#its the only way for the scene to make sense to me and I'd rather it mean something than nothing

[darilarostarg]

While I think I may have approached it in a much different way, I ultimately see/interpret the Daemon and Alyssa scene as a way of showing that, ever since her death, Daemon has been so completely deprived of nonsexual/unconditional love and affection for so long, that his subconscious is not capable of producing an depiction of any type of love (including matriarchal) of that without it including some form of sexual reciprocation.

Hence his horror when he realises he cannot even remember or accept the love from his mother, who he knows loved him unconditionally, without adding a sexual layer to it.

[galacticlamps]

ok I have A Lot of thoughts about the staircase confession (well really about Edwin's whole character arc, but all roads lead to rome) but for now I just wanna say that, yes, I was bracing myself for something to go terribly wrong when I first watched it, and yes, part of me was initially worried its placement might be an uncharacteristically foolish choice made in the name of Drama or Pacing or Making a Compelling Episode of Television but at the expense of narrative sense--

But I wanna say that having taken all that into account, and watched it play out, and sat with it - and honestly become rather transfixed by it - I really think it's a beautifully crafted moment and truly the only way that arc could've arrived at such a satisfying conclusion.

And if I had to pinpoint why I not only buy it but also have come to really treasure it, I'd have to put it down to the fact that it genuinely is a confession, and nothing else.

That moment is an announcement of what Edwin has come to understand about himself, but because it takes the form of a character admitting romantic feelings for such a close friend, I think it can be very easy, when writing that kind of thing, to imbue it with other elements like a plea or a request or even the start of a new relationship that, intentionally or not, would change the shape of the moment and can quickly overshadow what a huge deal the telling is all on its own. But that's not the case here. Since it is only a confession, unaccompanied by anything else, and since we see afterward how it was enough, evidently, to fix the strangeness that had grown between him & Charles, we're forced to understand that it was never Edwin's feelings that were actually making things difficult for him - it was not being able to tell Charles about them. 'Terrified' as he's been of this, Edwin learns that his feelings don't need to either disappear completely or be totally reciprocated in order for him to be able to return to the peace, stability, and security of the relationship with which he defines his existence - and the scale of that relief a) tells us a hell of a lot about Edwin as a character and b) totally justifies the way his declaration just bursts out of him at what would otherwise be such a poorly chosen moment, in my opinion.

Whether or not they are or ever could be reciprocated, Edwin's feelings are definitively proven not to be the problem here - only his potential choice to bottle it up - his repression - is. And where that repression had once been mainly involuntary, a product of what he'd been through, now that he's got this new awareness of himself, if he still fails to admit what he's found either to himself or to the one person he's so unambiguously close with, then that repression will be by his own choice and actions.

And he won't do that. Among other things, he's coming into this scene having just (unknowingly) absolved the soul of his own school bully and accidental killer by pointing out a fact that is every bit as central to his self-discovery as anything about his sexuality or his attraction to Charles is: the idea that "If you punish yourself, everywhere becomes Hell"

So narratively speaking, of course it makes sense that Edwin literally cannot get out of Hell until he stops punishing himself - and right now, the thing that's torturing him is something he has control over. It's not who he is or what he feels, but what he chooses to do with those feelings that's hurting him, and he's even already made the conscious choice to tell Charles about them, he was just interrupted. But now that they're back together and he's literally in the middle of an attempt to escape Hell, there is absolutely no way he can so much as stop for breath without telling Charles the truth. Even the stopping for breath is so loaded - because they're ghosts, they don't need to breathe, but also they're in Hell, so the one thing they can feel is pain, however nonsensical. And Edwin certainly is in pain. But whether he knows what he's about to do or not when he says he 'just needs a tick,' a breather is absolutely not what's gonna give him enough relief to keep climbing - it's fixing that other hurt, though, that will.

Like everything else in that scene, there's a lot of layers to him promising Charles "You don't have to feel the same way, I just needed you to know" - but I don't think that means it isn't also true on a surface level. It's the act of telling Charles that matters so much more than whatever follows it, and while that might have gone unnoticed if anything else major had happened in the same conversation, now we're forced to acknowledge its staggering and singular importance for what it is. The moment is well-earned and properly built up to, but until we see it happen in all its wonderful simplicity, and we see the aftermath (or lack thereof, even), we couldn't properly anticipate how much of a weight off Edwin's shoulders merely getting to share the truth with Charles was going to be, why he couldn't wait for a better, safer opportunity before giving in to that desire, or how badly he needed to say it and nothing else - and I really, really love the weight that act of just being honest, seen, and known is given in their story/relationship.

[drconstellation]

First-Order Archangels

Part 1: Maybe You'll Spot An Archangel

GABRIEL: I told you you could ask. However, I am the only First-Order archangel in the room, or, you know, the Universe, so I'm not gonna answer so much. But you feel free to knock yourself out with all the asking.

While I was writing my meta series The Passion Of Jimbriel it became fairly obvious to me there was something more going on between Crowley and Gabriel in S2 than just the numerous pointers to Crowley's pre-fall angel status. They are acting as both parallels and foils to each other, and in places you can swap their characters and get the same story at a different time – and that just opens up a whole new window of context and insight into things. For pre-reading, see this meta from @vidavalor that nicely lists some obvious parallels. It doesn’t mention everything though, so I’m going to discuss parts in more detail.

A foil is a character who contrasts with the protagonist, to highlight or differentiate certain qualities between the characters. Crowley and Gabriel do this because they have come from essentially the same place, and share some story elements, but they still end up in different places.

There is a lengthy original discussion about Crowley's pre-fall angel status here, for pre-reading. It points out the obvious and some not so obvious points that ops have noticed in S2 telling us about Crowley's pre-fall status. Rather than just go through them all again, I'd like to look at some other scenes in S2 that also tell us something about both the similarities and the differences between these two high-powered entities as I go along. In addition, I’ve done a series of posts looking at Gabriel as a shoulder angel (links at the end of post,) because quite often he’s on the demonic left-hand side – which makes sense when you realize he’s a Crowley parallel.

Take the arrival of Gabriel to Whickber St and the bookshop. I’ve already mentioned this parallel story line a couple of times now, but lets look at it again in more detail. It mirrors the opening of S1E1 where the serpent climbs the wall of the Garden of Eden, morphs into a demon and starts to converse with the angel standing on the wall.

Back in the present day, we have a Gabriel, who also tends to present on the sinister-side, walking up to the gate of the present day Garden (the bookshop), which is still guarded by the same angel as it was 6000 years ago, and basically tells Aziraphale he has “fallen.”

How to we know this? It is a reference to the Fall of Man, when Adam and Eve ate the apple the serpent offered them, they suddenly became aware of their nakedness, and hid from God. Gabriel has already upset the love-apple tomato cart on his way to the door of the bookshop, its a sign of the chaos to come.

The fallen angel is not sure of his name, so he prompts with a question…

And asks for shelter under the (reluctant) angel’s wing..

But there is one thing he does know, the one thing that drew him to Aziraphale in the first place:

AZIRAPHALE: Then why did you come to my shop? GABRIEL: I don't know. I just thought I should. You know what it's like when you- when you don't know anything at all, and yet you're totally certain that everything would be better if you were just near one particular person?

Later, Aziraphale realizes that he must give Gabriel a new name to hide him – because fallen angels take on a new name, don’t they? Just like Crowley did.

Then we get a confession:

Which is what Crowley loves about Aziraphale as well - that bit of unpredictability, because you know how humour kind of works? It throws the unexpected at you.

Early on in S2 we find out they are both in trouble: first His Royal Smugness, then Our Hero himself. Our view is turned upside down, with the angel made the bad guy and the demon the good guy who needs to win. But both of them are being hunted by Shax.

Then we get one of the early clues pointing to Crowley's high status as an angel:

SHAX: A miracle of enormous power happened last night. The kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed. CROWLEY: Mm? SHAX: Somewhere very close to your friend's bookshop. Are you telling me you don't know what caused it? CROWLEY: How'd you know I didn't do it?

Shax stalks and threatens both of them, sometimes at the same time:

Another parallel Gabriel and Crowley shared in S2 were associating their identity - no, lets rephrase that - "essence" was one description I've seen - with boxes.

Gabriel arrives with a box that strategically covers his front, and quickly tosses it aside once Aziraphale opens the door to the bookshop. It lies forgotten until Gabriel mentions it a while later. Inside it is the fly from Beelzebub - an object from Hell - so it really needs to be 'invited' across the threshold of the bookshop by Aziraphale to be able to enter. The box initially appears to be empty, Once inside, the fly is free to roam. It has a message written on one side of it.

The same goes for the matchbox. Message included.

ah, wot? you say. Yep.

The matchbox represents Crowley, probably in more ways than one, but I'll just go through the stuff relevant to this meta here.

I notice I'm not the only op to connect the line from the Book of Job on the side of the matchbox with Crowley. The line is from Verse 41, which talks about Leviathan. Among the various shapes it is described to take is a great sea serpent. This deserves its own meta for further discussion, which I plan to do after this one, because yes, Crowley is Leviathan in disguise, but there is much more to it than that. But for now, just know that the matchbox is Crowley.

Once you know this, it makes sense that Muriel finds it - a discarded cardboard box by the front door to Heaven - and deals with a material object that shouldn't by rights exist in Heaven. Then a certain demon finds Muriel lurking outside during the siege on the bookshop at the end of S2E5, and talks them into letting the certain demon be escorted up into Heaven where he doesn't belong, where he's free to roam around - only he needs a guide because he's not sure where to go. Ah Muriel, you poke the Serpent, he's going to poke you back. Good thing he likes you, and it just was a gentle nudge.

Two empty boxes, two cases of memory-loss. That is what S2 seems to suggest to us at first glance.

Gabriel's seems to be the most straight forward in hindsight - find the fly and restore Gabriel to his original "Gabriel-ness." But its more complicated than that. When pushed to remember, his lilac eyes return and another voice can be heard speaking through him of the past. This happens twice, with the second one being part-prophecy. What is really triggering these episodes of channeling? Is it God or someone else speaking through him? We really aren't sure at this point in time.

Then there are questions around Crowley's memory. Did he have his memory wiped when he fell? Was it wiped repeatedly? Was it not wiped at all, and he just pretends he doesn't remember? Neil has even said he is an unreliable narrator about his own Fall, so who are we to trust at this point? Crowley does seem to understand in the end some of the problems Gabriel is having with his absent memories and that brings them to a temporary truce.

Both Aziraphale and Michael inspect their respective "empty" boxes, and neither notices anything obviously amiss. Gabriel's box just seems empty to Aziraphale, he takes no notice of the fly container in there, and archangel Michael tentatively inspects the matchbox brought to them by Muriel but nothing seems out of place there either.

Crowley's change in costume in Heaven during his little infiltration caper with Muriel is also another clue to his past status as an archangel. He has a silvery-gray suit, similar in style to Saraqael's to reinforce the link with them, but at the same time he is also mocking the other archangels and their elite status. We've assumed for a while now that the appearance of the tactical turtleneck signals that Crowley is up to something sneaky or spy related, but I'm starting to think it also relates to a bit of a power play (and Crowley certainly laid the power on for Mr Brown in the pub!) Looking back at S1, Gabriel's not adverse to wearing one either when he needs to be at his worst (or best. Your choice.)

The way one dresses is a way of expressing and reinforcing authority, and its something both Gabriel and Crowley do without much thought. They have been used to being in a position of power and/or independent authority for much of their existence, and I would say that even if Crowley is a few steps down now from where he started, and he's more cautious around those higher ranking than him than he used to be, he still retains that knowledge of what its like to be at the top.

Crowley's usual near all-black costume is a form of power dressing in itself. Whether is was in the past, when black was an expensive color to buy and maintain in clothing, or in the present day, we are still respectful of those in a stylish cut of black.

Gabriel's impeccable tailoring as Supreme Archangel also commands respect. So it's no wonder that one of Gabriel's first requests on regaining his memories was to ask for new clothes! He wasn't just being the vain archangel we believe him to be (although, I think there is still some of that) you also need to consider the elements of the reference characters that went into his shop assistant character: Granville, the belittled shop assistant nephew from the sitcom Open All Hours, who got stuck with all the shop duties from his uncle and felt like life was passing him by, and the silly Monty Python gumbies, that complained of hurting brains - lovable and much loved characters, but not ones you'd really want to be forever. We all want to be loved, but we want to be respected as well.

For all his fierce posturing around Gabriel, there is a brief moment in S2E3 where Crowley backs down and treats Gabriel as an equal - and that is reflected in a change of dress as well. His outside jacket off and sleeve-garters on, Crowley sports a look we haven't seen since S1 when he was home alone in his Mayfair flat. He patiently explains gravity to a curious Gabriel and then describes his "Operation Lovebirds" plan to his puzzled companion. He admits he hasn't "done weather in ages." It's just a quiet, charming moment, watching two ex-archangels get along together.

You're smiling, aren't you?

This meta continues in Part 2: Foils of War, where the differences between Gabriel and Crowley get explored in more detail, and how Aziraphale and Beelzebub act as mirrors to each other a few times as well.

This meta is part of a series on Gabriel: Gabriel as a Shoulder Angel: S1 Study S2 Study Part 1: Ep.1 The Arrival and Ep. 2 The Clue S2 Study Part 2: Ep.3 I Know Where I'm Going and Ep. 5 The Ball S2 Study Part 3: Ep.6 Every Day

First-Order Archangels Part 2: Foils of War

First-Order Archangels Part 3: Seeing Eye to Eye

[lauralot89]

Could Vampire Bats Have Eaten Quincey's Horse?

I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay.

I actually misremembered this scene as Quincey saying his horse was eaten by a straight up vampire, because this doesn't make any sense at all. Vampire bats drink two tablespoons of blood nightly, they aren't draining horses.

Or are they?

Like the last time I went off on some weird scientific journey about blood consumption in Dracula, I decided to see if there's any way this is possible.

So, Quincey's horse is a mare, which has a lower average body weight than a stallion, and as such, a lesser whole blood volume. For example, "the breed standard weight for a Thoroughbred stallion is approximately 1,100 to 1,300 pounds, while mares weigh between 900 to 1,100 pounds."

What kind of mare did Quincey have, though? That impacts the weight and the amount of blood. If we assume he was using a horse from Argentina rather than bringing a horse from the United States, I think the most likely breed would be the Criollo, which is the native horse of the Pampas. If he brought a horse with him to South America, I'd wager it was an American quarter horse, the most popular horse breed among cowboys.

The Internet tells me that the average Criollo weight is between 1200 to 1300 pounds, and the average American quarter horse weighs between 950 to 1200 pounds. So let's imagine Quincey's mare weighed 1200 pounds if she was a Criollo, and 950 pounds if she was an American quarter horse.

I am told that "on average, a horse has approximately 8 to 10 percent of its body weight in blood." We'll go with 8 percent to give the vampire bats a fighting chance. This would mean a Criollo mare would have 96 pounds of blood, and a American quarter mare would have 76 pounds of blood.

There are 30.68 tablespoons in a pound. As such:

Criollo: 2945.28 tbsp

American Quarter: 2331.68 tbsp

Of course, Quincey's mare didn't lose all of her blood. She was still alive, she just couldn't get up. So what's the maximum amount of blood a horse can lose and live?

According to this posting, a horse which has lost 6 to 12 L of blood can survive with a transfusion, so we'll posit that 12 L is the maximum blood loss a horse can survive. 12 L is 26.45 pounds, or 797.68 tablespoons.

It would take 399 vampire bats all feeding from the same animal to remove 797.68 tbsp of blood in one night.

The average vampire bat colony contains 100 bats. So, if four colonies descended on the mare (maybe she was the only animal out and about that night) then this is actually possible.

But more likely Bram Stoker had no idea how vampire bats worked a Argentinian vampire was feeding on tourists and their horses, knowing the bats would be blamed.

[bonkbobl]

beautiful fool

ROOSE BOLTON X READER | PART 2

a/n: wait okay i didn't mean to fall down this rabbit hole but roose bolton can get it i dont really care. genuinely sometimes i forget that hes a bad... bad bad bad man. he has that flavor of bad thats just so alluring though i cant resist. i forget that the boltons often torture people for fucks and giggles but rewatching the scene where roose just fucks with jamies head for no reason other than thinking it might be funny made me think to what lengths would he go for something he actually wants. warning that its unedited and unplanned and this is more or less a train of thought fic.

summary: he had to have you. whatever it takes.

warning: REALLY explicit, major dubious consent, honestly headed toward straight noncon. very problematic trope of being forced to fuck but then enjoying it. forced marriage. id say dark roose but lowkey this is pretty in character for this bad bad bad man bad man. bad man.

Your heart raced out of your chest, fear even threatening to bubble and explode out of your throat. You almost got away. You nearly escaped. And here you were, tackled into the mud just by the river by men who wanted to hurt you. Hurt you and whatever was left of your family.

The men who whispered taunts in your ear as they tied your hands behind your back laughed. These were the same men who just two days ago invited the woman who you call mother and the man who was like a brother to you into their home to feast and murdered them.

You knew they'd send out a hunting party after you. But you thought swimming in the water might throw them off your scent. You weren't so lucky.

And as they dragged you back, the words of those men rang ominously through your head, "It's too bad the lord wants her untouched. I'd very much like to touch this one."

A lurking feeling told you that you'd probably have preferred to fall into the river and crack your head open on some jagged rock than find out what use the Lord of the Dreadfort had for you.

------------------

"What happens if I refuse," You asked, lifting your chin in defiance, as much defiance as you could manage with your arms tied behind your back.

Roose tilted his head at you almost like he was amused that you'd even think you have a say in the matter in the first place. "Then I'll put a bastard baby in you," he responded, his frankness and lack of shame sending cool shivers down your back. "And once the bastard is born I'll put another in you."

You couldn't help the frustrated tears that pooled in your eyes and you ripped your gaze away from him, fear bubbling in your chest and making you feel sick.

"Whore of Winterfell, or Lady Bolton. It's your decision, love."

Ever since that conversation you had pondered how likely it is you'd make it even a few miles before you were captured, either by Bolton hunters or the Ironborn. Either would be unpleasant. You wondered if you could find a way to just be done with it all and join your ward family in the seven heavens rather than fight. But you knew you could never bring yourself to. You were one of the living, through and through. You had to run.

And plan, you did, but no opportunity came. It was only a matter of time before you were put in a pretty white dress and brought under a Godswood to speak your vows to the man who betrayed your true king.

All you could think was why. Why cant he just let you go. You have no legitimate claim that could threaten him. You're not a stark. You're just a girl. You don't come from a large family. Not one of influence. There are no banners to raise. No substantial actions you could take against the new wardens of the north. You were more likely to die trying to run north than you were to be any kind of threat.

------------------

It wasn't like Roose to hold affections for any particular person. It was rare for him to even feel a vague sense of fondness towards anyone. A person is useful and competent. If they aren't then at best they are a nuisance that he could do without, at worst a threat to the Bolton name.

But you.

You were every bit as much a fool as the man who took you in as a ward, and that same mans son who grew up with you. You fretted over honor and doing the right thing when your enemies would not pay a second thought. You argued in favor of the late Queen Talisa's insistence on helping both Northern and Royal forces, allocating countless coppers toward medicating the enemy.

You aggravated Roose to no end when you first began to speak out. And yet he found that his eyes would always meet yours, rake downward against his will really. And though it only added to his aggravation, he brushed those feelings aside as the natural desires of a man.

He, in no way, found you difficult to gaze upon. It was infuriating, even more so that you seemed to understand the effect you had on men, flirting about with the son of Karstark and joking crudely with the men as if you weren't a lady to be respected.

And yet he found a stirring in him when you'd make an innuendo that was a little too risque.

He soon found it difficult to not think of you. Especially when you, the beautiful fool, revealed yourself to be of a sharper mind than even the King in moments.

"I love Talisa, truly, but think about it, Robb. You may be winning battles right now. But if you become too close to her, your closest advisors may falter. You risk losing the war."

"We have little food to sustain the rest of the camp, perhaps it'd do the Northern cause some good to do something about the overflowing kennels. As distasteful as it is to execute so many."

"Karstark will be avenged if you go through with this, please Robb. His forces make up a third of ours. Think. Think about it, I beg you."

Roose was irked by the fact that he agreed with you on more occasions than not, but he was impressed nevertheless. And it only kept you on his mind more. No, it wasn't love, Roose was sure of it, it erred more on the side of an intrigue that escalated to the point of near obsession. You were, after all, young, beautiful, thoughtful, and you held a level head. More strong than his first wife, less stiff and rigid than his second. More alluring and exciting than both.

The way Roose saw it, Robb Stark was becoming more dangerous to the interests of the North, growing increasingly reckless as the war went on. It was really his duty to usurp the so called King in the North, whod surely lead all the great Northern Houses to extinction if this masquerade continued on. You, however, would be a great loss if you were to drown alongside the wolf.

A great loss, indeed. Not to any higher purpose, you were not from any significant house. No, you just deserved to live. It baffled Roose to know he felt that way about any one person. But he reasoned it's simply because he wants you for himself. His pretty little wife — you'd fit that role so well.

He even remembered the way the old Lord Frey cackled when he stated his intentions with you.

"Marry any of my daughters and I will give you her weight in silver, My Lord. An offer of good faith and my grandson shall become Warden of the North."

"I'm honored by the offer, believe me. But I already have a prize that I've set my eyes on."

Frey's eyebrows arched in amusement.

"The Stark Ward," Bolton answered the unspoken question.

And the old man laughed, harder than a man his age should be able to, and sure enough his joy was cut short by a few uncouth coughs. "Pretty slut. I cannot say I blame you, Lord Bolton. I'm embarrassed I didn't think to take that pretty thing as my spoils before you did."

Roose offered a polite smile and hum, "I'll wed one of your children or perhaps grandchildren to whatever child I will have with my new wife."

Frey chuckled, nodding, "Hm, expect me to remember such a promise, my lord..." Then with a sardonic smirk, the lecherous old man spoke again, "Eh, I assume you aren't the type of man to like to share, are you, Lord Bolton."

And Roose's smile dropped into a hard glare. Frey laughed again, waving him off.

"A joke," he reassured, "Alright. After we kill the boy and his mum, you keep the whore. I cant wait to see how you deign to tame the bitch."

------------------

The very same halls you grew up in echoed terribly as your husband led you to the chambers you would share. The Lords chambers. You remember running to this very room to pester your Lord and Lady, sometimes Sansa or her older brother running alongside you.

Lord Bolton hardly spoke a word to you. All the better, for you could not bear to look at him. All those months of sitting across him as both of you counseled the proclaimed King in the North, and you thought you knew the man. You even admired him, vied for his approval. You thought him to be intelligent, more clear headed than the men that are easily driven by anger or lust and other vices of men. You'd smile to yourself on the occasions he'd agree with you or appear to approve of your advise.

To be honest, you thought Lord Bolton had no such love or affection toward you, especially in the very beginning when he wouldn't even stop to regard you, or he'd clearly speak over you, brush you aside, advise your king the opposite of the words you'd spoken. You thought he saw you as a mere child, playing at king and hand like you and Robb would as babes.

Now you think he really must have hated you. You wonder how long he hated Robb, and all the Starks, all their allies. But you, he must have hated you especially. Why he would feel the need to subject you to the greatest torture of living with him, being bred by him, carrying child after child, you wondered why why why. Why does he hold so much resentment toward a young girl. He must be a sad man.

You suddenly realized he was staring at you, watching your teary eyes, your clenched jaw, your shaky breath. You stared him in his cold eyes, defiant. Though you knew it was useless. You knew what would come next. He made it clear.

Whore of Winterfell, or Lady Bolton.

Was there any difference?

For Lady Bolton, the children you bear him would be heirs rather than bastards. For Lady Bolton, you'd have a title, your "honor" in tact. But everything that mattered would remain the same. Youd take him nightly. You could only hope for him to cease his visits once a babe has taken to your belly

"Lady Bolton," your husband commanded your attention.

You faced him, inches away from the bed. He towered over you and you did your best at a feeble attempt to not let him intimidate you. You were scared. You wanted to be strong but the thought of what was to come next was scaring you. There's no escape.

"Lord Bolton," you replied, nothing but spite in your tone.

He breathed a humorous scoff, shaking his head slightly, "Undress yourself," he said, barely above a whisper, challenging you by tilting his head to the side. His eyes were so cold, barely feeling. You'd not be surprised if he told you he wasn't human.

Swallowing, you began unlacing your dress, attempting to remain hard as steal. But a tear finally trickled down your face when his hand reached up to cup it.

Your fingers stalled to a halt when he leaned in to kiss the tear, an action that would be comforting from any other man but you knew he meant to mock you. This was meant to be humiliating. He doesn't care for you. He kisses your tears away to remind you he doesn't care. He might even like it. Stop crying.

But you couldn't. You squeaked out a small sob as his lips came down to meet yours, hungry and demanding. Your shaky breath let out a heavy sigh through your nose and the feeling of fear strangely extinguished from your chest for a moment. Instead, your chest rose and you met him in his kiss.

His lips were surprisingly soft, his tongue felt dirty in your mouth but you couldn't explain why you didn't want to bite it off and spit it out. Instead you felt helpless and you let his tongue roam your mouth with little to no fight. When he pulled away from you, a string of spit tried desperately to keep the two of you connected but smacked against your chin after a mere second.

Your breath was heavy, cheeks wet with tears, flushed and probably looking a mess. You didn't want to imagine it. The vague sense of disgust with yourself remained but it just felt slightly different. You didn't know how to place it. It stirred rather pleasantly in your lower tummy and you felt really tense down there.

"I will repeat this command. But for the future, I want it to be known that I don't enjoy repeating myself. Undress yourself."

You heard his words clearly and allowed him to kiss you again. Your fingers clumsily and hurriedly worked at your dress. You stripped yourself bare as he did as he liked, kissing, nipping at your lips. His hands explored the new inches of your body as they became more and more exposed to him.

They roamed over your back, and back in front to cup your soft tits, weighing them, toying with your nipple... roamed back down your back, squeezing your firm ass. You couldn't place the feeling, you couldn't place it. You didn't like the feeling. You wanted it to stop. And yet if he pulled away you felt as if you might lean back into his touch inexplicably. You'd hate it but you'd go back for more.

Whenever he groped you a little too hard, you'd whine without even realizing it and Roose's pleasure would grow. Once you were fully naked, you grew awkward, not knowing what to do with your hands so you backed toward the bed. But he followed.

The rough fabric of his clothes felt harsh against your soft skin. You had nothing to do but whimper again and when you turned your head away, he simply let you, instead taking the opportunity to finally look at you, his little wife. Beautiful, clever, stubborn little wife.

You ducked your head, crying, confused at the way you felt, confused as to why you weren't fighting him harder. And that spurred you to begin.

Roose realized you weren't fighting him the second he kissed you and he shared your confusion for a second until he felt your tongue caressing his in reciprocation. He's sure you hadn't even fully realized your own actions as you had rushed to comply with his orders.

He half expected you to be a shy blushing bride but this reminded him that you were a little of a tease with Robbs men, cracking nasty jokes that a lady should not have been aware of. You were no blushing bride. In fact, you were a bit of a slut. A tease.

And suddenly, it struck him that the behavior hadn't so much aggravated him in the way that he thought. In fact the memory of you flirting with those men who were now burried in the ground or thrown into the river, gave him this strong sense of accomplishment to have you here.

Roose began undoing his trousers, unsheathing himself to your horror and you pushed him away, escaping the only way you were permitted, crawling on the bed and trying to get over to the other side. Roose was too fast, grabbing your ankle and pulling you down.

You fell but you kicked him in the chest and he laughed, dropping your ankle, but only so he could grasp your hips firmly and pull you back along the edge of the bed.

"Down, girl," he commanded, as if you were a dog.

You cried, clawing at anywhere to escape to. But he was right behind you and as you looked around, you knew it was hopeless. Still the fight burned on in your chest. Then you heard a smack and a sharp pain in your buttock, jolting you under your husband.

Another one came because you refused to calm yourself, then his hand slipped between your thighs and he spanked you again as another feeble warning.

"My lady," He started, waiting for you to calm finally before chuckling. Then your torturer informed you of something, no doubt to break your spirits, "Are you aware, Lady Bolton, how wet your cunt is?"

His rough weathered fingers rubbed at your entrance, barely pushing in and sure enough the sound of your slick being rubbed and spread around, filled your ears. Your fists balled the sheets under it and your legs helplessly kicked up, though with no purpose. You couldn't get away. From him. From your shame. From your body's betrayal.

"Your womb is begging me to fill it. You feel it, don't you?" He taunted, "You're confused, aren't you. Stupid, confused, little wife."

His fingers slipped away and you fought to catch your breath, fists relaxing because he stopped. But then his fingers were replaced by something thicker and hotter and your struggle resumed. Your hips squirming but all it did was slicken his cockhead for an easier entrance.

"Let me clear your confusion, stupid little wife." Roose cooed to you, the tone of his voice unfitting of the cruel words. "You are exactly where you belong. Under your husband, serving your husband. The Warden of the North. There's no need to fight your fate or fight your pleasure as you are exactly where you belong."

Then he began pushing into you and your toes clenched, back arching inexplicably. The new angle that you provided made it easier. You knew it didn't make sense but it made perfect sense to Roose, who chuckled behind you, smacking your ass, this time not in displeasure but as a praise. Your body twitched at it, cunt squeezing and pulsing around him as if it were trying to suck it in.

Your moans grew more wanton as he pushed in torturously slow. And of course it hurt, stung, when he forced past your maidenhead but you couldn't even bring yourself to squirm away from that. You were rightfully his.

When his hips met yours, he just held himself buried inside you for a few seconds and you continued to contract and twitch around him, small squeaks of confusion escaping your throat against your will. You couldn't stop squirming. The sensation of something so big filling you stirred you uncontrollably.

A hand trailed down your thigh, nudging it upward and you followed the movement, allowing him to prop your leg up on the bed. Then he began thrusting and your face heated up when you heard just how wet you were. Each time his hips pressed flush against you, youd feel the cool sensation of your slick on his balls.

It was all so vivid. Even if you couldn't see what was going on behind you. You knew. And the most shameful noises forced past your throat as your husband fucked you deeply and slowly.

"Listen to yourself," Roose muttered, hands coming up to grab your shoulders.

It allowed him to hammer deeper and harder into you, the sharpness of his thrusts contrasting the slow strokes he started with. You cried out, shameful but you were horrified to find that you did not want him to stop. Not when he was... oh his cock was hitting something inside you. Deep inside you.

"Keep making those noises, darling wife. I cant tell if I enjoy your pleasure more or your tears."

You cried out, a small sob at the end of it. And despite your better judgement, you turned your head to look at your husband. Your naked body contrasted so much with his garments, which stayed mostly unmoved. Only his pants and breeches were pulled down to his mid thigh.

His expression hardened upon evaluating your features. There was nothing more beautiful, your lips parted in a pleasure that confused you. The tears had dried by now but your hair was a mess and your eyes swollen and pinkish. Not to mention the way you were splayed out beneath him. He landed a firm spank to your buttocks again, aiming to leave marks.

You whimpered, eyebrows coming together as your pussy clamped down around him. Roose grabbed your hip that was propped higher than the rest of your body due to your leg that was positioned on the bed. And he used that hip as leverage to pull your body into him.

The confusion within you turned to fear when an unfamiliar feeling began building within you. You cried out loudly and involuntarily clamped down even harder around him, pulsing uncontrollably as he jackhammered into you ruthlessly, intensifying when his hands abandoned your hips for your neck.

You couldn't help but feel as if you were reduced to a little object. He could grab you wherever and however he wanted and pull you against his cock and you had nowhere to run and yet you couldn't even deign to lift your legs and kick at him. You surrendered to the smallness that he made you feel, cries and distress replaced by whimpers and submission.

You came to find your body shaking and convulsing with a blinding kind of pleasure. Even your moans died into a breathy, shaky sigh, back arching as you sank further into the sheets beneath you. Your lord gave no sign of stopping, another self satisfied hum rumbling from his chest.

"Good, so good, darling. I knew you would come to enjoy your new position."

And with that you were filled again with shame, though not yet strong enough to overshadow the stubborn pleasure which muted any feelings that might incite discomfort. You especially could not feel displeased when your husband firmly snapped his hips into you, releasing a grunt. He continued to pump into you, slowly but firmly. sighing along with his thrusts. It was the only compromise in composure that he allowed you to see and you were only sure at this point that he was finished with you.

Surprisingly the spilling of his seed didn't feel like much but your cunt squeezed him, as if it was aware. And you felt satisfaction wash over you, as if your body was also aware.

To your shock and shame, your ass gyrated beneath him, rolling itself against him to fully milk him for all he had to offer you. And you hid your face, pausing once you realized.

After recovering from his release, Roose watched you closely, appreciating the way you still squirmed, restless. You moved your leg back down to the floor and pushed back, hips meeting his and your cunt convulsed again around him due to the overstimulation. He stood like a barrier, looming over you a he rested his hands on the edge of the bed where your hips were and your restless little cunt continued to twitch and pulse as you tried to compose yourself desperately.

You breathed deeply but it was hopeless. You could not walk away with your dignity, fully aware of how Lord Bolton stared upon his Lady Bolton, satisfied with how you gave into him so easily.

You shivered and your breath hitched when he landed a kiss to your shoulder blade. Then you sighed, settling down again for him. And a needy whimper confirmed your submission.

Roose loomed over you, giving you another small kiss on your temple.

"You did well, my lady."

The approval got to you. Your days on Robbs counsel trying your best to say anything intelligent that would make him accept you as an equal. It all led you to this moment. But you never did accomplish your goal of being viewed as an equal, at least it didn't feel that way in this moment. His softening cock still inside you, the only thing stopping his spend from trickling down your leg. Oh the shame of it all.

"I'm pleased to find that you enjoyed it as much as I did."

"No," You protested but in your voice you could tell you didn't even believe yourself.

Lord Bolton merely laughed. And you whimpered again, willing yourself to sink into the bed and disappear. Then your husband pulled back and spread your ass cheeks apart, giving you a lengthy thrust. Though he was not as hard as he was moments ago, the movement was enough to make you shiver.

"Then we should try again in a half mark of an hour. I shall train my lady wife to welcome me into her bed."

You bit the inside of your mouth to prevent another whimper but it was ripped from you when Lord Bolton spanked you again.

Oh yes, Roose Bolton would commit a thousand betrayals and massacre a hundred false Kings if it meant he'd end up with you, here, to warm his bed.

[muriels-brainrot]

૮꒰ “ . . ꒱ა

{Referencing this post: https://www.tumblr.com/muriels-brainrot/755439602787139584/how-do-you-cope-with-the-fandom-being-so?source=share }

Forgive me if I'm intruding but I recently came across some very helpful advice which I think is quite insightful.

To set the scene, before I found this advice, I myself was struggling with staying consistent with art. This time however, I had decided that no I won't keep procrastinating. SO, in my attempt to find resources, I stumbled onto this video. Now suddenly it all began to make sense. The reason I was struggling was not because i'm lazy and horrible and lacking motivation. Rather it was because I had outcome related goals. TLDR: I was focused on the outcome (wow rlly iri we didn't know that's what outcome related goals meant pfft-)

Anyways so, instead of focusing on the process, I was instead focusing on the end product aka the finished drawing. Ofc I'm a beginner so I wouldn't look like I wanted to. Not bad but it wouldn't be what I wanted so i'd get frustrated and eventually give up on drawing . . . before inevitably returning with my tail between my legs cause I still rlly want to get better.

Honestly, it's natural and normal for these feeling to occur, because like you said we pour so much time and dedication. Not to mention heart and soul to make these creative projects that it feels almost personal when it doesn't get engagement. But if there is something i'd like for you to know, it's that it rlly helps if you take enjoyment in the process. Draw inspiration from odd places and craft scenarios.

Don't write for others, or the cliche of writing for yourself but rather think of it as you sharing your brainrot with ur future self haha. Write stuff that you'd wanna read yourself! (then come back to read it like a crazy person at the dead of night . . . wait, don't tell me that just me-)

Just . . . let your brain do its thing! Let your brain create instead of letting the ideas and projects fester in your head. Keep growing your skill because you never know, these might be the very thing that comes in handy later on in life. Think of singers like Sabrina carpenter who was niche (I mean to say not worldwide popular yknow, but u get my point) for a long time. However, if you look at her now that she's gone viral, it's the hard work during the years she spent creating with most of the world with their backs to her that is the sole reason she continues to be so well known for her . . . well, everything! (For example: She is extremely comfortable on stage while performing and looks like she's in her element even with thousands of eyes on her . . . it's cause she's been performing for almost 10 years I think.)

So, to both anon and anyone else reading this, pls keep creating stuff. Especially passion projects. Even if you feel like you're screaming into a void. You'll only get better IF you continue. Also, you never know maybe there is someone out there that really enjoys your work. Even if it's one person, that still someone out there that keeps coming back just for your work. This silly tangent I went on, won't completely get rid of all the thoughts and feelings . . . but it's a start. Hope this helps . . .

(Example: I always find myself coming back to this artwork by @cinsilly cause Asra's expression here is so funny. No not once a week but every few days oops- )

Oh my god thank you!! I'll post my thoughts in the comments. But it was honestly v cool of you to share this, the only thing that keeps me together in any fandom is knowing we're not alone in feeling this way :'> !!!

[critical-birb]

Hope this isn't presumptuous of me but I have an archery question and would like to pick your brain if you don't mind.

I was writing a scene in my Breath of the Wild fanfic with Link and Mipha fighting some Yiga Clan guys. Link is watching carefully during the fight trying to figure out how the Duplex Bow fires two arrows at a time. One after another in quick succession at a single point (rather than the spread of arrows Lynel Bows or the Great Eagle Bow fires).

I couldn't come up with a plausible explanation other than the Duplex Bow has two strings, allowing the user to knock two arrows close together and then releasing them one after the other.

What are your thoughts on this?

Presumptuous? To message me about my hyperfixiation interests??

My guy I am kissing you gently on the forehead and handing you a flower.

So - you're totally right that with real world physics, firing two arrows from the same bow at the same exact point immediatly one after the other without re-drawing is unrealistic outside of video game logic. Even if you had two strings on your bow and released one and then the other, the bow tension would only release once you'd released the second and they would fire at the same time.

It is possible to shoot multiple arrows on the same bow, at the same time. Though you'll not only have far less control over where they'll hit, but the more arrows you have, the less force you'll get behind them. So they won't go very far or hit very hard. Typically, Archers don't do this. Though there's records of the more scattergun approach being used in medieval battles, usually arrows being shot into the air to try to just hit as many people as possible quickly.

The Duplex bow in BotW is....hmm. Its an odd shape, for a bow. That 3 shape doesn't reflect the shape of any bow I've ever seen in reality. (Edit: I think it is potentially based on a scythian composite bow)

My theory would be that the design works similarly to a recurve bow, with the limbs bending to provide the force, but for it to really have an impact it would make more sense of the limbs were turned backwards. I'll add a sketch here later to explain that better.

The only solutions I can come up with if we're being creative with this are;

The arrows. If you had a hollow arrow with a second arrow inside that had a wider fletching than caught the wind resistance more, it could fire as one arrow but separate mid-air into two, one flying slightly slower than the other as the wind catches the fletching.

Or it's two bows stuck together. Thing four limbs, rather than two. Perhaps it looks like a single bow until you squint and realise it's two bows designed to look like two halves of a single one. That way the two string method would work, because each string would have different limbs connecting to it.

Oooh I'd be excited to read your fic when it's done! I hope you'll share it!!

[callmearcturus]

okay so PC Gamer just scattered a bunch of catnip for me with an article about What If Each Fallout Game Were A Movie, Who Would Direct It and I am going to read this live and judge it

because I'm having a relapse, we all understand this

A focused, mature, pressure cooker of a movie that is short and stylishly violent? Better call the director of John Wick to take the directorial reigns. Personally, I find Leitch's movies tend to have rather underwhelming final acts, too, and also have a penchant for ending abruptly when you feel more could have followed, so he's the perfect fit for a game that's incredible until it very quickly ends without much fanfare. John Wick movies don't tend to be very wacky either, often depicting the hero's world as very serious (despite the ludicrous premise of the fiction), so again this feels a strong and apt choice for the OG Fallout. A Friday night action movie.

HMMMMMM. I feel like I disagree on the mode I would want FO1 to be in. Like, yes, you can play it that way, but FO1 is famously one of the first games to make Speech arguably the most important skill to have in a video game, so I dunno. I love Leitch and feel like while his sense of realistic-yet-stunning action is a trademark, I think the use of locations is even more of his thing, and when I think about memorable locations, I think more of FO2 than FO1.

I feel like I would give FO1 to some hyper-realistic scumbag who is more obsessed with Process than Enterta-- oh. Nolan. gdi I'd give FO1 to Chris fucking Nolan, him whomst I loathe.

Who better to direct this expansive and often wacky depiction of the Fallout universe than the director responsible for epics such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 12 Monkeys, Brazil, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and The Man Who Killed Don Quixote? Gilliam loves a good road trip in his work, too, which fits with Fallout 2's Highwayman-based exploration, and his penchant for vast vistas with wacky and absurd details feels perfect. The combat scenes wouldn't be as slick as Leitch's Fallout movie, but characterisation and a more rambling, philosophical, off-beat narrative would deliver. Plus, Fallout 2 even has a Bridge Keeper encounter that directly references Monty Python and the Holy Grail, in which Gilliam starred. Watch on a Saturday night for a bit of everything.

......... I straight up cannot argue with that. No notes.

For a movie based on a game that is focussed almost entirely on squad-based combat in urban environments, combat where soldiers die in terrible ways and the horrors of war are all too apparent, I feel the director of The Hurt Locker, Kathryn Bigelow is perfect for this. Fallout: Tactics would be a war movie with a very tight focus and strong characterisation for just a handul of lead characters. Tense and at times adrenaline-inducing due to the flashes of extreme violence, but interspersed with soul-searching dialogue from its grizzled, war-scarred leads, this would be an erudite and focused Fallout war movie. Watch on a Monday or Tuesday night.

Looking at Bigelow's list of works is how I just now learned she also did Strange Days, so I think it's fair to say that this is giving her way too small of a pick. Give her FO1 and give Leitch FOT.

It would be so bad. Forget about A-bombs, everyone in the movie would drop an F-bomb every other line. Don't watch on any night.

Fucking weak-ass pick. Think about the history of how FO:BoS happened, i.e. they were trying to slap the Fallout license onto a completely different style of game without any respect for the source material. They swapped out Nuka Cola for Bawls product placement.

Give it to Zack Synder.

As the game that properly introduced V.A.T.S. system slow-mo to the Fallout universe, with kill shots shown off in glorious bullet time, there can be only one director for a film version of Fallout 3: the master himself, John Woo. Woo's stellar action movie work in titles such as Hard Boiled, Broken Arrow, Face/Off and Mission Impossible 2, among others, means the action in this game is off the charts. Slow-mo radiated doves and all! Woo handles the post-apocalypse war vibes well, too, thanks to his work on Windtalkers, while he communicates the hero's awakening into the future thanks to previous on Paycheck. A good fit for Friday night, thanks to the action, or midday during the weekend due to a longish, war movie-style runtime.

.....................

holy shit i cannot argue with that, that's genius. absolutely fucking yes. i think that's a perfect fit.

also, like, FO3 and Woo have the same "problem" for me, in that they know exactly what they are doing, it's just not my cup of tea, but there is a solid identity there.

yeah, fucking do it, give FO3 to John Woo.

SHUT THE FUCK UP

WHO WROTE THIS ARTICLE, AND DID THEY WRITE IT FROM MY FUCKING ATTIC?!

Casinos, gritty environments, extreme violence and heist movie vibes mean I think of Guy Ritchie for this film adaptation. Ritchie's also a fan of slow-mo combat shots, too, so we've got the game's V.A.T.S. system represented well, too, while the game's macho factional warfare as undertaken by factions like Caesar's Legion and the NCR, is right in keeping with Ritchie's love of gang-based conflict. There's not much romance in New Vegas, either, which is a weak spot for Ritchie, but as shown in movies like Sherlock Holmes, Snatch, The Gentleman, and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, he's good at holding together movies with various interconnecting narratives. His work on Aladdin also shows he can handle the comedic and wacky aspects of New Vegas, too. A mid-week action-comedy treat.

/rubs face

I am unfortunately a massive fucking fan of Ritchie movies. this is so powerful.

i think........... Ritchie is so thoroughly uninterested in saying anything philosophically profound, you cannot give him The Most Profound Fallout Game. like, I want to love this idea, I really do, but no.

....................... You need someone with snappy dialogue that actually means something, who is willing to veer into borderline magical realism, who loves an overdressed set, and who can manage a lot of different characters with well-reasoned motivations.

I think you need Rian Johnson.

OR DO I JUST WANT RIAN JOHNSON TO MAKE A VERSION OF "DEAD MONEY" THAT DOESN'T SUCK? WHO COULD SAY.

I feel Ang Lee is a good choice for a Fallout 4 movie adaptation, having good form in handling large and sprawling fictions with plenty of characters and side-stories. Just look at films like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Life of Pi as an example of this. He's got some form with action, too, thanks to his work on Hulk. There's probably more romance/relationship offering in Fallout 4 than in any other Fallout, and Ang Lee has form here too. The result, though, is a movie that ends up being a bit flabby and unfocussed at times, despite technically bringing more to the table than Fallout 3, and being funnier and lighter overall. Watch on a day off due to a chonky runtime.

what are you fucking talking about, Ang Lee's best movies are Brokeback and Sense & Sensibility, and his worst are probably Hulk and Gemini Man. Fallout 4 is the one where Bethesda just stopped pretending to give a shit about story and roleplaying, instead pivoting the game into a skinner box of tightly-honed but ultimately soulless mechanics.

I'm not even trying to mock Marvel, but I feel like the MCU's Design-By-Producer-And-Executive-Oversight is actually the answer here. It doesn't matter who directs it because the main voice will be a board room.

oh shut upppppp

Fallout Shelter would in some ways be the most obvious setup for a movie: the self-contained story of a vault-dwelling society, interspersed with the surface adventures of random dwellers. Sounds a bit like the TV show when you put it like that, which is why there's only one Nolan for the job: Christopher! Yes, fresh off Oppenheimer it is time for Oppenheimer 2, focusing on the aftermath of all-out nuclear war (hell, Cillian Murphy can even have a cameo as a brain in a jar, I'm that generous). Moody, intense, riven with twists you didn't see coming, and with all special effects done for realsies, this movie could only ever be rad. The only downside is that, like the TV show Silo, you'd spend an awful lot of time indoors.

absolutely fucking not. the thing about Nolan is that his shit is so meticulous, it like.... pitches past hyper-realism and lands in this weird uncanny valley of "he wouldn't fucking say that" but it's for a character you've only known for ten minutes.

FO: Shelter is about emergent storytelling that feels almost accidental rather than arranged or scripted. you need someone who is hands-off the script but can capture a.... good moment..............

oh god, it's JJ Abrams, isn't it? god dammit. or, frankly? Spielberg. so I'm saying no to the director i hate and offering instead two other directors i dislike, but for different reasons.

yeah. yep. that's what i'm doing.

SPITTAKE

As an MMO that takes many aspects of the Fallout universe to the extreme, it feels a movie version of Fallout 76 would be akin to a huge-budget, climatic MCU movie where it really helps if you've had previous with the series to get most enjoyment. As such, I feel the Russo brothers would take the reigns for Fallout 76. The result would be a jack-of-all-trades action-adventure that borrows bits of every previous Fallout to make something that appeals to a lot of people but, after watching, doesn't go down as something you'd rewatch for most all of them. Big, bright, wacky and action-filled, there's no doubting though that you get a spectacle and fun, though. Watch in two sittings over two nights (as the movie's runtime is 3 hours 47 minutes).

no. fuck you. i reject your premise. the Fallout game that shipped with no NPCs and expected the story to be entirely conveyed by set-pieces, environmental design, and audiologs?

resurrect Tarkovsky and give us FO76, desolate and beautiful with environmental shots that last seven minutes without a cut. because the only good thing about FO76 is the setting, the amount of effort put into building the actual space, so I want 90 minutes of film and seven pages of script.

Russo Brothers, get tf out of here

[god-has-entered-my-body]

If you're too shy // pt.2 - Matty Healy

A/N: shit banner because i've fallen off xx. Anyway this was written whilst listening to the arctic monkeys debut which is absolute SHIT by the way 0/10 i'd rather listen to margaret thatcher's sex tape thanks.

wc: 4k

content warnings: literally nothing happens its a bit said, body writing, teasing, begging, sub!Matty being pathetic as per use, cliffhanger because the google doc told me to

They say feeling diminishes over time, sensations are lost to memories, forgotten. What Matty was experiencing couldn’t be further from the truth. Hazy daydreams inhabit his every waking thought, dreams only more and more vivid as time passed. Time didn't diminish the feeling of your hands on him, hot skin against his. It only intensified it, a certain sense of longing plaguing him. Longing for you. 

It’s an out of body experience, being in your presence. Your knowing glances when your eyes meet, an expression on your face only he can truly decipher. Matty dreams of you, so graphically that it leaves him panting in his bed, shaking hands running through unbrushed curls as he tries to collect himself, tries to push it down. 

But his hands cant help but wander, tracing over where you had touched him, goosebumps spreading onto his skin as the scene plays back in his mind. You, above him, forcing him down onto the floor. The way his knees ached at the harsh pressure of the linoleum floor. Your fingers dragging past his parted lips, pressing down onto his tongue, relishing in the sounds that escaped him. The small glimpse of your skin, the dark lace against your thigh a constant reminder of what could've been. What could still be. 

He doesn't know what you’re thinking, even if he yearns for your thoughts. You won't speak to him, you haven't since that day. It's painful, watching you live on like nothing had passed between the two of you, the only communication being a small, unassuming look, a brush of the hand. Nothing more, nothing less. 

This lesson is no different, loud chatter filling the space as the class gets into groups, working on some assignment. Matty sits on his desk, feet scuffing the seat of his chair as Ross gestures at his latest hookup, staring at him from across the room. You vaguely recognise her from a few of your other classes. She’s meek and quiet, bordering on pushover with the way she lets her friends walk all over her, but quite kind overall. 

His voice is loud, booming through the classroom as he laughs and jokes, refusing to pay any attention to the assignment despite the teacher's numerous attempts to get him to focus. His presence is altered in your eyes, different. The thing that had passed between the two of you can't be ignored just so, and you know he feels it too, his eyes boring a hole into the back of your head. It's when you unexpectedly turn around that his breath hitches, stuttering over a simple sentence. His little mistake going seemingly unnoticed, Ross keeps speaking, leaving Matty to stare at you, eyes darting all over your face, trying to read your expression. 

You remain neutral, raising your eyebrows at him in a sort of silent question. Matty cocks his head in turn, almost like a challenge, deep brown eyes narrowing slightly. The scrape of that chair against the floor is piercing, though no one around you pays it any mind. Bending over the desk, back facing him, a piece of paper is ripped out of your fairly expensive notebook, the scratch of pen against it oddly satisfying, your handwriting forming loopy, inky blue letters. Your fingers feel over the writing, the dips where your pen indented that simple message feel rough against your skin. 

People crowd the room, making it difficult to maneuver through it, bags hitting against your feet wherever you stepped. Muttering quiet excuses, your hand clutches the piece of paper, almost like it would disappear if it wasn't for your grip. Matty’s eyes follow you, intrigued, raking up your bare legs as you walk in his direction, staring him down.

To anyone else, nothing seems out of the ordinary in the way that you accidentally bump against the edge of the desk he’s sitting on, your right hand grabbing on to it for stability as you apologize to no one in particular. Only Matty sees the white, neatly folded note you had left right next to his hip, tucking it under a book you knew he never used. He shivers as your fingers make contact with his belt, something he wouldn't have even noticed if it wasn't your touch. 

The whole world slows down as he snatches it from under the textbook, unengaged enough in the conversation at this point that he could turn his body away from the group unnoticed, unfolding the note. His heart speeds up as he immediately recognises your handwriting, eyes over scanning the words. 

His body moves instinctively, getting up from his spot on the wooden desk, creaking slightly as a girl's voice asks where he’s going. 

“Bathroom.” he mutters under his breath, his vague answer raising a few suspicions. The group's attention is quickly turned to the teacher standing a few feet away, sternly telling them off. Matty manages to slip away. You disappear out the door just as he looks up from the note, his feet carrying him after you. 

6th period is always quiet, an atmosphere of calm falling over the school building as the light streamed in from the high windows, still  most of the corridor fairly dark. Blue lockers adorned the walls, dented and damaged from decades of use by previous generations of students. The echo of your shoes against the floor fill Mattys ears, the sound only adding to the anticipation already coursing through his veins. 

His mind races with jumbled thoughts, questions upon questions being asked. Where were you going? What were you going to do? 

No, what were you going to do to him? A shaky exhale from Matty is loud in the silence of the hall, his fists clenching and unclenching at his ideas as he walks after you, keeping a few paces behind. You don't even stop to glance over your shoulder, almost like you knew he would follow you, not a single doubt in your mind. Matty realizes this, and it only makes him even more desperate for you to just acknowledge him, a slight turn, a look, anything. 

The few moments you lead him feel like hours, your eyes darting past doors and full classrooms until you stop in your tracks, hearing the scuffle of Matty’s trainers as he stops behind you, unmoving. The door creaks as you twist the doorknob, an empty, darkened room greeting you. The air is cold, dust particles fly through it as you step inside, letting the door start to fall shut behind you. Matty runs in just as it's about to close, holding his palm flat against the wood, lips parting when his eyes finally land on you. 

The note is warm in his hand as he recalls what he had read on the page, three simple words sending him into a spiral of all-consuming emotions.

‘Don’t be obvious.’

No context was given, none was needed. Matty knew exactly what you meant.

“Why are you here?” his voice comes out shaky and unsteady, meek. Unlike him. He knows the question sounds stupid, evident in the smug grin that spreads onto your face as the door falls shut behind him. Finally facing him, you lean against a desk, arms reached behind you, holding you up. 

“Could ask the same for you.” you speak slowly, your inflection almost making you seem bored. Your hair occupies you as you twirl it around, eventually brushing it out of your face entirely. Matty takes a timid step forward, holding the now unfolded piece of paper up between two fingers, the ink now slightly smudged. 

“You left me a note.” “I know.” Your response is quick, direct. Matty’s eyes are glazed over, the sight oh-so familiar. 

Memories from that day rush through you, your body responding involuntarily. You can still feel his hands caressing your things, hiking your skirt up further, further, until he finally saw what he wanted. His mouth around your fingers, tongue lapping at your fingertips, eye contact remaining unbroken. The thought makes your head spin, a barely there blush creeping onto your cheeks.

“Why?” you tut at him, getting up and standing straight as he continues slowly walking over to you, his hair falling over his face in the same way it did when he was knelt in front of you, looking up with those adoring eyes of his.

“You didn't really listen to me, hm?” Matty perks up at your statement, slightly confused. You run a finger up his arm, feeling goosebumps erupt on his skin. He twitches, his whole body reacting to your touch. 

“I mean you weren't, were you? Not-obvious, I mean.” You watch as it finally clicks in his head. The note. 

‘Don't be obvious.’ 

He had tried to not be, his half-hearted attempts at keeping his distance proving rather difficult as instinct took over him, not caring what he was ‘supposed’ to do. 

You huff at his lack of response as he just stands there, looming above you. You aren't tall, not by a long shot, but somehow your difference in height doesn't play a role in the way he molds to your words, like putty in your hands. 

“What do you want?” you scoff in his face, rolling your eyes. Your nails graze against his upper arm before pulling away completely. Matty watches as you circle around him slowly, like a predator watching prey, your gaze making every survival instinct dissipate. 

“That's quite the loaded question, don't you think?” Matty nods in response, automatically. You watch him for a few moments as he lets the note drop to the floor. His breathing is unsteady as you get closer with every step, his body moving to keep facing you until his back hits the same wooden desk you had been leaning on. 

“Are you nervous?” Matty clears his throat before answering, caught off-guard by your sudden question. 

“What gives you that impression?”

You gesture downwards with your eyes, and he follows, growing red as he realizes what you meant. His untucked shirt is crumpled in his hands, fingers toying with the buttons as he mindlessly twists them around and ‘round, pulling at the fabric. 

“That.”

Matty ceases his movements, his hands now glued to his side as you eye him up and down. The top three buttons on his shirt are undone, revealing his collarbones and neck, skin smooth and milky as your first instinct is to reach out and touch him. 

“Do I make you nervous?” your voice cracks a bit towards the end, the illusion of calmness, of indifference, faltering. Matty just stares at you, his heart beating at a thousand miles an hour as you take a step closer, effectively pinning him against the desk. Now, he could easily push you away, putting distance between your bodies. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to. 

“Answer me.”

A beat of silence.  

“No, you don’t.”

You tut again, shaking your head in disappointment. Matty squirms under your touch as you trail your hand up his chest, popping a four button as you speak.  

“I never took you for a liar, Matthew.” The condescension coating your words makes his eyes widen, looking down at you with a wanton look on his face, silently begging. 

You reach down with your free hand, looping your fingers through his belt loops. Rather violently, you pull him towards you, pressing your bodies flush against each other. Matty’s reaction is delicious, a whimper spilling from his lips, the proximity making him hazy, wanting only one, single thing. 

“D’you want me to kiss you?” you coo, your faces dangerously close as you tease him, his curls threading through your fingers as he nods vigorously, absolutely shameless. 

“Please.” it’s high pitched, the word, only adding to the growing heat between your legs. Your knees feel weak as he reacts to you, eyes wide and rapidly blinking, darting from your lips back up to meet yours. 

“How do I know you’re not lying to me again?” it’s mean, you know it is, but you cant help yourself. His horrified expression only feeds into your taunts, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You read him well, perfectly predicting the way you knew he was going to try to bring your lips together, impatient as ever. 

His attempt is futile, your tight grip in his hair pulling him back, the sharp pain making him cry out. 

“Ah, not so fast sweetheart.” his tongue darts out to wet his lips, not daring to move further. His breath hitches audibly as you skifully unbutton the rest of his shirt, his eyes never leaving your face even as you look down. 

“I thought you were going to be good for me, what happened?” you say, the dissatisfaction evident in your voice. Matty stutters out an apology, tripping over his words as the sensation of your hand against his chest becomes too much at once, too hot. 

He shudders as you feel him up, hand running through his hair to ground himself, hyper aware of the unlocked door of the classroom you’re currently in. His shirt fully unbuttoned, you take a small step back, eyes raking over his body, taking in the sight before you. 

“Don’t stop– please– I want you.”

“Then be still.” Matty nods in response, shifting around until he finally sits on top of the desk, feet dangling slightly off the edge. 

“So obedient now, what changed?” Your hands feeling around the pockets of your skirt, smiling when they come upon exactly what you were hoping to find. 

“I-” Matty cuts himself off, words getting caught in the base of his throat. His voice is low, raspy as he tries to answer, but your fluid movements distract him too much. 

“Go on, speak.” your tone is assertive, commanding even, only disorienting him more. Matty doesn't know what to feel, how to react. But what he does know is how to keep this from stopping. He doesn't ever want it to stop. 

“You’re so pretty.”

He knows he sounds pathetic, but it's all he can muster, every fiber of his being telling him to lunge forward, smash his lips against yours, feel you against him. 

“Well, sweetheart.” you giggle, pulling out a small object from the depths of your pockets, running your fingers over the cool metal. “Flattery gets you everywhere.” 

A sigh of relief leaves Matty as your hands make contact with his neck, the feeling of your touch driving him insane. He arches into you, his chest pressing against yours as you linger, a thousand fantasies rushing through both your minds. 

A high-pitched whine rips itself from Matty as your lips press against the hollow of his throat, biting into the skin harshly. Nipping at his neck, you relish in the noises he makes, his eyes screwing shut as you run your tongue over his collarbones, coating the skin in your spit. 

The small click of a lipstick tube uncapping is deafening, his eyes immediately snapping the source of the noise. You grin at his reaction, hands gripping the edge of the desk he was sitting on so hard, you could see his knuckles turning white. 

“What are you–” Matty starts, his body flushed the same shade of red as the product in your hand, complimenting it perfectly. 

You shush him quickly as he looks at you and then the lipstick, his bottom lip bitten raw. 

“I didn’t really know what this was at first, you know.” you speak, twisting the base of the lipstick, slowly revealing more and more of the ruby red. Matty’s full attention is on you, his chest moving up and down rapidly, trying to calm himself down. His watery eyes only spur you on, small pants leaving his lips as you resume your feather light touches, never giving him exactly what he wanted. 

“You’re so responsive, I barely have to touch you.” you watch as he writhes under you, still taller despite being sat down. It didn't make a difference, the power he so willingly handed over to you making it all disappear. 

“You’d let me do anything to you.” 

It isn't even a question but a statement, because you know, and so does Matty. Sweat glistens on his bare chest, reflecting the little light in the room, making him appear to be glowing. You don't know how long you’ve been in that classroom, and frankly, you couldn’t care less. 

“Please, I can't do this anymore. Fuckk– just touch me, properly, please.” 

His words lick pleasure up your spine and you let him beg more, a small, cruel part of you wanting to prolong this even further. Knowing you couldn't, and that your teacher was most definitely noticing your prolonged absence, you sigh loudly, cupping his face with one hand, a sickly sweet smile making Matty’s head spin. 

“If you even try moving, I’ll stop.” 

Matty expects you to put your hands on him, run them over his body, maybe make him kneel again. He expects you to finally kiss him, feel your tongue against his as you take over him completely, barely letting him breathe.

What he doesn't expect is for you to drop to your knees in front of him. 

The tip of the lipstick against his skin is cool, the product smearing over his stomach. Matty doesn't know how to react, his eyes peering down to get a clear glimpse of what you’re doing, not daring to move. He sees the distinct pattern of letters, the word you’re writing indiscernible from his angle. 

“Perfect.” 

You mutter as you watch the color glide over his skin, the contrast of red against it making your heart beat faster, hand shaking slightly. He can't control the small twitches of his body as you hold onto his thigh for stability, adding a small heart at the end of your little masterpiece. A single word. 

Pushing yourself off the floor, Matty tried to make out the writing on his body, failing miserably. Your phone is heavy in your hand as you swipe right, opening your camera app. He isn't paying attention to you at all, watching in awe how the red on his stomach beautifully stands out, running a finger over it lightly. 

“Smile.” you grin, his eyes snapping up to meet yours just in time for the camera to flash. 

He looks breathtaking, shirt unbuttoned, his hair messily falling into his face. The flash darkens the background behind him, making him the sole focus of the picture. You admire him for a few moments, a fond smile spreading onto your face. He looks utterly fucked out, despite your touches being barely-therea at best, it was enough.

It’s only then that you finally kiss him, hand wrapping around the base of his neck as you lick into his mouth, greedily drinking in his soft moans of surprise. Matty’s hands find your lower back, moving up and down your sides before finally settling onto your waist, gripping it tightly. 

The kiss is hot, desperate as Matty’s back arches, your other hand finding its place on his shoulder. The feeling of his hands on your waist shoots straight to your core, your thighs pressing together in an attempt to relieve some of that aching pressure. 

You’re first to pull away, lungs burning for air. Fingers raking through his hair, you take your phone back out, flashing the screen at him. His eyes widen at the image of him, the word you had painted onto him clearly visible. 

‘Sweetheart’ adorned the tensed muscles of his stomach, a small heart placed right after the word, your handwriting easily recognisable. Your fingers ghost over the writing, smudging the heart slightly, bringing it up to his lips. 

Matty parts them instinctively, letting you brush the color onto his bitten and bruised lips, faintly red. The sight makes you stop dead in your tracks, and you suck in a deep breath.

“I think you look gorgeous, don't you think?” you whisper into his ear, taking his earlobe between your teeth as you lightly bite down, greatly enjoying the choked gasp that leaves him. Matty is speechless, eyes glued to the screen now in his hands. 

“We’ve been gone an awfully long time,” you breathe, gesturing at the clock that hung above the rusty chalkboard at the front of the classroom. “Better get back.”

Matty grabs onto you in protest, almost letting your phone drop onto the floor. 

“Please, I can't–” you cut him off again, pressing a finger to his lips in a condescending manner, watching the look of hope vanish from his face. 

“School is actually rather important to me, I can't have my grades dropping.” your words sound oddly sincere as you toy with the bottom of Matty’s shirt, slowly doing up the buttons again. The red disappears behind the crisp black fabric, completely unnoticeable to anyone else but the two of you. Your little secret. 

Matty wants to argue, but he knows better than to contradict you, instead letting you fix him up. Your hands brush his hair out of his face, flushed an adorable shade of pink, making you smile. You even fix his collar for him, making sure it wasn't flipped up or open, your lingering fingers tracing his jawline tenderly.

“How else am I meant to tutor you if I don't know the material?”

Your words pierce through Matty’s thoughts, bringing him back down to earth. It wasn't just a statement, but a promise. Promise of more of whatever this was, a glimmer of hope returning to him. He wanted this more than fucking anything, even if your constant, deliberate, teasing drove him mad.

“Come to mine on Wednesday, i’ll show you how to do the assignment.” The way you speak is so casual, so normal, like nothing had just happened. Matty wonders if it had all been a weird, messed up daydream, but the phone in his hand proved him wrong. He hands the phone to you timidly, not wanting to let go of that moment. 

Straightening out your own clothes, you take it from him, tucking it away in your pocket. Matty wants to reach out, touch you, feel you again. He stops himself, your back now turned as you walk away, hand resting on the doorknob.

You glance over your shoulder before you open the door, shooting him a tantalizing grin.

“Don’t miss me too much, sweetheart.'' 

The pet name does something to him he can't describe, a floaty, disorienting cloud falling over his thoughts. Matty’s blush returns, his face hot. 

Wednesday. He keeps repeating the sentence in his mind.

‘Don't miss me too much, sweetheart’ 

How cant, not when you leave him like this, desperate and wanting nothing more than any little bit you’d give him, every touch like pure ecstasy. 

Five days. 

Five incredibly long days. 

One hundred and twenty hours until he finally sees the inside of your bedroom, until youre finally, finally alone. 

Matty lets his fingers trace the word over the material of his shirt, heart pounding in his chest. The shrill ring of the bell is muted as he replays the scene in his mind, over and over again. Your hand on his thigh, kneeling in front of him. The lipstick against his skin, the bright flash of your phone. 

Wednesday can't come any faster, but he still wishes it would.   

[marbleboa]

Mukai Speculation: The Hell is Up With the Divine Wood

So. I've been thinking about potential avenues for Mukai's backstory lately. She is one of those characters that is given very little characterization-wise, however her very existence in her role as a Scar is one of those things that give a lot of people pause. Often with the question 'hey uh what's that 11 year old doing there'.

As such, I thought I'd put down some rambles about the matter here!

One common route I've seen taken is that Mukai was kidnapped by Claw, and it makes sense! Claw’s basically got child kidnapping down to a science, and apparently brainwashing to boot.

Though in regards to the later, I was thinking about Shou's comments in the 7th Division Arc immediately after Ishiguro suggests brainwashing the protags. He seems to imply the process dulls an esper's abilities, turning them into trash/mindless slaves. As such, I think it's safe to assume none of the scars are brainwashed in an unnatural sense, but rather succumbed to Claw's ideals due to personal weakness and/or vulnerability

Back to Mukai, if brainwashing wasn't in the picture I'm thinking either she was kidnapped at a young enough age where under Claw's indoctrination her cooperation never was an issue, or she entered the organization a different way. But if she wasn't kidnapped, then how did this kid end up in the role of a Scar? Well, I'm basing my speculation here primarily on this scene from the manga:

Quite the info, as it both comes out of nowhere and is never mentioned again. Not unheard of especially for the World Domination Arc in the manga, where the readers get so much thrown at them at once. On its own, there's only a bit we can glean from Mukai's reaction: 1. this was a place she had a lot of attachment to, and 2. it was important enough to be noted by Claw and later destroyed after the 7th Division's defection.

The whole 'divine wood' thing brings to mind an element of spirituality, some spot of nature that's deemed as sacred. This brings me further back to the beginning of WD arc. Prior to Toichiro’s speech, the other Division Leaders are kind enough to grant us some exposition on the extent of Claw’s influence:

So. Religious cults. It paints an interesting, unseen picture of these different organizations vying for a place at the table when Claw takes over the world. Thinking about it, I had an idea--what if Mukai came from one of these cults?

Probably a bit of a stretch, but I could imagine those special tree(s) she talked about being one of the main fixtures of the group's beliefs, something believed to aid those who paid tribute to it(you know how we love tree cults here). A place that Mukai was taught to be special ever since she was little...it's no wonder her powers would resonate with objects made from there, belief's a powerful thing. And if it was involved in Claw, they would certainly have information about all that on record to dispose of it later.

What's more, it seems pretty common for upper level cults to make things a family affair--and child with powers like that would be sure to grab attention. Money's well and good of course, but what better way to make your organization stand out than to give up an offering of power instead? What if Mukai was given to Claw willingly? And Mukai, well, she's not made privy to any of that of course. But with all the praise for her powers and the promise of freedom to use them, plus her family's pride...it's not hard to imagine how she'd be easily entangled like that.

In regards to her post-Claw life, I think this could open up some interesting possibilities for different dynamics and conflicts to say the least. It's of course a horrible thing for a child to be taken from their family, but maybe in that situation there could be a bittersweet reunion in the end. For a child to grow up realizing they were given up as a bargaining chip, one that the other side didn't even end up wanting to keep(marked as damaged goods, remember?)...that has to be a trial on its own.

Obviously I doubt this is what ONE intended to be gleaned from the whole thing--but hey, it's interesting to think about.

[anxietywithasideofexplosions]

okay, I went and saw twisters today and I need to talk (more below cut cause this is gonna be long) ALSO SPOILERS!!!

first of all, I grew up watching the og twister, and hold it in very high regard. honestly one of my top movies ever. so I went into this worried it wouldn't live up to the og, or it was just gonna be a copy paste, or whatever. point is I had high expectations I didn't expect to be met

I was wrong

twisters was very fun. I liked the characters, they had fun nods to the og, it had its own plot and story so it didn't feel TOO much like a sequel. characters were similar to og ones, but not the exact same so I grew to love them too. there were quite a few nods to the og I appreciated ("We got twins!", drive in = rodeo, "I'm not back!", red ram truck (some of those driving shots were VERY reminiscent of the og), tyler's crew acted very similar to jo's, etc), yet it was still original! very fun!

BUT

there are some... plot holes that are going to bother me

for example.... HOW THE HELL DID KATE'S GROUP HAVE DOROTHY??? if you know the og, I dare you to look me in the eyes and tell me bill and jo just GAVE AWAY their life's work. absolutely not. I could have believed Kate's group built their OWN dorothy, but dorothy V (which DID NOT exist in the og, they only had up to IV) was old and rusty! that implies they were GIVEN dorothy! so how??? surely one or them (me and my siblings think Javi, since he was rather protective of dorothy and insisted they use her) is related, in some way, to the og crew. So how??? what is the CONNECTION

sorry that in particular has been bugging me. otherwise, would that... really work? cause if it did I'd think people would've been trying it. but for that I can suspend my belief

i think my only other 'big' issue is that Tyler's group didn't get explored as much as I would've liked (just enough for us to care they don't die), and (this is gonna sound dumb) they'd didn't have as fun of cars as the og. that is more of a me thing, I really liked Jo's team in the og bc of what we saw with them. the cars made it memorable

this ones gonna sound dark (DEATH MENTION), but I was kinda surprised how many people... died?? on screen? in the og, we only "see" three people die. IN TOTAL. they kill off three people in the OPENING SCENE. counting off the top of my head, we see at least eight people get swept up and killed. that's way darker than I expected, but it makes sense. and when I say "on screen", it's not like we see the gore of them dying. we just know they... die. (OKAY IM DONE TALKING ABOUT DEATH)

that's all my thoughts for now, but I was annoying my family by talking, so I had to get this out of my system. sorry lol

[loki-zen]

So I'm enjoying Fire Emblem the Three Houses but i'mma rant on here about the stuff that bugs me about it to be clear if I wasn't enjoying it I'd just stop playing it anyway that said:

The worldbuilding is fucking incoherent - but the really infuriating thing is that a) it often really feels like it'd be interesting if you understood it more and (b) it sometimes is! Like there's stuff you are supposed to pay attention to and pick up on that will be something later, and also stuff that just isn't that well thought out and will never be explained, and there's no way of distinguishing between the two during one's first playthrough.

As a for instance: gender shit. It really feels like it wants to have it both ways?

So you've got female knights, and potentially a female protagonist with no question mark on that basis as to her fearsomeness as a mercenary and her suitability to teach a roughly gender-balanced team of students the various arts of war. Nor is there any suggestion that the female students should be studying something like needlework or even magic rather than swinging a massive axe. The dominant religion is monotheistic Goddess-worship and the more-powerful-than-nations Church has a female Pope. No profession has been textually/narratively referred to as single gendered thus far (although there are a few gender-locked character classes - nobody has said that only girls can ride pegasuses); and the most prominent merchant character is also a woman. There's no mention of gendered inheritance law or male primogeniture.

And yet... several of the female students at the academy, and (in my experience thus far) only the female students, are always talking about stuff around securing marriages and whatnot in a way that really only would make sense in a much more gender-stratified world than the one that is otherwise depicted!

Really kinda feels like it wants to have its cake and eat it (ie, do Generic Historical Setting personal plot for female characters, without preventing them from being good and varied units so you actually use and care about them). Or less charitably Fodlan's gender politics is whatever the current scene needs them to be.

[leupagus]

Three-Legged Puppy Fics

List five of your least-popular fics, as well as when/why you wrote them.

Home to the Weary: Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, 2010.

I wrote this at the request of a friend who wanted, I think, something Gwen-centric. Because I was not a fan of the show I decided to focus on an AU in which Gwen backflipped out of that whole situation and founded her own sort of kingdom, only meeting the terrible trio years later. It was really fun and was the first time I'd ever tried writing a fic that hinted at a larger world going on around the characters, if that makes sense. This one's a little pretentious but you can definitely see my "style" as it were.

Treads on the Ground: Babylon (not the sci-fi show, the short-lived british cop show), Liz Garvey/Finn Kirkwood, 2022.

This was written during my Bertie Carvel phase where I'd watched "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell" and was desperate for something, anything, that didn't have him wearing terrible prosthetics or playing a psycho. He still sort of plays a psycho in this show, but he looks super hot and angry all the time which is really all I needed. (Also bonus hilarity: Liz's boyfriend in this show is played by none other than James Lance, playing "louche asshole" to the absolute hilt.) Anyway I wrote this because I really wanted a fake dating AU for these two AND a "Finn is secretly in line to the throne" fic and this was the perfect way to combine these two. I'm still legitimately really proud of thsi fic.

The Bright Relief: 1776 musical, John Adams & Thomas Jefferson (and a little bit of / in there, if I'm honest), 2010.

I wrote this because my friends waldorph and screamlet and I were having the Summer of 1776 Feelings and we all wrote various (wonderful) crimes and misdemeanors in that fandom, mostly revolving all the ways in people who love John Adams make fun of him. That was a truly terrible summer but made a whole lot better by those two, and by William Daniels being the most John Adams to ever John Adams. (I actually rewatched the miniseries a few months ago and Paul Giamatti does a great job but that thing is SO DREARY. Although I will say Stephen Dillane first caught my eye in the role of TJeff, aka once again playing a guy who's down real bad for someone smarter than him (in this case both Abigail AND John). The scene where he first meets Abigail is just nonstop flirting, with John making faces in the background. It's great.)

Happy Tails To You (Until We Meet Again): SGA, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, 2009.

Oh lordy — probably the worst fic I've ever written, but I can't quite bring myself to delete it. I've been on the periphery of fandom for most of my adult life (what up X-Files yahoo groups and Prodigy Star Trek RP rooms), but SGA was what made me start thinking of writing fic after a long period of only reading it. (Yes, there is college-era gus fic out there. No, I'm not posting it on AO3.) I never quite got a handle on Sheppard or McKay but I did enjoy writing this and the other SGA fic I wrote, but yeah this deserves its obscurity.

Honey Now I'm Not One To Complain: Dalgliesh, Adam Dalgliesh/Kate Miskin, 2022.

Another one of my "Bertie Carvel is extremely attractive when he's sad and/or a cop" flash-fandoms, although I wrote a pretty good primer on the first season that I think gives a good case for the show as a whole. I wanted to write that largely because the show is so resolutely grim and I prefer stories that are... not grim, so I gave myself the challenge of putting these guys into one of the classic tropes. I did toy with the fake dating/marriage trope but honestly I think this was funnier, and I would always rather commit to the bit.

Tagging uhhh let's see, @laiqualaurelote, @themardia, @sadcypress, @auntieclimactic, and @eyebrowofdoom, if they (or anyone else) wants to do this.

[marley-manson]

Finally watched the Xena finale, thanks to the fanon episode order treating it as a midseason soft finale that gets fixed by When Fates Collide lol.

And man, it really was a hot mess. I could barely follow the plot, and many aspects were very arbitrary and like, revealed off-screen. The most hilarious of course being Xena suddenly announcing, like a minute before the end of the episode, that oh actually apparently she has to stay dead, sorry Gab, xoxo

It is VERY Xena though to have a plotline where Xena anticlimactically dies in the pre-credits scene at the beginning of part 2 and both you and the characters assume for the rest of the episode that she's going to come back to life like usual until the tragic twist lol.

Akemi was... resoundingly mediocre as one of Xena's exes. Her only personality traits were 'proto-Gabrielle' and 'wants to kill her dad.' Also like... was there incest subtext there? Like it was implied that the little creepy afterlife she was in was like, her dad's ghosts' personal brothel or something? But like I said, the plot was very hard to follow.

The themes were also a mess of course, it's been said many times but yeah ignoring the central theme of the show (atonement is pointless if you're doing good now) in favour of redemption thru death was dumb, the set up was dumb (we're blaming Xena for 40k deaths because she set a couple dudes on fire in self defense? Man at least give me an actual deliberate atrocity here), and choosing death over Gabrielle was like a dumb reverse Ides of March. Also Gabrielle just going like, 'damn okay I guess, bye forever,' was unbelievable. Even if Xena wants to backslide, I'm pretty sure Gabrielle would force her to come back to life anyway, fuck those souls. Like, it's not even clear how Xena's death helps them? Killing Akemi's evil dad again freed them from torment or whatever, who cares if they don't get avenged? What is a state of grace? How will they be lost, if she comes back to life? People go unavenged all the time, deal with it.

That said, I'd been under the impression that somehow Xena's death here contradicts the whole reincarnation thing, but I didn't get that at all? Idt there's any stipulation that she has to stay in the Japanese afterlife, just that she has to be killed and stay dead, and it does make sense since in their next lives Xena is a lot older than Gabrielle, so she should logically die a few decades earlier.

On the more positive side of things, it was very fun to see Gabrielle shining as ~the new Xena~ Love to see her kicking that one dude's ass twice, and the moment she catches the chakram is super cool. The non-Xena chakram-catch has always been framed as an 'oh shit, this woman's gonna be hardcore as hell' moment in the show so I love that they use it to show how far Gab's come.

And of course, gay gay gay homosexual gay. Like, season 6 is the point where I would say it is textual if only the show didn't go out of its way to scream "IT'S STILL AMBIGUOUS" a couple times lol (reporter's question in You Are There, fans in Soul Possession saying "yay Xena and Gabrielle are finally together" when they hear Harry and Mattie are married, eg.) "If I only had thirty seconds to live, this is how I'd want to spend them: looking into your eyes. I love you, Gabrielle." Like goddamn. I appreciate this cast and crew so much. Plus the incredibly thinly veiled makeout scene <3

Finally, while I think her chatting with Xena at the very end was meant to be more metaphorical or symbolic rather than literally Gabrielle talking to herself, it was an unfortunately funny image and a pretty terrible final scene imo. I do like the 'I hear they're in need of a girl with a chakram' reprise though, I gotta admit. Go kick some ass babe <3

And despite very much not liking that Xena dies in the finale, I would still read/watch the shit out of Gabrielle's now-single adventures as a just-as-invincible gay hero, kicking ass, fucking women without ever settling down with anyone, telling stories about Xena and becoming even more famous herself.

[steppingonyourshadow]

Complete Q&A from Elle September 2024

Elle: When you're on a break do you think about things that happened on set?

XZ: Of course. I remember dreaming about it a few days after we had wrapped, that we were still shooting and I was there talking to the director about how we'd say those words, how we were going to deal with that scene.

Elle: Do you miss the atmosphere on set?

XZ: I really like it, I like the feeling of everyone creating something together, all pulling together to do the same thing really well.

Elle: When you first became an actor and during the time when your popularity grew really fast, you said it felt a bit unreal, magical. But now you seem pretty relaxed. How did this change come about?

XZ: Rather than it being unreal, magical, after all these years I think back then I hadn't gotten used to such a fast pace, and when I woke up each day, I'd barely know where I was and what I was doing. I think it's a process, like how everyone's so excited when they first enter employment, "I'm here, please take good care of me", "this young master is coming through, out of my way", "I can do it, I am good". [laughs] But after you've experienced a lot, you'll realise that everything needs long-term planning.

Elle: In several interviews you mentioned that you like to play characters that "can transmit energy". Why is that?

XZ: Because I think that's the life of a character. When I say "transmit energy", I don't mean just the usual, basic sense of positive energy. What I mean is being able to provide nourishment in a subtle way - like spring rains sinking silently into the dirt. I believe that every character has at heart a complete storyline, this is something I really like. If you dig deep, they can all move people. I don't like to label antagonists as "bad guys", as if you've already decided from the start that they're not good. But that's not right - he might have his own difficulties.

Elle: It sounds like "transmitting energy" is only an umbrella term, actually it's understanding different types of people through performance.

Xiao Zhan: That's right. If we break it down to each character, they all transmit different things. But if we make them into "good guys", "bad guys", I think that makes it less interesting.

Elle: So do you consider performance a method of communication?

Xiao Zhan: Yes, you could say that, I like that. Performance is a bridge connecting the actor and the audience. Like how when my shows are on, I'll read a bit of audience commentary and analysis and feel that their reactions to the work are really complex. When I see comments that coincide exactly with my thoughts when we shot it, I find that really magical, like we really connected along this bridge. In life we might not know each other, we've never spoken, but all of a sudden because they got what I was thinking at the time, it makes me feel that performance is a really wonderful, magical thing.

Elle: Do you watch or read science fiction?

XZ: I do, I liked Three Body. Recently I've actually been watching some sci-fi, like the American drama Constellation, and also Dark Matter, they're both multiverse, alternative universe shows. Because I think maybe there really are parallel universes. Each of your choices creates a new splinter alternative universe.

Elle: Do you think about the Xiao Zhan of those alternative universes?

XZ:  I really do. For example, is he still an actor? Maybe he is, then is he shooting right now? Is he still singing? Or is he still a designer? Is he still an employee or has he become the boss? [laughs] Really, I do think about it.

Elle: What about the future, what do you think it'll be like?

XZ: Woah, I actually think at that point the world might revert to its origins, maybe it will be more wonderful, with interpersonal communication returning to a more natural form.

Elle: That's really interesting. Why do you think that?

XZ:  Actually, at least at the moment I'm a bit sick of the internet being ever-present. When we were kids and we didn't have cellphones, we'd chat during meals, all the kids would be called downstairs from their apartment blocks to play together, doing hide and seek and other games. Those times were really precious.

Elle: Will actors still exist in that future?

XZ: I think so. I believe that so long as life continues, theater will exist. Because we need a form of expression, to experience empathy, and to have emotional sustenance, whether it's in images or sounds. So I think even if the world was destroyed, so long as people still exist, theater will surely still exist.

[kept-confidence]

Closing Time

This piece began first as a private daydream, Later, it grew into a daydream shared with a newfound friend (@imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese). With that came a wash of creativity over me that I decided, for once, to fully submerge myself in. This is also now on Ao3, found here. The song that I imagine Drifter singing in this piece is titled "Martha", and is sung by Tom Waits. The song that I imagine being played in the scene — the trumpet and piano duet — is titled “Closing Time”, and is also by Tom Waits. This is a personal favourite of mine. Note: I'd highly recommend putting "Closing Time" on when you're at the montage section — I imagine it'd be a nice experience overall while you imagine the scene being described. There is nothing violent here — only tenderness and kindness founded upon a moment of healing. I am no expert in handling tender moments between individuals, and sometimes struggle to describe them. I make up for it, perhaps, in metaphor. I’m always inspired by music, and I guess that’s where the daydream emerged from in the first place. I also cooked this up in a day which is absolutely hilarious (neurospicy brain things). This is my first fic, which is nice, I think. Hope you enjoyed reading this! Comments are hugely appreciated (and I'd love to meet new folks who are into this ship as much as I am).

The door opened slowly with a gentle push, creaking loudly in response to decades of wear and neglect as it swung open and away from the Drifter. For a place that had been left largely abandoned, forgotten, and untouched — likely intentionally by its owner — any sort of movement and sound felt sacrilegious, like intruding upon a sacred space that should have, perhaps, been left alone. 

Drifter breathed a heavy sigh as he hesitated to take a step into what used to be his old bar. It should feel like a place he owns, one that he feels welcome in, he tells himself. But the air responds otherwise — the dominant scent of stale, damp wood rendering it thick, musty, and overbearing. If anything, the air was weighed down heavily by memories of the Drifter's past — of old selves torn away and discarded, of ghosts he'd rather forget, and of a time that no longer seemed welcome nor accessible. It had been weighed down by the burden of change. 

Why had he come here? A rhetorical question to himself, but one that occupied his mind nonetheless. 

Now restless, the Drifter took to rolling his green coin across his knuckles in a bid to calm his mind. Despite this, there was no denying the fact that his breathing had since grown rather shallow and irregular at the prospect of having to enter this forsaken space. Nonetheless, he figured that he'd lingered outside enough. 

"Eh, gotta go in at some point, I guess," he muttered to himself, words trailing off, as he defaulted to erecting a wall of indifference once more. It was, perhaps, what he thought to be the only way to keep himself safe. 

With soft and quiet steps, the Drifter finally stepped into the bar with a sense of trepidation that he wished he didn't have to feel, especially for a place he knew he once had some attachment to. Though he'd expected things to look different, he had to admit that the space of his bar — though theoretically the same as how he'd left it last — felt different. His heart skipped a beat as his senses slowly became more attuned to the apparent dissonance in the once lively (though chaotic) space he owned. After all, the mind can only prepare one so far — the heart, however, will always be tugged along, albeit unwillingly, in directions undesired and unwanted. For someone who had survived so much, who thrived on instability, chaos, and change as a means of putting up walls and abandoning the past, it would seem that for a rare moment, the Drifter would finally admit to himself that he'd been subconsciously wishing for something in his life to, at least, remain the same. 

The silence was piercing — ringing, even. It was in stark contrast to a sonic memory of a boisterous time once filled with excitement and activity. The Drifter could almost imagine the scene that accompanied it, but as he called forth that memory in his mind, the dissonance grew louder and more discordant. He promptly shut the door to that memory, and instead found himself stemming the discomfort by fixating on the sound of his footfalls as he fidgeted and shifted his feet in a bid to punctuate the silence pressing into him. Grounding, as Eris had once taught him. Where these footfalls had once been crisp and confident, heard in tandem with the voices of comrades and enemies both lost to time, they were instead now faint and muted no thanks to the thick layer of dust that blanketed what used to be dry and clean wooden floorboards. As each step unsettled the caked-on dust on the floor, leaving imprints of his boots, the Drifter directed his attention to his footfalls and simply looked. Dust was gently being dislodged, then lifted, and finally fell off the tips and soles of his boots. He could feel it — that each shift, each step, carried with it the heaviness of time, and its burden laid bare for him to witness. Breathing in deeply, Drifter felt the discomfort ease ever so slightly, as he was finally reminded of why he'd come back to the bar in the first place. 

To learn to embrace change while not abandoning the past. It was an answer to his question from before, but one that he knew, acutely, that its execution would not come as easily as hoped. Ideally, the process would happen on its own, without any need for effort — but that would be nothing more than a lofty dream. By this point, there was perhaps no escaping the fact that it was time for him to face his past, head on. 

Before his mind could stray any further, he felt a buzz from the databad tucked neatly beneath his robes. The Drifter retrieved it, and smiled softly when he saw who the message was from. 

EM: Germaine, you are not on the Derelict.  D: Aw Moondust! Missin' me already? You should've just said so!  EM: Answer the question, Rat. Where are you?  D: I'm at the old bar. The one I used to own? From waaaaaaaay before? The one Efrideet trashed?  EM: It's three in the morning, Germaine. What are you doing there? Are you alright? 

The Drifter's fingers hovered in the air for a moment as he contemplated how to reply to her question — specifically, the latter one. Like always, he decided that he'd ignore it. 

D: Catching up on old times, I guess.  EM: I see. You did not answer the second question. Would you like company? 

Caught. Nothing new — Eris always knew. 

D: Yeah. Thanks, Moondust. Seeya in a bit. 

The gentle smile didn't leave the Drifter's face even as he tucked the datapad back in its place. For him, Eris's company was always welcome. But this was even more so true for today — with the weight of the past and of this space still holding him down like a Sisyphean boulder on his sholders. Though he wasn't expecting her to know more about it, or to help him lift it, he imagined that it would, at least, be nice to have her company while he worked though and unravelled the attachment to this place he had long since buried. There was, after all, comfort to be found in the gentle intimacy of vulnerability they had since learned to share in time. 

Just as he'd finished ruminating, the Drifter felt his arm brush against yet another thick layer of dust as he walked past a large, boxy object. He turned, and let out a tiny, silent gasp of awe as he came to realise what was in front of him — it was a piano. It had been such a long time since he'd played one, not to mention seen one in the first place. The piano was no Steinway, of course. Just an upright Baldwin that had been salvaged from way before. The Drifter chuckled as he recalled just how out of tune it was when he had salvaged it, and how he'd managed to tinker with the piano enough that it at least sounded mostly reasonable. For a moment, he wondered if his work had stood the test of time. Orin was convinced that it would. 

He tensed, and held his coin tightly between his thumb and index finger. It was inevitable that the train of thought would lead him down that road. He'd been the one to salvage the piano and to tinker with it, but it was Orin who witnessed all of this happening — who laughed with him, and groaned at him each time he failed to fix the piano's tuning. She was the one who made the memory feel real when it would've otherwise been like any other memory — a generic piece of paper burnt to a crisp. 

This was the memory he'd come to confront. Right as he was about to fall off the edge into a memory-induced panic, the Drifter caught himself and grounded himself once more. Move the coin across the knuckles. Flip it between these fingers, and then the others. Shifting feet. Fidget a little. Grip the coin, then loosen that grip. In that release, the Drifter's tension eased a little as well. 

He dragged himself back into the present moment. In it, there was a quietude that ached in the space around him, as the Drifter took the time to take in the scene laid in front of him. Slowly, he took a few steps back, and gazed softly at the piano. The sight was, frankly, captivating. Moonlight streamed in from the holes in the roof that had since come to plague the bar, touching — even caressing — the piano ever so slightly. In these beams of moonlight, particles of dust travelling in the air were illuminated. For a space where its stillness initially bordered on suffocation, the Drifter finally felt himself attuned to the sensation and observation of the most minute movements. The way his breathing shifted the dust travelling around him, visible through the rays of moonlight. The way the clouds cast shadows on the ground as they momentarily blocked the moonlight. He felt just a little better about being here.  

Feeling inspired by the sight, he pulled out the piano bench and sat on it. No one would have issues with someone playing a piano at the base of Felwinter Peak at three in the morning, of course. Drifter pulled his gloves off, placing them neatly on the top of the piano. He had done so instinctively, as if wanting to truly feel and reminisce the texture of the keys with his own fingers. As he swiped one finger gently across the surface of the piano’s unopened cover, he was reminded once again of change — of time and age. Parts of the dislodged dust now hung on the tip of his finger. The truth is, he didn’t have to do that. He could’ve simply opened the piano cover. Yet, for the Drifter acknowledging that presence of dust, feeling it, and shifting it away, felt like an active recognition and acceptance of a time long gone. Of change.

The Drifter proceeded to lift the cover of the piano, which took a little bit more than a gentle struggle simply because of how long it had been left unopened. It inspired a simple metaphor in his mind — he thought of how the dust, when left undealt with, would work itself into the seams of the piano like a glue that seals all things shut, making it even harder to pry open. He visualized that momentarily in himself, with the dust that had settled into the seams of his own box that contained his heart and his past. It was, indeed, one that he was also struggling a little to open. He would try today, perhaps.

Beneath the cover lay the piano keys. Some were chipped, and some were stuck in a half-pressed position no thanks to the lack of maintenance. But for the Drifter, it was, in fact, the same as he had left it — it had been untouched for decades, chips consistent with his memory, and the sticky keys were still, well, sticky. There was no fixing those, he remembered, chuckling to himself.

It would become clear eventually that for the Drifter, memory is a muscle, and muscle memory never fails. His hands naturally fell into position, and for some strange reason, prepared themselves in the key of D#. He pressed down on the keys ever so delicately — perhaps to him, they seemed so fragile that they might break under the weight of his burdens.

But they didn't, and instead produced a faint chord in D#. He lifted his fingers, and pressed once more — now confident the keys would not crumble under him. The sensation — both of the keys, and of the sound received — was, to him, extremely familiar. Let memory lead, let memory take charge. The heart knows what it needs, he reminded himself. And from there, notes and chords pieced and flowed together, and the Drifter began to play a tune. He knew not what it was titled, or who had sung it originally, but he only remembered hearing it being played once by a visitor to the bar who had kindly asked for permission to play the piano. All he knew about the tune was that it was from the golden age — a song from a time now long gone, now being revisited in the present. 

As he progressed through the instrumental introduction to the song, Eris slipped quietly into the bar, undetected. The Drifter was too immersed in the moment that Eris refused to even think of interrupting it to announce herself. Gently and ever so silently, she perched herself on a bar stool that was still loosely intact, knees crossed, listening to his performance intently. She couldn't help but smile at the sight she was witnessing — but nothing could prepare her for what would come next, as the Drfiter began to sing. 

“Operator, number please It's been so many years Will she remember my old voice While I fight the tears?

Hello, hello there, is this Martha? This is old Tom Frost And I am calling long distance Don’t worry ‘bout the cost

Cause it’s been 40 years or more Now, Martha, please recall Meet me out for coffee Where we’ll talk about it all”

The words fell out of his mouth so naturally like a confession sung aloud to himself. His singing voice was low and ever so slightly gravelly, but there was a genuine tenderness to it a huge shift from his usually crass and sometimes insufferable modes of expression, Eris thought. It felt like a warm embrace — where words held on tightly to harmony, Eris instinctively found herself drawn towards and into the moment as well. As his gravelly voice continued to be sounded out — brushing against and touching her eardrums — a memory resurfaced. Eris couldn't help but recall the first time she ever placed her hand on his cheek as a gesture of care and love. She remembered how he leaned into her hand in return, and most prominently, the sensation of his beard tickling her palm. This felt similar — and it was comforting. 

At the same time, Eris was sure in this moment that her dear Rat was feeling more than just "old times", as he'd preferred to call it. If the lyrics weren't enough proof of this, the melancholic instrumental lines that accompanied the song were. In this song was nostalgia tinged with grief — a wistfulness of love once found and later lost, of time spent searching to no avail. She took a look around the bar and was met with the same scene of moonlight the Drifter had seen earlier. If he feels it's too much, he will know he's at least surrounded by moonlight, she thought to herself, reassuringly. 

Meanwhile, the Drifter continued: 

“And those were the days of roses, poetry and prose And, Martha, all I had was you, and all you had was me There was no tomorrows, we'd packed away our sorrows And we saved them for a rainy day

And I feel so much older now And you're much older too How's your husband and how's the kids? You know that I got married too?

Lucky that you found someone To make you feel secure Cause we were all so young and foolish Now we are mature”

As the chorus made its first iteration, it was evident by now that Martha, for the Drifter, was undoubtedly Orin. The mood in the air was suffused with a warm, gentle longing to revisit the past, to catch up with an old friend, an old lover. To simply ask, how are you doing? Perhaps it might've seemed that the Drifter was singing this to or for Orin, but Eris knew better than that. Despite the clear dedication to Martha drawn out by the lyrics — the incessant yearning and desire to return to the past — Eris had no doubt that her Rat was instead singing to his memory of Orin and his past experiences with her. He was, through this song, acknowledging the reality of his past — one that he had, at many times, tried to shut away with bursts of denial and detachment. The intention here was indeed very different. 

The chorus looped around a second time, and then:

“And I was always so impulsive I guess that I still am And all that really mattered then Was that I was a man

I guess that our being together Was never meant to be And Martha, Martha I love you, can't you see?”

Eris heard the Drifter stutter a little on the last line, his voice shaking as he held the last note for a second. And then he paused for a moment, hands laid on the keys, but frozen in time.

He said nothing for a while, and ruminated. Eris watched, but chose not to intervene — this was an important moment for him, one reserved for himself, and she would respect that. 

Finally, in the now drawn-out silence, he said to himself, quietly: "I loved you, Orin. This dude who wrote the lyric's still hung up on Martha. But for me? I don't love you. Not anymore. I loved you." Eris held her breath and clutched her Ahamkara bone closer to her chest as she heard the Drifter draw out the end of the word 'loved', clearly juxtaposed against the present, and original 'love' written into the song. She let go of that breath, and smiled. It was not that she needed reassurance — that safety and security had long been found in the foundation of their friendship and relationship. Instead, she simply felt a sense of pride for her dear Rat, who had finally taken active steps to work through the grief he had amassed in his heart from his time with Orin and beyond. It was no wonder that she had grown to love this man so very much — at no point in the time they knew each other did he ever expect her to fix his grief and his heart, and all he ever asked for, as she had now grown accustomed to providing, was her company through it all. 

Picking up his playing once more, the Drifter worked his way through the final chorus, before concluding the song with the words: 

"And I remember quiet evenings Trembling close to you.”

The last note from the piano resonated in the space of the bar, before the song faded into a final, concrete silence. The Drifter exhaled — it was a heavy one, but one that also seemed to bring him relief, as if he'd finally come to terms with what it meant to let go. He removed his hands from the keys, and proceeded to place them by his side as he pressed them softly into the bench. He gazed upwards, looking through one of the holes of the roof where the moonlight seemed to be pouring in from. It was a tiny whisper directed at the ray of moonlight, but one audible enough for Eris to hear from where she was seated. 

"Thanks for keeping me company through it, random ray of moonlight." 

Eris rose from the bar stool, finally making her presence known. And though slightly startled, the Drifter wasn't shocked enough to whip out Trust — he had been expecting her after all, though he had frankly no idea how long she'd been behind him all this while. 

"You're welcome," she said, smiling, while crossing the bar towards him, still seated at the piano. In response, he scooted over to the side as an invitation for her to sit beside him. She does. 

There was a moment of gentle silence — the air was no longer as still as it once was, and it was quiet enough that they could hear each other breathe almost in unison. She placed her hand over his, and he turned his palm over to intertwine their fingers together. He thought about asking her how long she'd been there for, but held back because he could already guess the answer to that. 

"That was beautiful, Germaine. How do you feel?" Eris asked, in hushed tones. 

For a man usually of many words, the Drifter struggled to gather any of a proper response. He simply sighed, and squeezed her hand, gazing at the moonlight through the roof once more. There was a warmth in his gesture, as if to say, I'm working through it still, but thank you for being here. She squeezed his in return, gently drawing circles on his hand with her thumb, as if to respond with take your time, I'm here, and I'll stay. With yet another sigh, he leaned over, and positioned his head on her shoulder, snuggling softly into the space that he'd already claimed as his multiple times. She turned her head to kiss him on his forehead, before simply leaning her head on his. 

It wasn't clear if he had started to cry, or was simply taking in the moment. He might have — but that was something meant only for Eris's eyes, and no one else. A private moment between the two. There was, perhaps, no need to know as well. Not everything needs to be witnessed, not everything needs to be known.

-------

It felt like a scene from a film. A montage of quiet, gentle moments.

scene begins, all dark; "closing time" by tom waits begins to play. a duet between a wistful trumpet and a plangent piano resonates in the air.  cut / close-up shot of the hole in the roof. moonlight is pouring in through it, and a crescent moon can be seen from the hole — clouds drift past in front of it.  cut / various still shots of the bar in disrepair — broken chairs, rotting wood, layers of dust, torn curtains at the windows.  cut / a still shot, now framing the back of the drifter and eris sitting side by side on the piano bench, the drifter's head on her shoulder, her head lying on his in return. cut / a close-up, still shot of fingers interlaced with each other.  cut / return to previous still shot of the drifter and eris on the piano bench, now pulling away with a backwards dolly. the two are now framed in relation to the larger space of the bar — as well as the moonlight. the camera remains in this position for a significant amount of time compared to the previous shots. cut / fade to black. the song is still playing. two sets of footfalls are heard — the heavy sort made from boots, though one is notably softer than the other. the sound of these footfalls pan from the far centre, closer to the front, and finally to the left. a door is heard creaking open, and then closed. the footfalls fade into the distance.  song fades into silence.  end scene.