#killing people off is not the only way to create conflict

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

A big thing of importance when attempting to predict or understand a plot point or character in a work of fiction is that you really have to approach it from what the story itself is trying to tell you.

Yeah, yeah, I know, but you really do need your starting point to be "what is the intention of this story? What is it trying to say?" Every story will have thematic elements that are core to its premise, and a lot of things will make sense more if you actively view them through this lens. You can't cast aside the intent of the story before you take the time to understand what the story is trying to do in the first place.

For instance, BSD has a knack for not killing off its characters, despite the violence of the world in which this story takes place. But BSD at its core is about survival and life, and particularly seeking a way to live even if your purpose and meaning and future are uncertain. It was created for people who need stories to live. This is why it wouldn't make a whole lot of sense for them to kill off a bunch of characters, as that would conflict with the kind of story BSD is. I do not expect character death in this series, because unless there are some very specific circumstances (ie. Bram), it just wouldn't fit. Any death just isn't going to hold.

Dead Boy Detectives is extremely obvious in its theming - The good you do comes back around and will allow you to heal in turn. If you continue to be cruel to others, then you will only succeed in perpetuating that cycle, and become the toxic one in turn. This is the core of Crystal, Niko and Esther's story arcs in particular: the character who changes over the story, the character who exemplifies the themes, and the character who acts as the warning.

Themes are the connecting threads that help you understand why choices are made. It also really helps when trying to narrow down to a general idea of where something is going.

For one, the To the Moon/Sigcorp series is about things like memories, regrets, legacies, grief, and final moments before death. Due to this consistent theming, it really didn't come as a surprise to learn the major secret that one of the characters was hiding... or the kind of ending it's leading up to.

As another example, Persona 5 is about a lot of things: rebellion, anger against injustice, the failure of adults to protect the youth, etc., but more than anything I think, P5 is about building a support system after trauma; a support system which is a necessary crutch for people to get their feet back under them and learn how to heal so that they can find themselves and a way forwards again. But a support system doesn't just come to you - you have to trust in people, and let them help you. This is seen in all the characters' arcs, but is taken to extremes with both Futaba and Akechi. Futaba could not start to heal without choosing to allow people to help her. She stagnated in her own guilt and grief due to her isolation, and her decision to open herself up is made literal by a locked door in her heart that could only be opened if she chose to let them in. And, as a result, this running theme is how I knew, even during the worst of the traitor arc, that Akechi was going to end up complicated, yes, but also sympathetic. P5 is not subtle. We are told and shown again and again that this character had no one in his life to rely on, and was cast aside by society. But unfortunately, Akechi rebuffs any attempts to offer him help. As a result, he becomes more and more single-minded, strays further from what he truly seems to believe, and ultimately spirals into self-destruction.

Now we can start asking other questions, like "Was the story successful in what it tried to tell us? Did any of the themes conflict? Were thematically relevant threads left hanging?"

Going back to BSD, this is still a major issue I have with the prison arc. Objectively, the characters were in-character, and the logic holds (for BSD anyways lol). But thematically, it was unsatisfying - the intense setup of this arc made the audience expect much more in the way of story themes than was actually delivered.

This, to me, is where you get into "was the story good" without getting caught in the "well, I didn't like it/agree with it so it was bad".

And then there's where you come into it! Your initial reading of the themes of the story are also going to be shaped by your amount of practice in critical analysis, and also by your personal experiences and interpretations. This is where we get into things like "do I agree with what the story is trying to say" and "oh this was a missed opportunity to add in this little detail" or "objectively it was good, but it didn't really do it for me" or even "objectively it was bad, but something about it still makes me want to chew plaster". It's awesome and part of the joy of being in a community for these things. It's both limiting and lonely to see a story from only one perspective.

[iridescent-glitter-dragon]

Super offended that they really had Nate tell Michael that it would nice if his kid had a cousin one day and then they end up killing Nate.

Rude is what that is.

[utilitycaster]

The thing that gets me abt the framework of downfall and the way Ludinus(and some ppl in the tags who seemingly are trying really hard to roleplay Ludinus) read it is that they're like "look at how the gods meddled and laid low to destroy this bastion of human achievement, they had no right and should have let themselves be systematically exterminated/have the world burn instead" when. Setting aside the revelation that the gods who struck down Aeor made themselves mortal to do it-- as in, they were on the exact playing fields of humans when they made their move and it wasn't some huge peacocking of power against upstart humans to strike them out of the sky-- the Divergence is going to happen. We KNOW the Divergence is going to happen. The gods are going to create the divine gate and remove any chance that they can ever do something like this again. "Blaugh, look at them meddle and plot-" and? Whatever they do, we know that the sun will shine once more. Melora, as brutal as she is as the starved Asha, will plant a tree of hope in the most destroyed wastes of Wildemount. And they will ensure that the suffering they wrought in the calamity, in Aeor, can never ever repeat the same way they had done it. Which is a HELL of a lot more than can be said for Ludinus who is actively reviving every cycle he can

first off "some ppl in the tags who seemingly are trying really hard to roleplay Ludinus" took me OUT so thank you for that.

I just reblogged a post with a quote from Cooldown that I think is really relevant in understanding the whole story of the gods and how we got to this point but like, just to summarize (and debunk a few things, hopefully) from the beginning of the episode to the end re: the life of the gods:

Gods (possibly aspects of the Luxon?) crash-landed on Exandria BECAUSE of what is all but outright said to be Predathos.

As far as I can tell, no deals were made between the gods and the Titans. The only person who has said this from what I can tell is Asmodeus, who I would not consider a reliable source of truth. Or rather: one might have been made but there's no corroboration that I know of.

They created the people of Exandria and sealed away Predathos both prior to the Schism

The Schism occurred when the Titans decided to attack the people (which to be clear - the people had been there for long enough to build that weird ruin on Ruidus with a portal, like, I would love to know what prompted the fight of the Schism since it had pretty clearly been millennia of coexistence).

The Betrayers decided the move was to leave and start over, and the Primes felt that was a dereliction of duty to the people. That's what the quote is about - it's about the fact that Erathis's motivation for being a Prime Deity isn't "mortals are my blorbos!" it's "we have an obligation to our creations" and more generally that the Prime Deities are invested in their domains for the overall good of Exandria but not necessarily the specific good of Aeor. (Taliesin follows it up with (as Melora) "You'd have to tear me from this fucking planet" w/r/t the idea that you cannot, in fact, destroy your bad first draft simply because it would be more convenient to you.)

Betrayers get sealed, unsealed, events of EXU Calamity occur (notably: the titans are all dead. you can fight about whether this was just or right later but they're gone and killing other people won't bring them back; the titans are largely used as a pearl-clutching prop by people with no arguments that are perhaps actually relevant to the current situation), and perhaps 50 or 60 years into the conflict the gods call a truce re: Aeor's Obtenebrator and commit to decades of living as mortals (and therefore limiting themselves considerably)

And so here we are

And I think this really gets to the point. Because ultimately, the argument in favor of leaving Aeor be is "when someone points a gun at you, lay down and die" and the argument in favor of the Betrayers is "when someone tells you to abandon your (living) obligations for them, do so." The former is despairing and nihilistic and the latter selfish and, well, a betrayal.

There is something profoundly nihilistic about Ludinus, for all he talks about freeing people and a better world. He's destroyed a city of innocents. He's indoctrinated hundreds if not thousands of people and many of them have died in his service; he's the architect of an empire and many wars in its name and is actively working with a second one. He's been killing fey and he's even physically given himself over to the cause. There is no crime or sin people attribute to the gods that he has not done himself in measures beyond nearly every other mortal. Like, I really think he's at a point where he just is unwilling to "lose" even though he has a friendless life and a legacy of violence and has destabilized the entire world and the weave of magic itself. I think he has to believe there's something on this Occultus Thalamus for him because if there isn't, he, like the Prime Deities, probably can't just pick up and start over. All he has left is to give in to just letting the world burn in the hopes that at least he gets the satisfaction of what he hates burning with him.

Basically, sounds like a rough time to try to roleplay him in the tags.

Something else you (and others) bring up is that amid all the "history is written by the victors" the story of Aeor and of the gods has actually painted them as far harsher. The story doesn't say that they were first chased to Exandria unwillingly and did not come in conquest; the story, as this post notes, evokes vast divine might striking down a city from the heavens and not like, living in fragile mortal forms during one of the most dangerous times in history and arguing amongst each other over how they can save both themselves and Aeor and if that's even possible. Like, even if you see the gods as the victors of this story rather than simply the survivors, the "unedited" version of the story makes them far more sympathetic.

You also mention the Divine Gate and that's a really interesting thing to me because the existing status quo of Exandria is actually remarkably nascent if you think about it. The Founding had gods, titans, and mortals. Post Schism had the Prime deities and mortals (and it is worth noting this is when the people of Exandria became the most technologically advanced; you want to talk about the Titans and Betrayers, you need to cover that the price of the wonders of the Age of Arcanum was that they were not present). Calamity had all the gods and mortals again, and the current era is the first where the gods are behind the gate. It's kind of a compromise between all the things that have tried to destroy one another - Betrayers and Primes are separated but all are free within their realms and can indirectly contact mortals; technically, so can Predathos. None can directly be on Exandria. Is it ideal? No. It's a compromise, and the sealed can become unsealed (which, consistently, goes very badly) but it's the option that doesn't involve the total annihilation of anyone. Ludinus seeks, by setting off this horrible cycle again, to undo that fragile imperfect compromise with a goal of wholesale slaughter. He provides no option for the gods other than "die by my hand" when even some of the gods were desperately trying to find other options for Aeor as of a day prior to its destruction. He's simply wallowed in his trauma for centuries, becoming colder and more unfeeling and less empathetic and more arrogant than the gods he accuses of the same flaws.

[whetstonefires]

The reason I keep banging the Jiang Fengmian drum so hard is not that he did nothing wrong--he's definitely in contention for best parenting in this book but that bar is in the ground--but because most of the takes I see about him are so extremely bad.

If you want to slag him off for trying to make choices that would hurt no one, and winding up properly protecting no one as a result, that's valid! That's an interesting and text-based critique, which opens into his parallels with Lan Xichen!

If you want to blame him for being weirdly over-invested in Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng being bffs, that's fair, that definitely contributed to the weirdness between them. If you want to say he was a poor communicator, that he fundamentally misunderstood his son, that he failed to be emotionally available in a way his kids could get much use out of, even that he should have figured out a way to stop Yu Ziyuan from creating such a hostile environment, all of that is fair game!

If you want to tackle how the worst thing he did to his kids was die I am so interested in how Wei Wuxian went on to abandon A-Yuan by going to his death, and how that might be tied to how his primary adult role model tied him to a boat and went off to a fight he knew he was going to lose.

After his parents had already left him like that once before, presumably less intentionally.

But no, instead I keep seeing that Jiang Fengmian didn't care. That he never expressed affection. That he actively participated in Yu Ziyuan's fucky game of forcing proxy conflict onto the boys instead of constantly trying (and failing) to shut it down, or that he ignored her bad behavior because it didn't affect him, or that he fought with her constantly, or that he was too much of an unmanly coward to stand up to her when she wanted something.

All of which are directly in contradiction to every scene he's in, and several of which manage to invert or erase the actual conflicts between him and his wife that were the source of all that tension.

And which are really interesting, because some of the most intractable elements are ideological--Yu Ziyuan is fundamentally a conservative and Jiang Fengmian seems to want to be an egalitarian, which ofc matched poorly with his hereditary authority as patriarch of a large sect.

The fact that the bit where we get to actually see him failing to parent Jiang Cheng consists of him gently and firmly trying to correct Jiang Cheng's ethics when what was actually needed in that moment was reassurance for the well-founded insecurities that were causing him to be a little bitch, only for Yu Ziyuan to charge in and make everything fifty times worse, is so much more interesting than literally any version of this family dynamic I have seen in fic. It's to the point I'm relieved when writers kill Jiang Fengmian off, because it means they probably won't feel the need to character-assassinate him too badly.

The number of people I've seen come right out and say some variation of 'men can't be abused' is killing me here. No, Yu Ziyuan wanting to hurt her husband does not constitute sufficient proof that he abused her first and deserved it! That's not how anything works!

[overdecorated-furniture]

Dead Parents - How to avoid them.

We are all very familiar with the notion of dead parents in fiction. For example, Harry Potter’s parents are dead before the first book even starts. Or in Portrait of Dorian Gray, the protagonist is brought up by an absentee and very neglectful grandfather. It’s a trope used again and again. And it does kind of work. It certainly allows your young protagonists the opportunity to gain agency and find their own way in the adventure thrown at them. But it’s also rather predictable. As a reader, we don’t sympathise as much because it’s such a used trope.

So, here are some of my thoughts about how to avoid the dead parents trope, and still propel your characters into the action.

Kill Someone Else.

I know, violence isn’t supposed to be the answer. But characters don’t only have close relationships with their parents. If your plot centres around a revenge quest for a dead loved one, it doesn’t have to be a parent.

Siblings who got caught in the crossfire trying to protect your MC, or an aunt/uncle they were close to being poisoned works just as well. Best friends are also a useful source of grief, and the fact it’s someone outside the family perhaps gives your MC more of a push. Equally, a significant other may work, although that is a used trope too. It might even just be a beloved pet.

Use their Morals.

People in the real world do not simply act out of revenge for the death of a loved one. Character morals can be just as powerful a motive for action, and Young people in particular are just beginning to discover what matters to them, and so it feels at its most important.

Perhaps your MC feels that the magic system in your fantasy world does not allow for people with disabilities to have access, and so uses that as their springboard. Or in an apocalypse setting, the desire to protect fellow humans against a threat may act as the MC’s launch pad for setting up a safe base somewhere. Concerns over equality, safety, climate change, government choices and even things as small as how cereal is marketed can motivate a character into changing their world/current situation.

Create Conflict.

Arguments, breakups, scrappy fistfights with someone in a back alley. Conflict is one of the spokes of a story, as it creates opportunities for moving the plot forward, and can hold the characters back from achieving their aims. Using this to start your character’s story arc makes for an explosive scene, and allows immediate sympathy with the situation they are in. Everyone argues, has had someone they care about walk out of their lives, or has at least been punched, so the familiarity of a minor but important conflict helps the reader associate with the character, as well as setting up any skills the character has or may need in order to defeat the foe at the climax of the story.

Parental Encouragement.

In a good family situation, parents will want to support their children and young people in achieving their goals. And the same can be true in stories. Perhaps your character wants to learn to play hockey, for example. Their parents can very easily encourage them to join a practice group, help them buy kit, and encourage them to play in matches. Having a supportive adult can mean as much to an MC as having said support removed, and although this doesn’t work for epic fantasy revenge quests, it does create a welcoming atmosphere for a reader.

Those are the main ones I can think of off the top of my head. Do add in comments/tags any you know of!

Happy writing!🌿

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.” 

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

[ilkwrdthngsdntjudge]

A take on a reddit story i watched to a minecraft parkour video on tiktok:

humans and the Geneva convention.

oftentimes, animals, naturally, don't exactly hunt for sport, you know? except dolphins (and i'm sure, some other animal i'm probably missing) but dolphins are blood thirsty and not the sweet, loveable creatures in thought them to be when i was more naive and weak.

naturally (usually) animals wouldn't really hunt for sport, not like humans do. sure some animals do stalk their prey and enjoy instilling the ingrained feeling of dread and fear in said prey from their stalking, but they don't mass hunt, right?

off track; humans and the geneva convention.

with sentience comes opinions. and with opinions comes other's opinions which do not align with your own. thus, conflict, yada yada, you know the rest. (war, usually. that is the rest.)

so when humans had a War, and the War was horrible and huge and there were So Many deaths, the humans made up (hah) and created what is known to us as the Geneva convention.

to those who do not know what the geneva convention is, i shall explain, but please do not take my pitiful explanation for its pure definition and please do some research.

the Geneva Convention is an agreement that is upheld by any and all nations participating in any sort of lethal conflict (war). the basic of this agreement are these; civilians must not be purposely harmed or captured in conflicts; medical personnel are not to be purposefully targeted in conflicts; and POWs (prisoners of war) must not be killed or treated super badly (i'm not completely sure about the accuracy of this one, but i think it should be in the geneva convention if it isn't already).

to stop my waffling on, the geneva convention is an important Rule of War (as not all is fair in thus and love) and any party (not the fun kind, usually) participating in conflict should abide by these rules.

it's funny, because we have those rules! like, we as a species are so merciless, that when we looked at how many deaths there were after That One War, we all came to a world-wide, nation wide, agreement (where we can't even agree to accept our own people, no less) not to kill who do not need to be killed.

animals have no such rules in their "wars".

would aliens?

it would stand to understand that with sentience comes opinion, and opinion births conflict, but are aliens alike to us in such a way that they would have their Own Geneva Convention?

would they need it? or are they a species more logical, less fiery? or, perhaps, are we humans too heartless, where aliens find only empathy for lives lost?

Who are we, as Humans (Homo Sapiens, Terrans,) to have such Rules for War?

Why, we are the ones who would have no such qualms, eliminating the enemy if our rules were to be exempted. We are those who do not hesitate to kill ourselves. What makes you think we'll hesitate to destroy you?

No Geneva Convention?

Good luck, then.

[l-in-the-light]

The most embarrassing series of posts about Lawlu you will ever read: edition Punk Hazard (part 1)

Love is a hurricane! That's why let me tell you a tale:

It started with the whales of fate that brought Luffy and Law together on an island that's hidden away from the world. Whales are cheering for their reunion!

Luffy apparently always wanted to be a centaur and is just so excited about it. From this point on I'm adding occassional extra quotes and comments to the pictures to make the tale better to read, just warning ;D

Law learns about the Strawhats and is already worried. And he didn't even see them yet! This marks his downfall into an endless spiral of worrying for Luffy from now on.

He doesn't even try to deny that. Yes, he did help him escape. No, he's not gonna go and regret it, even if from that moment on he heard it like hundred of times already and each time he just goes silent. Hey, it's not your business why I saved Mugiwara-ya, so buzz off!

Law: I actually won't, but whatever, just get out of here, White Chase-ya. Or things will get even more complicated and I want to avoid that at all costs.

Law: What's that commotion?

Law: Now you've come and made a commotion, are you proud of yourselves, Strawhats?? Ugh, rude to accuse me of locking up the kids! But they're not entirely wrong. Even if I didn't know about the kids, I was here with them all this time and didn't help them. I hate this.

Law: And here we go with the worst case scenario. Things can never go easy for me, can they?

Hawkins was right, Law is a quick thinker, lol. That's a really quick thought process there.

Luffy, you're literally killing me with your excitement to see Law.

Yes, Luffy couldn't repeat Law's name properly and came up with a nickname instead, but can we focus on something else here? For example on the fact that he actually attempted to address Law with his full name from the get-go? Luffy never does that! The amount of respect here is overwhelming. Regretfully, Traffy's name is too difficult for Luffy, and I bet he's thinking something along those lines:

Luffy: Ugh, why do you have such a difficult name?! I want to call you properly but I can't! Wait, didn't he have that fun way of addressing people? Like he added something after a name, it was kinda odd but also really cool? What was it... something short... oh well, I will just invent something similar to that! His name started with Tora, so let's just add "guy" to it, so Torao! I want to be as cool as you!

And from that day on, every new guy Luffy meets gets to be called the same way. Gizao, Yamao... if this isn't Luffy trying to mimick Law's "ya" then I don't know what this is. Law addresses everyone with "ya", so Luffy addresses now everyone with "o". They're a match made in hell, I swear. Luffy trying to be like Law is also infinitely cute and funny to me.

I'm gonna puke, it's too cute.

And so the flashback starts, replaying their previous encounters in Law's head, lol.

I think Robin would call Law tasteless as well.

Yeah what's up with Luffy being so damn excited to see you. It's almost like he's lovestruck.

Law: Fuck, it didn't work. How many more times are you gonna thank me?! And you didn't lose your smile after your brother's death... or are you actually hiding sadness under it?...

This is like the most complicated expression Law ever showed in the manga. Luffy's smile here is making him feel things, many many things. His sad conflicted expression creates such a deep contrast to Luffy's beaming smile.

I'm pretty sure Luffy is smiling so brightly here not only to show his obvious excitement, but also to communicate to Law that "I'm fine now, you don't have to worry about me!". After all Law saw him at his lowest. I don't think Luffy's truly fine and over his brother's death and I also don't think Law is actually buying it either. Grief like that doesn't go away after merely 2 years, after all.

He already knows what Luffy wants to ask him about. Communication without words again, between those two. Gross. Cute.

He already decided what he will do. That means ever since he heard about Luffy landing on the island, he knew he wouldn't go against him, but try his best to keep him away from danger instead.

Luffy: He must be so strong!!!

Luffy being so easily impressed with Law never gets boring to me. Brook observing it all with a cute smile of a parent watching their child having their first crush is also kinda super duper cute.

Yes Luffy, brag even more. God, he's so embarrassingly obvious. He likes Torao so damn much.

Luffy can also be a very awful person sometimes lol.

Law (probably): Really? Was that so important? Couldn't you wait? Or just stay like that forever or something.

They're actually both awful people sometimes.

Again, he never denies his connection to Luffy. It would be beneficial for him to do so, to come up with some excuse that would make people stop doubting him all the time, and yet he never does. Never ever. Seems someone just can't bear the thought of denying that, because it's just that important to him.

So what he does instead is saying a (poorly camouflaged) compliment towards the Strawhats lol. "You underestimate them, they're tough". I mean, thanks Law? That's kinda nice of you.

Law (thinking): Joke's on you, that's exactly what I'm gonna do. I came here just to make a mess by destroying SAD. And that's the only reason why I needed the warlord's status.

Law (thinking): We're enemies from now on, as soon as I get out of this room.

Law (thinking): I actually did, yeah. You're welcome.

Funny how he didn't even attempt to propose to Luffy to just work under him. He's going straight to the option of "You wouldn't serve others so I won't even propose that". Despite the fact that later on Law is ordering Smoker around, and Smoker is also "not the type to serve people like pirates". Luffy is getting special treatment here. Favouritism! Do you respect Luffy that much, Law?

He looks freaking happy to propose that alliance lol. Do you think it will be actually fun, Trafalgar Law?! Just moments ago you thought Luffy is making too much commotion, but now you already love the idea to see him cause even more of it. Did you already forget how much worry you felt when you first heard from Smoker that Luffy is on the island?! Do you think you can keep him out of the trouble? Where's this overconfidence even coming from? Oh right, because Luffy is staring at you like you're the best person to ever exist in the world, that's probably why.

And Luffy looks like Christmas arrived faster suddenly. And of course he does, his favourite Law is proposing him to adventure together! He wants to be friends and spend time kicking asses. Sounds like a perfect date idea for him. This is probably the first time anyone proposed something that awesome to him lol. They just share the same vibe here honestly. This will of course mark the beginning of Law's neverending suffering and worrying over Luffy.

Those two are insufferable together. And you might think I'm writing a fanfiction here, but nah, this is all canon, you just have to wear the right lens to see it. Their love doesn't have to be romantic in nature, but it's still love none the less. Luffy clearly found his most favourite person in the world in Law, and Law seems to be unusually attached to him as well. I'm getting second-hand embarrassment just looking at them here, and this is only the start lol. Also their reunion in Punk Hazard had like 4-5 pages long coverage, it felt like something out of shojo-manga instead of shonen. Oda never did anything like that before, why the extra focus, you should totally be asking that question.

Hope you enjoyed so far :D and remember, love is a hurricane!

[grison-in-space]

worker uprisings are not an upside.

I see this rhetoric here all the time, and it drives me up the wall. So you're all getting a good rant here: a worker uprising is not good.

The worker uprisings that bought the NLRB paid for it in blood and lives, and another uprising means that we will have to find the price to buy it again. And there will be families, people, and lives blighted in the meantime. Worker uprisings are not upsides for anyone and they are not fucking consolation prizes. They happen when things go bad, horribly bad, and they generally only result in positive change insofar as they create so much chaos, bloodshed, and disruption that the overall situation has to change. In the mean time, people are still left dead, destitute, and maimed. If we can avert a worker uprising by using nonviolent means of pressure to force accountability, we should do that, because it results in vastly more stable outcomes for everyone. If this pissant, damn-fool shortsighted Supreme Court decision goes through and violence is the only remaining option to enforce change that anyone sees, that is a bad thing.That is not a flood gift. People will die fixing that bullshit. People did die fixing that bullshit!

You know how we got the NLRB the first time, back in 1935?

It took almost fifty years of labor unrest in the United States before we got the NLRB. Let's start with the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 (which was majorly disruptive but happened before labor unionizing was widespread). That's a great template for your fucking worker's uprising: there's no union leadership to coordinate fury and direct it properly, so when workers lose their shit after the third goddamn time wages get cut (not "fail to keep the pace of inflation," actually "you get less money now"), they all kind of do things on impulse without thinking much about long term strategy. The fury just erupts. In the case of the Great Railroad Strike, angry workers burned factories and facilities, seized rail facilities, paralyzed commerce networks, and existing power structures panicked and called out militias, National Guard units, and federal troops to forcibly suppress the workers. About a hundred people died.

Let me pop a cut down while I talk about what happened next. Spoiler: there's a lot of violence under the hood coming up, and like all violence, it absolutely sloshes around and hits people who aren't necessarily directly involved in conflicts.

You have continuing incidences of violence over strikes throughout the next several decades as nonviolent strikes are met with violence from pro-employer forces and workers resist with violence back. I can't even list all the violent incidents here that ended in deaths, because they were frequent. The 1892 Coeur d'Alune labor strike broke out into an actual shooting war and resulted in a number of deaths, not to mention months of detainment for six hundred protesting miners; the same year, you have another shooting war kicked off between hundreds of massed paid private Pinkerton security and striking workers in Pittsburgh through the Homestead Strike. Imagine how that's going to go down today.

And the thing about violence like this, and tolerance for violence, is that eventually you just get used to using it to get your way. You actually also do see quite a bit of violence conducted by striking labor workers, sometimes without recent provocation from management. For example, the national International Association of Bridge Structural Iron Workers embarked on a campaign of bombings from 1906-1911 that eventually culminated in a bombing of the office of the LA Times that killed 20 people. Do you want to live in a world where the only way to resolve conflicts like this is to risk someone bombing your office because your boss mouthed off at his cause? Even if he's right, do you want to risk losing your life, your arms, your friend, your sibs, to someone who thinks that the only option available to him to address systematic inequality is violence?

And you think about who really suffers when violence erupts, too. Look at the East St Louis massacre in 1917, when management tries undercutting the local white-run unions by hiring black folks who are systematically excluded by the unions. (If you think labor solidarity is free from the same intersectional forces that hit every other attempt to organize in solidarity for humans, you really need to go back and revisit your history books. We can do better and we should, but when we set up our systems and hope for the future, we have to be clear-eyed about the failures of the past.) Anyway, when labor tensions between white union workers and management's preferred use of cheaper, poorer, less "uppity" black people erupted, the white union workers attacked not management, but the black parts of town. They cut the hoses to the fucking fire department, burned huge swathes of East St Louis belonging to black homeowners, and shot black folks fleeing in the streets.

Money might not trickle down, but violence sure fucking does. The wealthy insulate themselves from violence by employing intermediaries to do all the dirty work for them, or even to venture into any areas that might be dangerous. When we resort to violence as the only way to solve our problems, inevitably the people and communities who pay the highest blood prices are the ones who have the least to provide. You think any of those robber barons are going to wind up on the ground bleeding out? They have their Pinkerton troops for that shit. The worst they lose is money; the rest of us have to stake our bodies and our homes.

No one should look forward to a worker uprising. If the Supreme Court is stupid and short-sighted enough to reduce avenues of worker redress to extra-legal means, the worker uprisings will come back around again, sure enough, and we'll all write our demands in blood once again. But the whole fucking POINT of the NLRB is that the federal government objects to having to sort these things out when they dissolve into open violence, so it sets rules about what the stupid short-sighted greediguts fat cats up top can do to reduce violence erupting again.

Anyway. Best thing I can think of right now is to get a Congressional supermajority in with the eye of imposing limits and curbs on the Court. Because look, I'll march if I need to, but I ain't going to pretend the thought puts a smile in my mouth and a spring in my step. Fuck.

[theghostofpyke]

another interesting interview on outsiders in ASOIAF; reposting the transcript:

Interviewer: Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf character in asoiaf, he probably is one of everybody's favourite characters and he has this really memorable moment where he says: "I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things". Many, so many-- some of your characters are these outsiders, they are different or they are disabled in some way, and they seem to be the only characters that are capable of true compassion, and yet they seem to suffer for it-- is this something you are conscious of doing, George, when writing the book?" GRRM: Yeah, definitely, I mean, I have a large caste of viewpoint characters, but, for the most part they all have something that makes them a bit of an outcast, you know. Tyrion is a dwarf. Jon Snow is a bastard. Dany, who is beautiful, is a penniless exile who's being essentially sold off into marriage. Arya is born to a noble house, but she's kind of this wild child where she doesn't conform to her proper gender role. Brienne of Tarth even more doesn't conform to her proper gender roles and because of that she suffers a lot of scorn and rejection because she is not a proper woman in the terms of her society. Uh, Sam Tarly is fat and bookish, when a lord is expected to be warlike and strong and fierce and good with a sword and Sam would rather read and dance and listen to music and so he suffers a lot of rejection and I could go on and on, but--" Interviewer (interrupting): All of these people have this honour code, within themselves, that they almost need to hide-- and that seems to make life even more difficult for them-- GRRM (interrupting back): Even a character like Theon Greyjoy, who's not a character that a lot of people are fond of, because he's a weak character-- I mean he's physically strong, he's very skilled with a bow, he's a good warrior, but he's a character who is suffering a lot of confusion about his place in the world. Cause, you know, he's born of a noble family, but his father rised in rebellion, and his elder brothers were killed in that rebellion, and he was handed over as a hostage at the end. Theoretically a "ward" they called it, but still a hostage. If his father creates trouble, he's to be hung, you know, so. That was a frequent practice in the middle ages, when you didn't really trust one of your underlords, or enemy who had bent the knee, you took some of his children as "wards", or hostages, and, uh--- So he's a Greyjoy by birth, and by some standards he's the heir to the Iron Islands, but he's been raised in the household of Eddard Stark and there's part of him who, you know, he has these two fathers looming over him, neither one who he can ever quite please. And he's desperate to find his place in the world, as one or the other, but from that confusion a great drama arises! I mean, you know, I think the best fiction, the best stories, arise out of conflict. I've always taken as my mantra, Willian Faulkner's nobel price acceptance speech where he said: The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself.

[swordfright]

what are your logistical questions about the guard dog au?

Ohhhh boyyy. Well. First of all I'm sorry it took me like a month to answer this, I got busy.

I wanna start by saying I wasn't around when Guard Dog AU was created, it was before my time (just barely) but I have read dozens of fics with this premise so bear in mind that I thiiiink I have a pretty solid understanding of how GD is supposed to work?? But I could be wrong about some details, in which case please feel free to correct me! Also, I wouldn't normally poke holes in someone's AU because at the end of the day, AUs are supposed to be fun fantasy what-if scenarios and not airtight canon-compliant thought experiments. The only reason I feel comfortable doing it with Guard Dog is because, from what I can tell, this AU wasn't created by any one specific person, it just sort of manifested on twitter in like 2021 and now there are literally hundreds of pieces of fan content about it. What I'm saying is, Guard Dog is The People's AU and that's the only reason I don't feel weird answering this ask.

Yeah, so. My logistical questions are as follows:

What's Sam's motivation for letting Q borrow Dream?

When in the timeline is this taking place? (because that affects EVERYTHING)

What threat is Dream purportedly guarding Las Nevadas from?

How does Dream's presence change the preexisting dynamic in Las Nevadas?

What is Quackity actually getting out of this?

Who does or doesn't have the revive book at this point?

I'll try to address these as neatly as I can. So, my understanding of the premise: Quackity somehow gets Sam to agree to let Dream out of the prison so he can live out the remainder (or some unspecified portion?) of his life sentence acting as security for LN. In some variants it seems like this is happening after Dream gives up the revive book, but in other variants that's not the case or it's left unclear. There are a couple points at which this feels implausible/OOC, namely:

1.) Sam would never let Dream out, even on parole. He does not want Dream under anyone else's watch. He wants Dream in Pandora at all costs. You cannot convince me he would just let someone borrow the prisoner for a bit, for any reason - especially not Quackity, who imo Sam probably sees as a greater threat to his authority as warden than almost anyone. Think about it: aside from Sam, Q has probably had the most consistent contact with the prisoner during his incarceration; Q's violence and general temperament mean that Sam likely knows Q killing Dream is a possibility, and that without the warden's supervision this could very well happen. Sam obviously isn't concerned for Dream's wellbeing, but he does want his prisoner alive because otherwise he's not a prisoner and Sam's not a warden. So yeah. "Just me and him" line etc etc. Dream ain't never gettin' outta there if Sam has anything to say about it.

2.) What is Dream actually capable of contributing to LN? In other words, would initiating Guard Dog actually pay off for Quackity in tangible ways? It depends on where in the timeline we are. If this is happening post-torture era or even mid-torture era, Dream is likely physically incapable of performing the feats of combat he was capable of prior to prison. Hell, even if Guard Dog era is happening instead of the torture era, Dream has still been in prison for a while and is probably already experiencing the disabling effects of prolonged malnutrition and neglect. So if Dream is known for PVP and his PVP skills took a severe blow recently, then what use is he as a security guard? Which brings us to the next question...

3.) What threat is Dream even guarding LN from? Quackity's foremost enemy is Technoblade, who has largely peace'd-out between Doomsday and Jailbreak. Q is evidently not eager to reignite a direct conflict with Techno because he got his ass handed to him last time. Also, he's aware that Techno and Dream are allies, so why would he put Dream in a place that's easier to rescue Dream from than Pandora? You could argue that maybe by publicly turning Dream into a glorified slave laborer Q is indirectly flaunting his power (the power of ownership) in Techno's face, but I don't see this as terribly likely given that (based on some of the visitation dialogue) Q misunderstands the nature of Dream and Techno's relationship. Critically, he doesn't seem to realize that they are comrades in addition to allies. And I think flaunting ownership of Dream would only make sense if you thought you were really hurting Techno in the process - Quackity just doesn't seem to have picked up on the fact that this is even a possibility. Based on all this, the enemy Dream is supposed to be fending off probably isn't Techno, so who is it? Las Nevadas is pretty much a neutral state. Q has people he doesn't like, but his list of Actual Real Enemies is surprisingly short. The population of the server is also comically small, so like...intruders? What intruders??? It's not as if Q really has to worry about strangers breaking in and robbing him or something, which is usually what guard dogs are for. My current answer to this question is that the threat would have to be the Egg. Possession by the Egg can turn people you know into strangers, and the entity that is the Egg can travel/infiltrate new spaces by way of the vines. Also, this conveniently answers the sub-question of "what threat can Dream defend LN against that the actual members of LN couldn't?" If you suddenly have to worry about contamination, it makes sense that you would send someone disposable to deal with the contaminant - not your own friends or employees. Speaking of which...

4.) Dream's presence in LN would change the faction's dynamic and Quackity is sooo poorly equipped to navigate that. Quackity's whole shtick is that he's charismatic because he can't be strong. He's volatile, conniving, violent, insecure, hedonistic, profit-motivated and has poor impulse control, but he's also able to project confidence and affability in ways that have been advantageous to him. There are two sides to Quackity and he seemingly likes to keep them separate. If Guard Dog is happening after the torture arc, then Quackity is used to showing the worst aspects of his personality only around Dream. In Pandora, he's a torturer; in Las Nevadas, he's a leader. So what happens when those two places effectively become the same place? If LN is Dream's new prison, how is Quackity supposed to act there? Sure, he's not particularly kind and caring when dealing with his staff (most of them were recruited via intimidation, after all) but they've never seen the side of him that Dream has seen. How is he supposed to maintain that authority over Dream while continuing to be the version of himself that Fundy and Purple and Foolish and co. know? Quackity talks a big game about (and makes gestures toward) not caring that people know about the torture, but he obviously does have reservations about it. When Wilbur asks him about visiting, he dodges around the question. When he discourages Foolish from breaking in, he's weird and cagey about it even though he knows he needs to come clean. When Tommy confronts him about the torture directly, he says "Don't ever say that, not even as a joke." He's defensive. This is another one of Q's hilarious contradictions: he wants to enjoy the benefits of being known as a dangerous person without the downsides of people being actually scared of him or finding him repulsive. He wants to have his cake and eat it too, and Dream's presence in Las Nevadas puts that impulse in jeopardy. There's a big difference between people suspecting you may have done some torture vs people actually witnessing that torture firsthand, or even seeing its aftereffects. Not to mention, there are now other people for Dream to interact with besides Sam, Q, and the prison guards! That changes things, even if Dream isn't allowed to speak to them directly. In Pandora, Bad and Ant had one job, which was to keep the prison running and keep Dream inside it - that's not the case with the LN crew. These people have shit to do! Foolish is building Quackity a replica of the Eiffel Tower, he doesn't have the time or interest to be a prison guard. I could go on but you get my drift. Things would get so weird so fast.

5.) The revive book complicates all of this. If Dream actually did give up the book and Sam understood how to use it, I could be convinced that maybe he would let Quackity borrow Dream for a bit - because hey, if he kills Dream then Sam can just revive him! However, I don't feel confident saying that Q wouldn't just kill Dream immediately after getting the book. We know Q enjoys torturing Dream, but we also know that he seemingly gets bored of it after a while. We also know he has at least some level of concern for propriety/his own rep, so he does have plausible reasons to just straight-up kill him after getting the book. Like, he got what he wanted (necromancy knowledge + a fun 3 months of recreational activity) and if he kills Dream then that's one less person to potentially spread word of Q's uhhhh proclivities around the server - which, again, he paradoxically does seem to care about. Even if Q's plan was to relocate Dream to LN to better access to his fave chew toy and never intended to kill Dream, would Sam believe that?? Q can't directly go against the warden's orders when he's visiting Pandora because that would be stupid and dangerous, but in Las Nevadas? Hm. I think Sam may see Guard Dog as an attempt on Q's part to move the prisoner to a location fully under Q's control so that he can kill Dream without risking retaliation from the warden. Basically, I think this au only has a chance to work in a scenario where Dream has given up the revive book to Sam, but not to Quackity. Because otherwise, Sam just wouldn't let him go. Quackity does want the revive book, but moreso he enjoys torturing Dream, so I do find it semi-plausible that Q would initiate Guard Dog even if he didn't have the book yet.

Ummmm so yeah! These are my questions and thoughts about Guard Dog! i think it's a really fun AU with a lot of potential, but there are kinks in the premise (pun intended) that I find it difficult to wrap my head around. anyway please talk to me about this because I think about it all the time and I wanna hear some other folks' takes too.

[animezinglife]

Maybe it's my age talking, but I do think the Azriel vs. Lucien thing is blown way out of proportion.

There's a difference between attraction and being in love with someone, and another difference still between having a crush and being in love.

TL/DR: I genuinely think the biggest piece people overlook in this Azriel vs. Lucien puzzle is Elain herself and the layers of her internal conflict. Personally, I suspect it's much bigger than them both.

Here's the thing:

Azriel is gorgeous and is basically described as looking like a dark, fallen angel. He went into Hybern's war camp and got her out of there alongside Feyre, took her in his arms and flew her to safety. He's been kind to her, too. He hasn't pushed her to talk and has a quiet, strong presence that I'm sure is quite comforting to her.

There is zero expectation with him--zero pressure that she would even be able to create in her own mind. There's no "mate" term dangling over them and no friends or family breathing down their necks at every turn, acting like they should be supervised for something they didn't do. They're the only two people in their current circle (exempting Mor, though that's a bit different) who are still single. They both are constantly bombarded with this idea of "mates" and being on the outside of what that means.

I don't think it would be a reach at all to call her and Az friends.

It's not odd or confusing to me at all that she would have a crush on him; be attracted to him, want him to kiss her, or even to sleep with him. It seems completely natural.

I would argue that Az has been a gentleman towards her (and I will stand by the fact that internal frustrations are very different than actions, and that something expressed in confidence to your brother is nowhere near the same as acting out of turn), but I also wonder, too, if there's a part of her that makes her think she doesn't want a gentleman right now.

That while she's handled her trauma very differently than Nesta (thank the Cauldron), there's a part of her that's taken that robbing of life to heart and Graysen's whiny bitch comments/rejection to heart. That it's impacted her self-worth to make her think she is something "other" that's beyond saving or isn't worth the kind of fairytale love she always dreamed of for herself.

If I read into it perhaps a bit too much, I think Az is a little off when he assumes Elain doesn't know about the types of things he's done, whether that be atrocities or something more private. She might even see her involvement in killing Hybern to be some dark thing outside her nature she's having difficulty coming to terms with.

I'm not at all saying Az isn't a good guy who's deserving of love too, but I don't think what Elain's looking for with him in that extra chapter has much of anything to do with love. I think she wants a distraction with someone she thinks understands.

I think there's a chance, too, she's overwhelmed by Lucien being in the same house. Overwhelmed by that strong, involuntary pull she feels towards him and that she doesn't know what to make of him at all.

I will say it until I'm blue in the face, but I genuinely think the only barrier--the only real issue--that prevents her from warming to Lucien in the same or a similar way is that heavy, life-altering M-word that got slapped onto them both on arguably the worst day of her life.

He hasn't had the luxury of being around her as part of her family like Az has. Hasn't had the luxury of Elain seeing him fully through her own eyes without the "mate" label being forced into their lives. Yet it doesn't lessen the pull she has towards him, and that combined with everything she's experienced of mates thus far can't exactly be easy to process, especially after a brutal rejection, lost love, and lost future.

She isn't able right now to see the bond as a choice.

She doesn't even get the chance to evolve naturally into seeing it as a choice with the way her family hovers and breathes down her neck. How suddenly the most un-purity culture people in existence magically start caring a great deal about Elain's choices in that regard and insert themselves into chaperone roles like Elain and Lucien are two teenagers who can't control themselves at a junior high dance.

How confusing and contradictory that must be for Elain, who's been condescended and told by her sisters (namely Nesta) that the Fae don't live by human customs when it comes to sex or anything of the like. How the one time she did take that chance with someone she thought she loved it only got thrown back in her face by both Graysen and Nesta?

And what do we know about Lucien? He's devastatingly beautiful. Elegant yet rakish. An intelligent, educated, trained courtier and the son of a high lord. Even Feyre--a happily mated female--can't go five minutes in her internal monologues without noting how attractive and sexy he is even when he's doing absolutely nothing and minding his own business.

She knows he's Feyre's friend. She's heard some of the stories there. So she is aware, then, of at least some of the qualities her sister sees and admires in him despite their current rocky relationship.

Lucien is, in every way, being respectful of Elain's wishes and giving her space even though her rejection hurts him. He's still warring with the guilt of his own lost love in his mind and with a sense of unworthiness. He's been achingly thoughtful towards her; the epitome of a gentleman.

Elain would know that especially with that bond she doesn't fully understand, he's not someone she could simply have a pleasant distraction with. That he's someone who could see through her in every way she wants to hide and that she would never be able to hide in the mere idea that he simply doesn't press her (in the way Az doesn't press her).

Az feels safe right now and someone still attached to her comfort zone. He's a place she can continue to hide without fully facing her present and future and all Prythian is.

She can't hide her pain or suffering from Lucien in the same way. She can't quietly stare out the window into the sunlight without him knowing and feeling exactly what she needs.

She knows--senses--that she won't be able to separate the most vulnerable fragments of herself from her bond with Lucien. Again, a bond she didn't choose, and doesn't currently see that she still has a choice in.

So, she turns away from it in every way she knows how and looks for new ways to do so.

The way people treat Elain when it comes to her love life is so predictably (to her) unlike how Feyre and Nesta have been treated. Elain has always been different from them both, especially when it comes to love and sex. She's more modest and more reserved; has never been the type to fall into bed with some random man or Fae male. She's more guarded; a bit more protective of her own heart.

Maybe, to some extent, there's something she feels she needs to prove to herself. That she can fit within this more sexually liberated Fae world and that she's not some outsider in need of being treated with kid gloves.

Az, in that capacity, is definitely not someone who will. He's also not someone she can't keep her guard up with and can't keep her vulnerability from.

It would not surprise me either if there's a part of her that wants to deter Luicen (thinking back to Mor's tactic of deterring Azriel when she slept with Helion), but more strongly and importantly, to deter and distract herself from the bond. She doesn't want to allow herself to feel anything towards him.

The fact that she does feel a strong pull and, more likely than not, an overwhelming attraction of some kind makes me think it wasn't fully coincidence that she approached Az on Solstice when Lucien was in the same house.

I think she very much wanted to tie someone else to what she's feeling and try to get Lucien, the bond, and that dreaded M-word out of her mind.

Running the risk of sounding crude, Az could probably achieve that at least temporarily.

But it'd come right back. It's always been interesting to me that everyone seems to note that their bond is strong despite nothing having happened between them yet.

Until Elain acknowledges that bond and Lucien one way or another, that internal conflict she's clearly feeling is never going to change for her.

Two things can be true at once: we can fully acknowledge that neither Elain nor Lucien had a choice in the bond snapping between them, and that until they face it, neither one of them are going to have much choice in anything else at all. Not beyond a meaningless tangle in the sheets with someone else.

I think it would've been worse in the long run for Elain to learn that the hard way.

I also genuinely don't think Elain understands that there's nothing wrong with her for being different than her sisters or being different than the Fae norms. That there's nothing wrong with her for struggling to process this or for being overwhelmed.

She's still healing. She still has wounds she hasn't addressed. She's still hiding and seeking distractions while growing restless about wanting more from her life and being frustrated by her sisters' low expectations.

Feyre and Nesta love her, and it's not the protectiveness from love in itself that's wrong.

But they're suffocating her.

Lucien is, in every way, a person who never could. He's something so different and "other" than what she's used to both as a human and as a Fae while also being a bridge between those worlds. He can function in both. He can thrive in both.

He can see, perhaps too clearly, all sides of her whether she likes it or not.

I think she also very much senses he's the type she could fall in love with. The type she'll never be able to fully distract herself from if she lets herself fall or take that leap.

Her heart's still wounded, and she's not ready to risk opening that again right now.

That doesn't mean she won't be later on, and that doing so won't be incredibly worth it.

She will never find herself or open that chance up to herself, though, if she also keeps hiding in only the channels she knows. The barriers--intentional or otherwise--set around her by her sisters.

I do think that's inevitably going to be the difference between them, though: Elain and Lucien are going to face their reality and find healing together and in each other, and in the process, are going to end up falling in love. Real, true, soulful love.

Lucien's love is the kind that will leave her wondering why she ever thought she'd known what love is in the first place, and what they could find in each other is the kind of love they both deserve.

I cannot wait to see Elain facing her fears when she's fully free to do so. I can't wait to see her getting to know Lucien without the IC watching their every move and making her feel like a caged animal. I can't wait to see her find her strength, her love, and the fullest extent of her freedom.

That's not to say that Az would not have many wonderful qualities he could offer her too, but the person she's going to find more of herself than she every thought possible with is Lucien.

Az, in my humble opinion, is likely going to end up with someone else. An actual mate where he'll find his own healing alongside.

[stormsbourne]

honestly though dragon age 2 was the exact perfect game to follow dragon age origins and it's almost entirely because of the things that most hardc0re gamerz hated most: the inability to change or divert what happens

you go from a game where you are a special rainbow star who the plot and world seems to rotate around to a game where you are just a person who ends up a significant figure mostly by chance. in origins you are one of the only survivors of a mass betrayal by the king's right hand man, and you have it drilled into you again and again that your choices matter. not only do they matter but they are the fulcrum the worldstate moves around. not a fan of the werewolves? kill them all off and let the guy who cursed them in the first place off scot free. think golems would be a sick way to really fuck up an archdemon? revive that ancient tech at the cost of who knows how many lower-class and casteless dwarf lives. you are the one who determines if the archdemon dies or gets reborn as a supernatural infant boy. it is all on you.

in dragon age 2 almost nothing is on you. the other characters have goals and motivations and you might be able to slightly affect them, but some things happen regardless. fenris always kills hadriana. anders always blows up the chantry. isabela always has already stolen the qunari artifact and merrill is not capable of being persuaded not to fuck with the eluvian. sure, you can affect their fates. do you sell fenris back into slavery? do you kill merrill's entire clan to protect her reputation or let her take the brunt of it to spare them? does anders live or die? bethany? carver? but the actions the characters take mostly happen regardless of hawke's input. the worldstate does not morph to fit what you want it to be anymore because the characters have too much weight in the people they already are.

and the wider plot reflects this, too. the qunari are unwilling to negotiate a peace, especially once they deem kirkwall too far gone to be worth saving. meredith is set in her ways and cannot be convinced out of her mindset. you cannot save leandra. anders, again, always blows up the chantry. hawke is involved in many of these events but they are far from being the fulcrum the world spins around. they are just a person, like most other people, caught up in the conflicts of forces so much more powerful and more ingrained into society than they are, that the best they can do is to ride the waves. to leap forward as the world changes around them, as flemeth fortells early in the game. the big reveal varric hesitates to tell cassandra for so long is that hawke was just a person, caught up in a million conflicts that they tried to stop but could not because the world was already too set against them. a fish struggling upstream for its whole life, and if you buy the depiction of hawke in inquisition, one who sort of resented the role they ended up playing in what became of the wider world.

it's perfect. it's beautiful. I know the narrative these days is that it's so constrained because of the short dev cycle, and while I do think that if the dev cycle had been longer there would have been more polish and shine, I think this theme was always intended because it's such a perfect foil to origins. origins says show me how important you are, the world your warden wants to create. da2 says that the world already exists, and the best you can do is try to keep things from getting worse, and make a tiny impact for the better in the lives of the people around you. the mages you help escape kirkwall while they can, the people you manage to save from slavers. maybe you can't change the world, maybe it's too set against you. but you can change something. some little things.

it slaps.

[utilitycaster]

would love to see your take on the recent laudna-delilah merge! i believe you've mentioned before that you found laudna stale (?) so i'm very interested to know if this feels compelling to you. i'm DISGUSTED and scared 😅

I LOVE IT. I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT IT.

In all seriousness my issue has always been that Delilah has for the most part been not just an unfired Chekhov's gun but like...a gun that occasionally thrusts itself into the hands of a major character who was designed to handle this gun and yet everyone including that character was, for like, the majority of the play, repeatedly saying "oh man it's that wacky gun again!" and really, the gun was way cooler when it was fired in an earlier play in 2017.

You can play a warlock without a complex relationship to their patron! Loquatius is a solid example; Elmenore and he are on pretty chill terms and he's mostly a bard and it's a story not about that aspect of him anyway. Zahra is another; she and Sirius appear to be largely simpatico! But if you pick Delilah Fucking Briarwood as your patron you best come correct, and, increasingly, finally, following episode 77, Marisha has and it's been great and it finally expanded into the rest of the party.

I love how quick Laudna is to trust Delilah on this even though she knows Delilah lies, she knows about the gnarlrock. I love how Imogen immediately stands by her and Fearne is inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, only to slowly, with mounting horror, realize (or, more likely, reluctantly admit to themselves) that this is Delilah's doing and that Laudna either won't or can't resist. Because that's the immediate threat - sure, it says something about Laudna's character and victimhood whether she is doing this deliberately, or whether she cannot overcome the compulsions from Delilah, and for what it's worth I think it's somewhere in the gray area between - but in the end it matters most that Laudna as an entity comprising both herself and Delilah is going to pull shit like attacking people in their sleep to steal magic items to feed to the evil undead wizard. She's more sympathetic if she's trying but failing, but in the end, if we can return to the (imperfect but not uncalled for) addiction metaphor Marisha has invoked re: Laudna, whether you drive drunk because you were in recovery and were triggered by circumstance and fell off the wagon, or whether you simply don't care, you're still drunk driving and someone still can be killed. Intent says a lot about your character but not whether you're a danger to yourself and others, and Laudna undeniably is.

I'm honestly happy with basically any outcome here. I think it will be narratively easier if Laudna doesn't really resist much, given that that's what she's been doing for 30 years and much of the campaign; foreshadowing is a complicated thing in an improvised medium but I think it's hard to deny that a tragic ending hasn't been well signaled. But I think it's possible for Marisha to thread the needle, particularly if she keeps putting in stellar performances like that one, to have Laudna snap and turn on Delilah. It's doing wonders for my thoughts on Imogen and Laudna's relationship too; finally there's some unavoidable tension and conflict to the point that even if they deny it that creates more conflict. I don't know if they'll overcome it, but I don't think we can have gnarlrock all sizzle no steak #2 this time. I think Imogen's going to have to make a stand of some kind, even if it pains her.

[melloollem]

Loyal To The Blood|| Damian Wayne × Male reader

Summary: You were created as a servant of the League to protect Damian. Your bond is severed after Damian takes over as Robin. On a disastrous mission, you are forced to deal with the emotional conflicts that the loss of the boy has had and deal with the fact that he now stands before you after years. 

Warnings: Angst, Homosexual angst, Abandonment, Comfort, Recommendation: Once More to see you-Mitski

(Dc masterlist)

In an honorable oath in your childhood, you knelt before the one you recognized as God and pledged allegiance to the future Heir of the League of Assassins. You would die and kill for Damian, for the heir to the League of Assassins empire.

Faced with all the current circumstances, that seemed like a lie, but it wasn't, you and Damian knew that. Damian knew that over your oath, childish though it was, there was a veil of love.

There was only one problem, in your oath you swore to be true to Damian Al Ghul, not Damian Wayne, you would protect and serve the future leader of the League of Assassins, not Robin and it hurt to admit that no amount of love you felt for Damian could detract from your eternal bond with the League, your responsibility, your ideals, your upbringing, you could be true to Damian's blood as you promised to do, but only if he was with the League and he wasn't, not anymore.

The last time you saw each other was before Damian left. You looked at him in an anguished way, but you still tried to look serious and indifferent, like everyone else in that room, but Damian knew you, he identified the pain in your eyes, because he had spent nights staring at them.

That night you stretched out your hand towards Damian with the sole intention of fixing your armor, you were one of the few in the room authorized to approach him, and when your hand was already moving away, Damian grabbed your forearm and promised to come back, he would have liked to say "come back to you", but there were too many people present for that kind of interaction, you didn't answer him, just looked him in the eye quickly. Damian would like to know what you meant by that. Damian would have liked to know that it would be the last time in a long time.

You never believed that the boy would come back, not when he had the world in store for him, not when you knew of his eternal admiration for his father, not when Talia explained the reason for his departure. He wouldn't come back, your love wasn't strong enough to overcome Damian's reasons for staying out of the League, but it was strong enough for him to regularly think of you, for you to regularly think of him, but not for him to come back.

You both lived your lives in parallel, while Damian learned not to kill, you perfected your techniques, while Damian opened up to his new reality, you closed yourself off to survive yours, while Damian received his Robin title, you took over his old position in the League, you were on opposite sides every time.

You were sure that Damian had forgotten you, but you never could, not when you were carrying his position in the League. You felt it as a curse, as if you were cursed to never forget Damian, not when you looked at his armor and saw one similar to his old armor, not when you commanded the men he commanded, not when Talia looked at you remembering how he looked at you with the same green eyes, not when you still lived for him. You were cursed for loving Damian.

Your work in the League had never been easy, there was no way that murdering people and conquering territories could be, but lately they had been made more difficult by a vigilante, the whole thing was being extremely stressful for the League and for you, headquarters being knocked down, assassins hunted, it was all falling on you, the responsibility of sorting it out, sorting it all out, the constant demands of your superiors, along with your responsibility to your soldiers.

The vigilante taking your peace was Red Robin, you knew Ra's Al Ghul wanted to recruit him, he had proven his competence while taking down men from the League, but you weren't willing to negotiate with someone who had done so much destruction to your legacy. When the execution order arrived, you felt relieved, you knew that he had taken out the patience of the head of the League and now you could kill him.

You'd been sent to Gotham City, this wasn't going to be as quick a mission as you'd have liked, apparently the vigilante had enough training to require prior preparation before the attack, you knew you had to attack him in public, when he wasn't hiding his identity, that would reduce your chance of reaction and defense.

You were dispelling all your fears, this was Batman's city, which meant it was Damian's city. You were aware of Tim and Damian's connection, at that moment there were few things you didn't know about Tim, but that didn't matter, at least that's what you repeated to yourself. According to your superiors, you wouldn't even have to find Damian, the orders were clear to avoid members of Tim's family.

You were standing in front of Wayne Industries, an eye-catching building surrounded by people, the perfect setting. You weren't wearing anything to hide your identity, in the League it wasn't necessary. You waited patiently, it wasn't long before the vigilante left the building, you held the dagger firmly in your hands at your side, so as not to attract undue attention, letting out a shaky sigh, death never stopped scaring you, it's always like the first time, no matter how much skill you acquire.

When Tim left Wayne Industries, you started to take your first steps towards him, but your body froze as you met emerald eyes right behind him, Damian was here, your breathing stopped and the grip on the melee weapon loosened, you still tried to take another step forward, but your body threw itself back following what you really wanted to do, despair flooded your chest and that mission already seemed to have failed. You moved away, trying to blend into the crowd so as not to be spotted, hoping he hadn't seen you, but you knew he had, that was Damian.

It was impossible for Damian not to recognize you, you looked different, but the same. Even in a crowd of thousands of people, he would still find you. He watched your desperate escape and didn't move, the boy stood still, absorbed by your presence and the doubt, what were you doing here? Tim noticed his brother's delay after a few steps, calling his name without reply "Damian, we have to go, now" Tim was too tired to look what Damian was looking at and too late to care, he sighed impatiently and then Damian's attention returned, he was frowning in confusion as he looked at the ground in front of him. Tim was about to give up on Damian when the boy stepped in front of him and into the car. "Let's go, Drake," the older man squeaked, but decided not to fight it and got into the car.

That very day, you left Gotham, you would find another way to kill Tim, but it couldn't be there, not with Damian there. You returned to the League, you didn't explain anything to your superiors and you didn't even notify them of your arrival. Days passed after the meeting, you tried to deafen Damian from your thoughts, but it was impossible. The boy's ghost plagued every part of your mind. You had locked yourself in your room for days, asking your servants for privacy and discretion. You needed to be alone.

You didn't believe that Damian would follow you between continents, not even when you saw him standing at the foot of your bed did you believe it, believing that it was your mind playing tricks on you, perhaps your thoughts of him had become so frequent that they were hallucinations, but it wasn't, he really was there. You sat on the bed, staring at him. Your servants had disrespected the order to leave you alone by letting him in. You had forgotten that his power over the League superseded yours, even after years of being away.

You weren't sure what to do, your face was serious, trying not to let any emotion show, your eyes examined every part of Damian. His eyes were fixed on your face. Damian was looking for the differences that the years had brought you, even though he knew they were all over your body, new scars, new face, new hair style. He was trying to capture your new features, everything of you that he had lost. He found some kind of comfort in realizing that your eyes remained the same, still unable to hide any emotion.

"You need to improve your vigilance." It didn't surprise you that the first word he spoke to you was a scolding, just like when you were children, back then, that was his way of caring for you. "I will" was all you managed to say in the presence of the situation "I know", after which you stood in silence for a few minutes while you looked at each other, and on a quick impulse you got up from the bed, turning your back on Damian. You knew that, at that moment, he was looking at the many scars on your back.

You looked around your room for a shirt and then turned to him. "What are you doing here?" Damian didn't know exactly what to say, he wasn't even sure why he had come to see you, it just seemed right. Perhaps this was an attempt to fulfill the promise he had made, but it seemed too late for that to be the reason.

"Heir Al Ghul," you said after noticing the delay in the boy's response. Damian narrowed his eyes at the new way you addressed him, you didn't call him that, not when it was just the two of you, that was the way the League's servants called him, not you, you were allowed to call him Damian or whatever you wanted, all those years apart made you believe that was it for him, a servant of the League?

"I'm not the Al Ghul heir" he chose not to mention your new behavior "Then why do you dress like one?" You were quick to answer, since he was wearing armor like yours. The emerald eyes widened, he wasn't an assassin, not anymore.

"I'm not part of the League" The statement was capable of infuriating you, not for the intended reasons, but because that was supposed to be you, you wanted to leave the League, not Damian. You were only fighting that war because Damian wasn't there to fight it.

"Should I warn the men outside this room of that fact?" Your voice sounded cold and distant and at that moment it was the first time Damian wasn't able to recognize you. He wondered how much of that boy standing in front of him was the one he knew, he was still the same one he loved, he still seemed wrong, but now for other reasons, maybe because you were a murderer, maybe because your integrity was tarnished, maybe because Damian had abandoned you.

"I just wanted to see you," he admitted softly. The lack of arrogance in his voice surprised you, but his greatness still made you feel small, still wanted to make you fight, wanted to make you question "why did you leave me?" "Why did I have to take on all your responsibilities?" "Why did you come back?".

"Are you happy?" It was the question you chose to ask him, because in a promise you had made to him, one you didn't even remember, made in a hidden room at the League, away from all the harsh and judgmental eyes, while Damian cried on your shoulder (a rare occurrence, but one that you, only you could contemplate) you promised Damian that he would find happiness and you hope he has.

"A lot of the time," was his quick reply. "I wish you could enjoy these moments with me." When those words came out of Wayne's mouth, it was as if he had found you in those eyes and stopped looking for his former beloved.

You would have liked to say something out loud, but your childishness still resonated louder, even after so many changes your feelings still had to cling to his sincere gaze that would never lie when he said he loved Damian and despite the fear that the hatred outlined in your scars and war marks would hide that feeling from Damian, you hoped that his sharp gaze would still capture you.

Your love was always implicit, having to survive in the small gaps that the world had left you, no touches or declarations, what you were left with was excessive protection and glances. You wonder how children like you, raised in the midst of so much hatred and war, learned to love each other and now, even on opposite sides, you still loved Damian.

"Would you come with me?"

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

This is a very long fanfiction (2,178 words / 11,833 characters) that took a lot of dedication and love from me, I hope that someone likes it as much as I do, thank you for reading it.

[missycolorful]

It's important to remember that the Antarctic Empire, and therefore SMP Earth, is essentially canon to QSMP. (as far as I'm aware) (it definitely will be for this post, so shhh)

Think about all the destruction, mayhem, and cruel things Philza did on SMPE. How nothing held him back. He committed so many war crimes with a damn smile on his face. As part of the Antarctic Empire, he took over the world.

And if SMP Earth Philza is also q!Philza, then it's interesting to see how much has changed since the old days. How, before being thrust into Purgatory, he's been chill and minding his own business. Never really got into conflicts, never caused mayhem or destruction. The only exceptions are two occasions: a) when he returned to the eggs being missing, and he lava casted the Presidential Building, and b) at the Guy Fawkes event.

(Which as I'm typing this I'm realizing. The Guy Fawkes day was an event set the day before things went to hell. An event designed to create mass destruction. An event in which the capybaras gave Philza all the power and control, to blow up with so many stacks of TNT. and Philza fucking loved it. Perhaps to just give us a taste of what's to come.)

But anyway! Philza hasn't really delved into chaos on this server all that much. And even in the beginning of Purgatory, what he has been saying about the Red Team being underdogs is true. They weren't off to a great start; the first day and a half were hell! And yes, he only killed in self defense. He didn't trust the eye worth shit. And of course, he didn't want to hurt anyone. And I'm sure that is still true.

But as time as gone on, as the days have passed, the underdog statement just isn't the case now, as they've embraced what has made them strong, even if they are lacking in other places (i.e. not a lot of PVP players, no enchanted equipment). And they've done some questionable stuff. The situation with q!Rivers, for example. And also one I don't see mentioned which, I think was Day 8? When Phil just. Stole a saddle and a stack of potatoes from Blue Team's base while he was taking/replanting their crops. But still, Philza wants to justify these actions. "It's the bolas way." "it was for a quest" "we did this cause this." He wants to believe that what he's doing isn't bad, because he's just trying to survive in purgatory, right? Philza is a survivalist, this is how he survives.

Then we had today, where Philza's intense gameplay shined. He fought so many people in PVP, didn't even take a second to hold back, used his impressive minecraft skills to work his way to Green's base, and he killed the statue. He went wild today. Just imagine, Philza, wearing the Bolas gas mask, descending upon you with a sword, with no mercy. No, not just Philza, but the Angel of Death.

I think this is what Purgatory wants out of him. Right? Because clearly, Purgatory wants to bring the worst out of everyone.

I also think the reason that q!Phil tries to justify so much of his actions isn't simply ruled as hypocrisy (though it's a bit, in a way) or, in meta, born from self deprecation. No, there's something more to it.

It's because Philza does not want to be corrupted by Purgatory. He refuses to accept that it's dragging him to a dark place. A familiar place, even. I genuinely believe that Philza simply does not want to be like how he was all those years ago. Destructive and cruel. He doesn't want to go back. He's not like that anymore. He's a better person now. He doesn't want to hurt people, and I absolutely believe that. That's different, though, than saying I won't.