his cubby and sits inside, head dropping into his hands with a hefty sigh.

After making sure there’s no one else in the room, Eddie locks the door and heads over, stopping in front of Mox’s sulking form. He reaches up and runs his fingers through the bit of hair on the top of his head.

Jon drops his hands and rests his forehead against Kingston’s stomach. He’s still breathing heavily and the tears he’d tried so desperately to hold back now spill freely down his cheeks.

Eddie knows Mox doesn’t need words right now. He trails his fingers down and cups his chin, gently pulling Jon’s head up.

The look in his eyes alone made Eddie want to hunt Kenny down and do unspeakable, extremely violent things to him. “Oh baby boy. . .” He cups Jon’s face with both hands and wipes the tears away with his thumbs.

Sniffling, Jon leans into the older man's touch, his shoulders dropped, eyes closing. "D-Daddy. . ." His voice cracks and Kingston leans down, pressing his forehead against Mox's. "I'm here baby. I'm here." Their lips connect in a kiss and Jon's hands reach up, gripping onto his shoulders.

Eddie reaches between them and rests his hands on his hips, reluctantly breaking the kiss. "Let's go get you cleaned up, yeah?" Jon nods solemnly, letting go as Eddie rises, taking a hold of one of his hands automatically and tugging Mox up. He leads him to the showers, stopping him in front of an end stall.

“Undress for me.” He instructs, reaching in and turning on the water to piping hot just the way he knew the other loved. Jon fumbles with his belt, pulling it through the loops. He knows he’s being a little dramatic but he just couldn’t help it. He should’ve paid more attention during the match, he should’ve-

“Hey, baby boy. Hey. . .” Eddie’s soft tone cuts through his thoughts. Warm hands replace his own and Kingston works on getting Mox out of his jeans.

Something resembling a whimper leaves his lips as his boyfriend helps him undress the rest of the way. “Thank you. . .” Eddie maneuvers him under the spray of the water, careful not to get himself wet. “You’re welcome sweetheart.”

He steps back, arms crossing over his chest and watches Jon’s naked body, his eyes scaling up his toned legs, to his perfect ass and up his- abs? Eddie blinks, finding Jon’s now facing him, his big blue eyes gazing up at him.

“Please join me daddy?”

He smiles, actually smiles. The only thing that gets him to smile now-a-days. He starts to undress, kicking off his timbs and shedding each layer one by one. “Since you asked so sweetly.” Mox watches as he strips, subconsciously licking his lips when Kingston slips off his boxers and steps into the shower.

They step into each other and Jon wraps his arms around the other’s neck, planting a firm kiss on his lips. Eddie smiles into it and grabs the younger man’s ass, pulling him flush against his body. He can barely taste Mox’s blood mixing into the kiss because of the water washing over them.

Jon groans into Kingston's mouth when he feels their cocks brush against one another. Eddie deepens the kiss, sliding his hands down to the back of Jon's thighs. He lifts him up, wrapping his legs around him. "Fuck King. . ." Jon pants, locking his ankles together.

"You act like I don't fuck ya like this all the time." The man smirks, pushing Jon back against the tiled wall, holding him there. Moxley’s head lulls back with a thud as Kingston begins trailing his kisses down the column of his throat.

“Mmm, and? Lemme enjoy how fuckin’ jacked my man is, okay?” The two engage in a mini stare down before Eddie grins, slowly spreading his ass apart. “Oh f-fuuuck. . .” Jon’s moans echo throughout the showers at the stretch.

The elder smirks, maneuvering Jon’s ass over his cock. “Feel good baby?” Mox whimpers when he feels the head of his cock pressing against his hole. “Yes daddy, fuck. . . please, wanna feel you inside me.” He wiggles his hips, a long moan leaving his lips as Eddie sinks all the way into him.

“That’s my boy, takin’ me so well,” Kingston’s voice is deep and rough in Jon’s ear. Shudders rack his body as he tightens his hold on Eddie. Rough hands settle on his hips, giving him time to adjust. Eddie gives him a few more seconds before working him up and back down his thick cock.

  “Shit, have you been usin’ your toys?” Eddie groans out as he fucks up into Jon. All Mox could manage is a smirk as he swiveled his hips, letting him feel the answer to his own question. Eddie slips in and out of him easily, a chuckle on his lips.

  “You’re such a tease baby boy. But fuck if I don’t love it-” Eddie’s cut off by Jon grabbing the back of his neck and slamming their lips together in a sloppy kiss.

“An’ you talk too much, put your words where your cock is, daddy." He purrs, beginning to fuck down against him at a steady pace. He rejoined their lips and slips his tongue into Kingston’s mouth; gently running it over his to get him to stop talking.

Their hot breaths mingle as Eddie clutches Mox’s hips, helping him ride his cock faster. He groans at the assault on his tongue, feeling him suck the muscle gently.

Jon knows what he’s doing to his boyfriend, but he’s justified- kinda. Mox snickers into the other’s mouth, a string of moans leaving him when he brushes that special spot inside him.

Eddie��s top lip curls into a smirk, fingers gripping his boy’s hips harder; He’s almost positive there’s gonna be bruises in their place tomorrow.

He didn’t need any affirmation to know that he’d found Jon’s prostate. He whimpers, tightening his hold around Kingston’s neck, pressing their foreheads together rather hard.

Jon can’t help the string of begs that leave him as he gets closer and closer to reaching his end. “P-Please daddy. . . I needa cum, please.” Eddie chuckles roughly, panting against each other’s mouth as he reaches between them, wrapping his hand around Jon’s cock. His eyes roll back into his head as Eddie’s firm grip. “Shit daddy, please, please!”

His wrecked pleas and whimpers are music to Kingston’s ears as he begins to jerk him. “That’s daddy’s desperate boy.” He growls hotly against Jon’s ear. Warm tears of pleasure spill down Mox’s cheeks as he feels his orgasm creep up on him starting in his toes.

Jon cups the back of Eddie’s head and wraps his other arm around his shoulders for support. “Fuck daddy ‘m s-so close pl-plea-” Jon’s mumbles are cut short as he spills over Eddie’s fingers; the elder milking his cock to the last drop.

Eddie kisses away some tears along both Jon’s cheeks as he works him through his high. “That’s it baby boy, did such a good job for me.” Eddie coos, his thrusts slowing to a stop. Jon lets his head fall back, goosebumps erupting all over his body.

“You didn’t get to cum. . .” Shaking his head fondly, Eddie wraps his arm fully around Jon’s waist, walking them over so he could shut off the now icy water.

“Mm, wasn’t ‘bout me tonight.”

Jon squeezes around his boyfriend’s cock still inside him, whimpers of pleasure leaving his lips as Kingston walks back towards the lockers. “Gonna pull out now sweet boy, think you can handle it?” A sigh of protest leaves Mox’s lips but he nods anyways.

It takes Mox a few minutes to regain feeling in his legs but Eddie’s right there, holding him up. Comfortable silence settles over them as Eddie pulls out their street clothes.

“I’ll pay ya back with a blowie or somthin’ later.” Rolling his eyes while his back is turned, Eddie grabs one of his towels before facing the other. “Shut the hell up,” He responds playfully, starting to dry Jon off. “You ain’t payin’ back shit.”

Jon grins cheekily, lifting his arms as Eddie runs the towel down his body. “At least let me dry you off too? I can’t have your naked body in front of me and not be able to touch it-.” The end of Jon’s sentence is slightly cut off as Eddie throws the towel in his face.

Jon laughs and catches it before it falls. He could sense Eddie’s patience thinning a little by the look on his face. He walks over and starts drying Eddie’s head and beard.

“Thank you for takin’ care of me,” Jon places a kiss on Kingston's cheekbone, pressing against him lightly, his body language following the opposite the words that just came from Eddie’s lips.

“I can always count on my daddy.” Mox continues to dry him off, tossing the towel away right before getting to his crotch. His hand takes its place, gripping Eddie’s cock triumphantly.

A deep breath exhales through Eddie’s nose, eyes becoming cloudy with lust. “You really don’t like to listen, do ya?” Jon smirks, nipping along his stubble jawline. He tightens his grip, pumping him slowly.

“No’p’e, how else is this relationship gonna work?” He pushes the right half of his body against Eddie’s, knocking him back against the wall. He picks up his pace, a satisfied groan leaving Eddie’s lips.

“I knew you wanted this,” Eddie’s hand comes up quick and clutches the back of Mox’s neck. “ ‘Course I did,'' He grits out, capturing Jon in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. “Always do, but tonight was about you baby.”

Smiling in victory, Jon swipes his thumb over the leaking head in his hand. “I know daddy, but I love your cock and I want to repay you. . .” If Eddie could’ve gotten any harder by just those words alone, he probably would’ve.

He squeezes Jon’s neck, a moan breaking out with his words, “A-Alright baby boy, alright.” Sated, Mox smirks and bites down onto the junction between Eddie’s neck and shoulder. 

A growl leaves Eddie’s throat as Jon bites into his skin, the feeling sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. Trailing nips down the length of Eddie’s body, Jon sinks to his knees and comes eye level with his cock. More precum trickles down the slight curve of Kingston’s dick and it makes Mox’s mouth water.

“C’mon baby boy, clean up your mess. . .” Mox eagerly licks up the sensitive side; Collecting the precum on his tongue before wrapping his lips around the head.

A taste that’s even more distinctly Eddie explodes on his taste buds as Jon expertly swallows him to the base. He breathes through his nose, feeling his boyfriend filling his throat with every pump from his hips, making Mox’s eyes roll back into his head in pleasure.

Eddie’s head thrashes back and forth against the concrete, his thoughts getting fuzzy each time Jon takes him all the way. “Fuck baby, that’s it. . . always thinkin’ of daddy. Such a good boy.”

Moxley’s whole body is sore, his head full on pounding now but he definitely didn’t want to be anywhere else right now. The feeling of the cold floor on his knees helps cool his still overheating body.

He sighs when Kingston reaches down and runs his fingers through his beard. A sign that his boyfriend was close to his end.

Suddenly pulling off with an obnoxiously loud ‘pop’, Jon wraps his hand around Eddie’s cock, keeping the same pace as his mouth. “Gonna cum for me already daddy? Was I that good?” His eyes flick up and lock on Eddie’s, the hand on his jaw tightening.

Praise was something Kingston knew Jon craves, and he’s going to give him exactly what he wants.

“Mhm, so fuckin’ good baby. You know what you do to d-daddy.” Mox kisses around the head as he jerks Eddie faster, wrapping his lips around the tip. “Fuck, gonna make me cum so good baby boy, such a pretty mouth. . .” Eddie’s thumb rubs against Mox’s cheek, his breath hitching as Jon takes him fully down again. His hips begin thrusting against Mox’s face, both of his hands holding his head still.

Eddie’s body goes rigid as he cums down Jon’s throat, his groans echoing through the locker room. Mox swallows everything that’s given to him as Kingston pumps into his mouth. He places his hands on Eddie’s thighs to stabilize himself, watery eyes watching every expression on Eddie’s face as he sucks him dry.

Eddie pulls Mox off him and up into a messy kiss, tasting himself. “Shit baby boy, you always give the best head,” He chuckles against the other’s lips, feeling Jon’s arms wrap around his middle. “Funny to think you weren’t gonna let me.” Jon smirks, leaning into the pressure when Eddie wraps a hand around his throat.

“You’re so fuckin’ annoying.” Eddie replies with a fond eye roll, pecking Mox’s lips a few times. Mox kisses back eagerly each time before eventually pulling away so they could get dressed and leave. Jon walks with his head held a little higher as he and Kingston walk out to their rental.

Even though he lost tonight, even though Kenny cheated and basically spit in the face of what he was doing to carry AEW through this shit storm of a year. Mox is definitely sure he left being the real winner.

fin.

[glorious-spoon]

9 and any Stranger Things ship for the wrapped meme

Thank you! Number 9 this year was Limelight, by Rush. Here's a bit of pre-relationship Steddie featuring Eddie's complicated feelings about his hometown - I hope you enjoy!

-

title: get on with the fascination [on AO3]

word count: ~1900

-

Fifteen years after the world doesn't end, Eddie Munson returns to Hawkins.

It's a dramatic phrasing, even in his own head; for one thing, this is far from the first time he's been back since the summer of 1986, although the last time was almost a decade ago. He doesn't call it going home. Home is New York, and sometimes Chicago these days, which is as close to Roane County as he usually wants to get. Home, as far as it ever existed for him in Hawkins, was a trailer that got dropped into an alternate dimension along with a good chunk of the town the same night Eddie almost died. Home is the little house over the Illinois border where Wayne has lived since '91. Home sure as shit isn't here.

"You planning on brooding this whole time, or what?" Steve asks from across the booth. The bar they're currently sitting in is no longer called The Hideout; at some point in the last fifteen years, it's been rebranded to On The Rocks Bar And Grill. There's a fresh coat of paint on the walls and a layer of new laminate flooring over the old asbestos tile. Draft taps and an honest-to-god raised stage instead of the grimy corner where the old band used to play. At the turn of the millennium, Hawkins is finally gentrifying.

"I'm not brooding."

"Yeah, man, you totally are. Could we get a couple of refills? Thanks so much," he adds to the waitress who pauses by their table to ask if they need anything. She doesn't seem to recognize Eddie. Too young to remember him from his illustrious youth here, and apparently not into the metal scene, thank fucking Christ. For the most part, he kind of likes it when strangers come up to him in public—two platinum records in and it still hasn't lost its novelty—but not here. Not in Hawkins. This place still feels fucking cursed.

"Are you buying me beer now, Harrington?"

"You're the big-shot rockstar," Steve points out with a shit-eating grin. "You're buying."

"Ugh," Eddie groans, and puts his head down on the table, which doesn't even have the decency to be sticky. "Remind me again why I agreed to this?"

"I don't know. Closure?"

"Next time I decide to do something this shit-stupid, can you do me a favor and just, like, duct tape me to a chair or something?"

"Kinky," Steve says dryly, but he's still smiling when Eddie lifts his head to glare at him. Eddie should probably be less of a dick about this, given that Steve is only here for moral support; he doesn't live in Hawkins either these days. He's up in Chicago with Robin, who would also probably be here if she weren't mired in stacks of midterm papers on film theory from her earnest little freshman ducklings. Steve makes his own hours, so it's not that much of a surprise that he closed up shop and drove down here and didn't bother to call until he'd already crossed the county line, at which point Eddie was winding himself up into a dangerous head of steam and was grateful for any distraction that offered itself.

And Steve is the best kind of distraction. Always has been. Even now, kicked back in a bar booth in all his yuppie glory, sipping the last of his beer and scanning the bar every now and then with a wariness that Eddie hasn't seen from him in a while. Because Eddie isn't the only one who left a headful of ghosts behind in Hawkins, Indiana. He forgets that sometimes.

"Thank you, by the way," he says. "Did I say that yet?"

"Nah. Mostly you've just been, like, bemoaning your life."

"Bemoaning," Eddie repeats, delighted. "We'll make a poet of you yet, Stevie."

"In your dreams," Steve says mildly.

"Oh, every night, baby."

That gets him a scoff, but it's a fond one. The waitress comes back with their drinks, and he leans back out of her way to let her set them down and clear away their empty glasses. Steve thanks her again, and this time Eddie does too, because there's only so much wallowing that Steve will let him get away with and he's probably closing in on that limit quickly. Still, all Steve actually says once she leaves is, "So what's the plan, then? You're meeting the interviewers at, what, three?"

"Yeah," Eddie sighs. "I don't fucking know. They wanted me to, like, walk them around and show them the old sights, which sounded like a great idea when Marleen pitched it, but now it's like, what old sights? Oh, here's where the basketball team tried to kick my skull in. Here's where the football team tried to kick my skull in. Here's the picnic table where I used to sell weed out of my lunch box. Here's where my trailer was before a girl died there and it got sucked into the shadow dimension, except—oops!—can't tell you shit about that because I signed a stack of confidentiality agreements almost as tall as me. But they're still gonna ask." He lets out a long sigh and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "They're gonna want me to talk about Chrissy."

"So you tell them to go to hell."

He barks a laugh. "Easy as that, huh?"

"You've never had trouble with it before," Steve says with a shrug.

That's true enough. Eddie sighs again and reaches for his beer. "This place is fucking me up. No, there is actually a plan. We're gonna stop by the high school after it's cleared out and do the interview there, it's all set up. You know they put up a plaque with my name on it outside the drama room?"

Steve laughs. "No shit?"

"Yeah, apparently there was a vicious battle about it on the school board. Real fire and brimstone shit, went on for months. Henderson's mom led the charge on my behalf, I got the whole story from him."

"Jesus," Steve says. And then, "Shit, we should go see her while we're in town."

"You're just hoping she'll feed you."

"Well, yeah," Steve says. "I've been living on my own cooking since…" he waves a hand and makes a face. "You know. Since everything went south with Jerry."

Jerry was the latest in a series of attractive people of varying genders that Steve has dated over the last ten years, since he moved to Chicago and figured his shit out. Eddie kind of hated the guy, but it wasn't personal. He was objectively probably a perfectly fine person, and it wasn't his fault that Eddie fell head over heels for a hot monster-slaying jock in the spring of 1986 and never entirely recovered. Though, as he's now reminded, it's been a long time since he and Steve were both single at the same time, and the last time that happened, he still thought Steve was straight.

He tries to swallow that thought down with a mouthful of beer, but it lingers like a strange spiky shape in the back of his throat. "So, how's all that going, anyway?"

Steve groans dramatically.

"An encouraging response."

"No, it's fine. I'm, like, totally over him at this point. I just… I don't know, I figured I'd be past all this shit by now, you know? Thought I'd settle down, get my life together, find somebody who…" he trails off.

"Who…?" Eddie repeats leadingly.

"I don't know. Somebody who gets it. Somebody I don't have to, like, lie to."

"That's a tall order, my friend."

"Yeah, I guess," Steve mutters. He's looking at his beer, rubbing a thumb against the wedge-shaped scar bisecting his lower lip. He's got a lot of scars, and Eddie knows the story to most of them, even the ones he wasn't personally present for. But he supposes that he can see how it would wear on Steve, inventing explanations for them that aren't about being tortured by Russian spies or eaten alive by interdimensional monsters. Steve's not much of a liar, when it comes down to it. Eddie doesn't mind spinning fantastical stories to obscure the ugly truth, but they're wired differently that way.

"Hey," Eddie says. He taps his fingernails against Steve's glass and waits for him to look up. "Listen, I'm sorry I brought it up."

Steve smiles a little. "It's fine. Seriously. Robin says I'm being a sad sack, and she's probably right."

"Mm. Probably, but I am not the sensible Professor Doctor Buckley, am I?"

"God, you know she hates it when you call her that."

"She's the one who decided to get a PhD. Masochism, in my strong opinion."

"Oh, we all know," Steve says. He glances over Eddie's shoulder at the clock, then says, "Probably ought to get going if you want to make your interview on time."

"And Marleen has promised to string me up by my metaphorical balls if I show up late for another one," Eddie sighs. He drains the last of his beer and stands, digging his wallet out.

After they pay and head outside, Steve lingers by the side of the brick building, facing the road. It's a sunny day, breezy and crisp, pale wisps of clouds moving fast across the blue sky, and something about it makes Eddie's chest pinch with a strange nostalgia. Something about the way Steve looks right now, in his stylish yet dorky windbreaker with his hair tossed by the breeze. It's shorter now than he used to wear it but he really doesn't look that different at thirty-four than he did at nineteen. Older, sure, but it suits him.

"After I'm done with all this shit," Eddie says. "You wanna go get high at the quarry? You know, for old times' sake?"

Steve laughs softly, eyes crinkling. "Does it really count if we're not smoking in the back of your van?"

"True. Pretty sure I wouldn't get the deposit back on my rental if I turn it in smelling like grass, either."

"We can take my car," Steve says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. If you want."

"You wanna crash with me after? So you don't have to drive all the way back home tonight, I mean? The room they booked me is, like, palatial. I didn't even know they had places that nice around here."

Steve glances at him again, rubbing his jaw. It wouldn't be the first time they've shared a hotel room, but there's a different context now. For one thing, they can both afford separate rooms these days. For another, Eddie's got that itch that means he's probably gonna do something reckless, and he's not even sure he wants to try to stop it.

If he and Steve go smoke up by the quarry where they spent the last summer of Eddie's teens, he's going to confess something, he's pretty sure of it. Lay it all on the line for Steve, after all this time. He's starting to think that might not even be the worst idea he's ever had. Steve is here, after all.

"Yeah, okay," Steve says, finally. He bumps his shoulder against Eddie's, and Eddie leans back into the solid warmth of him, and takes a deep breath of cool spring air, and watches the Hawkins traffic pass them by.

Tomorrow, he'll be gone. Maybe, if this doesn't all blow up in his face, he'll go back to Chicago with Steve. Hawkins is a place he's outgrown years ago, and whatever story comes out of this interview is never going to be anything other than a media-crafted shadow of the truth, but honestly, that's never been what mattered in the end.

"It's a date, then," he says, and when he glances over at Steve, he finds him already smiling back.

[shekhawatlaw]

Understanding Patent Applications in India

Filing a patent application is an essential first step for companies and inventors looking to safeguard their creations. The Indian patent application in India procedure can be intricate and demands close attention to detail. One of the best legal consultancies, Shekhawat Law, offers professional assistance in navigating this complex process. The goal of this blog is to explain the essential procedures and demystify the Indian patent application process.

What is Meant by a Patent?

An inventor or assignee of a unique, non-obvious, and commercially viable innovation may get an exclusive legal right from the government through the application of a patent. The patent owners may use this power to prevent third parties from producing, utilizing, importing, selling, or utilizing the patented invention without their consent.

Types of Indian Patents

Three categories of patents exist in India:

Utility patents: These protect recently discovered or innovative products.

Patents on designs: These safeguard an object's distinctive aesthetic features.

Plant Patents: Patents for novel and distinctive plant varieties are awarded.

How to Apply for a Patent

India has multiple steps in the patent application process. This is a comprehensive guide:

1. Determine Patentability

Ensure your invention is novel, involves an inventive step, and is capable of industrial application. It should not fall under the non-patentable inventions as defined by the Indian Patents Act.

2. Conduct a Patent Search

Perform a patent search to check if similar inventions already exist. This can help you determine the novelty of your invention.

3. Prepare a Patent Specification

Provisional Specification: If your invention is still in the experimental stage, you can file a provisional specification. This helps secure a priority date.

Complete Specification: A detailed document that fully describes the invention, including claims, which define the scope of patent protection.

4. File a Patent Application

Form 1: Application for Grant of Patent

Form 2: Provisional/Complete Specification

Form 3: Statement and Undertaking under Section 8 (disclosing foreign filings)

Form 5: Declaration as to Inventorship

Form 9: Request for Publication (optional)

Form 18: Request for Examination

5. Publication of Patent Application

The patent application is published in the official patent journal after 18 months from the filing date. You can request early publication using Form 9.

6. Examination of Patent Application

The patent application is examined by the Indian Patent Office upon filing Form 18. An examiner reviews the application for compliance with patentability criteria and issues an examination report.

7. Respond to Examination Report

Respond to the objections raised in the examination report within the stipulated time (usually six months). This may involve amending the claims or providing clarifications.

8. Grant of Patent

If the examiner is satisfied with the responses, the patent is granted and published in the patent journal.

9. Post-Grant Compliance

Pay the necessary post-grant fees and maintain the patent by paying annual renewal fees.

Important Forms and Fees

Form 1: Application for Grant of Patent

Form 2: Provisional/Complete Specification

Form 3: Statement and Undertaking under Section 8

Form 5: Declaration as to Inventorship

Form 9: Request for Publication (optional)

Form 18: Request for Examination

Fee Structure: Varies for individuals, small entities, and large entities. Ensure to check the latest fee structure on the official website.

Online Filing

The Indian Patent Office provides an e-filing system for patent applications. Create an account, fill out the necessary forms, upload documents, and pay the fees online.

Professional Help

Consider hiring a patent attorney or agent to assist with the application process, ensuring that the documents are correctly drafted and the process is smoothly handled.

Key Tips

Ensure detailed and clear drafting of the complete specification, including claims.

Keep track of deadlines for responses and fee payments.

Regularly check the status of your application online.

By following these steps, you can navigate the patent application process in India effectively and increase the chances of securing patent protection for your invention.

Why Did You Select Shekhawat Law?

The procedure of applying for a patent might be difficult to navigate. To guarantee a seamless and fruitful patent application procedure, Shekhawat Law provides a wide range of services, such as:

Expert Consultation: Comprehensive advice on whether an innovation is patentable.

Writing and Submitting: Expert support for creating and submitting patent applications.

Prosecution Support: Skillfully managing compliance concerns and objections.

Services for Maintenance: Ensuring legal compliance and prompt payment of renewal fees.

Conclusion

A key to safeguarding your invention and maintaining a competitive edge is obtaining a patent. Businesses and inventors can safely negotiate the intricacies of the Indian patent application procedure with the help of Shekhawat Law's skilled staff. You can successfully protect your innovations and make a living by knowing the procedures and getting expert help.

Speak with Shekhawat Law right now for more details or help with patent applications.

[umichenginabroad]

Week 2: Florence, Milan, and Lake Como

Week 2: Florence, Milan, and Lake Como

Hello again! 

I apologize Week 2’s post is a bit late … between school and recovering from Week 2’s weekend festivities, I haven’t been able to reflect on everything that’s happened (until now). 

With that being said, nothing happened during the week of Week 2 except school. However, on Friday, we had our CEA day trip to Florence! We arrived in Florence in the morning and jumped straight into a tour! We walked around Florence, stopping by the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the plaza containing many original sculptures, a water fountain that had both sparking and still water installed in the wall, and more. I even ran into a friend coincidentally during our tour :) 

Afterwards, we all had lunch together where we sampled different pastas! I wasn’t able to get a picture because we were so hungry but let’s just say, the Italians really like their al dente pasta (firm pasta)! We then had a bit of free time before climbing the bell tower and so we got gelato! I got blueberry and cherry and it was delicious. Eventually we got to climbing the bell tower and it. was. exhausting. The stairs never seemed to never end, the stairway was really dark, and the stairway was so narrow, we had to stop every now and then to let people come down (there was only room for one person to walk). Nonetheless, the view was breathtaking! Something my flatmates and I noticed was that the buildings in Florence all looked the same in contrast to Rome where all of the buildings had different colors. 

After climbing down, two of my flatmates met up with the other CEA students to head back to Rome whereas my other flatmate and I walked around until it was time to board our train to Milan. We went to a flea market where we each got scarves and put our bargaining skills to use (the scarves were originally 8 euros each but we got them for 4.50 euros each!). 

Eventually, it was time to board our train to Milan. We arrived to our Airbnb around 11PM and so we quickly showered and went to sleep. The next morning, we headed to the Duomo. Our tickets included going to the Duomo terrace, touring the Duomo, and visiting the Duomo museum. The climb to the Duomo terrace was easier than Florence’s climb (thank goodness) and the view was absolutely beautiful! We were able to see skyscrapers which was something we haven’t seen so far. We then headed inside the Duomo where we saw the infamous Saint Bartholomew statue and the Holy Nail (sort of … it was super far away and so we only saw the red light indicting its presence). We then toured the Duomo museum which contained drafts and replicas of certain parts of the Duomo. 

We then headed to Luini for lunch where we had panzerotti and it was absolutely DELICIOUS! Panzerottis are sort of like a calzone. The dough was crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside, and the filling was delicious. We then walked around Milan, shopping, visiting the infamous shopping “terminal”, and attempting to visit a botanical garden (by the time we got there, it was closed but we were able to see bits of it through the gate). We then headed to the Navigli canal for dinner where we had aperitivos (recommended by our Airbnb host) and it was a fantastic experience. For only 13 euros, we got drinks and snacks, and was able to enjoy the view of the canal. After, we intended to stop by the Duomo to see it at night and Gae Aulenti for a night walk (also recommended by our Airbnb host) but ended up staying at the Duomo because right outside the metro exit, a crowd had gathered to sing with a performer. We were able to squeeze to the front and enjoyed the moment with everyone! 

We then headed home, and the next morning, we headed to Lake Como. We planned on going to Bellagio, however, ferry tickets were sold out so we ended up visiting Torno instead. The view from ferry ride was amazing: the mountains were so green with colorful houses at the bottom and the water was so clean! Torno wasn’t crowded at all which made walking around very relaxing. After having lunch, we headed back to Como where we walked around until it was time for us to head back to Milan. 

Once we got to Milan, we grabbed a quick dinner at a famous sandwich shop and then boarded our train back to Rome. After some minor hiccups with the bus from the train station, we finally got home and that was that! 

Some things I’ve learned from this weekend / travel tips:

APPLY SUNSCREEN !! Thankfully, I didn’t get any sunburns but my collarbone area tanned a lot …. 

If you’re planning on visiting Lake Como, be sure to dedicate an entire day !! We only allocated a couple of hours and so we weren’t able to do much. Additionally, most of the ferry tickets to popular destinations (ex. Bellagio) take 2 to 3 hours. They do have direct ferry rides but you have to buy them in person and the line gets quite long. 

If you can, stay at an Airbnb! You get to talk to locals and get the best recommendations (our Airbnb host was the one who told us about the Navigli Canal and aperitivos, and that was hands down my highlight of the Milan trip). 

For Week 3’s weekend festivities, I’ll be heading to London to visit a friend. I’m sad I won’t be in Italy to celebrate Italy’s Independence Day (June 2) but I am excited to see my friend and explore London so stay tuned for that post :)

Sabrina Huynh 

Materials Science and Engineering

Engineering in Rome, Italy

[supremescrceress]

[xroub]

[princegaytea]

Mermaids......

[notebooks-and-laptops]

my twisted knife, my sleepless night, my winless fight, this has frozen my ground

okay this is the last draft I have to touch up and post today, sorry for the sudden influx of fics. This one is also pretty dark as a warning, exploring Anders (and Justices) thoughts and feelings the night before The Last Straw. Full warnings, as well as the fic, are available on AO3 here!

-///-

Preparations have been all that has consumed them for months.

There are none left to make.

The explosives are set. The time is decided. Whispers from the Mage Underground come in fits and stutters but they all point to Meredith’s delusions about blood magic rising and her thirst for power with them. Orsino can no longer hold her at bay.

No half measures. Tomorrow, for good or ill, the world stops waiting and putting up blockades against the inevitable. Tomorrow, justice will be set in motion even if doing so can only be achieved by the most unjust of actions.

Anders takes a deep breath. Something stirs at the base of his lungs, or, then again, maybe it doesn’t. Justice. Sometimes, he thinks he feels him in his body like a physical thing but he’s still not sure if that’s just wishful thinking or perhaps phantom sensations as his brain tries to cope with being not just one but two. Even after all these years he has no solid answer. He doubts they ever will.

But Justice is there. There. He is the only comfort that Anders will get today, and he clings to him desperately. He lets his thoughts float when he can in that space where they are neither one nor the other, but instead both. It’s comforting.

Or rather, it’s usually comforting.

But today…

“Here,” Anders wraps the bandage around the little girls cut knee. She fell, and the wound wasn’t deep, but in Dark Town infection rates are far too high. Her mother hangs off in the background, worried.

Anders wants to tell her; stay out of High Town tomorrow evening.

Instead, he gives a weak smile, “stay safe,” he murmurs as the girl jumps off the bed and runs back to her mother.

He prays that his unspoken warning will be heeded. They have wanted to tell everyone who has walked through their doors today, but if even one person let slip that the healer had told them so…their plan was too delicate, too fragile.

Already they had risked too much by telling Sebastian that Hawke would require his assistance tomorrow evening when Hawke had asked him to tell him no such thing. If they let it slip to too many people all of this would be for nothing…

They couldn’t let it all go to waste.

So instead, they watch, and the thought comes once again to Anders’ mind what will it feel like to die? And the hope comes once again I hope Justice can return to the fade afterwards.

There is an answer, in the thoughts that are Not His; I hope I will not.

Anders is aware what Justice wants and it makes tears prick in the corner of their eyes. To know Justice wants to die by Hawke’s hand just as they do, tomorrow, when it’s all over and Hawke sees them for the monster Fenris and Aveline and Sebastian have always told them they are…

But Spirits don’t die, not like mortals. They persist.

Is Justice still Spirit enough to persist? Are they enough two people that Justice could just leave Anders body and return to the fade? Or are they too much the same person that they cannot be without the other.

Anders doesn’t know, but he hopes.

Justice doesn’t know, but he hopes.

They always hate it when their hopes conflict in such ways.

But there is at least one hope they still share.

Hawke.

It’s not well defined, not a wish, not really even a want. It is just one word: Hawke. It presses to the places where they overlap, slipping in through Ander’s weakness for pretty things and passionate people and nestling in Justice’s desire for humans to do right.

Hawke is their hope. When they start a war tomorrow, when Hawke presses a dagger into their chest, Hawke will take over. The mage rebellion…it might remember him as a martyr, or it might remember him as a killer. Whatever it thinks of him, it will need a leader and one whose hands are clean. It’s why they couldn’t tell her. Because she has to be that person. She has to be.

They ask too much of her.

But still, they hope.

Still, they believe.

If not in the Maker, if not in the chantry, or society, or Andraste, they believe in Hawke.

And right now, they long to go to her.

Instead, Ander’s checks the lantern to make sure it is still burning and invites in another sick patient. They still have time. They can heal, and heal, until all that’s left in them is destruction. And then they will go home – home – and they will crawl into Hawke’s bed and they will kiss her and kiss her until it’s all they know.

They will try not to make it feel like a goodbye.

But Hawke is so clever. She’s passionate and loud and she knows them inside and out. It’s dangerous to love. It’s fascinating. Anders loves with the memory of Karl on his mind; he knows how love can break you apart. Justice loves with the memory of Aura and how he’d wondered at the passion she felt for the rotting body he once wore. They both know love differently now, in Hawke. They know a love that is sure and true and beautiful and their own, a love that could last forever if it wasn’t for what they had to do tomorrow.

No. No. They cannot think about some…some undefined hope, a maybe they’d let themselves have before things became so dark. Hawke and their love for her…it was a good maybe, the best maybe of either of their lives, but it was always just that: a maybe. And what they are – apostates – well. It was always going to keep that maybe just out of reach.

Anders heals instead. Heals another. And another. He’s careful, gentle, holding his tongue against the warnings that threaten to spill out.

Is it an injustice to keep his lips sealed?

He hates that he doesn’t know anymore.

He hates what they’ve become.

They are not themselves anymore, they are…an instrument. They are what is necessary.

Necessity doesn’t leave a lot of room for who they used to be.

Darkness, hovering. Between each patient, Anders thinks about leaving and going to be with the others.

If he left now, he could have one last round of wicked grace with Varric.

If he left now, he could have one last argument with Fenris.

If he left now, he could have one last drink with Isabela.

If he left now, he could have one last laugh with Merrill.

But time ticks on. Ticks on later and later. He continues to heal. He drinks a lyrium potion to keep himself going, to keep himself awake.

The sick always need healing, here.

Kirkwall has never had any justice within its walls.

So, he heals. And as he does, he loses his last chance at…at something. At goodbye.

He wants to go to Hawke.

He wants to make love to her one final time.

He wants to hold her in his arms and feel her heart beating in her chest.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

But he’s so scared she’ll know.

It’s well past midnight, by the time he finally closes the clinic. He takes his time. It is the last time he will come here. He used to hate it; the smell, the sound, the fact that this – a hole in the ground – was the best health care that Kirkwall could afford its citizens. He was eager to leave when Hawke offered to let him move in.

Funny, how something he once hated could make him feel so nostalgic. So sad.

He puts out the lamp. The healer in darktown will not operate anymore.

There is nothing but destruction and death in his bones.

He picks his way through the underground cellars; the old slaver passageways that lead to the basement of Hawke’s house. Sometimes, late at night, he’s attacked down here, but not this evening. Not tonight.

Kirkwall is…almost peaceful. It waits with bated breath.

Orana has left the candles lit for him, though she has retired from her rooms. Dog is nowhere to be seen. Anders wonders if he’ll be safe, after this. He never much liked the animal, but he knew Hawke loved the big mangy thing.

Anders wants to go straight to Hawke, but instead, he hesitates. By the fire, by the window. He sees the books that Hawke has been teaching Fenris to read from. He sees Varric’s scribbles in Hawke’s journals. A letter from Carver on the desk. A halla statue gifted by Merrill on Hawke’s last nameday. The lock is broken on the chest on the landing, a sure sign that Isabela had been there.

He feels justice stir inside him again, just as eager as he is to be in her arms, for him to stop this melancholy that he’s torturing himself with. It won’t help. It won’t help either of them.

He gives in, eventually, when there’s nothing left to procrastinate with.

He readies himself for what he has to say, the love he has to pour out.

He opens the door.

He opens the door, and she is asleep.

She is not up reading. She is not freshly back from the hanged man. She is fast asleep, her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, her chest rising up and down slowly.

A pang presses in his chest. He knows he will not wake her.

He knows he must be gone early in the morning.

He knows he’s lost his chance to say goodbye to her too.

Tomorrow, when she sees him…they’ll be nothing between them but betrayal.

He takes a shuddering breath.

Perhaps it was for the best.

He runs. Ander’s always run away. From everyone and everything. Even from this. He’s never been good at goodbyes. He just runs away from them.

Tomorrow…the world would change, and everything in it.

There would be no place left for the friends of Kirkwall, or his lover and her blood-stained nose.

[prettywitchiusaka]

Gonna be honest, I’ve been feeling pretty blue/depressed lately (for reasons I won’t get into).

Thankfully, it hasn’t slowed my creativity. I’ve managed to hammer out a nearly completed draft of a Stephen-centric Stephen x Clea fic I’d put on the back burner for awhile. All it needs is another once over (or two) and it should be ready to go by Monday or Tuesday at the latest.

As for crocheting? Well...

[wafflesandkruge]

Dear Henry, Dear Alex

Really, this was such a dumb idea. If June wasn’t in Texas right now, she would probably be looking over his shoulder and snickering. But Alex was determined to put an end to his three years of sneaking into June’s things with some closure. Closure being sending a letter through a fanclub that was probably solely populated by British preteen girls.

Or a young Alex Claremont-Diaz attempts to write a letter to his idol, Prince Henry.

ao3

Here’s my contribution for @historyinthemakingzine! Be sure to check out the accompanying art by @clea-art​, and you can read the entire zine for free here!

March 21, 2014

To Your Highness Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor,

Hi. I’m Alexander Claremont-Diaz. Maybe you know me because of my parents, both of whom are American politicians. Then again, I don’t know why you’d know anything about American politics. You may wonder why I’m writing you a letter, but—

Alex crumpled up the piece of binder paper he’d been writing on and lobbed it into the trash can that was already overflowing with discarded drafts. This was such a stupid idea on so many levels. He mentally made a list of all the things wrong about this.

Henry had no idea who he was.

There was no way his letter—if he sent it—would ever make it all the way to England and into the hands of the prince. 

Alex didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

He gnawed on his pen cap as he stared at the blank page in front of him and tried to think. A few days ago while scrolling through a news article, a targeted ad had popped up advertising a Prince Henry fanclub, of all things. (If the ad had been a result of his periodic checks on Henry’s Wikipedia page, that was between him and his now-deleted browser history.) But more importantly, the animated pink banner had boasted that they were able to forward fan mail directly to the palace and into the hands of His Royal Heartthrob himself. So now Alex sat at his dad’s dining table, trying to figure out what he wanted to say and also scheming ways to hide the club’s $30 membership dues from his mom’s ever-vigilant monitoring of his finances. 

Really, this was such a dumb idea. If June wasn’t in Texas right now, she would probably be looking over his shoulder and snickering. But Alex was determined to put an end to his three years of sneaking into June’s things with some closure. Closure being sending a letter through a fanclub that was probably solely populated by British preteen girls. 

He had just put his pen to the paper again, determined to write the letter to end all letters or die trying, when his phone pinged. He glanced at the notification and swore softly. He’d forgotten he was going out to dinner with his dad. Reluctantly, he put his pen down and closed the notebook. Prince Charming would have to wait.

March 30, 2014

To Your Royal Highness Henry of the many last names,

My name is Alex Claremont-Diaz and I’ve been staring at a picture of you for three years. But not in a creepy serial killer way, more like a “wow I want to meet you and pick your brain” way, which when I say it, also sounds creepy—

He gave up on his latest attempt to mentally compose the letter as he sat through what had to be the world’s most boring lecture about Cold War politics. He didn’t even know how it was possible to make mutually assured destruction about as interesting as getting your wisdom teeth taken out, but that was the Texas public school system for you. His foot tapped the floor impatiently as he watched the minute hand of the clock tick by.

“Alex?” the teacher asked in her exaggerated drawl. “Do you have something to add?”

He sat up straight in his chair. “No, ma’am.”

Her lips pressed into a displeased line, but she resumed her lecturing. The neatly bullet pointed notes on Alex’s screen blurred as his mind went back to composing witty openings to that damned letter. Maybe Henry would be so impressed with his comma usage that he’d send a letter back, then they’d be honest-to-god penpals—

Shut up, Alex, he chastised himself. To become a penpal, one had to actually send a letter in the first place. And at this rate, he couldn’t even think of the first sentence. 

The bell rang and he hastily shoved all his stuff into his backpack before booking it to the locker room for lacrosse. He bet Henry didn’t have to deal with snoozefest lectures or crappy lockers that wouldn’t close properly.

April 15, 2014

Dear Prince Henry, Not First of His Name, 

I’m Alexander, named after Alexander Hamilton. As someone who’s a citizen of one of your former colonies, I would just like to give a big middle finger towards your ancestors and probably your grandmother as well—

Alex gave a harsh sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have time to be composing silly fan mail, not when he already had so much on his plate. Piles of homework stared accusingly at him, as well as an inbox full of unanswered emails. Lists upon lists of things to do, organized by deadline, were tacked to his bulletin board. He guessed it was going to be another sleepless night.

“What’s up, nerd?” June asked as she kicked open the door to his room munching on a slice of pizza. She’d already been accepted early into UT, and her senioritis had unfortunately manifested into bothering Alex at all hours of the day.

Alex scowled and gestured towards the door. “Shutting up is free, fun, and easy.”

“Where would you be without my infinite wisdom?” June retorted as she pushed aside a crumpled lacrosse uniform and took a seat on his bed. He noticed her slice of pizza was pepperoni, which meant it was his pizza. If he had been any less stressed, he would have fought her for it, WWE style. Instead, he decided to be the bigger person and crack open his chemistry textbook instead. At least Lewis structures wouldn’t remind him of blond princes who looked like Disney Channel love interests.

But he should have known it was too much to ask for June to just eat her pizza and go away, because there was a rustle of paper, then a small giggle. 

“Prince Henry?” she asked. Alex’s blood froze. He swiveled his chair around to find June holding a crumpled piece of paper as her eyes scanned it eagerly. “Are you writing a letter to—”

“Give that back,” he snapped as he grabbed at it. The paper tore in two, with the bottom half still in her hand. He crumpled his half back into a small ball and threw it in the trash basket under his desk where it belonged. 

“It’s an assignment for English,” he lied.

June blinked. “Then why’d you just throw it in the trash, genius?”

Alex didn’t say anything and fixed his eyes on a random line in his textbook. He could feel June staring at the back of his head, but this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. Not when he couldn’t even figure out why he wanted to write a letter in the first place. Did he want Henry to acknowledge his existence? Or was he fantasizing that Henry would read his letter and really understand who he was, that he would see, beneath a thin layer of bravado and perfect grades, Alex was a barely-held-together mess?

“Did you send it?”

Alex blinked. “What?”

“Did you send the letter?”

He considered lying again or playing dumb, but June had the makings of an investigative reporter. She would sniff out the truth sooner or later. 

“No. Not yet. I can’t figure out what to say.”

June popped the last bit of crust into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Good thing you didn’t send this draft, at least. ‘I wonder what you’d look like in a lacrosse uniform.’ What were you thinking?”

Alex felt his face go red. “If you’re so smart, what would you write to someone famous?”

“I’d have a lot of questions, I guess,” June said as her eyebrows scrunched up the way their mom’s did when she was thinking. “It’s hard to really know someone when all your information is from books, or news articles, or their Instagram. I think I’d just want to know them on my own terms.”

“You’re talking about Zac Efron, aren’t you,” Alex deadpanned. He got a pillow to the face.

“Shut up! I will not apologize for my crush on him during High School Musical.” June dropped her crumpled half of the letter onto his desk as she got up. “Anyways, I hope you finish that letter soon. This house reeks of teen angst.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Love you too.”

With June finally gone from the room, Alex pushed aside his textbook and opened his notebook to a new page. The blank lines seemed to stretch into a hundred possibilities. He put his pen to the paper and began to write.

April 17, 2014

Dear Henry,

I don’t think you’re ever going to read this because what are the odds of this letter making it past my mom, then the Atlantic Ocean, then your no doubt legions of James Bond agents, then to you? But my sister June told me to finish writing this and she’s always right, so I guess here goes nothing. 

I’m Alex, and I want to ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer the ones you don’t want to—you don’t have to answer this at all—but there are some things I want to know that can’t be Googled. 

Lists are kind of my thing, so here are my questions (and some facts about me too so this doesn’t feel like a very inefficient interview).

Facts:

I’m from Texas, which automatically means I’m loud and insufferable. 

The best girl scout cookies are tagalongs, and every other opinion is wrong.

Sometimes, I think about what it would be like to be an only child, but then June picks a fight with me and I can’t imagine it being any other way.

I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I want to be a senator. I know it sounds cheesy, but I want to change things for the better. Imagine that, the senator from Texas, Alexander Claremont-Diaz.

Questions:

Is your older sister like mine? (inconsiderate of my commitments, bossy, acts like she’s the master of the universe)

What’s something that makes you happy?

If you had the chance, would you trade your life for something more normal?

Do you also have moments where everything feels like it’s too much and you just need to scream or do something to make the universe hear you? Ignore that one

I really hope you get this letter.

Alex

June 2, 2014

ALEX,

We are delighted to receive your correspondence, and we thank you for your best wishes for Prince Henry. As a token of our gratitude, we have enclosed two signed photocards of Prince Henry. We hope they are to your liking.

Sincerely,

Buckingham Palace

May 14, 2014

Found in the desk of HRH Prince Henry, unsent:

Dear Alex,

I think that is a natural state of being for older sisters, like a factory default of sorts.

Cornettos. Jane Austen. David Bowie (both the human and my dog).

It would be disingenuous of me if I said no. I ponder this question daily, and each time I come to the same conclusion that the royal life is not meant for the individual, but rather the collective of the crown. It is an exhausting facade.

All the time

Yours,

Henry

[queenxxxsupreme]

But what if Lambert's SO has a phobia of reptiles and she's trying to be supportive of his hobbies but she just can't and passes out? oh no.

A/N: I love this!! I hope I wrote it good enough!! I’m not scared of snakes.... Or really any “creepy” animals, so I wasn’t too sure how to write it, but I hope you like it!! We can add Clea the ball python to Lambert’s list of animals! 

***

You shifted around on the bed, whining a little. 

“Lambert?” You called his name. You reached out for him. The room was cold even underneath your multiple blankets. A draft was blowing in from somewhere. 

The witcher didn’t answer you. 

You lifted your head and called his name again, ready to kick the back of his leg. However, you found that his side of the bed was empty. 

You sat up, brushing your hair back out of your eyes, and frowned. 

The fire in the hearth across the room was out which explained why the room was so cold. How long had Lambert been gone?

Climbing out of bed, you put on a pair of trousers and boots as well as one of Lambert’s shirts. That wasn’t enough, so you pulled out your cloak from the wardrobe. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of the terrarium that Clea, Lambert’s ball python, resided in during the night. She was brown with tan splotches. 

Goosebumps rose on your skin as you realized you were alone in the room with her. Lambert did his best to never leave you alone with her. You were deathly afraid of snakes. You knew Clea wasn’t dangerous, but you were still terrified of snakes nonetheless. Lambert was trying to get you more comfortable with her, but it was a slow process. 

You knew the cold wasn’t good for her. He usually kept the room warm enough for her during the harsh winters at the keep. You knew a fire needed to be started, but it would be better if Lambert did it. 

You chewed on your lip as you decided on what to do. Should you go get Lambert first? Or see if Clea was okay? 

You chose the latter, taking a few hesitant steps towards the terrarium. The top was closed, so she couldn’t get out. You’d just have to search for her. 

You looked and looked, but had no luck. Sometimes she liked to really hide to get away from everyone. But maybe something was wrong. Maybe it was too cold for her. 

***

It wasn’t too hard to find Lambert. He was in the kitchen with Eskel and Vesemir. Lambert was sitting at the table while Vesemir and Eskel made breakfast. 

“Lambert, the fire in our room went out.” You told him as you walked into the kitchen. “Is Clea going to be okay?”

“Yeah, bug. She’ll be fine.” Lambert nodded his head. The corner of his lips turned up as he looked at you. “Did you sleep good?”

“I did. Would’ve slept better if that draft wasn’t so bad.” You straddled the bench that Lambert sat on and faced him. 

“M’gonna get it fixed.”

“M’still sleepy.” You whined, brows drawing together as you offered him a pitiful frown. 

“Poor baby.” Lambert teased you softly, letting you lean your head against his shoulder. You loosely wrapped your arms around his toros and closed your eyes. 

You stayed like that for a few moments, enjoying his presence, listening to the sounds of Eskel and Vesemir talking and to Lambert breathing. 

But then you felt something in Lambert’s doublet move. It wasn’t just him breathing. Something was moving, and it was moving in an odd way. 

You lifted your head up and peered around his arm, looking at the chest of his doublet. It was opened a little and his undershirt peeked out. 

“Staring isn’t nice, you know.” He teased. 

“Are you okay?” You found the bottom of his doublet and began to reach underneath, searching for whatever might have been feeling funny. 

“You might not want to do that, bug.” Lambert started, reaching for your arm but he didn’t get to you in time. 

Your hand made contact with a smooth warm surface and instantly, you pulled back. A gasp was sucked through your lips and you jumped out of your seat. You knew what Clea felt like from the very, very few times you had petted her and you knew you had just touched her. 

“La-Lambert!” You said his name, your breathing labored as your heart began to pound in your chest. 

“I tried to warn you, bug.” He said, reaching out for your hand. “Clea’s in there. She won’t hurt you.”

“Is she okay?” You heard someone ask. It could’ve been Vesemir or Eskel. Hell, it could’ve even been Yennefer. You couldn’t think straight at the moment. 

As you looked at the witcher in front of you, the python’s head poked out of the top of his doublet and her tongue flicked out. 

The room began to move around you like you were spinning in a circle and the noises were muffled. You brought your hand up to try to balance yourself on the table, but you missed the table all together. You watched as the floor came closer and closer to your face and then suddenly, everything was black.

***

“She’s waking up.” Eskel spoke. A cold hand pressed against your forehead. You whined. 

“She should be fine.” Vesemir said. “Didn’t hit her head. Clea just surprised her is all.”

“Your hand is cold.” You thought out loud, bringing your own hand up to rub your eyes.

“Sorry, Y/N.” Eskel apologized. “Didn’t want to pour water on you with it being so cold.”

“Geralt and Ciri should be back with firewood soon.” Lambert sighed. 

You lifted your head to see him sitting at the table. Clea was comfortably draped around his shoulders. 

You were laying on the floor just behind him. Underneath your head was a folded up cloak to provide support. 

“How are you feeling, bug?”

“M’okay.” You pushed yourself into a sitting position. “Should’ve expected you to have Clea in your doublet.”

“I tried to warn you.” He grinned a little. 

“How long was I out?”

“Maybe two minutes. Shorter than last time.”

“You’re keeping track?”

“Of course.” He held his hand out for you. You put your hand in his and let him help you to your feet. 

Your eyes stayed on Clea the entire time, watching the snake carefully.

“You wanna sit down by me, bug?” Lambert asked quietly, still holding your hand. “Or you wanna sit across from me?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek for a moment, looking from the seat beside Lambert to the one across from him. You really wanted to sit beside him, but you didn’t want to be so fidgety and uncomfortable with Clea right there. You also didn’t want to make him take her upstairs to the cold bedroom. 

“I can sit across from you.” You told him, giving him a little smile. He nodded but didn’t let your hand go.

“Can I get a kiss?”

“Not with her around your neck.”

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @mishafaye @whitewolfandthefox @wolfyland07 @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural @magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher @badassspaceprincess @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an--actual--human--disaster @rubyqueen819 @omgkatinka @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @vonxcon @mazakeen @bravelittlesunflower @thereagles @awkward-turtles-world @menalliha @cotton_mo @maan24 @thefirelordm @monkeymo @krenee1drful @nympha-door-a @unadulteratedtreecrusade @Aquarius-pisces-rose @mentallyscreamingsincebirth @fl0ating @sometimesiwrite @you-fxcking-wish-bish @thanks-bruh-for-nothing @maan2442 @thegaydeath @creatingstuffinpeace @wellthisstinks @she-wolfoftheinquisition

If your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

[mylifeincinema]

My Week(s) in Reviews: December 7, 2020

I really meant to post this yesterday, but forgot to move it from drafts to queue. Oops. Anyway, because of that, and the fact that it’s been so long since I’ve had anything to offer, I’m gifting y’all with a very rare Monday edition of My Week in Reviews. Here it is!

Mank (David Fincher, 2020)

I’ve been seeing some coldness toward this one. And honestly, I get it. If you’re not interested in/knowledgeable of the world of Old-Hollywood and its mechanics/politics, a lot of this could feel muddied.

Thankfully, I’m not one of those people, because this was an incredible piece of showbiz cinema. Mank is a celebration of the rebellion behind the creation of one of the very best pieces of cinema to ever come out of Hollywood, and an introspective glance at the destructive nature of alcoholism and ego. Fincher weaves together a fascinating character study that skewers the political and creative hypocrisy of 1930s Hollywood while simultaneously reveling in its subject’s own hypocritical air of moral superiority.

Jack Fincher’s screenplay is razor-sharp, and while controversially leaning heavily toward the unpopular opinion that Orson Welles had very little to nothing to do with the writing of Citizen Kane, it does so in a way that takes the stand through Mank’s own eyes, therefore making it the only obvious stance or the film to take. His dialogue is electric, and brought to life with biting attitude and voracious wit by a staggering cast led by the always mind-blowing Gary Oldman (who better see another Oscar nod for this performance) and a truly magnificent Amanda Seyfried (who not only better be nominated for an Oscar, but damn well better win).

Erik Messerschmidt’s cinematography is gorgeous. David Fincher’s work is unlike anything he’s ever delivered. His direction, here, paired with Baxter’s flawless editing, creates something truly unique and utterly captivating. - 9.5/10

Happiest Season (Clea DuVall, 2020)

The problem here is that the only three characters that aren’t completely loathsome (Jane, John & Riley - brought to life perfectly by Mary Holland, Dan Levy & Aubrey Plaza, respectively) are so painfully relegated to the sidelines that they’re damn-near wasted. Oh, and the total lack of any genuine chemistry between our leads. - 3.5/10

Sound of Metal (Darius Marder, 2020)

Riz is fantastic, and wholly encapsulates the frustration, fear and all-out rage that comes with such a sudden, life-changing event. The film around him is at its best when celebrating the community he’s thrown into but never fully embraces. Oh, and the film boasts some of the most effective sound design in recent memory. But sadly, overall, maybe through its vagueness or emotional detachment, this one ended up falling kinda flat for me. - 6/10

Enjoy!

-Timothy Patrick Boyer.

[goxinsane]

Wanted Opposites!

This isn’t a very important post, especially when I should be doing drafts but if anyone has these faceclaims to go against any of mine, platonically, romantic, strangers, etc. HMU! (MESSAGES!) I will probably already be attached because I just adore ocs, but even better with these fcs. Don’t be discouraged though if you have none, it’s just a post to put out there if you’re interested in checking it out. I will roleplay with the majority of faceclaims except the ones on my banned list. Of course I’ll be open to writing against these faceclaims with any of my other muses, these are just first thoughts. 

** Please bring me your underused faceclaims, poc, ladies, nb, older, etc! They don’t get much love in the indie rpc.

I tried my hardest not to repeat as there are several fcs I’d like for other characters too, but, 

Below the cut is the list:

Angelica Ward:

Dominique P. Chalkley, Kat Barrell, Shamir Anderson, Paige Turco, Natalie Krill, Jodelle Ferland, Megan Follows, Zoie Palmer, Anna Silk, Ksenia Solo. 

Brooklyn Nash:

Cameron Monoghan, Shanola Hampton, Emma Greenwell, Laura Slade Wiggins, Jane Levy, Joel Kinnaman, Ruby Rose, Dermot Mulroney.

Cody Jane:

Zendaya, Sydney Sweeney, Alexis Demie, Margaret Qualley, Elliot Fletcher, Noel Fischer, 

Corrine Walker:

Charley Weber, Viola Davis, Matt McGorry, Tom Verica, Karla Souza, AJA Naomi King, Alfred Enoch, Alexis Bledel, Barry Sloan, Keiko Agena.

Dionne Davis:

Kristen Bell, D’Arcy Carden, jode Comer, Sandra Oh, William Jackson Harper, Jameela Jamil, Manny Jacinto, Emma Stone, Tiya Sircar, Adam Scott, Leslie Grossman, Stephan Merchant.

Fitz Stevens: 

Emmy Raver Lampman, Marin Ireland, Drew Barrymore, Robert Sheenan, Laverne Cox, Trace Lysette, Alexandra Billings, Indya Moore, MJ Rodriguez, Jamie Clayton, Gaby Hoffmann, Ritu Arya.

Ireland Magneri: 

Dave Franco, Aubrey Plaza, Gillian jacobs, Joel McHale, Carey Mulligan, Mary Holland, Mackenzie Davis, Bo Burnham.

Kendall Reid:

Alison Brie, Kristen Stewart, Kathryn Hahn, Rashida jones, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Michael Cera, Clea Duvall, Oscar Isaac, Pedro Pascal, Taika Waititi.

Koko Gallagher-Yang:

Ashley Tisdale, Shay Mitchell, Rooney Mara, Selena Gomez, Miley Cyrus, Kat Dennings, Brianne Howey, Ruby Rose, Cara Delevigne, Natalia Tena, Oona Chaplin, Ashley Benson, Lucy Hale, Troian Bellisario, Lucy Boynton.

Leona Langford:

David Harbour, Keanu Reeves, Ethan Hawke, Sean Astin, Christian Slater, Anthony Michael Hall, Johnny Depp, Millie Bobby Brown, Carla Buono, Joe Keery, Sadie Sink, Brett Gelman, Davis, Alex Baldwin, Michael Keaton, Catherine O’Hara, Dacre Montgomery, Francesca Reale, Angelina Jolie. 

Lillian Fitzgerald: 

Lili Reinhart, Milo Ventimiglia Sarah Paulson, Patrick Wilson, Evan Peters, Jessica Lange, Hamish Lanklater, Kyle Breitkopf, Connie Britton, Cody Fern, Zachary Quinto. 

Lorelai Bajwa Kapoor:

Mindy Kaling, Sara Ramirez, Tom Hopper, David Casteneda, Jake Epstein, Zoe Kravtiz, Perry Mattfield, Jode Whittaker, Pearl Mackie, 

Opal Riverand:

Cole/Dylan Sprouse, Camila Mendes, Reese Witherspoon, Molly Ringwald, Charles Merton, Madelaine Petsch, Mark Consuelos, Karlie Kloss, Keke Palmer, Vanessa Morgan, Marisol Nichols, Madchen Amick, Molly Ringwald, Skeet Ulrich. 

Penelope Banks:

Matt Czuchry,  Liza Weil, Lauren Graham, Samira Wiley, America Ferrera, Ashley Graham, Blake Lively, Amber Tamblyn, Amanda Seyfried, Lily James, Rosamund Pike, Chris Pine, Chris Pratt, Chris Evans.

Samantha North: 

Bonnie Wright, Natalia Tena, Kristen Stewart, Emilia Clarke, Piper Perabo, Lena Headey, Evanna Lynch, Mae Whitman, Kate Walsh, Ellen Page, Demi Moore, Jennifer Connolly, Cate Blanchett, Mandy Moore, Jennifer Gardner. 

Victoria Wilson: 

Rainn Wilson, Ed Helms, Steve Carrell, John Kransinski, Idris Elba, Jenna Fischer, Amy Ryan, Creed Bratton, Kate Flannery, Rachael Harris.

Zainab Abbott: 

Jim Howick, David Tennant, Hannah Waddingham, Jason Isaacs, Idris Elba, Benedict Cumberbatch, Juno Temple, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Jeff Goldblum,  Willem Dafoe, Elizabeth Mitchell, Emily Blunt, Anne Hathway, Jon Hamm, Stellan Skarsgaard, Helena Bonham Carter, Sarah Lancashire, Siobhan Finneran, Dev Patel. Catherine Zeta Jones. 

Zero:

Hunter Schafer, Bella Thorne, Hailee Steinfeld, Jennifer Tilly, Barbie Ferreira, Maya Hawke, Maude Apatow, Diana Silvers, Saoirse Ronan, Talulah Riley.

Faces I’d love to interact with anyways: Lily Rabe, LP (the singer), Lana Del Rey, Winona Ryder, Stefanie Scott, Billie Ellish, Natalia Dyer, Natalie Portman, Natalie Dormer, Stella Maeve, Thomas Sangster, Most Drag Queens, Asia Kate Dillon, Halston Sage, Haley Lu Richardson, Shane West, Chris Meloni,  Selena Gomez, Jamie Bell, Charlie Rowe,  Kit Harrington, Matt Smith, Himseh Patel, Ansel Elgort, Lily Collins,  Katie Leung, Brendan Gleeson, Lea Seydoux, Rupert Grint, Domnhall Gleeson, Tom Felton, Allison Scalglotti, Ben Hardy, Chloe Sevigny,  David Tennant, Catherine Tate, Michael Sheen, Melanie Laurent, Rami Malek, etc.