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koimethehorizon · 1 year ago

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Fionna and Cake theory: Simon the Artist

Nothing like a good old creative panic attack.

Fionna and Cake good. Haven’t been excited about a show like this in a long time, though it being a part of Adventure Time does help quite a bit. I was holding on to some cautious optimism for the show when it was announced as yet another big IP series covering the multiverse (still waiting to groan at THAT scene where Prismo has to explain to us about there being infinite universes), but as usual, Adventure Time’s crew continues to surprise me with its creativity, humor, and thematic resonance.

The most striking part about Fionna and Cake so far is just how deliberately the show wants us to differentiate it from the original Adventure Time.

We’re getting shots where Simon pops an artery from his arm, a theme song that explicitly talks about suicidal ideation, discussions of rent and financial problems, and curses no longer disguised with AT’s usual dialogue. Adventure Time has always had violence, thematic density, and juvenile rating pushers, but they were always reserved at small points. Meanwhile, these are factors that are just casually shown and discussed in Fionna and Cake every 3 minutes or so. This is not an all-ages miniseries, it’s for young adults. (hint: this will be relevant later)

Let’s get right into it. This is much less a speculative lore theory and more on what thematic direction the story may be going.

Before we do, let’s get this out of the way first. This theory assumes that the current Fionna and Cake world is all a part of Simon’s head and not merely a separate multiverse, which… I’m certain is fact for the following reasons.

The immediately obvious piece is that Fionna and Cake was always the Ice King’s fanfiction. Now if you’re versed in AT’s continuity you’re probably going to be asking about the red light in Fionna and Cake + Fionna and… I’ve no answer for it unfortunately. It’ll probably be relevant later in the series and possibly age this post like milk but for now, we’re not here to focus on the how, but the why.

Second is that the intro and the ending of Ep 2 literally show Fionna’s world spilling right out of Simon’s head like an animated world out of a frozen brain. If that isn’t clear enough-

Didn't realize this until writing, but these glasses are just plastic made to look like Betty's

There’s no other explanation for this other than that this world is artificial or influenced by Simon in some sense. Fionna even specifies that the statue went under renovation 12 years ago, but nobody seems to know who it is. Considering how Finn looks in the episode, it’s likely that it’s been that long since Betty’s sacrifice in the finale.

With that out of the way, here it goes.

The reason Fionna and Cake exist in the first place is because the creators found Natasha Allegri’s genderswap designs charming and wanted an in-universe reason to use them the Ice King wanted to create trashy, wish fulfillment through art. It was a phase.

Definitely changed that image for publishing.

Simon can argue if they’re good or bad but it’s undeniably his art. It’s not just a portfolio he left behind in a closet, it’s an experience that was shared with a larger audience.

And even if wasn’t liked at first, the citizens of Ooo seemed to have come around to it. And some of them love it!

Whether Simon likes it or not, he has a fan base that is so endeared to the story he made all those years ago that they demand he makes more. Why let a good story, loved by many, go to rest when you still have some life and creativity left in you?

Can't move on in more ways than one.

Except, the problem is that Simon isn’t Ice King anymore. He’s aged out of it.

His real passion is history, he's an adult who who finds passion in the mundane and antiques from the past. And frankly, there isn’t much room for wish-fulfillment and fantasy anymore. Simon has responsibilities. He has a job and a daughter in a world that is moving faster than he can process.

And where Ice King wrote about looking for love, Simon has already had it.

And lost it. His mind isn’t focused on the rosiness of finding new love, it’s grieving the one he already thought was the one.

Wasn't he supposed to be good with kids?

Despite his new life experiences, all his peers seem to want from him is to make more of what they’re familiar with.

A story made from wants and wishes that he doesn’t even have anymore.

A story that was literally made by someone else at a different time. It’s a fiction he cannot connect to anymore, art that he’s embarrassed by. Yet also jealous of. Because at one point, the body Simon used to be in understood what exactly was missing from his life and could express that easily.

Seeing it again is like experiencing a retrospection of a cringey loser you don’t want to imagine having ever been. It’s not you anymore, and you don’t want to be reminded of that.

Because despite him having a new creative passion, no one seems to care about that. All they want is Fionna and Cake. And what is more lonely than other people misunderstanding what you’re trying to express?

If I failed to make it clear somehow, my theory is that: Simon’s relationship with Fionna and Cake is a metaphor for creators growing out of their art. And this new Fionna and Cake world is still comfort art born out of Simon’s current desires and perceptions.

The snippet subtitles this “child holding a phone”. I guess I’m wrong. Essay over.

Episode 1 and 2 both have direct parallels with each other. They’re both about a protagonist who are feeling displaced from their world, living a phase of losing a significant other, leaving a thankless job, wearing a mask of stability in front of the people they care for, seeking a guru at the heart of the forest, and concluding that they no longer belong in their current world.

But more importantly, Fionna and Cake (the characters, the world, and the show) are no longer for an all-ages crowd. Fionna and Cake now feature young adults, curses, gore, alcohol, partial nudity, financial issues, morning routines, mid-life crisis, and overt suicidal ideation. These are the feelings that Simon relates to and possibly desires to express through art. Thus, his story and our new miniseries have warped that way.

Am I overthinking this? No. How dare you assume that.

Is equating the unconscious writings of his dementia-ridden self to Simon as his younger self seem a bit odd? ….Kinda. Again, it’s not the how but the why that matters in this case. I'm NOT crazy, I have proof that there is some acknowledgment of this directly in the show.

Rewatch the bar scene and apply this reading of the episode to what Simon says there:

“Your old stuff, Fionna and Cake, honest to glob my man, is an inspiration to me.”

“My old stuff, I don’t really want to talk about my old stuff…”

“Why not? You should be proud! You wrote an entire extended universe in a fugue state if you think about it.”

"Simon cringes"

If you have ever shared art with a group of people in the past, you’ve had this conversation.

Not likely, not possibly, no perhapses. You HAVE.

And Fionna and Cake being an epilogue to a massive award-winning, near-decade-spanning, cultural sensation 5 years after it ended, might result in its creators feeling very retrospective about what audiences want from them now.

And how difficult it’s going to be to tell new experiences and tones from what’s come before. Also, come on. “Extended Universe?” That doesn’t sound like Fionna and Cake. That sounds a lot like something else.

Again, seems bad with this kid.

One of the more profound shots in the main trailer for the show features the inconspicuously Finn-like kid crouching at her Fionna and Cake book in Simon’s trash. I believe this character is going to have a major role in two ways. Convincing Simon to be proud of what he’s accomplished and/or embracing that Simon wants to move away from his original work in order to create something new, or perhaps more likely, reinvent Fionna and Cake into what Simon relates to now.

We’ll just have to see what Simon thinks of his new Fionna next week.

PS. Talking as a fan now, WHAT IS UP WITH THE 1000+ TREEHOUSE IN THE INTRO?!!! ARE WE REVISITING THIS TIMELINE AGAIN?

SOMEONE TELL ME NOW!!!

#television #adventure time #fionna and cake #simon petrikov #fionna campbell #animation #speculation #theories #fan theory #character analysis #discussion #adventure time spoilers #fionna and cake spoilers

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heich0e · 2 years ago

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bittersweet - vash the stampede/f!reader (trigun stampede): 7k, listen there's only been 2 eps and i don't know the lore so i am loudy and emphatically declaring creative license, in my mind this is set before the start of stampede but not by much, heavy on the wild wild west core here, light angst, smut, fingering, needy vanilla sex, domesticity, mentions of alcohol/alcoholism, boot-throwing related violence. 18+ NSFW MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

The desert smells bitter.

You wouldn’t think that sand would smell like much at all, but the fragrance that hangs perpetually in the air is heavy, singed, and acrid with the heady scent of life and its misery. Waste and runoff make their unpleasantness acutely known on the hottest days, and the fumes from old machinery that’s barely functioning thanks to age and disrepair—that no one can afford to fix, so they have to hold out hope it keeps running—clogs up the already noxious atmosphere as it rattles on throughout the day.

Mama used to tell you that outside of Jeneora Rock, the world smelled different. There’s somewhere else past the walls that mark the edge of the only town you’ve ever known, even past the wastelands—a place where almost no one ever goes, but that your Mama saw once. Or at least she said she did.

She told you it smelled clean. Sweet. Untouched by anything but the sun’s heat and the five moons’ glow.

Mama’s gone, has been for a long time now, and even though she never had much to give to you in the first place, that story is the most precious thing she left behind. You think about it almost as often as you think about her.

The end of another long day is marked by a familiar heaviness to your bones. Between the suffocating heat that makes you groggy and a hard day's work, there’s a palpable weight that bears down on you as you climb the never-ending metal stairs to your front door—your feet drag a bit more with every step.

The lock to your home is getting hard to turn. You’ve noticed it a few times now: a resistance as you slip your key into the keyhole, a pressure as you urge the mechanism to turn and let you in. There may be sand built up in there to clean out, or maybe it needs some oil.

But oil costs money, of which you don’t have much, so you really hope that it’s the former rather than the latter.

You examine the keyhole once you manage to force the lock open, dropping to your knees outside your door to peek into the narrow opening on the tarnished face of the lock. It doesn’t do you much good because the sun’s already dropped dark, and even if the light of day still hung overhead you doubt it would be enough to make the issue any clearer. You drag your thumb idly along a little scratch beside the keyhole that's probably been there for years; the metal is still warm to the touch from the heat of the day that still hasn’t quite broken, the surface a little rougher where the score is chipped in.

You sigh, picking yourself up off the ground and dusting off your skirt, and turn the knob into your home.

It’s dark when you get inside, but something feels wrong.

You shut the door behind you as you enter, pressing your back flat against it as your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. Your home, like every other one in town, isn’t really much to look at even in the plain light of day. You’re luckier than lots of people though, you’ve got a couple rooms all to yourself where some families have no choice but to cram many people into just one. Papa left you this house, cause now he’s gone too just like Mama, but not much has changed since the day he left it to you—except now there’s less empty bottles rolling around underfoot, and you get to call the little bedroom off the main room yours.

It takes a second for your eyes to get used to the dimness with the door shut tight behind you, so you blink hard to make it happen faster. You see the rickety little table against the wall near the door, and the chair on the other side of the room where you sometimes sit by the window to mend your skirts when they wear and tear—but only when you get home early enough to catch the last few moments of sun, cause Mama always used to warn you about sewing by lamplight. The shutters on the window are closed and locked now, but there’s no light outside them to let in anyway.

Something shuffles in the dark.

Papa left you a gun, too. Even taught you how to shoot it. Mama hated that. She hated how good you were at it even more. She used to say that shooting was gonna be your husband’s job someday, and that even in a world this wicked Papa was teaching you things you didn’t need to know.

But now Mama’s gone. And Papa’s gone. And the world is still wicked. And you’ve got no husband, but you have a gun you know how to shoot.

You keep it and a little stash of 7 bullets underneath your bed where you can get to it quick, but it’s on the other side of the house, and even though that’s not very far away you don’t know what’s waiting for you between the door and your bed. You don’t know if it’s faster than you are, either, so running for it would be a fool’s errand.

Inside your chest, your heart starts pumping a little harder, ‘til you can feel the wet thump, thump, thump right in the back of your mouth.

You know you need light. You need to be able to see. You can’t make any decisions until you know what’s between you and your Papa's gun tucked up safe underneath your bed.

Slowly your eyes flicker over to the lamp on your table, just within reach.

You suck a little gasp into your lungs to steel your nerve. The air is less sour in here—more familiar, a little more comforting—but the acrid scent of the desert still lingers on the edge of each breath. Slowly you reach towards the lamp and flick it on.

“PLEASE DON’T SHOOT ME!”

The frantic plea frightens you so terribly that it sends you tumbling to the hard floor, landing flat on your ass with your back thumping painfully into the wall beside your door. In front of you is a face that has no right being as familiar as it is; eyes wide in panic beneath a round pair of glasses, blonde hair tousled in disarray, two hands (one flesh and one crafted) lifted in innocence.

Your heart is beating even faster now under the tight pull of your laced waistcoat.

“Are you an idiot?” you hiss, instinctively tugging your boot off your foot and lobbing it forcefully at the unexpected intruder. “You scared the daylights outta me!”

The man sidesteps the projectile easily, and it clatters to the floor. The expression on his face morphs from one of panic to something a little more chagrined.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, drawing out the word. His tone sheepish, and his lips pull into an apologetic little smile.

You place a trembling hand on your chest, pressing down on the spot where you feel your heart thumping the hardest and willing it to slow. You stare at your scuffed floorboards and take a few breaths to ease the frenetic beat of your pulse, and feel yourself begin to wilt as the adrenaline in your veins starts to fade.

“How’d you get in here, Vash the Stampede?” you ask, looking up again at the man in front of you from your place on the ground.

“I knocked first,” he says with a grimace, “but you weren’t home and I…”

“Broke in because you’ve got someone looking for you?” you finish his explanation for him, your tone flat and entirely unsurprised.

He sighs, shoulders slumping dejectedly as his head hangs forward.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

He lifts his chin only enough to guiltily meet your gaze.

“It’s just for one night,” he murmurs the plea, his bottom lip weighed down by a pout.

You shut your eyes tight, hands balling into fists over your skirt to hide the way they tremble.

“Fine.”

Vash falls to his knees in front of you, hands pressed to the floor as he gets right up in your face with a wide, cheerful grin. He’s almost nose to nose with you, the light of the lamp glinting in his glasses.

“Thanks so much! I promise I’ll be outta here before you know it!”

He doesn’t need to tell you that, because the pang in your empty stomach tells you that, even unspoken, you already knew it to be true.

Vash is travelling light again, just like the last time you saw him. He’s only got one bag that he begins to unpack onto the rickety table in your kitchen, leaving you to quietly go about your own business like you would if you hadn’t found him in your home that night. On the other side of the kitchen you unpack the meagre amount of food you’d managed to buy for yourself that day from little satchel you carried it home in. It’s barely enough food for one, and now you’ll have to stretch it between two.

“Where’s your father?” Vash asks as he fiddles with his gun at the table behind you. “I thought it was him coming through the door, and I thought for sure he was gonna blow my—“

“He’s dead.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Uncomfortable, even. Vash’s hands still even as yours keep quietly peeling the sad, withered skin from the vegetable in your hand with the blade of a half-dulled knife.

“I’m sorry,” his next words are quiet. “Your father was a nice man.”

“My father was a drunk who got himself shot in a bar fight with a merchant who came to town and was talking big. He just worshipped you because you saved the plant.”

That same uncomfortable silence creeps in again in the wake of your words, but after a few moments you hear Vash pick up his tools and start tinkering away at whatever he’s working on once more.

“Is the plant still running?” Vash is the first to speak again, though a fair amount of time passes before he risks another attempt at conversation.

“More or less,” you remark, setting a little pot on the stove to boil with whatever ingredients you’d been able to scrounge together into a meal. You watch the flame of the element burst to life as you flick the switch, a little hiss as the fire licks at the edges of your only copper pot. “Some days it’s more reliable than others. But whatever you did seems to be holding up all right.”

“Good!” Vash says behind you. “That’s good.”

You turn to face him, the unevenly mended hem of your skirt swishing around your ankles. You lean against the little countertop behind you, with your arms crossed behind your back.

“I’ll pop by the plant before I leave town—”

You watch as Vash’s fingers nimbly fiddle with his gun, broken down into its component parts to be cleaned and maintained. You’re sure it doesn’t need it—are certain he’s fired less shots from that gun in the two years since you’ve seen him than you’ve heard in town this week alone—but it’s kind of nice to watch him work, to appreciate how certain and precise his every move is, and to see how concentrated he is while he goes about it.

“—just to make sure everything’s still in good shape.”

He looks up at you, like for the first time he feels your gaze as it traces the lines of his profile. He smiles again, that same wide, willful expression of cheer that he always endeavours to wear even though he might be the person least entitled to it.

You hum. “I’m sure everyone would appreciate that. You should stop by to see Rosa too, she’ll box my ear if she finds out you blew though town and didn’t go see her.”

The two of you eat across the table from one another in silence. Just the scrape of cutlery and the occasional loud swallow passing between the two of you. Vash seems hungry, but appears to be trying his best to be at least a little restrained as he eats with you. Even though you’d given him the larger of the two portions, he’s still finished his plate before you’ve finished yours, but he sits patiently across from you waiting for you to swallow your final bite.

“I’ll take these,” he jumps to his feet before you have the chance to even push your chair back from the table, snatching both of your dishes up into his hands. “I’ll clean up, since you’re letting me stay.”

You don’t deny him, and instead slump back into your seat, dragging your wrist along your forehead. Your skin feels grimy from the hot day and the filth outside. Normally you would have bathed before you cooked, but you hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day—and Vash looked like it may have been even longer than that.

“I’m gonna wash,” you say, standing from your seat. You pause, your fingertips tracing against the rough, rutted surface of the tabletop. You know you don’t have enough water for two baths in your tank. You used to bathe with your mother when you were little, then once you were older and Mama was gone, you got the bathwater first and Papa would get in after you were done. It’s never been an issue until now. “Er—Vash?”

At the sink where your uninvited house guest is scrubbing at the dishes in the washbasin that you’d filled ahead of time, Vash pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. He’s taken off his familiar red coat, left hanging off the chair he’d been seated in at the table, and the black turtleneck he wears beneath it stretches taut over the musculature of his back as it faces you.

“The bath… there’s only enough water to fill it once. I don’t…Do you want…?” you aren’t sure what you’re even trying to ask him, but whatever is coming out of your mouth is even less clear than the thoughts running through your head.

“I’ll bathe second, don’t worry about me.”

Vash’s smile is gentle and obliging, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they narrow into little crescents. You nod stiffly, feeling heat flush through you at the softness in his expression, and shuffle off towards the other side of your home while avoiding his gaze.

The walls of your home are paper thin, and you’re certain that Vash can hear the splash of water in the tub as clearly as you can hear the scratchy, garbled sound of his radio from the other room. Once your skin’s been scrubbed clean of the day, you sit in the water with your knees pulled to your chest and your chin tucked between them. You strain to try to make out what’s being broadcast, but it’s difficult to hear since the reception in town is always so piss poor, and whatever coherent bits of news you manage to catch are just as abysmal as always.

It’s strange, hearing someone else in the house. It’s something you didn’t realize had become so foreign to you in the time you’ve learned to live alone. The idle puttering in the other room is a sound you didn’t realize you had missed. You lean back and dunk yourself into the water, where everything goes quiet.

The bathwater never gets very hot to begin with—tepid at the best of times, which seems unfair given the climate—but you know it’s not fair to waste time in the tub when someone else is waiting for it. You pull yourself up out of the metal basin, careful not to disturb the stopper in the bottom of the tub, and dry as much water from your skin as you can. Once you’ve deemed yourself sufficiently towelled, you pull on your nightdress and a threadbare housecoat overtop.

Vash looks up from the chair in the corner by the window when you emerge from the bathroom, and he meets your eyes so unwaveringly it feels decidedly like he’s trying hard not to let his gaze wander elsewhere. You fidget under his stare, fiddling with the fraying ends of the towel around your neck that’s catching the droplets that fall from your hair. He must realize that he’s unnerving you, because he averts his eyes to a point on the wall over your shoulder after a moment.

“My turn?” he asks, his tone chipper but polite.

“All yours,” you nod, stepping into your bedroom and leaving him to his business.

There’s an old trunk at the bottom of your bed where you keep some of the things your father left that you haven’t yet been able to sell or make use of. You find an old shirt of his near the very bottom, soft and worn-thin from years of washing. It’s something you could have easily sold or traded by now, but that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to part with—though you’re certain the day will inevitably come when sentimentality can no longer outweigh your basic needs.

You stand outside the bathroom door for a moment, your father’s shirt clutched tightly in your hands. You can hear the splash of bathwater you’re sure has gone cold from where you stand, only a few feet and a thin door between you.

You muster your nerve and tap your knuckles lightly against the door.

“I have a shirt if you need something to—“

The door opens, and you find yourself unexpectedly facing the bare chest of your one-night housemate, still damp and glistening from the bath, lined with silvery scars that the low light catches on.

You toss the shirt at him unceremoniously and turn quickly away, and Vash himself makes a little sound of surprise.

“Sorry, I didn’t expect you to be—“

“It’s fine,” you answer before he can even finish his apology, still refusing to meet his gaze. You gesture vaguely over your shoulder without turning. “Just take that.”

The bathroom door clicks closed again, and you clutch the belt of your housecoat over your diaphragm.

You need a drink.

You cross your home to the cabinet in your kitchen, reaching to the back of the nearly-bare shelf and pulling out a dusty old bottle that’s been there since your father died. It wouldn’t have lasted a day if he were still living, and you’ve made it years without ever so much as cracking it open.

Today however, you feel it’s well-deserved.

The dust caked on the bottle smears against your palm as you open it, and you wipe the grime furiously against the material of your housecoat as you pour a long glug of the amber liquor into a waiting glass. It’s vile, lukewarm from the constant heat of your home, and burns every inch of the way down—but as you set the empty glass back onto the counter, you still find yourself grateful for it.

You pour another drink.

“Take it easy,” you hear a voice say behind you, accompanied by a breathy little laugh.

You turn and see Vash hovering not far from you, his black turtleneck folded over one arm and your father’s shirt over his no-longer-bare chest. His hair is wet, a towel draped around his shoulders just like yours, and he’s taken off his usual eyewear. The mole underneath his eye seems more prominent now that he’s scrubbed himself clean.

Your empty glass dangles from the tips of your fingers, the acerbic taste of the liquor lingering on your tongue. You hold it out to him in offering, and he scrunches up his nose a little bit.

“I really shouldn’t—“

“It’s rude to turn down a drink your host is offering you, y’know.”

Things like rudeness don’t mean anything to anyone these days, least of all yourself. Decency is a luxury few people can afford.

Vash sighs, still smiling, and takes the glass from you. Your fingers brush as it passes from your hand to his, and then you take the bottle and pour another healthy splash into the waiting cup. He brings it to his lips, wincing against the fumes alone that waft up from the glass.

“It’s better if you don’t sip it,” you offer him, though even then you know the guidance doesn’t help much.

He tips it back and drains it.

Two drinks were enough to have you feeling woozy, but you pour yourself a third for good measure. You spare Vash the pain of another, much to his apparent relief, and let him off with just the one before tucking the half-drained bottle back into the cupboard you’d dug it out of.

When you turn around again, Vash is crouched down, examining something on the ground.

Your boot. The one you’d thrown at him earlier.

He peers up at you from the floor, he lifts the shoe slightly.

“It broke again.”

A memory floods back to you then, unbidden.

Sitting side by side with Vash on the edge of the steps outside the same house you live in now, but when the way you lived was different. The plant had just been repaired, and there was a palpable feeling of effervescent joy sizzling through the town around you. An uncharacteristic camaraderie amongst the people of Jeneora Rock as the celebration of Vash’s handiwork spreading through the narrow, grimy streets. The two of you were away from it all, sitting quietly together in a strange sort of celebration of your own.

You were less a woman than you were a girl back then, but still somehow neither. He’d patched the sole of your boot back on when it had ripped loose. And you’d laughed when he handed it back to you with an endearingly clumsy flourish, the sound as high and bright as the sun that hung in the sky overhead. You still remember the way your laughter had made his smile grow.

The patch job had lasted a year. You’d sobbed the day it came loose again, just shortly after the death of your father. You’d been using twine tied tightly around the toe of the boot to hold it together ever since.

Vash blinks up at you from the ground as you stare down at him with what you’re sure is a vacant look in your eyes.

“I brought you something,” he says, hopping up and skittering over to his rucksack with your boot still in his hand. He rifles around in the bag for a moment, his mechanical arm shoulder deep as he roots for what he’s looking for. His eyebrows shoot up and he grins when he locates it—a wide, brilliant smile splitting across his face as he pulls his arm out.

He holds his find up in triumph.

You look at it with narrowed eyes.

“What… is it?” you ask, after a moment of trying to identify the small, relatively unremarkable little container in his hand.

“Boot glue!” he says excitedly, waving it in front of your face. “I thought of you when I saw it! The merchant wanted an arm and a leg for it but I managed to—”

Tears have sprung up in your eyes against your will, and you quickly turn away from him to hide them from his sight.

“Hey, are you okay?” Vash’s voice is softer now, less enthusiastic and more concerned.

That softness is what upsets you more than anything. Tenderness is a foreign thing in the desolation of the wastelands.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, scrubbing your hand over your stinging eyes.

For thinking of me.

For knowing that you’d come back.

You leave that part off, but you feel it just as much as what you say.

You drain that third glass that’s been sitting on the counter waiting for you, hoping the burn of the liquor as it sloshes down your throat to your stomach will give you something else to focus on. Or, if nothing else, that it might numb the sudden pain that’s laid roots down in your core.

Vash sits at the table as he patches up your boot under the lamplight, much like he had the first time. You watch him from the chair in the corner, under the shuttered window, with your knees drawn up into your seat with you. You’re more shameless now than you had been while he cleaned his gun, observing him keenly as he scrubs your boot with a rag and leftover water from the dish pan. He makes sure no more grime clings to it before he carefully smears a thick layer of the glue along the sole, pressing down firmly to make sure the adhesion takes. He holds the boot up in front of him when he’s done, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth, eyeing it from every angle to survey his own work.

You watch him just as raptly.

He turns in his seat once he’s satisfied, holding the boot up.

“All done!” he says, hopping up to his feet and shuffling towards you. He crouches down in front of you and holds out his hand expectantly. Slowly, you stick your foot out, and he cradles it gently in his roughened palm.

Carefully he slips the boot onto your foot, tightening the laces once it’s fully in place.

“How’s it feel?” he asks you, peeking up at you from his place on the floor.

“Feels good,” you reply, with an equally breathy tone.

The lamplight doesn’t reach this corner of the room quite as brightly as it does at the table, but you can still make out a blush that sits high and pretty at the top of Vash’s cheeks. You wonder if he’s starting to feel the flush thanks to the liquor, or if maybe it’s something else entirely.

“G-good!” he stammers a little, fiddling with the laces at your ankle. “I’m glad!”

“That glue must have been expensive,” you say. “Thank you, Vash.”

He shoots you a smile as he loops his fingers through the laces. “It's the least I could do, especially with you putting me up for the night.”

For the night.

Just for the night.

The reminder makes you ache a little.

Vash helps you slip your boot off again, carrying it over to the door and setting it down beside its mate.

“I’ll leave this here for you, in case you need it again,” he says, screwing the top back onto the little pot of adhesive at the table. “There’s not much left, but there’s some.”

You nod from your seat in the corner, one leg up and one leg still down—your nightdress drawn up to your knee from when he’d helped you into your boot.

Vash ruffles the hair at the nape of his neck, dry now after his bath. Yours remains a little damp, but you’re sure it won’t last long as the residual heat from the day still hangs in the air even though the sun has long set.

“It’s late,” he finally says after a moment. “You should sleep.”

You hum in agreement, moving to stand from your chair. The room spins slightly around you, those three glasses you’d knocked back sneaking up on you while you’d been sitting down. Your foot hooks in the hem of your nightdress because of the way you’d been sitting, but before you can stumble theres a strong arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. A warmth pressing into you as your face meets a heaving chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Vash murmurs, his grip on you tightening for the briefest moment.

Your hands clutch at his shirt, and you don’t meet his eyes as you nod, letting him lead you towards your bedroom.

Your hands fumble at the belt of your nightdress, pulling it off and tossing the garment across the end of your bed as Vash helps you onto the mattress. You tuck your feet under the thin sheet before leaning back against your pillows, and Vash is quick to turn and head towards the door after helping you pull it up to your waist.

“Wait,” you call to him before he can retreat. He pauses in the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Where are you going to sleep?”

You hadn’t thought much about this, and you ought to have considered it earlier. You only have the one bed, but you have two pillows you can share and a spare blanket in the trunk at the end of it that you could offer him if he wants to sleep on the floor.

But you don’t want to tell him that.

“I’ll just take the chair,” he says with a blithe smile, jutting his thumb towards the armchair in the other room.

It won’t be comfortable. You know that from experience, having fallen asleep there a few times yourself after a particularly gruelling day. The stuffing is lumpy and the springs are painful if you press against them the wrong way. You know he won’t complain about it. You even know that it’s probably still more comfortable than lots of other places he’s rested his head over the past two years.

But you want to be selfish.

For once you don’t want to be alone.

“Vash,” you say quietly, and you watch his entire body go rigid at the sudden bare vulnerability of your tone. “Please stay with me.”

You’d asked him the same thing once before, but different. The words once murmured desperately against his lips as you clung to his red jacket. Staring at him with eyes full of hope and a freshly patched boot on your foot.

He’d looked at you the same way back then too. That smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. As gentle of a no that he could ever offer you.

“I know you have to leave,” you murmur, eyes downcast to your hands as they rest atop your lap. “I don’t expect anything like that from you. I know it’s just for tonight.”

“Please don’t cry.”

The bed dips beside you, and Vash tilts your face up towards him. He looks troubled when you meet his gaze, even in the dim light of your bedroom you can make out the conflict on his features. It’s strange to see him not smiling, wrong almost.

But your eyes are dry.

“Stay,” you repeat yourself, meeting his gaze resolutely. You swallow hard over the lump in your throat, bracing yourself for the impending sear of rejection.

Vash cups your cheeks in his hands, and you can’t tell if it’s your cheeks or his touch that feels so warm.

“You deserve someone that can say yes to that and mean it properly,” he says ruefully, not dissimilarly to what he’d said the first time you’d asked the very same thing of him.

“I’m not asking anyone else,” you whisper, “I’m asking you."

You wonder if your mouth still tastes like liquor as Vash’s tongue dips inside of it, hovering over you as you lay sprawled across your bed.

It didn’t start like this, of course. The first kiss had been gentle, hesitant even—like Vash wasn’t quite sure if he was going to see it through at all, poised to flee at any moment. But neither of you could deny how right it felt when his lips brushed yours, an immediate wash of relief and of unadulterated want inundating you all at once. You’d been the one to crane up and bridge the gap, but soon Vash was crawling into your bed overtop of you, easing you back to lay flat as he succumbed to the same need you felt thrumming through your veins.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now—a gesture that earned you a pitchy, needy little groan from him as your fingers twisted through the blonde strands. It only seemed to make him more eager as he parted his lips against your own in a deeper kiss.

There’s something a little clumsy about it all, an eagerness and inexperience to every touch and graze. But it’s not the same as it was at first, no longer hesitant or wary—his reservations have been peeled away as surely as the clothes the two of you are wearing, until you feel nothing but his skin against your own.

Vash’s hands are as greedy and rapacious as his mouth; touching, grabbing, grazing anything he can reach. His calloused fingers cup themselves around the swell of your chest, squeezing lightly, and when you reward him with a little moan it stokes the flames of his curiosity, and his touch moves to the pebbled bud of your nipple next. He rolls it tentatively between his fingers, pinching ever so slightly, and when you gasp against his mouth, arching further into his touch, he makes his own little pleased sound of surprise before lavishing your other breast with equal attention.

His metal hand touches you more gingerly than the other, and he tends to favour the one made of flesh and bone. The contrast in sensations is a little disorienting—smooth, hard metal versus the life-roughened heat of skin on skin. It’s dizzying. You want more.

“Vash,” you murmur against his mouth.

Your lips are stinging now from the constant kissing. He’s scarcely left your mouth uncovered by his own since they first connected, but at your hoarse whisper of his name he pulls back slightly, watching your face for any sign of reproach.

“Touch me more, please,” you say to him, cupping his cheeks as he presses his forehead into yours, both of you sharing the same breath in the little space between you.

He makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a hum, nodding a little, and kisses you again as his hands slip further down your willing, waiting form.

If he’s surprised by the wet wet heat he finds between your legs, it doesn’t stop him. One finger and then two find their way inside you slowly; he moves in gentle thrusts and scissoring motions that have your jaw going slack. His palm presses against the swell of your clit, and each time your hips jump it grinds into the heel of his palm, earning a keen from the back of your throat.

“Feels good?” Vash trails kisses up the top of your cheek until his lips are by your ear. His breathing is laboured and the air of each breath is hot as it ghosts across your skin. Your tongue feels leaden, but you nod repeatedly, wrapping your arms around his neck and keeping him close.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to breathe out, “’s good.”

It’s even better when you feel the stretch of him pressing himself inside.

The sound that’s pulled from the depth of Vash’s broad chest as he carves his way into you makes your toes curl—high and sweet and desperate.

“’S hot,” he slurs, his hips giving a shallow, desperate thrust.

He’s needy, pulling you closer as he moves you how he wants you. He loops your knees up over his elbows, his mouth frantically finding it’s way back to yours as the weight of his entire body bears down on you.

The next thrust is harder, deeper. And the pace only increases after that.

The rickety headboard of your old bed knocks against the wall each time he brings his hips down against yours. It’s loud, but so is the sound of skin on skin, and you have the distant thought as the bed frame creaks that it sounds like it might splinter underneath you—but you don’t find it in yourself to care as the pressure in you core steadily builds, threatening to burst. It blinds and deafens you to anything but the pulse that pounds in your throat. It makes your fingers curl against the skin of Vash’s shoulder blades until your nails dig into skin.

He’s still kissing you, wet and messy and noisy as his tongue presses into your mouth. He never stops kissing you.

It's nice to be with someone. To be touched. To feel wanted and needed.

Especially by him.

Your eyes flutter open, and as though he can sense your gaze on him Vash’s do the same. His expression is heavy-lidded as he pants, a little drop of sweat sitting high on the edge of his blushing cheek. He smiles a little, a soft, gentle expression you’ve never seen before.

A tenderness in his gaze unlike any you’ve ever experienced.

The pressure in your core comes undone.

He takes your face in his hands as pleasure rips through you like a sandstorm, blistering and unescapable. He’s still kissing you. Keeping you so near. In the haze it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins, everything clouded into something thats both and somehow neither. Something new.

“Close,” Vash whines, grinding his hips down against your own.

Your muscles ache, the pleasure has worn you raw, and your lungs are pricking with the need for a full deep breath you haven’t been able to draw into them now for some time. But even so, you don’t want it to be over. Can’t bear the thought of being apart.

The headboard rattles a few more times, and then the pressure between your legs is gone as Vash pulls out and spatters his spend across your stomach with a long, low groan.

It’s hot. The mess on your skin, the sweat that clings to you, the paltry breaths of air you draw into your lungs. Even the sheets of your bed have absorbed the heat from both of your bodies, sticking to your skin as you collapse into them in boneless heaps, chests heaving and hearts racing side by side.

You tilt your face towards the boy crowded into your narrow bed beside you, and find him watching you expectantly.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a piece of hair away from your eyes.

You hum, leaning into his touch.

Vash’s gaze travels down your body, eyeing the mess he’s made of you with wide eyes. He pops up suddenly, clambering out of bed and tripping clumsily over the sheet that’s fallen half-way off the mattress as he skitters out the door. You’re not too worried that he’s going far, considering he’s still stark naked, but you watch the doorway curiously as you wait for him to return.

When he does, he has a cloth in hand—still damp from your bath earlier in the evening. As gently as he can, Vash cleans you up; the cloth cool is against your sticky skin, and feels nice. Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he presses a kiss to the valley between your ribs, lifting his face to smile up at you.

You shoot him a feeble smile back.

He slips into bed beside you once more, crawling up towards the pillows and pulling the rumpled sheet up to your chins as he goes. He settles in, and with one sweep of his arm he tucks you safely against his chest, with your ear resting over his heart. His hand pats gently along the back of your hair down your spine, keeping you close to him.

Vash smells good. Clean and comforting. It makes you think of the place your mother told you about once. You wonder if he smells like that place, or maybe even better.

You wonder if he’s ever been there before.

You wonder if he’d tell you if you asked.

You open your eyes, though the effort pains you in your exhaustion, and you see him peering back at you. Vash’s lips pull into a smile, but it's one of the ones that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. An expression that you know is more for you than it is for himself.

You think the two of you have a lot in common, then. That maybe the two of you understand the same loneliness. The same feeling of being haunted.

Your ghosts live on in the trunk at the end of your bed and at the back of your cupboard, covered in dust, tucked away out of sight.

Vash’s live on inside of him, and it’s where he seems determined to keep them.

In that moment you know that even if you were to ask, he’d tell you nothing—and he’d do it for your own sake.

Tomorrow you’ll wake and the air will smell bitter and burnt, and he’ll be gone, but your boot will be mended, and the little pot of glue will remind you he was there. But tonight you’ll dream about the place your Mama told you about, and tomorrow you’ll still have the smell that clings to your sheets. So for now, the world smells different.

And that has to be enough.

#vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede x you #vash x reader #vash x you #vash the stampede #trigun stampede fic #trigun stampede writing #writing

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ineffableandco · 1 year ago

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A recap of the panel with Peter Anderson Studio at The Ineffable Con 4

- Season 2 opening titles are a direct continuation of the end of Season 1 opening titles.

- All of it is only possible because of Neil Gaiman and Douglas Mackinnon. Peter Anderson says it’s because of “their brillance as creatives and their celebration of each person that they work with. They have a kind of respect for and celebrate, but they also collaborate in the best way possible.”

- Gabriel is hidden in every scene of the title sequence.

- The duck referenced on Mr. Brown’s newspaper (ep. 2) appears in the title sequence too (duck playing the accordion at the front of the stage).

- The indication cards (London, Present Day, Hell, etc) are made for real and then filmed.

- The Scotland hills were made with paper maché. The green and blue tartan is actually a Mackinnon tartan in reference to Douglas Mackinnon.

- The spider and Nazi fly were created for real and then filmed.

- The nebulae we can see at the beginning were chosen because people could relate to them.

- Peter Anderson confirms that there are hints for Season 3 in the Season 2 title sequences.

- It took about 6 months to make the opening titles.

- The symbols in heaven are actual language that can be decoded.

- The planet being born when Aziraphale and Crowley are dancing is just a planet.

- The Adam headstone refers to Adam and Eve.

- The names behind the chairs in the magic show are important. They all connect to different episodes and characters.

@neil-gaiman @theineffablecon

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens 3 #Peter Anderson studio #neil gaiman #the ineffable con #TIC 4 #it’s ineffable angel #Good Omens News

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shinelikethunder · 6 months ago

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people who think everything good about SPN was an accident, please consider that season 4 knew exactly what the fuck it was doing when it gave Karin Konoval - who played the mom in X-Files 4x02 "Home" - a cameo in the "feral incest children living in the walls" episode

people who think SPN always did those things on purpose, or worse, that every production choice carries deep inter- or intra-textual significance whose most esoteric pop-cultural associations can always be imported wholesale and ascribed to authorial intent... please consider that if season 11 had any idea what the fuck it was doing when it blithely used johnny mathis's "wonderful! wonderful!" as cheery background mood music in the banshee episode, everyone involved deserved to be sacked on the spot for narrative incompetence.

context: X-Files 4x02 "Home" is SPN founding daddy Kim Manners' single most infamous work (affectionate), and that song is so iconically and cursedly and memorably associated with it that it sets off kill bill sirens in the heads of people who've been scarred for life by that ep. and i simply think. that if the show did not mean to imply via soundtrack that something deeply deranged was afoot here. (which, in context, it clearly did not.) then someone in that decision-making chain should've fucking intervened and told the others that a solid chunk of their most dedicated, longstanding viewers would hear it - consciously or unconsciously - as a signal that an absolute doozy of another shoe was about to drop. and that this signal would look deliberate to anyone who'd consciously identified it.

like this is on the level of "you cannot innocently play bobby vinton's 1963 hit single 'blue velvet' over a close-up of a character's ear without making ~10% of your audience wonder when said ear is going to get cut off." except multiply that by "and if you are late season 2 of twin peaks and you were co-created by david lynch, even if he's not directly involved at this point and the show has gone to shit, that audience percentage will rise dramatically and it will be actively confusing to them if it turns out you're not implying something on purpose." just. absolute clown foolery.

anyway this, in a nutshell, is both The Maddening Duality Of Trying To Suss Out Creative Intentions Behind SPN and a fucking hilarious symptom of the show's descent into amnesiac apathy about its own past. is spn aware, in a doylist wink-nudge referential sense, of Our Guy's X-Files Ep That The Network Famously Refused To Ever Air Again? flamboyantly yes AND flamboyantly no, thanks for asking! enjoy your accidental jumpscare and deep sense of unease <3

#supernatural #meta #spn s4 #spn s11 #family remains #into the mystic #i do like both eps! but WHAT was happening behind the scenes of that song selection

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solitaryandwandering · 2 months ago

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A Ramble: Love in the Big City Eps 5-6

Well, @lurkingshan welcomed me into this house of pain and I set up camp with full awareness of what awaited me. And yet. And yet. I cried so sadly at the end of episode 6. Genuinely, I don't think I've been this heartbroken watching anything recently. Gyu-ho is so wonderful. He didn't deserve Yeong shutting him out like that. But in the end, they just weren't right for each other. Not with all the heaviness Yeong carries with him, now. And poor Yeong. He was never malicious, never truly wanted to hurt Gyu-ho, but he's in so much pain. He's never been in a relationship like this, which asked for so little (yet so much). And so, here are my scattered, discombobulated thoughts.

On the cinematography front, I continued to geek out over how well each director is communicating Yeong's internal and external worlds. The last section saw Hur Jin Ho start to darken Yeong's world around the edges, still taking full advantage of environment and space. In this section, Hong Ji Young is much more economical. We have tighter shots, more close-ups (especially extreme) and fewer wide shots. Since we are much more in Yeong's head we are forced more into his perspective - what he is seeing takes precedence over placing an audience emotionally in a scene. Her direction is less stylized (which is not to say there aren't creative uses of camera) but that's not to say she lacks a stylistic vision. Rather, where prior sections relied more on movement or camera placement, Hong let lighting do much of the talking.

I mentioned yesterday that this section's color palette seemed more muted in comparison. Episode 6 was brighter but saturation didn't really change all that much, at least not from my perspective. What enhanced this perspective was Yeong's clothing, which was almost austere in comparison to how he dressed in the past. He's in dark colors, usually black, with stern or severe silhouettes. I think he's in lighter colors at work but that's it? Those are still pretty washed-out. I was especially taken with his long black coat, which has to have appeared in the past but I didn't notice it like I did in these episodes. It's like he never left the funeral garb behind. His long coat actually reminded me of Yeong Su's coloring style-wise (and of the brown coat he wears during their break-up). But maybe that's just me. I just can't let go of the ways I think we're visually supposed to see him haunting Yeong, especially after that dream sequence in episode 5. His clothing just seems... older. It reminds me of both of his older partners; maybe he feels like he needs to emulate them? Maybe he feels like he's not mature enough? I could also see Yeong Su showing up in the way Yeong broke up with Gyu-ho, though I think Yeong was catching himself from fully leaning into that. He smiled, he didn't answer Gyu-ho's questions or give any empty reasons, and so on. Yet, he still achieved that same cold detachment. Yeong Su is certainly there in the way Yeong carries himself: ramrod straight. Much of his looseness or vivacity in past episodes is gone. Could not get over how dead his eyes felt in this section.

Anyway, back to cinematography. It felt like to me the lighting was creating a slightly blurred effect, like we were seeing certain things in a haze. Obviously this is in one way a reflection of his depression. Sometimes it felt like it was reminiscent of him wading through a fog, of memories, trauma, dissociation, whatever it may be. In both episodes there is also really cool use of illumination of objects, people, or scenes. In episode 5 there's a scene where he is in his mom’s (oppressively dark) place and a single shaft of light cuts across pictures on the wall. Intentional darkening is used just as often as illumination or brightening. I'm pretty sure every time we get an extreme close-up of Gyu-ho's eyes they are cast in darkness rather than light, which is what you would assume would happen if he were, like, gazing into the eyes of someone he loves. But instead, he's in the dark. In one scene he is hanging up curtains in Yeong's apartment and turns from the light outside (towards Yeong in the dark). When we cut to the close-up we can still see a sliver of light behind him which casts him in darkness. He brings light but Yeong cannot receive it. Lighting (or lack of it) in this section more than in other parts colors/represents what Yeong feels, how he sees others, what he chooses to look at or acknowledge.

In line with that, I really appreciated that this director chose not to overly-romanticize this part. I know the original author wrote the screenplay so that is in part why it didn't feel that way but I do think in a lesser director's hands it could have been very easy to lean into Kdrama romanticism. Without having read the book I was concerned this section would feel like fan-service rather than a continuation of the overall story. I am so relieved not to feel manipulated. Beautifully mundane and sad!!

And can I just say, I love what a complicated and real character Yeong is?? I love him so much even while he infuriates me. Even while he allows his past traumas to influence this relationship with Gyu-ho. And I actually wonder about his motivations in pursuing Gyu-ho? He's obviously very attracted to him and has good chemistry with him in general, so it's not that I think he went into the relationship with false pretenses. But he obviously knows it's not the right time for what he feels like he wants, which is a serious relationship. Initially as he walks away from the subway he turns to go back when girls run by him and one screams that her mother will kill her for missing the last train. Is it a “fuck you” to her that he decides to go after him? A feeling that he wants to live his life, pursue happiness in spite of this oppressive grief he feels? So much to untangle there. He's nothing if not fully human.

The last thing I wanted to get out of my head in this ramble was my thoughts about what themes I detected in this section. So here's what I’m thinking of: distance, shame, and honesty/communication.

All throughout this section I just kept hurting at how detached Yeong seemed from himself and everything around him. Completely distanced from his emotions. He goes into the relationship already with distance since he’s fresh off two horrible traumas, especially that of losing his mom. And he allows every small moment of perceived distance (mostly Gyu-ho not sticking to pre-established patterns Yeong has grown used to in his relationship to sex and intimacy) to widen that gulf. Writing is his passion but with each new rejection he allows himself to drown in it and creates even more distance. He's writing out reflections of their relationship instead of living it. Observing instead of feeling. He begins to enforce the distance he felt in his last relationship - all he wants is attention but is unwilling or unable to give it in this go-around. Even in the ways he opens up to Gyu-ho he maintains his fake-happy, carefree persona. Smiles are weaponized as a distancing tool. And in speaking with Gyu-ho he also can't resist making small digs at him about his job or intelligence. Gyu-ho is not given much opportunity to bridge distance even as they move in together. And what can Gyu-ho do when he is constantly rebuffed? He runs away, looks to fill the void with attention from other men. Returns, only for the cycle to begin again. "Constant goodbyes" as I believe Yeong puts it. As soon as their relationship begins he puts them in the rear view mirror. It's like he moves through much of their relationship as a representation of himself rather than as Yeong, himself. A shadow. When he actually places them in the rear view at the end of episode 6 he says "I guess you'll remember me as a joke you once heard a long time ago... The world's dirtiest joke."

Shame was the biggest thing coming up for me in these two episodes. For obvious reasons, of course. The reveal of his HIV (or "Kylie" which is his way of putting distance between himself and the disease, casting it in anonymity) was as shocking as it was expected. As an aside, this somewhat vindicated my personal interpretation of Kim Nam Gyu's death and subsequent empty funeral as a connection to the deaths of gay men with AIDS (including my uncle). I don't actually think they were necessarily trying to draw a line between the two but it hit me like a crowbar over the head so!

But yeah, Kylie is the obvious connection to that theme of shame. HIV in general carries a HUGE stigma globally, so much so that many countries including China (as we saw) have strict rules for travel of HIV+ folks. As far as I can tell in my brief search online, China ostensibly allows HIV-positive foreigners to come to the country but only for a period no greater than 90 days after which they will (and have) deported people. And that's just their official stance. Yeong discovered his status in maybe the worst way possible, in the military from a homophobic doctor, which colors the way he approaches it from then on. Medically discharged (as a reference, in the U.S. HIV-positive people are allowed to serve if they are asymptomatic and have an undetectable viral load, not sure how it is in Korea) he doesn't even tell his queer friends. This part made me so sad. How the queer community can shut other people out for something like this is deplorable especially considering our history. The T-aras demonstrate themselves to be bigoted in their negative regard of those with or suspected of having HIV, literally telling each other to "cover their glasses" when they see someone in the club who has been rumored to be positive. Yeong can’t wrap his head around being accepted for such a thing or as himself in general. Yeong traps himself in assumptions he makes of others and of himself. In some ways, those expectations are reinforced.

I wondered at why Yeong chose to tell Gyu-ho his status before anyone else. A part of me wonders if he intended this as another weapon of distance, so sure of this as being the thing that would cause Gyu-ho to run. I think he was completely unprepared for his total acceptance (he asks to ask for confirmation of his sincerity later in Bangkok) though it did make him happy. And once he has that acceptance he has no idea what to do with it. He is constantly pushing Gyu-ho away, only knowing how to ask for and accept the intimacy that comes with sex (which is - unprotected - what gave him HIV in the first place). He wants that easy fun he felt as a younger queer but is struggling to heal in this undemanding relationship. All Gyu-ho wants is quality time, emotional connection, a place to call home. Yeong has wanted this, needed this in the past but denied it time and time again he doesn't know what to do when granted the opportunity to have it. Gyu-ho doesn't want Yeong to be anybody except himself, gives him space and has healthy boundaries (practically non-existent in past romantic/platonic/familial relationships). He has nothing to fight against except himself and a world that doesn’t want him. Fighting against faceless rejections from publishers and bigoted HIV attitudes and restrictions are abstract battles, larger than just one person. When facing a bland job which wants a certain imagined version of him he can face off against his boss but she doesn't even show up in a way he can solidly face off against (wearing headphones blasting loud music, for instance). All he can do is fight Gyu-ho who doesn't even give him the battle he wants.

Gyu-ho is the first he tells about Kylie and it kinda feels like he’s punishing him for it sometimes? I’m not sure how much he shares about himself with him other than that. I don’t think Gyu-ho knows that his mom had just died when they started dating or about his past with Yeong-su. Gyu-ho assumes he has his life together and says he can’t understand what it is like to want something of your own. Yeong does nothing to dissuade him of the fact. He knows Gyu-ho can tell he's distancing himself and that makes him even more ashamed in himself and makes him lash out. Against the only person who knows his deepest secret and has wholly accepted him for it. How could he not hate himself for rejecting what he's always wanted?

Mi Ae shows up as another specter of his shame, using him as a prop. It is here that he becomes relegated to the "gay best friend" trope. To Mi Ae, he is perhaps the biggest representation of her "dirtier" or "shameful" past. She uses him to appear cooler to her younger sister-in-law(?) without fully claiming their relationship. The sister-in-law even jokingly flirts with him in the bar. Literally flaunting heteronormativity in his face. It does not feel as if he can fully own himself anymore. And when Gyu-ho moves in, they live together in a place Gyu-ho sees as his but was originally Mi Ae's, a place he was abandoned in, a place he tried to kill himself in. Shame festers and breeds in this space.

Honesty and communication is what bridges the gap, what heals shame. Yet, that is what Yeong cannot bring himself to do. He’s unmotivated to make a change in his approach to Gyu-ho and uses reticence as even more of an obstacle to genuine connection. He’s ashamed of himself and thinks of himself as dirty, undesirable. Yeong doesn’t even tell Gyu-ho about the HIV restrictions that keep him from applying to the job in China. Easy way out of their relationship, maybe, but it’s more about clinging to shame (is his shame is his remaining connection to his mom?). And in the end, he can’t even give him an honest break-up. His opinion of himself is so low he can’t help but prove it right. I think he sees Gyu-ho shrink into himself and comes to the conclusion he takes up too much space. ("I wonder why you sleep in silence. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe it's yours. Or maybe it was inevitable.")

In prior episodes Yeong's loves came in pairs: Mi Ae/Nam Gyu, Yeong Su/his mother. I wonder if Gyu-ho is the only love represented here. In prior sections love was more or less freely felt or offered even if toxic or lacking honesty. Unable to crack through Yeong's loneliness. Maybe the pair here is the absence of self-love. Or the absence of Yeong's ability to place his love in something external. In this section Gyu-ho shows him the love he was missing and wanted in prior sections but he is no longer open to it. He cannot show that love to himself. And maybe that's represented in the city, in Seoul. Big, teeming with potential, but also a lonely chasm where souls go to be lost.

Yikes, that was long. Largely nonsensical, I'm sure. I am terrified for how this show will end. This episode more than any other made me want to read the book RIGHT NOW (and make my brother read it). That's the sign of a good adaptation!

#love in the big city #megan watches #it's me #spoilers

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fcble · 3 days ago

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The following transcript has been edited for length and clarity.

VIOLET: Welcome to the sixteenth episode of “Lightspeed’s Ansible” and the third episode of “On the Same Wavelength,” where I interview your favorite idols. As always, visit officiallightspeed on your favorite social media platform, and leave a comment in the post for this episodes with who you’d like to see next, and any topics you want us to cover. Today’s guest, who you probably already know from the title, is the perfect fit for the new year. His group is synonymous with the Lunar New Year, and although we’re not quite there yet, I’m excited to have the chance to speak with him today. Could you please introduce yourself to our listeners?

ANDREW: Once upon a—[sharp inhale] I don’t like that. Hey everyone, I’m Andrew from Fable. You might know us from “Gaja” or “Home Run” or maybe even “Platonic Love.” It’s more likely you might not know me at all, which is why I’m here. I’ve never done our introduction in English before. It’s weird.

VIOLET: I totally get it. Every time Ash leads us through our greeting, I die a little inside. One Direction never had to do this. Do you go by any nicknames? Or do you prefer Andrew?

ANDREW: Yejun, for important work documents. Andrew is fine.

VIOLET: Andrew it is. Why don’t we get started with why you’re here today?

ANDREW: I’m releasing my first album as a solo artist. My debut EP, 80303, contains five tracks I’ve been working on for some time. I’m thrilled I can finally share it with everyone.

VIOLET: That’s a different approach to album titles from your music with Fable. How did you come up with it?

ANDREW: 80303 is one of the zip codes in Boulder, where I grew up. I picked this one because it also contains 303, which used to be the only Colorado area code.

VIOLET: Not because you lived there?

ANDREW: [laughs] That’ll have to stay a secret.

VIOLET: As an advanced listener, I saw all of your songs feature the band The Year 2000. Can you tell us a little about them and how you came to work with them?

ANDREW: Absolutely. They're a bunch of my friends from college. They became The Year 2000 as I know and love them now a few years after I graduated. If Fable didn't work out, I would have loved to be a part of their band. When it came to putting together my solo album, I knew I wanted to work with them. This is the first time I've truly had complete control over an album, so I invited them all to Korea to collaborate.

VIOLET: That sounds like it must have been a lot of fun. What was the biggest difference between working on this album and the music you've written for Fable?

ANDREW: With Fable, there are always these expectations. What we're supposed to sound like, how we're supposed to act, the type of concepts we can do. I know it’s part of being an idol, but sometimes it feels more intense for my group. Having the creative freedom to develop my own separate sound and identity was definitely the biggest difference.

VIOLET: I get that. It’s like once you do something, it’s the only thing everyone expects from you forever, especially as a public figure.

ANDREW: Exactly.

VIOLET: So if you were part of The Year 2000, what instrument would you play?

ANDREW: I’d want to be the lead singer. Sela is a great singer and I love her, but I moved to be a singer. I can’t give that up.

VIOLET: I actually didn’t expect that. You strike me as more of a multi-instrument type of person. Like if I handed you a mandolin or something right now, you’d be able to play it.

ANDREW: [laughs] I’ve never gotten that before. The only instrument I can play with any degree of confidence is the piano. The Year 2000 doesn’t have a dedicated keyboard player, so if they ever let me into their band, I’d probably be stuck behind a keyboard all the time.

VIOLET: Speaking of moving, how did you get into kpop?

ANDREW: I was never a fan of any specific groups. The industry was more of another opportunity to have a music career, since things weren’t working out at home. If auditions didn’t pan out, I wanted to attempt a survival show.

VIOLET: Really? Survival shows are intense. I’m still surprised I survived one. No pun intended.

ANDREW: [laughs] It worked out well for you. I don’t have a podcast.

VIOLET: It’s not that different from any other live stream or variety show. Honestly, I would have expected more groups to do it. Every online celebrity has one now.

ANDREW: I doubt anyone wants to listen to my group bicker for an hour straight.

VIOLET: Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t be that bad. Is everything an argument?

ANDREW: Yes.

VIOLET: [laughs] If you’re a Lightspeed member, cover your ears for the next thirty seconds. I thought we were going to be like that. Considering we were literally competing against each other a few months ago, I never thought everyone would be so friendly.

VIOLET: This is when I’d usually ask a few questions submitted by fans, but since this is a special episode, I don’t have any questions from your fans. I thought we could go through a couple of the topics my group members and I use in our other episodes instead.

ANDREW: You have a lot of suggestions.

VIOLET: I’m sure some of them write down their questions multiple times. [paper rustles] “What was the most surprising thing about moving to Korea?” There’s a note on here in parentheses that says, “Learning the sh—[beep] things my parents did were culturally normal.” I think Constance wrote this. Do you mind if I answer first?

ANDREW: Not at all.

VIOLET: I had a similar experience to Constance, if she was the one who wrote this. When I first moved, I had a hard time adjusting to the social hierarchy. It’s probably stereotypical of me to say this. I was a teenager and I just couldn’t wrap my head around speaking formally to girls a year older than me. I moved companies a lot in the first few years. I was always the new one who had to speak politely because I never stayed anywhere long enough to gain any seniority.

[silence]

ANDREW: I was going to say squat toilets, but now I’m embarrassed.

VIOLET: No, I took it too seriously. I should have also picked something more light-hearted. What was your story?

ANDREW: It’s not much of a story. Jaeseop’s family runs a series of hanok-style guesthouses, and we stayed there for a few days before our debut. We started in the most traditional rooms and then had to move to the modern ones by the end. I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t handle it, which was a relief. My memory is a little fuzzy, but I think we were also supposed to film a variety show at the same time. It didn’t help our image to have us all long for real beds while Kiyoung and I considered running to the nearest subway station whenever we needed more modern plumbing.

VIOLET: [paper rustles] This one’s relevant to both of us. “If you had to have a stage name, what would it be?”

ANDREW: The answer I’d give now and what I chose for my stage name almost ten years are very different. I hope I’m less pretentious than I was back then.

VIOLET: So what’s your new stage name? I’m on the edge of my seat here.

ANDREW: [laughs] To be honest, I didn’t get that far yet. Andrew works fine for now. This is an old story for long-term Fabulists, but I picked Yejun for the Hanja characters because I knew more Mandarin Chinese than Korean when I first came to Korea. It’s so embarrassing to think about it now. At the time, I thought about how parents name their kids for traits they want them to have. In hindsight, it’s not nearly the same thing when you’re twenty-something and naming yourself for your future career. Did you ever have a stage name?

VIOLET: I didn’t pick it myself, but it’s almost as embarrassing. When I first debuted, I went by Bora.

ANDREW: Like Violet.

VIOLET: Yep. I think some executive was super proud of himself for that name. I don’t think that company ever came to terms with me being Vietnamese. If they gave me a Korean name, they could try to pretend I was more like everyone else.

ANDREW: No offense to any of my management, but that’s the exact same reason they gave me. They blamed me for the fact that my parents never gave me a Korean name. I’m pretty sure they don’t have Korean names either.

VIOLET: Same for my parents.

VIOLET: That’s all the time we have for today. Before you go, can you give us any hints for Fable’s upcoming album? I assume you have an upcoming album. When is the Lunar New Year anyway?

ANDREW: January 29. Don’t expect anything on that day. We’re always fashionably late. I can’t share much, but we are working an album. It’s something people would expect from us, and I hope everyone enjoys it.

VIOLET: So no surprises?

ANDREW: No surprises. My being here is the biggest surprise of this year.VIOLET: Thanks so much for that. To all of our listeners, thanks for tuning in. You can find Andrew’s album, 80303, on all streaming services at twelve AM local time on January 7, 2025. As always, I’ll see everyone next week for another episode of “Lightspeed’s Ansible.”

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ discography. ]#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ yejun. ]#fictional idol community #ficnetfairy #kpop oc #idol oc #this is the album post btw #i have a spotify playlist but the post won't let me link it 💀

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louisjude · 7 months ago

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Honestly -

Most of these ‘fans’ do not like Buck for Buck. They have created a version of him in canon and anything he does that doesn’t fit it it’s OOC for them, even if it is exactly how he’d act (case in point: The BT scene on 710). They, somehow, cannot accept Buck has changed and matured and is not the same guy he was during S2/S3. Hell, he’s grown alone during S7 alone. Discovering a part of himself has done wonders for him.

Likewise, I truly believe the only representation they care about or want is if it comes in the form of Buddie. They cry on how Henren is being ignored and how it is BuckTommy’s fault, but when have they ever shown care or interest for them beforehand? They use them as part of their argument without giving them proper attention. They don’t care we now have great mlm representation on screen in a show like 911, they’re just mad because it is not Buddie.

And I do suspect they became this mad this fast because they do see the potential of BT and they know this can very well be a LTR for Buck. Ofc we don’t know what will happen, but if we look at it from a neutral POV, we all can see the seeds being planted for Tommy to be there for a while. They’ve made creative choices with him that they haven’t made with no other LI that really sells it for me, to be honest.

(Including giving them a particular sound for everytime they have a moment, but I digress)

I do agree with you - I care about Buck being happy. I was quick to get on board with BT because I have never seen Buck act so giddy and into someone. And so far, I think Tommy is matching him really well. We’ll see what happens in Season 8, but I would be surprised if they break up during it, even more so if it is ep 3/4, which arguably will be right after the start of the season (assuming they go for a multi eps opener)

If I'm being honest, the toxic side of that part of the fandom feels very reminiscent of certain subset of another fandom I'm apart of that I do not want to delve into because I've already done so many times.

get ready for a long response

I came into the 911 fandom as bvddie shipper, I still love the ship itself, idc if it ever goes canon because fanfic exists, edits exist, fanart exists. I love eddie and buck as separate characters respectively and I do not need them to be together enjoy their relationship whether it's platonic or romantic.

I think a lot of the loud, toxic shippers cannot separate them. Listen I think the co-parent jokes are hilarious and cute, but when it comes down to it in reality of the show, buck is not chris' parent. he's like an uncle, so many ppl grow up with their parents friends as their "aunts and uncles" and that's exactly how I'm viewing chris and bucks relationship ever since I've come down from the bvddie high of analyzing everything and putting meaning behind every little piece of dialogue or set design or just like anything. I can acknowledge 911 is not a blockbuster franchise that has months or years of thought put into meaning behind set design or clothing choices like other fandoms I'm apart of that absolutely have so much thought and time put into them for things like that.

bvddie in itself is a great concept. absolutely you can read into scenes as being romantic even if they never were intended that way, that's what we do as fans. I completely understand why ppl see them as endgame because they're absolutely allowed to think that. but us bucktommy shippers are allowed to also talk about why we think bucktommy is endgame. I think that's another issue ppl are having is being able to curate their own feed, if you don't want to see people talk about one of these topics then block accs, block tags, keep your peace!

buck and tommy absolutely feel as though they have been written to last from what I've seen so far so tommy leaving so quickly would feel weird and like a punch in the gut to the journey buck as made. he made the effort to be with tommy even after everything went south. tommy made the effort to show up for buck. we are shown them being on very good terms by the season finale, like, we are probably intimate with one another and are in our cute honeymoon phase type of good terms. having them break up so early would be another Ali/Natalia moment and like, I just am tired of the same story being repeated for buck.

If they really were going for bvddie endgame, I think it would have been done this season. tommy wouldn't have been brought in at all or wouldn't have been involved in the plot outside helping rescue bobby and athena. they didn't need kim there, they could have built on eddies catholic guilt for his queer arc, they could have written what people were theorizing with the bachelor party where buck and eddie ended up kissing while drunk which could have spurred their relationship to begin and still have eddie go through a crisis and found a way to have chris still leave for texas (if they wanted to stick with a cheating arc, it could have been marisol & chris walking in on buck and eddie kissing) like there's so many things people theorized that genuinely would have been great ways to have bvddie be endgame but literally none of those things happened and instead we got buck in a stable, happy relationship with tommy that has been set up in a way that absolutely can have them going through all sorts of things from strengthening their relationship to testing their relationship. tommy can absolutely be integrated into the plot as much as karen is if not more. all I can say is why throw away such potential when you already had the other potential there?

also as an eddie diaz defender, they can never make me hate eddie diaz, I just want to see him not feel this constant need to find a new mom/wife when he's never had time for himself EVER. he needs therapy, he needs to build back trust with christopher, he needs to stop searching for this perfect woman because if there's someone out there for him they will find him eventually. I really want eddie to focus on chris and himself and stop worrying so much about what his life should look like per his family/what society thinks his life should look like.

I truly cannot stress enough how much eddie needs to fix himself and his and chris' relationship before jumping into another romance, whether it be buck or anyone else.

on the other hand, buck deserves to be loved ANYWAYS. tommy is already showing potential to just love buck anyways despite anything that happens, that he'll do anything for him, that he can be his rock. gerrard can definitely be smh to shake them up, no couple in this show is safe from anything no matter how in love and happy they are. it's time for buck to have his madney, bathena, henren moments with his own love interest. buck deserves to be happy with tommy, to go through the hard times with him, for someone to love him no matter what and that absolutely does not take away from how important buck and eddie's friendship is. people cannot seem to grasp that unfortunately and it's sad.

in other words, im so tired of people acting like they are superior over ships. I truly am.

#bucktommy #911 abc #asks

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lol-jackles · 7 months ago

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I have a question for clarification. What’s the difference between Executive Producer and Producer? My friend says Executive Producer is just the name to attract investors and none of the responsibilities. What say you?

Producer will manage the entire process from beginning to end: fundraising, networking, securing rights to creative works, commissioning writers, hiring a director, crew, and actors, organizing shooting and production schedules, ensuring compliance with health and safety regulations during production, holding regular meetings with director to discuss progress, ensuring the project is done on time and within the budget. They supervise the entire project from beginning to post-production. Co-producers like Jerry Wanek is responsible for set designs so he has to learn new lighting tricks, the latest cameras that are on the market and what shoots best in what scenarios.

The Executive Producer title are given out like candies. Most of the producers, co-producers, associate producers and executive producers are writers. The unions limits the number of people who can receive writing credit on any one episode. Keep in mind that TV shows have big writers room, so every writer on the show might contribute at least in small part to every episode. So they need some sort of credit. That credit becomes “executive producer.”

Actors get “executive producer” credit to get profit-sharing deals, they very rarely have any power in the creative process. That said, the title does validates the value of the actor’s presence on the show. So in some cases the EP actors participate in some of the show’s important decisions. The industry has a very strict hierarchies. Timothy Olyphant of Justified said he took advantage of the executive producer title (he joked that the title of Glorified Cheerleader wasn’t available) because the credit system has a certain hierarchy, so he was able to access the process behind the camera, collaborate with the showrunner, and be in the writers room two months before filming starts. While some actors are perfectly fine being told on as needed basis because they think their acting will come across better by having a more natural reaction, I think Jared is one of those people who has to be in the loop. like how he would read up to 3 SPN scripts ahead.

Now the real dish. Networks don’t want to set precedent for high ranking actors’ salaries. Many in the industry think NBC giving in to Friends six actors’ demands was a huge mistake and set a very bad precedent. CBS was at the frontline to prevent this from happening again. To compensate the leading actors, the network will give them two paychecks: one for acting, and one as producer. But technically the network could still say, “well, Jared Padalecki is only getting $300,000 per episode for his acting duties”.

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leikeliscomet · 6 months ago

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Flop and Bubble - Part 3/End - The Writers Room

When I recommended I May Destroy You, Mood, Dreaming Whilst Black and Champion it wasn’t just because they were Black British shows, even though that’s part of it. It was because they all represented similar themes to Dot and Bubble with more tact, nuance and depth than that episode could ever dream of. Arabella’s social media dependency became her outlet because she thought it was the only way to reclaim power after her assault. Sasha’s obsession with social media is because she knows social currency can turn financial and in her dire situation, she needs the reach. Kwabena’s outbursts take place inside his head because even though he knows he’s right, he knows what the consequences are if he speaks out and he walks the tightrope of validation and authenticity. Vita’s musical image is under control by her white manager because her roles as a dark-skinned Black woman in the music industry are limited. I also recommended them because they all reflect the dissonance between Black British media and creatives and white British media like Doctor Who. Every show essentially is the story of a Black British creative struggling to ‘make it’ in their respective industry. Arabella’s book. Sasha’s EP. Kwabena’s short film. Vita’s music career. Each of these reflects the struggle of the Black British creative in real life from lack of funds, the right imagery and ultimately what the white British consumer wants.

Again, by giving Black people our creative agency, there’s a place for Black experiences that Doctor Who can’t provide, or at least could but hasn’t. In Doctor Who, Adjani Salmon was just that guy with the ‘weird hair’ from that Eve of the Daleks episode. In Dreaming Whilst Black, he’s the creator and lead actor of a critically acclaimed show, BAFTA nominated alongside David Tennant. In Doctor Who, Malorie Blackman was just that Black woman that made Rosa. In Noughts and Crosses, she’s a critically acclaimed author, the first Black Children’s Laureate and to me, a massive inspiration that showed me Black girls can be book protagonists too. In Doctor Who, Tosin Cole as Ryan Sinclair is the ‘worst companion of the whole show’, a bad actor and a cardboard cutout. In Supacell, he’s the leading man and a breakout star of 2024. Where Doctor Who fails in Black representation, Black British media gets it right. In a bittersweet sense, I know the true representation I’d want from the show won’t come (or not at least for a very long time) but I know where it could be outside it. To repeat from previous essays, I don’t expect the perfect Black representation to come from Doctor Who as it's a predominantly white show intended for a white audience. I only expect the bare minimum of living up to its promise (which it made all by itself by the way) of having ‘space for all’, in this case providing Black representation both in and behind the screen. If it can’t do that, then at least be honest and say you just don’t want us here. It saves a lot of time. We can make our own spaces where we’re actually wanted.

The tone drastically changes when you shift from performing for white validity to defending yourself and essentially, stop chasing after the boat. It’s harsh and cold. It even exists in the show. When Martha defended herself she was ‘aggressive’. When Mickey and Danny called out their mistreatment they became ‘abusive’. When the Fugitive held a gun she never fired she was ‘violent’. The price you pay for not chasing after the boat is that you become the Bogeyman. It’s very clear from the responses I got from my OG thread, many white fans and non-Black fans of colour wanted me to stay in my place and be grateful for the steaming dump I was given. How dare I not bow before RTD? He wrote about racism and he’s got a Black guy what else can you want? Isn’t that enough? Didn’t he try his best? Isn’t RTD’s best good enough?

No. It’s not good enough. I don’t care who cries about me saying this. As I’ve already addressed in my Fugitive Doctor essay, I’m not crediting Black stories to RTD. Simply enjoying his work is fine. I enjoy his work myself, specifically the Sarah Jane Adventures, It’s a Sin and Years & Years. But when the Doctor Who fandom claims RTD, a white writer, is the reason for progress in Black representation and Black art over the countless Black creatives who’ve worked before him, the same time as him and after him, I will always, always push back on that as a Black person. I had no reason to gas this episode because it disappointed me from the initial watch and rewatch. From the disgusting antiblackness I experienced from this fandom for critiquing Dot and Bubble, I have zero reason to ever call it a good story about my own experience as a Black person. If you’re looking for a Black user to gas this episode to make your interest in this episode and season look morally superior and woke, it’s not happening. I don’t need to consider your disagreements, your interpretations, your opinions or your permission to dislike Dot and Bubble as a Black person. I will also push back on the bold comments made by RTD himself. You have a Black character and racism plot. Cool. How this is written and how this plays out is what actually matters to me than it just simply existing. Allyship isn’t the state of going from racist to anti-racist overnight. It’s not clinging onto the nearest Black person for dear life. It’s through consistent actions and support that someone becomes an ally. For once, you aren’t instantly rewarded for just showing up, you have to do more than the bare minimum. And that’s the closest to the Black British experience this fandom will ever get.

In a renaissance of Black British media, if Doctor Who’s getting any accolades from me, it needs to keep up. The idea I have to praise an episode just because ‘it's the racism one’, with shallow messages meant to soothe the ego of its audience instead of challenge it, with no Black writers in the creation process, no original theme of racism to begin with and that dozens of pieces of Black media have done a hell of a lot better, to sum it up, is a fucking joke. Black creatives don’t have to ask permission to create and represent ourselves. We just have to get on with it because it’s not gonna create itself. I’m not asking for permission to hate this dutty episode. I’m not chasing after that boat.

<- Part 2

#doctor who #dot and bubble #nuwho #new who #antiblackness #racism #fandom antiblackness #fandom racism #anti rtd #rtd2 #rtd2 era #rtd era #russell t davies #doctor who season 1 #black british #black british representation #doctor who analysis

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blazinghotfoggynights · 8 months ago

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Fandom has come up with a lot of theories:

There is The Couch Theory, The Color Theory, The Invisible String Theory, and more. I love how creative and fun this fandom is.

I was wondering if I can pose one more. The Food Theory.

I'll place the maniacal rambling behind a cut.

So I was thinking about how the station let Eddie Diaz near the kitchen in last night's ep. We all know that is dangerous. I don't care if it is in a fire station.

Then I thought about food and kitchens have been themes throughout the series.

When Gerard was in charge, Hen and Chim were ostracized at meals. Yet, when Bobby took over, feeding his family was his love language. When Buck arrived for his first day, what happened? Bobby teased him then had him pull up a chair to sit down and eat.

Buck was hopeless in the kitchen, yet Bobby patiently taught him everything from the basics up. I think back to the scene with Buck having Bobby taste the chili. As the child of an amazing cook, I know the elation hearing something is delicious from a proud parent who is a master in the kitchen. Buck was the same. They became surrogate father and son over food and in that station kitchen.

When Bobby wants his family close, he organizes dinners and barbecues. He and Athena cook for each other. They have had many important conversations in kitchens.

Abuela and Pepa kept Eddie and Christopher fed. Why? They love their boys and, again, the food is symbolic of love and care and family. When Pepa was speaking to Eddie about being single, did you notice where they were?

I believe we've even seen Hen and Karen sharing homecooked meals. When homecooking is involved, it is always in the context of family.

Chimney and Maddie had their little food dates every week. They bonded over food.n

When Marisol and Eddie have been around food, it's takeout or in a restaurant. The same goes for Kim. Ana cooked for Christopher and Eddie, but he didn't return the favor. When breaking up with her, he pointed out the mess her cooking left, which could be a metaphor for the relationship itself. Ana was giving it her all and cared about Eddie and his son, but he was such a mess it was never going to go anywhere.

Now we get to what triggered this line of thought. Tim has stressed that he must choose what makes the final 43 minute edit every week. So things that don't matter are cut.

Then why in 7x9 do we spend time focusing on the spread at the ceremony? Buck and Ravi even go so far as to bring attention it, Ravi using the food as an excuse to show up on his day off so he doesn't have to admit he is really there to see his colleagues be recognized. We know he wasn't really there for the food. How? During Bobby's flashback, we see Bobby mentoring Ravi. That means Ravi is a part of the 118. Ravi, in Bobby's mind, is family.

Food has been central to Buck and Tommy's scenes. Their first date was at a restaurant. They got back together over coffee. Buck was seriously uptight over the sliders at the bachelor party. At the award ceremony, the food was even a focal point. I think Buck's comment was loaded, too, but that isn't a part of this.

Buck, after he gained culinary skills, spent many days cooking for Christopher and Eddie. Remember the lasagna he made at least three times to get it right last season? The one he and Eddie discussed couches over?

Buck didn't cook for Abby.

Buck didn't cook for Ali.

Buck didn't cook for Taylor. You all have to remember the frozen waffles, right? That was just sad. I mean, damn, you can't take her to breakfast after she gives it up?

Buck hasn't cooked for Tommy.

The writers have said before that everything is deliberate.

During the the station kitchen scene in 7x9, of all the possible combinations, we have Eddie, who can't cook, working next to Buck and the camera highlights that. They have a discussion about Eddie's issues in Eddie's kitchen.

Now, some people will point out that Buck and Tommy had their first kiss in Buck's kitchen. That is true, but the context wasn't familial or familiar. Tommy was there to fix things between Buck and Eddie. It almost sounded like he was...giving up on something. His monologue had that tone someone has when they realize that no matter what they do, whatever they are hoping happens or are trying to make happen is not going to happen. Then he was shocked by Buck expressing interest. His kissing Buck was clearly impulsive. It couldn't have been premeditated because Tommy had no clue Buck's attention was on him.

Tommy hasn't been in Buck's home, canonically, since the first kiss. Buck is always going outside the home to be with Tommy.

Since that kiss, Buck has watched Christopher, whom he cooked for. I know you all remember how that shirt and apron stretched over that chest. I am look respectfully. 👀

Many major events in the show happened in kitchens or during a meal one of the characters cooked.

Just putting that out there. Food for thought.

(I chose not to tag anything related to BuckTommy or Tommy Kinard, even though both are mentioned. While I support, and have since day one, that Buddie and BuckTommy can coexist peacefully, I limit my use of any tags related to that ship and character to maintain peace.

Please do not add any tags related to or utilized by that sub-fandom. Thank you.)

#911 #911 abc #911 on abc #buddie #911 buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #athena grant #bobby nash #chimney han #maddie buckley #karen wilson #hen wilson #ravi panikkar

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postmodernbeliever · 10 months ago

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lifetimes and lifetimes - fox mulder x fem!witch reader

not every witch needs spells and stones to relive the past, or predict the future. in your opinion, the craft is much simpler than that- what is meant to be yours comes to you, at the right time. and the right thing does come, in the shape of a tall, curious fbi agent. it doesn't take long to learn just who fox mulder is to you- and that it seems you two always find each other, in every lifetime.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

this one is dedicated to @spookybasementboy bc they asked for it :)) i took some creative liberty because i’m not much of a witch myself- i was inspired by the past life situation in the season 4 ep “the field where i died” but also wanted to make sure i made it mystical, so i used a sort of invocation/prayer and vision experiences. but really i wanted to have an amalgamation of a witch and a regular person, who truly is a product of “coincidences”, run into our handsome little fox. i think it came out kinda cool. unlike anything i've written. ok ill stop explaining and let you read. <3

my ao3 | word count: 5,041

content tags: wicca, not too witchy but has spiritual experiences, mentions of bodily blood/gore, past lives, flashbacks, idiots in love, stress, fear, anxiety, slow romance, you both fall hard FAST but it’s gotta be slow!!!!!!!!!!

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special agent fox mulder believes in everything. he doesn’t know how not to, not with everything he’s seen in his lifetime. because of this blind faith, he gets himself in constant trouble. it was the first thing you noticed about him as he handcuffed you to the chair in the police station bullpen, that he was trouble, but in a good way. in the way that without having said a word, you felt he could turn your life upside down. even in a state of shock, you could sense that.

you sat like a prisoner, eyes shut as agent mulder settled into the desk chair opposite you. behind your eyelids, you relived flashes of moments from not even an hour prior. there was blood and bullets; you tasted wood, glass, screams, more blood. you remembered the red eyes, and the way bodies flooded beneath the pews, the sound of skulls cracking against the cold tile. you remembered reciting the only prayer that you could remember, the first one you learned when you left the church at 18. you felt the wiry carpet burning your elbows as you crawled away. you heard their voices repeating, “baruch hashem, baruch hashem, baruch hashem…” you remembered being chased, and after that, nothing else. as you awaited what surely was to become your interrogation you began to pray again, because it felt like you had no other means of safety. the earth is my mother, i shall not want…

“so, you like to run, huh?” the man teased, easing into his questioning.

agent mulder’s authority was practically dripping from him- tailored suit, slack tie, blue and white badge screaming from his pocket. the print of his gun pressed against the black holster which flashed enticingly behind his coat. you saw power in his eyes, and a boyish attitude in his smile as he awaited your response. he was an understated kind of handsome. the kind that snuck up on you.

you winced as you shifted in the chair, and the man watched you tremble, suspicious of your state. maybe it’s drugs, he thought, but he quickly rescinded that. you just didn’t seem like the type. to the naked eye, you were healthy; plump arms and legs, round cheeks, secretive eyes. you were an intriguing sight, and not just because of your clothes. chained to a chair, your curling tendrils of hair and berry lipstick looked so out of place in a dirty, bustling environment like the one in which you both sat. he saw a girl adorned in earthy colors both muted enough to communicate a soft darkness, and bright enough to draw people to it. the beat-to-shit brown boots on your sleepy feet showed how long you’ve been drifting by, living alone. silver ornamented your neck and ears and poised hands, and agent mulder liked how it contrasted the tarnished handcuffs. you were battered from the events of your evening, with deep cuts in your hands and knees, and bloody scrapes all over your body, taking turns sharing skin with the bruises. you were a dichotomous girl, giving him every reason to be curious; yet all personal inquiries aside, agent mulder had a job to do. he had caught you fleeing a crime scene, after all.

something in his gut wanted to release you, to let you float right out the front door and back to wherever you came from; but in his chronic open-mindedness, he couldn’t be sure if you weren’t tricking him some way into feeling that. so he kept you locked tight and facing him, eagerly awaiting your statement.

“running is for the guilty, agent mulder.”

“well, i had to chase you down, didn’t i?”

“who says you decide what i’m guilty of?”

the agent turned to the computer and opened a statement file, deciding to take yours himself. “what’s your name, miss?”

“which one? i have a few.”

“whichever one i can find in an official file somewhere in this pigsty,” he grinned.

“well, that’s not gonna be much help,” you shot the man a wink, “they know me by a handful, too.”

“well, come up with one, then.”

you sat for a moment, already settled on the name you wanted to hear him repeat, but wanting to tease anyway. when you offered it up, the sound rang in his ears like angel’s bells.

agent mulder simply couldn’t stifle his curiosity. as he typed your chosen name out, he asked, “what does it mean?”

“well, my last name is an old name. for us wiccan, it means old friend. and i like to think of myself that way- familiar, constant, when the world is always moving.”

“and your first?”

“my favorite shakespeare character.” you admitted. the man’s face flooded with color, and you could hear him thinking, is she fucking with me? so you tacked on, “you know, just because someone’s a witch doesn’t mean they’re an isolationist. i read.”

“i didn’t say anything!” agent mulder chuckled awkwardly. your intuition had him drawing nervous breaths. “so, you’re a witch. is that why you were at the church? did you plan to invoke, or just poke fun?”

“i’m not that kind of witch, agent mulder. not all witches are mean-spirited. i was there because i had walked past the church a few days ago, and i saw the stained glass windows from outside. they were so beautiful, i wanted to see them up close. i’m not a fan of what happens at churches, but i do love their art.”

for an accepting person, agent mulder didn’t realize how many preconceived notions he held. sat before him was a girl who pledges to be a witch, but visits catholic churches in her free time like museums. a girl who chose her name according to the day. in what little he knew, there seemed to be not one solid fact on which he could build a realistic profile. tight-lipped, the man asked for your age, place and date of birth, and address.

“i’m not sure exactly how many lives i’ve had, but in this one, i’m 29. arlington, d.c… um, october 31st, 1964… oh, and right now, i’m at 2632 hegal place, alexandria. apartment 42.”

as you spoke, a wind blew through the station. it ruffled the papers on agent mulder’s desk, and it whistled through the links to your handcuffs. the hair stood up on your arms as the wind whispered, and you knew what he was going to say before he said it. you felt it in your gut.

“2632?” agent mulder swallowed thickly, his curious pupils inflating almost cartoonishly. you saw his goosebumps and smiled.

as if you’d known all along, you asked, “you live in the building next door, don’t you? 2630?”

agent mulder didn’t respond, but the blood in his cheeks did for him. you shifted in your seat again, feeling a burning in your stomach. you hadn’t felt that hot intuition for a long time. there was a haunting quality to his face that was drawing you away from your defense; you couldn’t keep up the mysterious act, because something about him made it impossible to hide.

“s-so, what were you doing at the church?”

“you already asked me that, sir.”

you were surprised that even in the chaos of the police station, you weren’t alone. you felt alone. agent mulder seemed to look at you like his eyes didn’t recognize another thing, like the world was unfamiliar to him aside from your face, your eyes. and all those years of sitting in meditation, of attempting to regress, to see who you were before and who your soul was tethered to were useless. you should’ve known by now to trust in your world, in its karma. it always comes when it’s meant to.

“you can call me fox, if it’s easier. sir is so… formal.”

fox’s eyes sparkled. you’d seen that shimmer before, but in water, and in shifting light. you looked into him, and wiped your clammy palms against your pantyhose-clad thighs. for the first time all night, you felt your barrier coming down, the shield you raised back at the church, against the cops and the world. the fear you stifled to survive was finally flooding through your veins, and the tears in your eyes followed like dominoes.

fox instinctively abandoned the report and took your palms in his own, passing his calloused thumbs over your trembling knuckles. “hey, hey, it’s okay,”

“i-i”m sorry,” you hiccuped, struggling to speak. “i’m- m’over… overwhelmed,”

“catch your breath,” he whispered, running his palms up and down your arms. his touch was seraphic, and by it, you knew you’d felt it before. lifetimes and lifetimes of it. “take it easy, i’m here.”

when you calmed down, he began again, “can you tell me what happened?”

“well… i went into the church. to look at the windows, like i said. i was alone, it was maybe around six o'clock by then. they were just finishing mass, and everyone stood up to leave, a-and then they came in,” you stuttered, “the, uh, the shooters. they were- they were in all black, and wore red masks, like ones from the halloween store. they were chanting, they said, baruch hashem. it sounded like hebrew, but i think it was different, i’m not sure. it sounded old. and they were chanting, and they knocked so many people down in the aisles to get to the alter. they fired a few rounds off at the windows, glass fell on my head… i saw a lot of people fall, so i dropped to the ground and pressed my face to the wall. i prayed over and over, to the earth, it’s the only prayer i could remember. i just wanted to hide, y’know? a-and when- when they got up to the altar, they-”

the agent stopped you to ask, “what prayer?”

“why does it matter?” you sniffled.

“because it might have been what got you out in time.”

his eyes were so pleading, and the fire curling around your bones stood to remind you he was to be trusted. so you recited the prayer, a slightly juvenile one that in your newness you cut down to the meat of: “the earth is my mother, i shall not want. she restores my body and awakens my soul. although i walk in the shadow of changing seasons and passing time, i will not fear death, for the essence of life is within me, the peace and beauty of earth comfort me. as i look to the skies with wonder at the immensity of the universe, i know i am blessed beyond measure to live all the days of my life in the bountiful house of gaia.”

the man marveled at how the words spilled from your tongue, so ingrained in your muscle memory that they were second nature. you kept a cadence, and each word was its own. he saw now you were not one to sit surrounded by potions and symbols to cloud your focus; you simply let the power of the world pass through you, and hoped to harness it and be protected as you yielded to it. you repeated that mantra like it was all you had left- he could tell. he’d never met such a modern witch. to him, you were a brand new kind of x file, with subtle powers he has yet to comprehend.

“that’s beautiful,” he complimented as he squeezed your palms. “alright, now breathe. you're safe. keep talking.”

shutting your eyes, you tried to reimagine the horror. you’d never dreamed of seeing anything so inhumane, but maybe these details would be useful. you can’t have just seen them for nothing.

“they, um, they took the priest. one of them shot him, and then another laid him on the table, and- and he used a knife to cut him open. there… there was so much blood,” you swallowed thickly. “they took his… y’know, his uh, insides. they dragged them out, and they chanted, and anyone who stood up was shot. i- i watched them take it all and, uh, they put it in the tabernacle, of all places… and their eyes glowed under the masks, bright red, and they never stopped chanting. once they started taking people from the pews with knives, i crawled out the side door, because i had th-this feeling, like, like it would be me next. i felt it everywhere. and when the cops showed up…”

“you didn’t want to get stuck. and you thought i was one of them, coming to take you, so you ran from me.” fox finished your thought, a resonant pain shaking his ribcage at the thought of making an innocent girl just try to outrun the danger. “you saved yourself, you know. i don’t know how your prayer worked, but you did something, summoned something that saved you long enough to get you out.”

“and it made you follow me.” you sighed, wiping your tear-stained cheeks. “why?”

fox’s eyes traveled across your face, inspecting every detail, wishing he had a microscope. his hand raised deliberately to brush a lock of hair from your face. “i don’t know.”

“what is your gut telling you?”

“its…” the man felt like his lungs were going to pop, two balloons over-inflated, under siege by a swarm of butterflies. “i wanted to follow you. to find you, not arrest you. but you kept running, so… y’know, logic took over.”

fox took a moment to fish the handcuff key from his pocket, and he unlocked your wrists, rubbing softly at the red marks. the agent winced, guilt-ridden for fastening them too tight. “does it hurt?”

“no, m’okay,” you muttered. your head was pounding, and when his fingertips grazed your pulse, you felt somewhat weak.

fox let you rest for a few minutes while he typed up your account. he remembered every word. as he worked, his leg consciously shifted out to knock against your knee, and the two of you sat that way for a while, touching bones. when he was done, he leaned back in the borrowed desk chair and sighed, dragging his big palms down his face.

“can i ask why you’re investigating this?” you brought one leg over the other, suddenly a bit conscious of the length of your dress. you saw his eyes follow, and you flushed.

“oh, well, my partner and i- scully, you met her- we’re, uh, we’re investigating a string of ritual murders. we’ve followed these guys through the state, they shoot up masses and do what they believe to be sacrifices to jesus himself. that- that chant you mentioned, baruch hashem, i recognize it. it’s aramaic, the language jesus spoke. means “blessed be the name”. we’ve gathered they chant that over and over and they, uh,” the agent paused, seeing the discomfort on your face, “you don’t want to know the details.”

“no, i do! it's just a little raw is all,” you flashed a meek smile, gesturing with a nod for him to continue.

“well, they seem to be taking people’s… entrails, the priest’s first, and offering them up by putting them in the tabernacle. my theory is they seem to think that if they offer holy blood, and let it be anointed with the eucharist, it'll reward them with god’s love and immortality. as far as we know, they belong to a cult that moves across the country, sacrificing lives to win god’s favor. and what you saw tonight- what you suffered- it’s going to help us stop them.”

“really?”

“yes, really,” he grinned. “listen, i’m not going to hold you here. you’re a victim, you don’t deserve to keep reliving this. you need to go home, get some rest.”

there was still that fire in you, churning and hissing within your throat, reminding you not to ignore it. you never did. in your practices, you always bended to the will of your fire. every invocation, every motion, was deliberate. it all came through you. you didn’t adhere to the rules of everyone else who believed like you did; you belonged to no wiccan circle, no congregation. you just made your way in the world, a ritualist by nature, working with this life and world while understanding your diversion from it. you let your selves be your guide- every version of you that has lived wisely for your benefit.

thinking of what you are, and what you’ll become now you’ve met fox mulder, the flames licked your tongue, making you honest again. “i’m scared to leave. i… i don’t want them to come for me.”

fox’s comforting grin fell. he saw how you made yourself small in the chair, and he wished he could switch places. in an instant, he’d be the one interrogated, judged, the one seeing guts and blood when he closed his eyes. he couldn’t let that be what you turned into.

“i can bring you. i can get you security, protective custody, anything you need. i’ll protect you myself if i have to,” fox swore, “i won’t let them get to you, okay?”

a sad little laugh bubbled in your throat, and you reached for the hand that rested on the computer mouse. you adored the feeling of his tired skin beneath yours so sensitive. “i guess i don’t really know what’ll feel safe just yet.”

“then let me take you home, at least,” fox offered. “i do live next door.”

“you do.”

you stood up, feeling a bit achy in the knees. fox offered you his arm and you wrapped your palm around it gratefully. you watched him motion across the station to the pretty redhead you’d met in cuffs, who nodded softly. his partner. there was a smart look in her eye, and you knew she had the answers- to what, you couldn’t be sure, but she held a truth within her. it glowed golden against the pink of her skin.

the agent ushered you to a small car outside the station, opening the passenger side for you to slide in. you giggled at his old-fashioned ways, enamored by how he shed his suit jacket and laid it across your nearly bare legs in the car. “so you don’t get cold,” he explained, but you couldn’t care less about why.

the drive was silent. fox went slowly, although you had the feeling he tended to speed. his hand rested on the gear shift out of baseless habit, even though the car was automatic. he was tense, anxious, aware; the muscle at the curve of his jaw clenched and unclenched like it was keeping time, and a stubborn slice of hair kept falling against his forehead no matter how many times he blew it away. you admired him from your side of the car, seeing how traffic lights reflected in his eyes. all it took was for fox to deal a soft glance your way, with just a slight tilt of the head, for you to feel yourself in this car before, within this exact moment some other lateral time. a second wave of goosebumps riddled your body.

show me, you begged in silence, willing to be heard by whatever force was showing you new versions of the man behind the wheel. show me who he is. show me who he is to me.

a sudden burst of rain smacked against the windshield of the car, causing both of you to jump. there was no storm following- it was as if a squall came down, just momentarily, to rinse the car. when you blinked, you saw fox driving a first-edition ford in a tweed coat and flat cap, a cigarette bobbing between his lips as he asked you about your day; then, he was jostling atop a cart, hands on worn horse reigns, singing some folk song you’d never heard. another blink revealed him as a boy, holding your juvenile hand and speaking middle french as he passed you a flower, with that same concentrated head tilt and gaze as all the other visions. you’d been here so many times, protected by him, going towards a life with him. you knew he felt it, too, because the beat of his heart was loud enough to hear how it synced with yours. not a piece of you both was out of time, now that the world had removed its wedge. you rested your hand atop his on the gear shift, and the muscle in his mouth loosened.

when fox pulled up to your building, you waited for him to come around and let you out with a teasing smile. he took your hand gingerly and led you down the sidewalk. he helped you through your building’s door, up the stairs, and he swiped the keyring from your shaking hands and unlocked your apartment for you. the familiar smell of cinnamon air freshener eased your nerves as you switched on the lights, and you saw fox get a glimpse of your life for the first time. he smiled at your home where you lived in the same room, on the same floor, in the same layout one building away, as him. your living room window looked like his. your television was in the same place. you had far more books, and your desk was littered with drawings, but everything was reminiscent of his apartment. and you saw his home now as you looked around, like you had three-dimensional lenses on- you in the blue film, and him in the red. he had no trouble finding the sink and filling a cup for you while you drifted to the couch and sat down. after having time to settle, your body ached.

“i can't believe this,” was all he could say.

you took the glass from him and sipped it greedily, falling out of shock and into need. you patted the cushion beside you, and he took a seat.

“you’re familiar with past lives, right?”

“well, yeah,” he confirmed, “i know different theories and cultural views of reincarnation. it's an interesting concept, to be born again but always the same, an amalgamation of the people you were before.”

“i think so, too.”

“but you’re wiccan, so you know all about that already, right?”

“well, i think you should know that things for me are different, fox. i mean, i tell people i’m wiccan, so they call me a witch, and i go with that. i guess i’m spooky to other people. i lean into it because it does them less harm to simplify me and me less harm to just live how i want in private. if i could create a whole new kind of practice, i would, but sometimes its easier to just let people see you how they do and move along,” you elucidated. “what you might think wiccans believe isn’t always what i believe, y’know? it’s just the closest label. works better than deist or freak or whatever. and being here with you, and all these visions, these memories i’m having… i don’t really know what i’m getting at. this is all to say that yes, i believe in past lives, and i’m not so much wiccan as i am just myself.”

“i get it. you follow your own rules. you have an instinct, just something that kind of… burns in you, right?”

all the words he could’ve used, and he chose burn. because love burns, pain burns, life burns. this entire night has burned you. and he’s burned, too, branded with the belief you share.

“yeah.”

“so, did you know me in your version of past lives, then?” the agent inquired, bumping your knee with his knuckles playfully.

“i know i did, because i asked the world to show you to me, and now i see every version of you. four, maybe five of you, in the same exact moment. you don’t change. and you’re always with me, always a force. this gentle, ferocious thing, keeping me to yourself. and i think in each one, i love you.”

fox’s brain was swimming in confusion while his body buzzed with want. distractedly, he wondered, “how can something be gentle and ferocious?”

softly, you recited, “it’s astounding the first time you realize that a stranger has a body. the realization that he has a body makes him a stranger. it means you have a body, too. you will live with this forever, and it will spell out the language of your life.”

fox beamed, “if beale street could talk. you are well read.”

you set the glass of water down on the coffee table that looked just like his, and you said, “i know you, fox. not in this life yet, but i’ve known you in every one before. coincidences aren’t just coincidences.”

“i never thought so,” the agent nodded thoughtfully. you couldn’t tell what was in his head this time, and you wanted so badly to know. when he did reveal a question, you didn’t expect it. “what was the part of that prayer you said for me earlier? something about the universe?”

quietly, you recanted: “as i look to the skies with wonder at the immensity of the universe, i know i am blessed beyond measure to live all the days of my life in the bountiful house of gaia.”

fox’s face burst into a wild smile, one that used every tooth he had. he thought of how his entire life, he looked up to the stars, worshiped them; hoping they’d be benevolent enough to bring his sister back, to save his life, to make all of his pain worthwhile. and there they were, divine within your oldest prayer, the very same prayer that guided him from the church in your direction in the first place. you could believe it was the earth, or the spirits you confided in all you liked, but to him the stars had made it all possible. maybe he was a witch in his own way, too, if he played by your rules.

fox sat in silence with you for a while, refilling your glass while you collected your nerves. the man offered to patch a few of your cuts just so he could pick apart the details of your life in the apartment. with the cover of looking for a first aid kit, he flipped through your books, searching for your copy of james baldwin. he admired your records, finding music he’s loved for years and some he’s never heard before. he studied your little jars of herbs that coexisted alongside tylenol bottles. he saw the parts of your window that you colored with magic marker, because of how you longed for true stained glass. he frowned, thinking what a shame it was those bastards destroyed the art you’d gone to admire tonight.

as he looked, he learned again what it is like to feel your presence, to be surrounded by you. he felt a sudden gap mending in the space within him, and he didn’t need magic to know why. falling in love was magical enough.

you spent some time allowing fox to nurse your bumps and bruises (once he stopped fake-looking for the first aid kit), and admired how he childishly placed bandaids all over your arms and legs as if they’d heal all. it was more about letting him care for you, and feeling his hands in places you’d only hoped they’d touched before. he hummed softly to himself all the while, and you were a puddle by the time he finished; when you were the center of his focus, he was nothing but a big sap, muttering soft praises and showering you with smiles. you couldn’t believe it took you so long to find him, or rather that the world took so long to bring you his way. you had so much to make up for now.

when it was time for him to go, you followed him to the door like a puppy. you didn’t feel the discomfort anymore, or the fear of your death. you only felt the doting hands of karma, proving to you the night was simply a means to a much greater end. (un)coincidentally, karma’s hands felt just like his.

fox leaned in your doorway, his tie undone and his authority stripped. “i’ll come by to check on you in the morning,” he assured.

“i’ll be here.”

“where do you work?” fox asked, and when your lips melted into a helpless grin, he pushed, “come on, where?”

“i’m a receptionist at the national archives.”

the believer before you fell to the mercy of his faith, picturing the building on the same street as his job. he imagined how many times you must have walked past him to go to work, all those days spent believing in a love he was missing. his ageless eyes folded on themselves with disbelief, and his laugh rattled deep in his chest.

“jesus. are you sure you’re not something else? a genie, a spirit? an angel?”

“nope. just a witch. and a bad one, at that.”

you pushed onto your tip-toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, finding his scruff so familiar to your lips. he sighed softly at the touch of your hands, feeling embers sparking in their wake.

like it was a secret, he murmured, “i have one more question.”

“hm?”

“why do you choose me? if you’ve lived all these lives, why me?”

you settled back onto your heels and smiled. your palm rested against his jaw as you replied, “you know, i don’t think i ever had a choice.”

he wanted to kiss you, but you both know he’s too much of a gentleman. so he only gazed at you for a while, pressing your hand flush to his face, before letting it fall and stepping into the hallway. and as you watched him leave, you imagined every time he’d come back to save you, to love you, to tilt his head and realign himself as the lover you’ve kept for lifetimes.

“you know where to find me,” you called after the man, and he looked over his shoulder with enough love to shatter the sky.

“i guess i always do, don’t i?”

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prayer altered for story, sourced from this website

quote used from novel if beale street could talk by james baldwin