#projecting? me? never! perish the thought!

[dayraiser]

pov: you are benny gecko

[meow-meowism]

BG3 male companions and doing your hair

I had this idea stuck in my head for ages, and I finally have the willpower to write them! I wrote this with a GN! Tav with long hair in mind but if enough people like this I will write for Tavs who have short hair!!!! Also do not worry I will write for the fem companions soon!!! If you find any mistakes pls let me know this is my first non-request post 🥲🥲🥲 (No pronouns other than you)

Gale Dekarios

Gale doesn't know how he got lucky enough to meet you. Whenever he is reminded that his adoration, his devotion, his love for you is reciprocated he feels like the orb in his chest might just blow up from the rush of emotion that hits him. When you ask him to help wash and braid your hair he has to fight the urge to crush you in his embrace, settling instead on a eager yes. He met you by the side of the river close to camp and was met with the sight of you already half submerged in the water, turning to look at him at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

"And here I was starting to think I was being stood up." You teased, turning back to focus again on working some knots in your hair.

"Perish the thought! As if I would ever break a promise to my Polaris." Gale begins to remove his clothes, stepping into the water and immediately reaching out to help you with the knots.

The two of you sat in silence as you both worked to untangle the knots gently from your hair, and once that was done you took turns washing each others hair and bodies (with surprisingly little heated touches). Once you're both dry and clothed back on land you tug him to your tent where you sit down and begin to work oils into your hair, Once you are done you beckon him to sit behind you. He eagerly sits, giddily taking the band you hand him as he gathers your hair.

"Now my love, forgive me if there any imperfections in the braid I'm afraid I haven't had the joy of braiding anyone's hair before. And do tell me if I pull anything!"

After that you two sit in comfortable silence as he slowly and meticulously braids the sections of your hair together, with only a couple sharp intakes of breath and winces. Once he finishes tying the band to the end of your hair he is quick to project an image of you so you can see the braid properly.

"Oh Gale it's wonderful! Are you sure you haven't done this before?" You question as you turn your head from side to side, admiring the braid before turning around to look at the man behind you.

"I assure you, you are my first. In more ways than one." He says as he dismisses the image, raising a hand to your cheek as he places a kiss to your forehead.

Any other time you would take this as an innuendo, but you can feel how innocent the statement is. Knowing that he means such things as giving him the love he pours out back to him, seeing him as the wonderful man he is and not just Mystras chosen, adoring him as Gale Dekarios. You smile sweetly as you press a soft kiss to his cheek, and then his lips.

You'll have to try braiding his hair sometime.

Wyll Ravengard

Wyll thinks that if he could do it all over again, change not his path in life but who had set him on it, he would choose you. If he couldn't have you as a mortal, he would have you as his patron. He would sign the worst contract, everything weighed in your favor, if it meant being able to spend even a moment in your presence. But you are mortal, and you are here with him and he will never take that for granted. When you ask him to help wash and braid your hair he has to stop himself from falling to his knees in worship, opting instead for taking your hand and laying a kiss upon it as a form of agreeance. When he meets you by the river near the camp and finds you already in the water carefully detangling the knots in your hair he is quick to remove his clothes and come to assist.

"Come now my love, I know you have a hard time with the ones in back. Please, allow me." He says softly as his hands join yours in attempting to untangle a particularly stubborn knot.

Working it out of your hair is slow work, but once it is gone he is free to help you wash your hair and vice versa. Throughout the simple and welcomed task of washing yourselves he is always sure to leave a chaste kiss to your cheeks or your lips, never seeking for more than to convey how you make his heart sing. Once you both have washed away all the sweat and blood you make your way to your clothes on dry land, wringing the water out of your hair gently. Wyll grabs your hand and guides you to his tent where he pulls out a small bag of oils, setting them out for you to choose from.

"These are ones I use myself, so I can guarantee that they are only the best." Wyll provides as explanation, moving behind you to begin splitting your hair into sections to make applying the oil easier.

"Wyll, my love, you don't have to-" "I know I don't have to, but I want to. Indulge me and let me be your prince, please?" He says lovingly, placing a kiss to the space between your shoulder blades.

You cannot help but huff fondly and let a small alright fall from your lips as you lift a lavender oil and hand it to him before turning back around. He smiles at your choice.

"Lavender? Good to know we have similar tastes then. Tell me if anything hurts alright?" Wyll then begins to braid your hair, murmuring soft questions and stories to you as he carefully but efficiently works. Through it all you feel him braiding a trinket or two into your hair. Once he's done he hands you a small mirror and picks up one of his own, angling it just right so you could see the beautiful braids and the golden bands he had managed to weave into the strands.

"Oh Wyll...it's beautiful, all of it. Thank you for this, truly." You carefully set the mirror to the side, placing an adoring kiss to his lips as you wrap your arms around his neck.

"Of course, anything for the one I adore." He murmurs this lovingly into your hair, wrapping you up in his arms as he lays you both down on his bedroll.

Perhaps you could ask him to let you braid his hair next time.

Astarion Ancunin

Astarion was still getting used to being touched with no ulterior motive. You were always careful to keep your touches in chaste areas, even asking before touching anywhere in general, and it took him a while to become comfortable with it but he was getting better at asking to initiate simple things like holding hands or cuddling. He knew he adored you, no matter how afraid he was to admit that to anyone, and was grateful that you were patient. So when you approached looking shy, quietly asking if he would help wash and braid your hair, how could he say no to you?

When he made his way to the river near camp, he found you already in the water.

"Already naked an in the water, darling? Without me? I'm hurt." He pouted, the playfulness in his tone evident. He chuckled a little as he watched you practically jump out of the water.

"Astarion! I'm already cold don't scare me like that!" You huffed, turning back to face the water as you untangled the knots from your hair.

He laughed at that, beginning to undress and climb into the water with you. He had brought his own basket of oils and soaps (because he wanted to make sure everyone knew it was him who had helped you) and set it on a rock nearby.

You tilted your head towards, but you didn't fully turn around. Your voice was small, yet sincere when you spoke.

"Astarion...you know you don't have to do this right? Don't feel as if you have to." You had paused in untangling the knots to give him your full attention.

Astarions heart swelled, knowing that even when he was practically in the water next you you still made sure he knew he had an out. He moved closer, placing a soft chaste kiss to your shoulder.

"I know my sweet, don't worry your pretty little head over it. I know that if I asked to leave you wouldn't think twice on encouraging me to do so, which is why I want to stay" he turned you around gently to place another kiss to your lips, "now lets get these knots out of your hair. Frankly my dear I am appalled at just how many there are." He teased before grabbing a soap from his basket and getting to work.

It was quiet work after that, relaxing into his touch as he worked the soap through your knots and gently untangled them. He smiled at you and gave you another kiss when you asked him if it was alright to wash his hair in turn. Once the both of you had cleaned up and gotten yourselves dry, he practically dragged you to his tent so he could begin working the oils through your hair.

"Astarion, isn't this your signature scent?" You teased, recognizing his motive with a swell of your heart.

"Of course it is darling, everyone should know that you keep fine company." He replied quickly, but you could hear the warmth hidden in the layers.

You closed your eyes as he worked the oils in, and then began sectioning your hair into smaller braids to form one big one. You felt him braiding in smaller things but you couldn't quite figure out what. With the tying of the band around the end, he handed you a mirror and held one of his own so you could see.

"Oh Astarion, it's like an art piece!" You exclaim joyfully, taking in the sight of the bands and flowers made from gold woven into your hair.

"Please darling, the trinkets pale in comparison to you." He sets his mirror down and carefully, as if you'll say no, wraps his arms around your waist.

You turn in his hold, jostling his hands a bit before they can settle back around your waist as you lay gentle kisses to his cheeks.

Hopefully next time you can find some trinkets for his hair.

[mossy123302]

Ah yes ...more au thoughts..

Philza, the Angel of Death, who roamed the earth and knows many stories. He has watched Kingdoms fall, risen or watched communities band together and perish upon corruption in their system.

He used to join such a community, when he had his friend beside him, but ever since his friend had ascended. Philza was alone, once more, to roam this plane and simply ride the wave of this never ending changing of time. Soon, he found himself joining an arena, to simply fight. It paid him well, and it gave him something to do at least so Philza didn't mind...

Until they had grown bored of him. So they assigned Philza to keep guard at one of a nearby village that held criminals or elderly people. Philza didn't know why such a village was created to dispose of the elderly, he understood the criminal part but not the wise people. They could share knowledge and expand what the new generation could fix and change.

But... Phil was too tired. He just agreed, took his next pay and headed off. It would be peaceful, compared to the roars of cheering and adrenaline of fighting...but it'll give Philza time to reflect on what else he could do, maybe think of a new project? He could build something, it has been a while since he built something.

Philza was content at his new station, just having to watch over the people, help them when needed and just make sure the prisoners don't escape. It was peaceful and...not many bothered him, probably because they were too afraid to get close. Who would dare even approach the Angel of Death himself?

A certain gentle soul did.

"Hi!" A voice greeted, and Philza paused as he looked up from his journal, which he was writing in to jot down his project ideas. He was greeted by the sight of silver eyes that reminded Philza of the stars, and long black hair that gently smoothed out over the man's face. It was like Philza was staring at space itself...

"Hello" Philza greeted in return, as he eyed the man who beamed at Philza's greeting. "...Sorry, I didn't realize there was someone else assigned here"

"Oh! Oh no no, pues, si- No wait- I'm not.... Okay! I'm just more or less a caretaker! I'm helping my friend Roier take care of his abuelo!" The man said, obviously stammering through his words and mixing it with other phrases that Philza couldn't fully understand. He knew it was Spanish, a common language around here, but he never did have the chance to actually teach himself about it. He has heard of Roier...so at least the man wasn't lying, at least.

"My name is Missa!" Missa finally said, clearly embarrassed.

Missa?

...

Oh.

Philza tilted his head, his eyes lighting up slightly. "Oh, you're the new recent grim reaper sent by ...the other deity of Death" He said. Missa faintly smiled at Philza's words and nodded. "That's me!" He said.

"What brings you here then? Is Roier's...abu...uel..abuelo?" Philza slowly said, trying to pronounce "abuelo" correctly. "Is he ..."

"No! Nono! He's not dying, well, not yet at least. No, I'm just here to help a friend and to visit you!"

"visit...me?"

"Ahh...qué pena... Haha, I've... I've been watching you, or well, following you for a bit. I've... I've been seeing your fights in the...arena" Missa admitted, his voice slightly high pitch as he awkwardly looked around to hide his face that was turning purple. He didn't dare look at Philza in the eyes, in fact, Missa shuffled in his satchel that he had and pulled a skeleton mask on.

Philza slowly blinked, his eyes slightly widened in surprise at the sudden confession from Missa. "...Well, mate, I don't... Thank you?" He said, quietly chuckling as he watched Missa shuffle around awkwardly.

Missa let out a squeak, when he suddenly lost some balance due to a hole in the dirt trail, almost tripping over it. Philza faintly smiled, as he looked at his journal.

...Maybe having company wasn't so bad. Missa seemed blunt, found his...strength incredible and he was a grim reaper, someone who would not ascend nor die so easily.

"...So you find me strong?" Philza asked, and Missa paused. He glanced over at his shoulder to look at Philza and slowly nodded. "..Yes..?"

"Marry me then.."

"QUÉ?!"

Philza suddenly took Missa's hands in his own hands, not giving the poor skeleton a chance to even pull away. He had an determined glint in his eyes. A glint that Missa was familiar with when he saw those arena fights, the way Philza fought and moved, moving like he was dancing and how he smiled when he won a battle.

"You find me strong, you know of me. I can provide whatever it is you need" Philza said, as Missa's face turned more alarmingly purple.

"esperate!! ESPERATE! We just started talking—!" Missa quickly said, trying to bust the whole situation down right now.

"I'll be your strength, but should you refuse me...I will still like to court you regardless" Philza casually replied.

"OKAY!" Missa shrieked, as he tried to pull his hands away and cover his face, he knew that his skeleton mask would do nothing now to hide his purple face. He jolted when he heard Roier's whistle behind him, and he whirled around to yell at his friend.

Philza blinked and softly smiled. He was going to enjoy learning about Missa...

It was no surprise, but Missa wanted Philza to relax. He wanted to be the one to provide everything for Philza, while Philza continued to do his own hobbies like sculpting, fighting or working on his projects. In fact, because of this, Philza was able to lighten up the village a bit more and figure out which soil was more suitable to start a farm on. It wasn't ideal how far the farm would be, but Missa didn't mind as long as Philza was resting.

In fact, Missa slowly started to bring materials for Philza to sculpt with. Materials that Philza knew what it stood for... to make a child.

Death related creatures couldn't create life so easily, it was a long process.

They needed materials. This varies on what's around them, in their environment. Things that Philza can sculpt, cut down or change to make sure that the materials fitted correctly together and slowly the materials started to mold and change that resembles an egg.

When that process is finished, Philza and Missa would need to stay together with the newly created egg to infuse their magic to the egg. It was simple, yet the process takes a while because it never guarantees that it'll work the first time. Philza and Missa have never done this before, so they didn't really expect this to work on their first try.

But when the egg started to move..

Philza and Missa knew that this little egg is a fighter, a strong willed one.

..Chayanne was his name.

[totallynotokguys]

Lego Monkie Kid Rewatch: Special

Embrace Your Destiny 4/5

Last Time: Tang yelled at a homeless dude, MK had enough of Macaque's BS, all villains could have been really stand up people if not for the wanton and murderous tentencies, and Macaque proudly came out of the closet (er- shadow) as a drama queen.

And now- ON WITH THE SHOW!!!

Only the best and the brightest for this rescue mission, am I right!

“Dragon Girl!”

YEs yes yesy eys yes yes yes yes! Go free her so you can burn your enemies into ash together!!!

They’re dead…. Definitely dead. 

Oh Huntsmen. I still grieve you.

I know what it looks like. Was Wukong really about to hit MK? My answer is no. He was not, because his fist wasn’t even aimed at MK.

‘But look!’ you say, ‘Look how close it got. How could he have not been aiming for MK! The film clearly shows his fist right up in MK’s face.’

‘Ha-ha!’ I say, ‘You have fallen right into the animator's perspective trap! A trap which I, of course, did not fall for the first time I watched this. Perish the thought, I tell you.’

First, really look at this shot.

MK does not move his head. Macaque does not push MK out of the way. Yet somehow his whole arm is able to get between MK and the fist. Not even in between! Their hands are overlapping with MK’s face, suggesting that this is happening next to the kid, not in front of him.

And further proof, look at this next scene.

Macaque caught the fist with the hand that would have been furthest from MK. Meaning he had to fit his whole body between MK and Wukong without pushing either of them back.

I’ve made a very rough and poorly done representation of a bird's eye view of the fight scene so you can see what I mean by perspective.

Look, this is what the animators want you to think is happening.

And this is what Macaque would have had to do to his arm to stop the fist from hitting MK’s face.

Broken elbow anybody?

But, if we shift Wukong over just a bit, we get a much more plausible set of action sequences.

And this is why I think Wukong was aiming for Macaque the whole time. Lady Bone Demon can make Wukong walk menacingly toward MK, she can make him throw a punch in MK’s general direction, but she cannot actually force Wukong to hurt MK.

Now Macaque on the other hand. Wukong seems totally fine with diverting her violent tendencies toward the shadow monkey. 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Macaque looks his most fierce when he is most afraid. 

Why is he moving so slow?

Seriously! I know you can’t tell through just pictures, but rewatch this scene and you’ll see. Wukong just got done having a shapeshifting battle against Macaque where they were moving so fast they were having a freaking light battle.

But then Lady Bone Demon directs Wukong to attack MK and the guy is moving like an elephant doped up on anesthetics. Heavy, clanking steps. Slow, painfully so. It would seem deliberate, another scare tactic by Lady Bone Demon, except for the literal cracks in her facade of power.

Trying to force Wukong to attack MK is breaking her.

There’s that misleading perspective again. Which I love.

Just look at that confidence. This kid keeping his back to the most destructive force the world has ever known, believing with all of his heart that his lǎoshī would never hurt him.

And isn’t that tragic in a way. MK will believe in others so easily and completely, but can hardly believe in himself.

Oh how I love you, animators and writers of this show.

Wait! WAit wait wait!

She was still in him?! He was still possessed?! I thought the moment his eyes became gold and he was able to talk again that she had lost her foothold with him. 

But… if we see this ghostly projection being thrown out of him after he pulls the staff, that means she was still possessing him. So was he just ignoring her? Brute force stubbornly pretending not to hear the voice inside his head?

Wukong, you beast.

Macaque: I’m not a hero.

Also Macaque:

What's funnier to me is that he only just stood up after getting tossed around like a ragdoll by Wukong. Only in it for yourself my hair follicles. This is why I say don’t trust what he says about people and their motivations. His perspective on people is so faulty he doesn’t even read himself correctly.

I forgot about the big robot battle.

Wukong keeps Pigsy and the others from trying to stop MK when he steps forward to face LBD. 

Why? Certainly not because he knew what the kid was doing. Just look at the surprise on his face when MK holds back two mountain sized flaming swords of samadhi fire with just his Monkey Mech.

No, Wukong trusts MK. He believes in MK just as strongly as MK believed in him.

Man, I really wish I had remembered all of this. It would have made season 5 make so much more sense. 

It is so important when watching season 5 to remember that the team had knowledge and previous experience using their magic/soul to boost MK and amplify his power. It makes a certain scene in the future seem less cheesy to me, less ‘we pulled this out of nowhere with no build up or explanation’ and more ‘see how this previous battle skill is now going to become so crucial to solving the big problem we built up this season.’

“As long as I have my friends by my side, this world is perfect!”

Ah, thank you MK for spelling out exactly what you need to lose in order to want to change the world. I’m sure those words won’t haunt you later.

“Don’t use the flame, Mei-”

“-Be the Flame.”

I love that Red Son keeps talking to her, encouraging her in his own special way. Reminding her who is truly the one with the power.

But it is Mei who says the final line, not him.

Be the flame.

That guy. 

Can I be that guy? No, he’s too cool, I could never. Can I be friends with him at least? I want to be his friend.

Dragon Mech Magic Battle! Dragon Mech Magic Battle! Dragon Mech Magic Battle!

“I try not to think too hard.”

“So it would seem.”

On paper, this sounds sarcastic. Another dig at MK’s silly naive stupidity.

But the voice acting makes it clear, she’s not dismissing MK. She’s catching onto him.

What do you MEAN I can't fit anymore PICTURES onto this post!!!!! WHY DOES TUMBLRY LIMIT ME SO?!!!! ITS NOT FAIR!!!

Ugh... guess I have to make another post. Man, and I was so close this time.

[genevawrenn]

I haven't said too much on the QSMP situation so I am going to try to at least share my thoughts, as of right now.

First of all : thank you to everyone in this project who did their best through adversity and a corrupt management, you all deserve the world.

To the eggs & capys & penguins & every other admin I will remember the characters you gave us for the rest of my life. Thank you, this past year has been one of my best creativity-wise and I have written nearly as much for this fandom as I did DSMP. You taught me a lot about character writing and found families in times of chaos, I will always think of you fondly.

Now, I want to discuss a few of the things I am disappointed with.

Starting off with how the egg arc ended.

Stories, to have full meaning and impact to me, leave the endings at a point where you want what's best for the characters. You want a chance to see the character development bloom [Hideduo mainly] and having it be so abrupt left us all reeling. It was so awfully familiar as someone who came from DSMP, it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I do not blame the admins or ccs one bit here.

It's more...I wish there had been at least one last hurrah. Something Avengers level where we watched them all team up, clear out the Federation and maybe the Watcher too, and leave peacefully. Something that gave them all that one last interaction, a reminder of how through trials and trouble anyone on that island would have given their life for any child, their own or otherwise.

Every single person who woke up on that island went through development and due to miscommunication and watching the server slowly perish for months, it feels horrific to watch them all die one by one without being able to see the fruits of their labour. I am begging for fan made content to fill the hole in my heart left by that ending.

It hurts so much because I loved them all so deeply.

I mained Death Family content because I came into this fandom as a crow and adored how their little unit came to be. A son and a daughter with their damaged father who always did their best for one another. Sure, only one *maybe* was good at communication but they all tried. The effort was there. And the old crow hermit on the wall slowly became one of the most trusted members of the island due to the dedication for his family and friends.

Then I slowly became interested in FitMC's content after watching him hang out with Phil for months, and became a huevito instantly. The relationship he created in /rp with Pac was the first time in a long time I allowed myself to indulge in romance-based content [coming from a former SBI main, that should make sense]. I still remember the panic seeing the shipping art covering my timelines and checking boundaries before I realised this was something they both encouraged.

Fit and Pac came to represent a lot in my heart ; two damaged people moving at the pace both decided in order to form the family neither of them ever had. An ex prisoner and a veteran of toxic wastelands found home in one another's lives, enough they allowed their precious children to become bonded with their significant other.

They never said I love you, instead showed it through acts of service and protecting each other without question. They may not have kissed but they were always beside each other within the same space, only a short step away in case either needed support.

I will miss you forever, your characters were fantastic. I hope there are many more collabs in the future, your dynamic means a ton to a lot of people now.

Same goes to many more characters on that island I don't have the energy to do full write ups on but please know, you occasionally show up in my thoughts and another wave of mourning what I love passes over me. Death and Rosa Family were the ones I fixated on, nearly instantly, and I will create using them for a long time. I want to write their characters in a way that satisfies me, I still have to match my level of DSMP writing and beyond after all.

I want to also send appreciation to the streamers I found because of QSMP, it did what was intended and broke language barriers in ways I will forever be grateful to the translations mods that are becoming more common so I can still watch their content.

Cellbit, Baghera, Etoiles, PacTW, Mike, Roier, Luzu, you all are so cool! I enjoy your content and can't wait to watch more in the future.

Philza, Tubbo, Foolish, Charlie Slimecicle, Jaiden, Badboyhalo, FitMC, some of you I knew before and some I got to know better now, I adore you all.

All I hope for at this point is any future project takes what needs to be learned from watching this server slowly implode and please treat your employees right. Especially in creative ventures, we need the hope there can be confidence people are being treated right behind the scenes.

And to any of the QSMP CC's, I beg there are gaming collaborations and meetups in the future. You all have fantastic chemistry and I hope the families that were formed can continue to support each other.

To the admins. Thank you. I could say it a thousand times over and it would never be enough. You endured literal purgatory because you loved the plots and people so much, you deserve only the best in your future.

I intend to indulge in the egg content for the forseeable future, even if at this point I will just be VOD watching but there are still a few POV's I have wanted to watch in full and now seems like the best time. I do have several WIP I wish to finish and they make perfect inserts if I ever need characters for any new plots I imagine in the future.

Saudade QSMP Egg Arc 2023-2024. You taught me a lot within the short period of a year, you united many communities and heres to hoping we stick together long into the future.

I am sorry for the long post, I needed to spill my thoughts somewhere and tumblr's blogging format is ideal.

Let’s keep creating content surrounding the eggs and families we now miss. I understand if many move on but to me, this interest is one I will remember forever and happily talk about to anyone willing to hear me out. Just like Techno, they live on through me as long as I remember them.

[sky-scribbles]

Today I found out what happens if Gale dies (temporarily), and I... have some feelings.

I'm snooping around the area surrounding the Adamantine Forge, and my gal Fern leads the way across the lake of lava. The party, who clearly have separation anxiety, immediately decide they cannot bear to be parted from her and would rather run straight into the lava to get to the next jumping-point than find a safer route. (Should've thought to split the party but, y'know. Hindsight.)

By the time I realise what's happening, Gale's frail little wizard hit points have been long since lost. I decide to reload because a) I don't have time to go to camp and ask Withers to fix my mess because I'm on a time limit to get to Nere and save the gnomes and b) Gale is still in the lava, so no one can Revivify him. Leaving him to marinate while we go kill Nere would just make me feel bad.

But as I'm reaching for the Esc key to return to my last save, I am launched into a dialogue with a projection of Gale, which pops up to inform Fern that hello, he is Gale of Waterdeep, and if she's seeing this, he has unfortunately perished. By the way, it is of dire importance that she bring him back before the hungry orb in his chest detonates and kills everything. He hopes that he's made everything clear. All very businesslike and very well-spoken and very Gale.

And yes, I reloaded, but - not before I got the mental image of Fern standing screaming at the edge of the lava. Fern, who trusts Gale as she hasn't trusted anyone in a decade, Fern who's been falling for him, staring and helpess and knowing that for all her fire-resistance she can't get him out. And Gale's proejction pops up and talks to her like she's a stranger, being so professional and 'here's why it's important that I don't stay dead.' While Fern's on her knees with tears evaporating on her face from the heat, choked and furious and screaming.

Gale 'my tressym is my only friend' Dekarios. You never imagined for a moment that your 'in case of my death' message might be delivered to someone who loved you, did you? You never thought that whoever saw it wouldn't need to be convinced.

I wonder if, for all he left a message arguing how logical and important it was that he be resurrected, he was surprised to be brought back.

[dwellordream]

thoughts on HOTD, episode 5, season 2 (spoilers below)

I think the scene of Meleys being paraded through the streets was well done. It captured the sheer magnitude of a dragon's death to smallfolk who have never seen a dragon die in battle, and certainly not in battle so near to home. I like that we see some of the smallfolk hesitantly bowing reverently to the severed head, while others decry the Greens for it, and others still begin to realize that dragons are simply animals which can be butchered with enough force.

I'm glad they didn't wimp out on Aegon's burns. Probably they could have gone even gnarlier, but I have hope we will see them bring back Viserys' mask from season 1. And it shows us how quickly Criston reverts to arrogant contempt when he feels threatened- he can't even admit to Alicent how badly he fucked up, and now that she's distanced herself from him, he wants to grind her underfoot as much as he did Rhaenyra.

The Brackens openly goading Daemon- and Daemon threatening to burn them, then belatedly realizing he can't afford to for PR reasons, then trying to pawn it off on the Blackwoods- who seem fully willing to war-crime it up, so I'm glad they're not being portrayed as the Noble Heroic Victims threatened by those Evil Andal Brackens- is so Daemon-core. He is pathetic. He's always been pathetic.

Some of my friends have been theorizing that the show, in an effort to play up the Jace - Robb parallels, may actually keep Jace alive longer in an effort to build up his character. So I could totally see them having him survive the Gullet- maybe switching him and Joffrey's deaths- and having him perish after Rhaenyra has taken King's Landing, while trying to prevent the mob from descending on the Dragonpit. (I am not the first person to think of this, BTW, but I'd be excited if they did that- Joffrey is basically a nonentity.)

I'm aware a lot of Targaryen fans loathed the Daemon/Alyssa hallucination, but like, come on. Daemon projecting his Ideal Valyrian Woman fantasy onto the dead mother he never knew is a step too far? Really? it makes perfect sense for him. Daemon wants the fantasy of the 'perfect match' with a fiery, proud Targaryen woman- but in reality, he can't cope with the daily conflicts and compromises of a marriage with anyone, even the most biddable woman. He would never be content with the title of 'consort' in the long-run. Anyone who seriously thinks he and Rhaenyra would have had a long and stable marriage after she won the Iron Throne is kidding themselves. Daemon loves her, but that's not enough.

Alys' concern for the smallfolk surprised me a bit, but I'm not upset by it. It gives her more nuance than just 'evil scheming smallfolk witch' and sets her up as a foil for Mysaria, only 'counseling' Daemon with hauntings. At the same time, her hauntings are convincing Daemon that no one will respect him unless he makes a name for himself as a brutal sole ruler- one who is willing to do what Rhaenyra won't, slowly dooming him.

I don't find it OOC for Baela to refuse Driftmark- she was raised with the expectation she would someday be queen, obviously that's what she wants and desires. However, it would have been nice to see her suggest that Corlys offer Driftmark to Rhaena instead, even if we know Corlys is highly unlikely to agree with that- Rhaena has no dragon and is stereotyped as more 'soft' and 'feminine' than her twin.

I like the subplot with Hugh the Hammer. I'm glad they're not portraying him as a dimwitted thug, the way Fire & Blood does. He has valid reasons to want to secure power to protect his family and drag them out of poverty, and I hope they don't suddenly pivot to him turning evil the second he gains a dragon.

I feel like I genuinely don't have as much to say about this episode; it went by pretty fast, and it felt a bit fillery at times. That said, I still enjoyed it, and I'd give it a decent 8/10.

[theinashow]

Do you believe, truly, that Gazans and Palestinians will be free? I want to believe that, but seeing my friends and family perish with so little respect is planting a hideous seed in my mind that is so difficult to dig out. Not to mention how few countries are actively supporting Palestine in this crisis, possibly out of fear for the Samson Option. How are you coping with this fear?

Justice will prevail be it in this life or the life after. This is what most Muslim Palestinians like myself believe and I know my Christian neighbors back home have the same thought too. Whether or not that justice means a free Palestine within my lifetime is another case. I've seen enough family and friends go for simply existing and even I was interrogated with a gun to my head for trying to visit my uncle without having my ID on me. I was 14 at the time.

However, we have always had resilience and pride despite the world being blind to our case for decades. The recent surge of social media activism is only a taste of the resistance we've put up for this whole time all on our own. Never lose hope. So long as a Palestinian breathes with even a pinch of his identity still intact, we will see a free Palestine. We started our resistance alone and by god we will maintain it alone even if no support exists. We always had odds against us and it always seemed hopeless. We have everything to fight for and nothing else to lose but our lives.

If the colonialist project needs dozens of super powers behind it to fight us off with billions and billions of funds in months to even attempt to put up a fight against our children, that's just their sign of a losing battle. Vietnam had seen actual hell, clawed its way out, and sent the US home with its tail between its legs with nothing but trees and a will to live. Irish people were dehumanized and labeled every insult in the book to make them seem like the bad guys despite the horrors committed against them, and still believed in their goals enough to survive. God willing, we won't stop fighting our way out to our dying breath.

There is no reason to live if you won't fight for your life and what you believe in even if just within your heart. There is no fear but my fear of god and having never tried (and maybe dentists).

[dontbotherwiththepronunciation]

Triggered by a conversation between mutuals that I wasn't able to partake in because I read it when it was already over but it still left me with a feeling of wanting to talk.

Many of my recent issues with this series and some of the characters in it come from coming to terms with the fact that people like me were never the intended demographic for it and thus many of my expectations and beliefs are unrealistic. I'm very much aware that every person who ever reads a text will understand it differently based on their experiences and emotions, we can see the most clear examples of it when it comes to the eternal debates on whether Jeyne & Sansa really bullied Arya or whether Catelyn's treatment of Jon should be considered abuse, but at least in my case the projection is based more on political situations that have strongly affected me and my loved ones and that are difficult to talk about in the open without feeling like my concerns are exaggerated and are also ruining other people's fun.

This is a fun series that has given my solace written by a white usan democrat who writes orientalist tropes and gives no real personality to any of his fully-canon-not-up-to-interpretation characters of colour and uses a half assed excuse to not have any of the main characters be a not-up-to-interpretation character of colour.

An example that is lighthearted and makes me chuckle could be my perception of the Vale. To me Mya Stone wears heavy colourful ponchos while Myranda wears a sanq'apa, Domeric Bolton played not only the harp but also the charango, maté is a common drink, and at least some of Sweetrobyn's lacking health comes from soroche. None of this is contradictory to the canon but I know that if I were to meet grrm and tell him of these concepts, he would probably think I'm on crack but would smile in false sympathy while Liiiiiiindaaaaaaaaa (and some readers, fans and tumblerinas) would just straight up tell me to go read something from my shithole country instead of tarnishing the beautiful and perfect European-based world of ice and fire./sar

And I am aware that the ironborn are perceived by most and are somewhat intended to be perceived as pseudo-historic "vikings but in the late Middle Ages" but I read these books when I was 12 and still thought that vikings were just a Hollywood invention, like the orange filter they put on Latin America or white saviours.

With this long introduction here are some random headcanons regarding ironborn lore and culture that aren't contradictory to canon but would probably clash against the more common fandom-built conceptions (many of which I do not like), sometimes accompanied by explanations and reasoning, often sentimental or based on personal experiences.

Nagga, the other unnamed dragon and the geographical formation of the islands

Heavily inspired by the myth of Trentren Vilu and Caicai Vilu. In the original real life mapuche myth the two giant snakes were enemies and after Caicai Vilu (sea snake) awoke form his slumber he caused a flood to bring down mankind because he considered them ungrateful brats who didn't appreciate the gifts offered by the sea. Trentren Vilu (land snake) helped the humans escape by raising the hills and turning those who drowned into sea creatures (fish, sea mammals and the mapuche equivalent to mermaids included) and those who were about to be engulfed by the waters into sea birds. Due to the long fighting and constant floods the land developed into thousands (not an exaggeration) islands.

My ironborn version of this isn't very different from the myth narrated above with Caicai Vilu's role becoming Nagga's and Trentren Vilu's being given to another sort of dragon that was it's oponent. The major difference in my headcanons is that said opponent perished, unlike Trentren, and Nagga kept on living and causing havoc until the Grey King finally killed it off. And if I am allowed to reach out even more with all this, the mermaid that the Grey King married could have been one of Nagga's victims saved by the other dragon but, taking into account what we know from Strange Stone this would mean that the formation of the Islands and the existence of merlings and the sea dragon would precede the Drowned God. That would be interesting.

Architectonic decoration

Some of my happiest memories take place in a small and poor fisher town in my home country that was usually damp and covered in fog. The beach was not a pleasant one. A remarkable thing about it was it's architecture that wasn't very particular in it's structure but still remains striking to me. The houses near the coast were all typical colourful, wooden stilt houses, but the further you got into land the houses would change and suddenly you found yourself in small and dirty alleys and streets between concrete houses that were rather plain in shape and old but the walls were covered in sea shells, and sometimes starfish and sea urchin carcasses, that had been plastered on the concrete. When I was 12 and had just moved to another country my class was tasked with making a dissertation about what we associate with the word "home". My teacher was a xenophobe who delighted in tormenting me and she laughed at the pictures and referred to them as tacky, my fellow classmates liked emulating her. I however still find them beautiful and that entire sentiment is something I mildly associate to the iron islands in a way.

It is my home. Flawed and meagre, but mine.

I also think that since sea shells are cheap and common it would fit into their more utilitarian tendencies; giving a purpose to what little they have instead of overspending (gold price) on aesthetics. For some reason this is something I like imagining at Harlaw and Lordsport in particular. Here are pictures

Music

Feel weird about this because music in the entirety of Westeros is very generic and that makes it a little boring in my opinion. When it comes to Ironborn we are told of two reaving songs ("Steel Rain" and "The Bloody Cup") and it's mentioned quite often by ironborn characters that getting a song about them is something they should strive for. There might even be some religious reasons behind it too but that wasn't expanded on:

The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song. - Theon I, ACOK

Makes me wonder if Theon's "Let Abel make a song of that, we flew." could have been influenced by ironborn culture too instead of just his usual romanticism and the chivalric connotations of him "saving the girl". I haven't compared this to the other characters so I can't be sure about this but from my notes Theon seems to think quite a lot about wanting to be in/not being fit for a song.

We also have Loron Greyjoy, "the Bard", and we know very little of him except for that he used to have a gay ol' time with Desmond Mallister, but there's nothing that points to him being looked down on by the other ironborn and the nickname "the bard" feels significant but there's no info so what am I to make up with that? Well, I like to think he was a bit of a patron of the arts and maybe even a composer. The two reaving songs have no mentioned origins so maybe he was involved in their creation.

The thralls were pouring ale, and there was music, fiddles and skins and drums. - Theon II, ACOK

I like all of those instruments but grrm you are a bore. Westeros is about the size of South America and yet they have a total of nine instruments named. Loved the mention of kettledrums during the kingsmoot though.

The largest kettledrum in the world finds itself in Bali and serves religious purposes. I like to believe that perhaps the kettledrums during the kingsmoot also had some religious reasons for their use. Perhaps traditional melodies used to announce the different contenders for the seastone chair.

Drums make sense for reaving songs and truth be told I'm not sure to what he was referring with "skins" but I was surprised by the fiddles because they seemed like a wink at the just as anachronistic golden age piracy, even if fiddles have been around since the 10th century. This makes me think of more folkloric oriented music made more for dancing in taverns and harbours than for rowing.

When being deranged I became aware that percussion and string instruments can be played underwater as they don’t rely solely on air to transfer sound (they would still be very difficult to play and the sound would be weird). Dragging a bow across a fiddle would probably be easier than strumming a harp or lyre though. I don’t think the ironborn are deranged enough to try to play music under water but it makes for a fun picture to imagine them being more fond of sounds that can be transferred through it. I’m imagining them trying echolocation with dolphins.

For some reason I can’t really explain I like the idea of them playing the marimba and other percussion wood based instruments.

I like to believe that the finger dance can be somewhat compared to capoeira as in serving aesthetically pleasing and artistic purposes but also carrying a sort of danger and fighting spirit to it. It is something I can see as a pastime, acrobatic exercise and art and I like that.

Some mapiko dancers will bind sea shells in nets to their clothes and they will use them as bells and rattles when they dance. I like to think this could maybe be part of the finger dance when performed for artistic purposes, like perhaps a diplomatic visit or a national festivity, instead of just as a game.

(not ironborn lore related but as I went through my notes I realised that Theon is usually tense when thinking or witnessing happyish heroic sort of songs but he seems to be weirdly at peace/melancholic around "sad" and "soft" songs during ADWD and I find that very endearing. Go listen to Chris Garneau's between the bars and castle time you sad sulking ghost I love you I wish I could have seen you thrive but we are all doomed : ) )

Priestesses of the drowned god

I am heavily against the fandom notion that the Ironborn built a culture out of toxic masculinity that is particularly misogynistic when in canon women in the island (or at least ironborn women) have more liberties than in most of Westeros (with Dorne as an exception and maaaaaybe the North). The only female stewards we see in the series are all iron islanders and Asha being allowed to reave and raid and engage in spaces usually reserved to men isn't the exception to the rule. Theon mentions that women like her aren't uncommon in the isles, Asha is said to have resembled her mother in spirit and Hagen's beautiful red headed daughter, who is so low on the socio-economical hierarchy that she doesn't even get her own name, is not only allowed to behave similarly to Asha, but her sexual freedom is never questioned or criticised either. I honestly think that their most problematic issues come from feelings of ethnic superiority, not a personal vendetta against women.

So, I find it disappointing and lazy that we haven't gotten any female spaces in the faith of the drowned god. I remember someone mentioning on a Tumblr post that on one of the asoiaf based video games drowned priestesses were a thing. Sadly I have never played any of the video games and I can't find any further sources for this so I don't know if I should trust that. But! I like that idea. Drowned priests are restless; they have no home and are made to basically pilgrim their life away; they travel around the islands and also accompany the men on raids. I think it would be cool if the priestesses of the drowned god had a more stable role in ironborn society. During the age of heroes we had salt and rock kings and in a way I could see the drowned priestesses as the rock to the drowned priests salt but with less authority.

Maesters are still somewhat recent in the Iron Islands and I don't think that Septas would have been appreciated by most ironborn women given their teachings and expectations around gender norms so I like believing that priestesses of the drowned god could occupy that space as educators of children and healers. History and religion seemed to be tied together in ironborn culture and their religion at least passed down orally so I can imagine them acting somewhat similar to mande jèli but with more of a focus on religion and less importance on the overall politics. I can also imagine them performing less important rites, like weddings, coming of age ceremonies or maybe fertility related acts. So basically a mixture between Maester and Septa with a lesser standing to their male counterparts.

Rafts as beds

Drowned priests, who have no homes, should sleep on rafts on nights that are more or less calm because that is a magical experience that I think everyone should go through at least once in their life but it's also fitting to their entire suffering theme because you will freeze to death and get a cold.

Dhows

I learnt how to row, sail, fish and use the night sky as a map before I learned how to ride a bike and my personal nitpicking issue with the world building in asoiaf is the nautical terms used. What do you mean longships and galleys that have decks and cabins????? Even if they have two levels of rowers (and most of the described ones don't) this rarely makes sense!

And you know what? I'm not even going to take my time to give them accurate Viking-like ships. In my head, they travel on dhows. "Dhow" is a generic term to refer to certain types of sailing boats that are mostly used around the Indian Ocean and I am in love with them.

They are precious to me and they allow me more variety when imagining the different ships mentioned in relation to the ironborn characters.

Sea Bitch for example looks more like a beden to me than like a typical Viking longship

but I can still imagine smaller, simpler looking galleys when needed, like a Dhoni. They can carry quite a lot of heavy stuff so they are usually good for trading (and probably raiding) too.

If I recall correctly, the Iron fleet has been identified by the text as some hybrid between dromonds and longships and I can be content with that definition. Personally I picture them more like Byzantine dromonds with a deck, cabins and more than one set of rowers.

Colloquialisms

I have always perceived colloquialisms as a subtle type of resistance to colonial and imperial forces, so I assume that the less integrated and maybe more separatist parts of Westeros (such as the Iron Islands, Dorne and maybe The North) would probably have a wider range of colloquialism as region based expressions. This is difficult to convey in fanworks of any sort and I can't think of any time I've made it noticeable in any of my fanworks but I like thinking about it. This could include idioms related to religious or geographical lore or more ambitious terms stemming from perhaps a former language spoken in the region or words taken and adapted from places they have sailed to, like the Summer Islands.

[15depressedducks]

Thank you for 100 followers!

So for 100 followers I made a fanfic!!!

So here is the first chapter of Flowers Can Grow in Concrete!

Hope you like it!

(Feel free to criticize what I have! I really want to be better at writing!)

(Here's it on Tumblr if you want)

Chapter 1    Left Behind

The cold wind pounded against the spire, yet could never knock it down. The inhabitants made sure, for if it fell, they would perish in the boiling hot sunlight. As the sun set, the drones awoke, their wings scraping against each other making soft clicks and clanks. 

One unwrapped her tail from the ledge, falling down she flipped upright and used her metallic wings to ease her landing as she collided with the floor. She then stood up, brushing the snow off of her suit, fixed her pigtails, adjusted her yellow armband and waited for the others.

The others took some time to wake up. In that time the disassembly drone had her breakfast, discarded parts and oil from the body’s of worker drones she had brutally killed days before. Oil was the only thing that kept them cool, without it, they’d die a horribly agonizing death, being melted from the inside out. The limbs from the corpses helped too. It helped them be able to regenerate faster. 

With a few clinks and chinks it signaled to her that one of her teammates were here. 

“Finally! I was wondering if you and N were ignoring me!” The first drone spoke in a somewhat harsh and annoyed tone as she was turning around. 

“Oh no! I really care that you're mad at me J!” The second drone said, her voice being sarcastic with hints of venom. Her neon yellow eyes narrowed on J. She was wearing a dark gray short sleeved crop coat that had some fur on her collar. She also had a yellow armband and a red scarf.

“Well Unless you want to hunt with N, I'll happily stay back here V.” J said, knowing that V would back down because she mentioned her and N hunting, and frankly J wouldn't want to do that either, He’d mess up the hunt. Like she predicted, V backed down and stomped off to get some oil, a wise choice. 

J muttered under her breath “You guys were two peas in a pod, now you avoid him like the plague.” But just then N landed beside her. “Hi J! How’d you sleep?” 

N, J thought with as much hate as she could muster. She saw yellow eyes, the black coat with a belt around the waist Something he probably stole from her! And a pilot hat on top of his silvery hair.

“Go get some oil, we’re having a meeting.” 

So he ran off.

To J it felt like a million years had passed with how slow N and V ate their food. N ate his like a sane drone, right by the pile, but V, she likes to grab a portion like an arm or leg and fly back up to her nest. It was inefficient, wasted time, and wasted oil. J was infuriated and was tempted to pair them together to hunt, but decide against it. 

They all huddled together right by the entrance to the tower when J cleared her throat. “Me and V are going elsewhere to hunt. N!” She liked randomly snapping at N, it always made him straighten up and look right at her. 

“You are going to stand guard here and kill any drones who decide to toy with death, you got that?” Her tone never lightened while talking to N. 

“G-got it J!” He spoke while saluting, something that slightly peeved her. J and V  walked out further and extended their wings out and launched up, high into the sky. They were coming, and those little workers better be wary.

[aladaylessecondblog]

The Sharmat's Lovers (Dagoth Ur/female Nerevarine/Indoril Nerevar)

Author's Note: This is just an excuse for pure unadulterated filth. Sex, oral, fingering, M/M/F, Nerevar has both sets of plumbing because idk

All Voryn's dreams are coming true ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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

It was something that took time to get used to, this strange trio that they had formed.

Sadara had hoped when she was brought back in her ghostly form and restored from her ashes, had seen that hope perish when Vivec returned Nerevar's bones, and had it rise again after a lengthy argument in which she and Nerevar had both stated that the other deserved Voryn more.

And Voryn, oddly, had come up with just the thing to settle the argument.

"Why should I not have both of you? I have two hands, after all."

It had been an odd thought that neither she nor Nerevar had even considered. Each of them had replied, "Why should you want ME when you could have her (or him)?"

And though she had never considered such a thing before Sadara found herself quite pleased with the outcome. She was free to dally with Nerevar, and he with Voryn, and with much discussion they had all grown to rely on the bond between the three of them. After such time in solitude and despair it was wonderful to be so surrounded with love.

Voryn did as he had always done. Nerevar conferred with Gilvoth as to the defense of the place (and of all of the Red Mountain region), and she...well, she tended the home, as she'd wished to for such a long time. It was comforting for her to look after such things, to direct the servants, to see that guests had all they needed. It was wonderful not to have to really worry any longer about things like food, security, or--

"The lady is alone. I believe she was told to avoid this." Nerevar's voice echoed slightly in the large room.

There was, she was sure, no safer woman in all Morrowind than her. No woman better taken care of, fussed over, tended to, doted on.

"The lady was going to have a bath and then a nap," Sadara replied. "Sometimes she thinks her loves worry too much."

"And I think you do not worry enough."

"I spent eighteen years worrying...forgive me for not--"

"I know, dearest. Apologies...given what I witnessed not only in my life but in yours as well...I find it is hard to lay down that anxiety. Every day I expect to wake up and find that all this bliss is nothing more than a cruel illusion."

Nerevar's affection was similar to Voryn's, but where the latter tended to be more silent and grabby in his affection, Nerevar was more inclined to speak his mind and lay his anxieties out. It was a regular habit for some one of them to have a day like this, and for one of the others to comfort and be comforted in turn.

(Nerevar had written a 'holy text' lingering on the subject of loss, the fear of it, and the absolute necessity of enjoying your loved ones as much as possible - for one day, it finished, you may lose them. They were eternal, the people were not.)

"As do I," she replied, relaxing as Nerevar's arms slipped around her. "On the worst days, I simply hunker down and...wait for the feeling to pass."

"Is that why you've hidden yourself from us?"

"You've both been busy today, and it's not as if I can't tend things in relative solitude. We've no guests, and..." she paused slightly at the feel of a kiss in her hair. "...I wish not to burden either of you."

"If there is anything I regret," Nerevar said suddenly, "It is that Voryn got to be the one to deal with Azura. She has been a blight on all of us...whispering poison in our ears, telling us we are nothing without her. Blaming us for every failure in her plan."

"I think I was the main cause of that first failure," Sadara gave a slight laugh. "When I drank that brandy, and..."

"And kissed Voryn. You did what I never had the courage to do."

"Courage had nothing to do with it. I was drunk. I was attempting to tell him that you'd always thought about him in a sexual way, and...being drunk, didn't have the words for it. So I kissed him..."

"And once kissed, the dam of our love burst free."

"You seem to take a more romantic view of the...event, but we weren't of a mind to think too much on that at the time. At least, I wasn't. 'Fucking me like a madman not five feet away from the heart' is how I might put it."

"Quite a colorful way to put it, but having watched it, perhaps you're right. But regardless. It was that kiss, that fucking, that has saved Morrowind. At least if Vehk is telling the truth...the tale he wove is a strange one."

"You were spying--filthy mer! And could we not speak of Vivec right now?" Sadara squirmed, and managed to turn herself around. "Talk of quite literally anything else."

There was a pause--and then they both laughed.

But a moment later Nerevar looked down at her upturned face, and pressed a deep kiss to her lips. The second he parted with her for air she said, "You're as eager as Voryn, aren't you?"

"He wasn't the only one to finally have a drink of the 'waters of relief,'" Nerevar said, "More than four thousand years. Surrounded by beauty, yet unable to touch it. He was imprisoned in a desert and I in an ocean. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink."

"Then drink," Sadara replied--and this time she was the one to kiss him.

There was a growl, and a moment later Nerevar's hands came up, practically tearing at her robe. The next parting had her giving a laugh.

"You and Voryn are determined to ruin my wardrobe, aren't you? At this rate I'll have to go about in a loincloth like he does..."

"That and the golden adornments...ah, how often we both think of it...but Voryn, well...if he had his way we'd both dress that way. Such filthy dreams our lord has..."

"Easy access," Sadara got out after another kiss. "That's all he wants out of our wardrobe--"

By this point Nerevar had backed her against her bed, and a second later was lifting her onto it. When she lifted her skirts there was another growl.

"I know what you want," she whispered, "You want to make sure I'm good and loud so he'll hear us. So he'll catch us."

No answer. Nerevar didn't even bother fully disrobing, choosing instead to lower his armor-leather pants just enough to free his cock.

"Oh, the things Lord Dagoth would do if he caught us..."

It was so easy to get Nerevar going, so very, very easy. All she had to do was show her eagerness, mention Voryn and the prospect of being caught, and her warlike love would be hard as a rock and ready to go.

Again the press of Nerevar's lips, and the feel of his cock against her soaked center.

(She hardly bothered with underwear at this juncture, Nerevar and Voryn both had a habit of being too impatient to pull them off and often resorted to simply tearing them to shreds.)

"Go on," she whispered, too wet to wait any longer, "Either fuck me or--"

Nerevar cut her off with a swift thrust that buried him fully inside her. He gave a gasp against her lips, and a groan when he pulled back to thrust again. She crossed her legs behind him, ensuring he couldn't fully withdraw.

She tugged at the belt of her robe, knowing he would do it himself if she didn't do it for him. His hands moved up instantly, opening and pushing it back, exposing her entirely.

"Nothing beneath this robe," Sadara grinned, "How does that make you feel?"

"And I thought I was the tease of this little group," Nerevar groaned against her neck. "You--"

"Me," she laughed and pulled him into a kiss.

Nerevar's thrusts alone would have been enough to do the job for her--simply the feeling of his rapid movements, being filled and spread, over and over. But it was not his way, to leave a thing well enough alone, to settle. So when his next thrust had her falling back, he reached down to stroke over her clit.

"You want to be heard, don't you?" he turned it on her, pressing down with such precision that Sadara was keening almost instantly. "Oh, you do, you--"

A hard thrust, a press down. A moan echoed from her lips that was absolutely pornographic.

"Let him hear us, all the way in the Heart Chamber," Nerevar's teasing went on, his hand still moving, "The louder you are, the faster he comes, and the sooner my poor needy incarnate gets what she really wants."

"N...Neverar," Sadara groaned, "How many--times--do I have to tell you that--I DO want you? Do I have to scream it for you to finally understand?"

His name was a prayer on her lips, as much as Voryn's was at other times, and every time she called it, it was louder--louder--!

She fell apart beneath him, around him, riding out the heated waves as long as possible before letting the warm afterglow rise to drown her.

"On the bed," she gestured vaguely, "I know you're not done yet."

"Voryn is right. You are a greedy thing."

Really she was, but the tease and denial made this game of theirs more interesting. Some one or other of them was always teasing, taking it in turns so no one felt too much was expected.

"Not greedy, only eager. But if you don't want to silence me, I could simply leave...collect my things, have a bath...and leave you to be satisfied in other ways."

That lit a fire under him. Nerevar moved onto the bed once he'd shed his clothes, and lay back, making sure he was comfortable. His cock stood firmly at attention, and she moved up, kneeling before it (and him, really).

She lavished it with her tongue, caressed the underside of the head, licked a stripe from the base to the tip...and then against a background of soft moans Nerevar was obviously trying to muffle, her hand's movement went unnoticed. He certainly noticed it when she traced the dampened slit of his cunt, though.

"Sadara--"

She didn't usually press for this--he preferred only letting Voryn touch him there. Not out of some shyness, but he did so love to be bred, and that wasn't something she could do.

"I can stop if you want me to," she replied, stroking briefly at his cock, "But I have one of these too, and...I'd like to see that what I know can...help you too."

"I'm sure it can't be very--"

"I can make you scream," she grinned, and gave the most seductive expression she could manage. "And Voryn really WILL hear us. Because what makes him come running faster than hearing you in need?"

"The both of us, but--" Nerevar had one golden arm up and over his eyes now. "Go ahead, you've made me wait long enough as it is."

Sadara smirked, slowly easing two fingers inside that soaked center. "Hot," she said, "And very wet. You're as eager as I am, aren't you?"

Any reply or retort Nerevar might have made was silenced when Sadara lowered her head, took his cock into her mouth completely, and at the same time buried her fingers in his cunt knuckle deep.

All that passed his lips was a strangled moan.

Not so chatty now, are you? she thought.

As big a game as he talked, he was so easy to reduce to this point. It was so easy to touch him in just the right ways and render him functionally mute.

His hand at the back of her head, the sudden grip of his fingers in her hair, and another groan as he started to buck against her head. Sadara went slack, letting him do it, letting him him have the control he so desperately seemed to crave.

Nerevar seemed to be saying something, but Sadara couldn't bring herself to care what it was. The feeling of his cock in her mouth, the slight saltiness of his pre, the stutter in his hips when her fingers pushed deep enough for her thumb to grind over his clit...

...it consumed her.

There was a high-pitched cry, a last buck of Nerevar's hips--and a shudder as his cock pulsed and filled her mouth. She swallowed down his seed quickly, spilling only a drop--a drop she wiped from her lips as she moved back up.

Her smirk was triumphant...until she felt a pair of hands at her waist.

"I see," came the sudden sound of Voryn's strained voice, "That I cannot leave the two of you alone for any amount of time without returning to a scene of utter debauchery."

Nerevar gestured and gave his reply in an airy voice. "You needed further proof after the last few times?"

Voryn's trimmed claws pricked at the soft skin on Sadara's waist, and she pressed back a bit, hoping to get things moving.

"Tell me, which of us did you hear?"

"Nerevar. Why?"

"We had a bit of a bet going..." Sadara glanced up at Nerevar. "And it looks like I won. I wonder if our dear Nerevar will have anything to say to that. Perhaps he'll just remain silent?"

"Perhaps he'll want to punish you for being so smug." The hands at her waist were caressing now, never going very far, but stoking the flames from her last peak. "Will you, Nerevar? Or will we let this little defiance go?"

"I think not." Nerevar lifted Sadara's chin, and gave a smirk of his own. That was his hortator voice, the one she'd ALSO come to love. Voryn had his thunderous tone of mock-anger, and Nerevar had this. "Voryn, I think we need to remind her not to lord things over those above her. To be a graceful winner...or loser, as it were."

He lay back again, and pulled her forward to lay atop him. His arms quickly moved tight around her, leaving her in just the right position to hear his whisper in her ear.

"Now, my dear, it is time for you to serve. Our lord has had a very stressful day, and he requires a means of...relief."

Oh, to be held like this, to be between them. This, this was heaven, and she needed no other. If it was a dream, all she wished was for it never to end.

"Then," she gave in a slightly edged tone, "Stop playing around and let me--"

"Such bossiness from an outlander...this will not stand. Voryn?"

The thrust that came next was completely unexpected, and had her whole body tense from the sudden intrusion and spread. Either that was part of a game the two others had already devised, or Voryn was skipping a few steps first. But then again, he'd never been a patient mer.

Sadara tried to stifle the moan that the movement forced from her throat, but it passed her lips anyway, and left her clenching at Nerevar's shoulders. "Gods..."

Nerevar tutted at her. "How many times do we have to remind you? There is only one god here, and you serve at his pleasure. You're only lucky he's eager to be relieved, or he would have spent time making you fall apart..."

Another thrust, another outcry--and then a steady jarring of her body as Voryn wordlessly started a brutal pace.

She couldn't speak, could barely think. Her pleasure rose in sharp spikes, each time she was stretched and spread around Voryn's cock. There was nothing of coherent thought at this point, only the eager insistent movement of his hips against hers and the ecstasy that followed.

"We're being so good to you," Nerevar said, drawing her into a brief kiss. "Poor, needy thing...do you know what I've noticed?"

"Wh...wh...oh!..."

"That you have all the same little weak points that I do." he smirked once more, and raised her just enough to start nipping love bites into the soft skin of her neck. The moan that followed had him grinning further, and he dragged his tongue over and around the same spots. "Oh, what a discovery..."

"Nerevar--" Voryn groaned and moved down, pressing Sadara down and leaving him face to face with Nerevar.

"What would my lord have of me, hm?"

(Here Sadara found herself, pressed between two men, two men she'd come to love at different points. One cock inside her, another beneath her and weeping pre onto her belly, and she had never felt so well satisfied as she did right then.)

"If you keep calling him your....oh, gods...your lord, you'll just hurry him into...mmm..."

"Oh no, no, no..." Nerevar laughed, and in a suddenly much darker and more alluring tone, added, "If I wanted to do that..."

A momentary stop, a further press--she couldn't exactly see what was going on, but from the sound of it, Nerevar had finally locked lips with Voryn.

The pleasurable movements slowed as her two loves kissed, but didn't stop entirely. But it left her more coherent than the savage pace from earlier.

"And you say what we were doing BEFORE was pure debauchery..." She could think of no more filthy thing that what was happening right now.

How long they stayed like this, none of them would be quite sure. Hands and mouths and teeth and tongues, stroking, caressing, kissing, loving. By the time Sadara felt her second peak approaching she was sure they'd never be able to top this moment. That nothing could ever be as enjoyable, as warm, as satisfying.

The end nearly leaped into her throat on a deep thrust, and she groaned right into Nerevar's ear.

"Harder," Nerevar suddenly demanded, "It was me that drew you in here, but it'll be her that actually screams tonight."

"Please," she called out, "Please, I'm so close..."

"Let her have it, Voryn," Nerevar said, "All of it. Her end, yours..."

And then a thrust that tore a genuine if well pleased scream from Sadara's lips.

"Are we going to let her take any story back to her forsaken outlander home that does not ensure your reputation?"

Closer, and closer still now.

"Or do you not want her every vein to thrum with desire because of you, o god of the mountain?"

Her eyes were clamped shut, so she didn't see which of them grabbed at her breasts, or her waist, or tilted her head to give them better access to her neck.

It didn't matter.

"Go on," she heard Nerevar whisper in her ear, "Come for us. Come for us."

The first wave of orgasm rose, and crashed on a final thrust from Voryn. Flame burst beneath her skin and spread in pure wildfire through the rest of her body--she screamed out her pleasure into the pillow beneath Nerevar's head. Then, finally, she relaxed.

A final thrust, and Voryn was pulsing and spilling inside her.

They lay there like that a minute or two, relaxing, breathing, recovering, really.

Not until they'd separated from one another and come back together--Sadara was kept pressed between them as they all lay down. Exhausted, but replete.

"If this is a dream I pray I never wake."

"No dreams," Voryn said.

"All of it, every bit...is real." Nerevar added that, and joined his free hand with Voryn's, which lay on Sadara's hip. "And we will NEVER be parted again."

[jedimaesteryoda]

Victarion had been sent by Euron to retrieve Daenerys to be his bride, but Victarion has other plans: he intends to marry Daenerys himself and become king not just of the Iron Isles but all of Westeros. Having spent his entire life being the follower serving others from his father to his brothers, and having failed to win the kingsmoot, he now takes the opportunity to become the leader.

"Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen." The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

On wings of song I fly to you, Daenerys, the iron captain thought.

-ADWD, Victarion I

The way Victarion thinks of Daenerys is notably similar to another Westerosi suitor, Quentyn. Quentyn saw himself by his own admission as on “a grand adventure . . . Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren” only for his plan to marry her fall flat. Victarion likewise was sent to retrieve her by his sovereign, and thinks of her as a reward at the end of his long quest. 

It’s seen further in his thoughts on her.

But I shall make the dragon queen mine own. She will share my bed and bear me many mighty sons."

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

And Euron had not made Victarion a gift of her; the Crow's Eye meant to take her for himself. He sends me like a serving man to fetch her. How he will howl when I claim her for myself. Let the men mutter. They had sailed too far and lost too much for Victarion to turn west without his prize.

-ADWD, Vication I

The way he refers to her as “gift” and “prize” shows how before he even meets her, he’s objectifying her. He projects his fantasies onto her as some prize or damsel in distress wanting a big, strong man to come get her to become his trad wife who gives him sons, and just goes along with what he wants without even wondering what she might want. 

He’s missing some clear indicators about the abilities and person of the girl he means to marry that are pointed out by Tyrion:

"I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet.”

While the submissive Vicarion was handed the Iron Fleet, Daenerys built nearly everything from the ground up. Daenerys didn’t get her dragons, her army or her city by being meek and submissive, but has shown herself to be strong, smart and resourceful and capable.  

Victarion will find to his dismay when he finally meets her that Daenerys isn’t some meek, submissive damsel but someone just like his niece Asha who is a strong, proud leader (and smarter than him) not willing to subordinate her goals and ambitions to his.

He had seen the wench wed too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had made a widow.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

But then where does he go from there? The dumb brute’s ideology is constrained by the Old Way which taught him nothing about diplomacy. What happens if she rejects his offer of marriage? Victarion likely will not give up after having come so far, and when in doubt, he would consult the Old Way or ask what Euron might do. 

The Old Way taught him to take things by force, including people. Victarion has taken salt wives before, and he was even willing to kill Dany’s husband Hizdahr just so he could marry her without even taking into account her reaction to such an act, showing a clear lack of regard for her consent. I think should Daenerys make it clear that she won’t marry him freely, it would result in him trying to marry her by force. 

"In the Seven Kingdoms, there are tales of dragons who grew so huge that they could pluck giant krakens from the seas.”

That, of course, won’t end well for him. While “at sea the kraken rules supreme,” in the Dothraki Sea, the dragon reigns supreme. His attempts at courting Daenerys will likely end the same way Quentyn’s did as the dragon Daenerys named in the spirit of the husband who protected her, Drogon, will likely deal with this troublesome suitor.

The deeply misogynistic Victarion who abducted women as salt wives and beat them to death for being raped by his brother, dies at the hands of a woman he tries to take by force. Daenerys herself ends up taking his Iron Fleet after having paid the Iron Price of Victarion.  

Thus is the fate of any Greyjoy who strives for a crown. 

[drivelikescooters14]

Can you share 8 of the juiciest ludwig von koopa Headcanons with me (if u don't mind 😅)

Hm, that’s a new one for me. No matter! You ask, you shall receive!!

• Firstly, I’ve always thought that out of all of the Koopalings, Ludwig had the closest relationship with their mother. Up until the day she died, he was always a bit of a mama’s boy, you know?

• He’s incredibly claustrophobic, which is why he doesn’t enjoy going out too much with his siblings (especially not to big events that they aren’t obligated to be at) Another reason is also because he hates loud noises as well.

• With how much stress that’s usually put on him, he often finds himself going with unhealthy food habits as a coping mechanism. He actively attempts to fix it everyday, but he often backtracks his progress (The others are always there to help him as well!)

• He’s definitely a theater kid, there’s no way he’s not. (Maybe I’m just projecting though..) I think it started when Kamek took him out to see one, bonding with Kamek over theater along with magic.

• He has this strange fear of getting too attached to people, not risking getting too close in fear of losing them. Same goes with pets or other perishable things. It often leaves him feeling isolated, but he thinks it’s what’s best for him.

• A few special interests outside of music would be history, theater, painting, fencing, creature anatomy, witchcraft, and possibly also card tricks. Oh, I almost forgot! I totally headcanon that he loves fashion, often tailoring custom outfits for members of his family.

• For a while, Lemmy was scared of Ludwig. For what reason? It’s because he thought his older brother was a vampire. Ludwig didn’t understand why, but it was obvious to everyone else. He does do many things that a stereotypical vampire might. He’ll never admit that, though. (Don’t worry, that whole thing got cleared up years ago!!)

• There are a few characters in the SMB Franchise that I’ve always assumed might have possible connections with Ludwig. (Or I just thought maybe they’d get along..) The following are just that: Antasma, Amadeus Wolfgeist, King Boo, Madame Flurrie, Count Bleck, Yaridovich, etc.. Another one is also Dieter from Bowser Junior’s Journey. Yes, I know they’re kinda rivals, but if they met on different terms they’d totally be friends.

Andddd I think that’s it!! This is my first time ever really sharing like this, so I hope this is what you wanted!! (Thanks you so much!!) :]

[youthereader]

Near Zero part 9.

PAIRING: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 2.9k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

RATING: E; (no smut in this part), angst, period-typical sexism

A/N: Although based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character, and does not intend to be accurate. This is merely for entertainment. I'm back, are you still with me? Thank you for your patience.

masterlist.

The morning after Robert leaves, everything aches. The feeling never leaves, not for days or weeks. You ignore it as best you can, and it’s easy to keep busy. You quickly learn that he was going out of his way to see you, and now that he’s gone he’s away more often, and the work of your team is a constant buzz. You become part of their pool of drinkers, occasionally waking up hungover and forced to pull yourself upright to return to work, head spinning, memories foggy.

One particularly heinous morning, mercifully a Sunday, Kitty Oppenheimer shows up at your front door. You physically recoil when you spy her through the window, nausea amplified as she waits for your response.

You open the door, glancing down to the small plant in her arms. It’s the succulent she threatened to gift you. She beams, coming toward you. 

“Here,” she says, placing it in your hands. You peer down at it, and it glows from within. It’s well taken care for, the poor thing. It has no idea what it’s in for, being yours now.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, and step aside for her. “Come in.” 

Kitty wanders in, inspecting. You’re suddenly embarrassed by the way you live in a way you never have before. It’s all because she’s Robert’s wife. You wait for snark, but she pulls in a breath, pointing at the kitchen table as you approach it together.

“That looks like a good spot for it.”

“Thank you,” you say again, and put it down.

There’s an awkward pause and Kitty gives a soft chuckle. “Would you get me a glass of water, dear? That walk down here was longer than I thought…”

She’s about to tell you she’s pregnant. She’s not showing yet, and you haven’t heard the news from someone else. Pretending you didn’t know will be a struggle, at least on your face. You’ve never been the best actor when it comes to faking surprise. Your intelligence is still hard to conceal, a feigned cluelessness impossible to achieve. 

“Here,” you say, quickly retrieving a glass of water, passing it to Kitty. 

She takes a few steady sips, then sinks into the chair opposite yours at the table. You don’t use this table. The last thing to occupy it was the flowers Robert gave you, weeks ago when you decided to end things. You kept those flowers well after they shriveled and perished. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw them away until they were crumbling everywhere, absent of any real shape. You swallow the lump that forms in your throat, coughing.

“Are you well?”

“No,” Kitty groans. “I don’t suppose you…”

She trails off, reading your face, and she lets out an almighty sigh. 

“Did he tell you? For God’s sake-”

“Tell me what.”

“We’re having another baby,” Kitty mutters. “I suppose it makes sense, telling another woman. It tends to be exciting news for us…”

She sounds bitter and you flush, shaking your head.

“He didn’t tell me. But you seem-”

“Exhausted beyond belief?” 

“Not yourself,” you amend. “Do you need me to send for someone?”

Kitty waves you off, taking another sip of water. “It’s nothing. Or everything. Either way, I’m supposed to feel like this.”

It sounds appalling, and you don’t envy Kitty. At least, not because she’s pregnant. You watch as she finishes her drink and sets it aside. 

“To be honest, he probably hasn’t had time to tell many people, let alone you,” she says. She glances up, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Would that be correct?”

You nod. You itch for a cigarette, but fear that if you move too much you’ll give away something, your pain or your loneliness. At least you haven’t been crying that morning yet, a rarity. You look at the succulent, at its smooth leaves layered on top of one another. 

“Is it close?” she asks, and you frown a little. 

“I don’t think it will feel that way until it’s over,” you reply. “Not with Heisenberg out there, or the Soviets breathing down our necks.”

You’re being glib, repeating whatever you hear the men say. You work and go home, and that is your life. Without Robert, things are significantly simpler, and sadder.

“He’s not…”

Kitty trails off, and you lock eyes with her, your stomach giving a lurch. Kitty’s face changes, her anxiety slipping away a beat later, and you wonder what she meant to say. 

“Someone he knew died.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, automatic. 

This all feels incredibly bizarre. Kitty is always so put together, and even when she’s seemed to open up to you, it’s purposeful. She gathers herself, drawing in a breath. She stands up before you’re ready and you nearly startle. 

“I should get back-”

“Yes,” you say, trailing behind her. 

She pulls you into a hug. 

“I never said congratulations,” you say, when she’s part way out the door. “I’m so sorry. I was up late, I’m-”

“Sounds painfully familiar,” Kitty cuts in. She gives a more genuine smile. “We’ll have you over for dinner sometime soon. So you can have a decent meal for once.”

You laugh, relieved a little, and yet you know there’s no way you’d survive being with the Oppenheimers again. You can’t imagine being in the same room as Robert with him paying any attention to you. You’ve avoided him quite easily, and he’s done the same with you.

-

You see him. You see him in the middle of the night, standing in the street like the phantom you’ve seen before. Hat on, smoke rising. He walks down your street and stops in the middle of it, as if in a stupor. 

You only noticed him because you can’t sleep either. You watch the street most nights, and this is the first time that the thought of him has manifested him. You let out a shaky breath, waiting for him to move again. You count nearly a full minute before he puts his cigarette to his lips, before realizing it's extinguished. He replaces it, lighting up. More smoke, and tears well in your eyes. The unfairness of it hits you. He’s going wherever he pleases, but you cannot. You can’t march into his house and demand he take you back. But he’s in your street, for whatever reason, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

You sniffle, the urge to race into the street rising. You count to ten, turning your back on the view of the street. You light your own cigarette, tossing aside the burnt match. You have to be better at this, just a bit longer. You have to hold on.

You consider throwing the succulent against the wall, but you’re actually fond of it. The thought of losing it is so pathetic that you huff a wet laugh, going back to smoking. You think of Robert out there, walking in the dark. You remember what Kitty mentioned - his friend died. Who did she mean? Did it have anything to do with him being spied on?

Your resolve weakens and you slam your eyes shut, exhaling smoke through your nostrils as you hug your arms. You blink back the blue glow of the moon through the window, glancing towards the street again. He’s not there, and you’re glad, and then you miss him again. 

You remind yourself that this was your decision, too, despite Robert being the one to bring you flowers to lay upon the grave of your affair. You didn’t want to share him with a pregnant Kitty. A part of you felt like you made the decision for him - if you couldn’t have all of him, he couldn’t have all of you.

-

Laurence was an unexpected addition to your life, a friendship gained through drinking and being generally more sociable. He always had a spot for you to sit, offered lighters, told stories and shared ideas that weren’t censored at all. He trusted that you understood everything he spoke of, he never underestimated your intelligence. It made sense then that he tried to set you up with an acquaintance. 

“He is the luckiest man in the world,” he joked, referring to the chemist named John Ainsworth. “A bachelor in this day and age.”

“And I’m a single, childless woman,” you counter, flicking ash into the tray between you on your desk. “Society doesn’t know what to do with me.”

You both lean against the wood as the other men drink and laugh, a record player in the background. It’s a typical night after working long hours bent over papers.

“I didn’t say that,” he retorted with a roll of his eyes. He pushes his glasses up. 

“Implied.”

He shakes his head. “Can I tell him you’re interested? Once I run this idea past the Boss?”

He means his wife, and you smirk. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.”

He gives your knee a single pat and pushes off the desk, leaving you alone. You smoke in silence, contemplating another drink, thinking of Robert. He hasn’t been around for several days, and hasn’t shown up at night. You’ll always worry, but he no longer lets you close enough to console him. He is yet to speak to you at all. There’s no bitterness there, just that ache, that longing that will never truly go away. You carry it like a stone in your skirt pocket, your thumb rubbing it every so often when you remember it’s there. 

The chemist is sweet, in the sense that he treats you like a very precious thing for a few weeks. Whatever it could have been between you never builds quite far enough, and you’re fine with it. Your acceptance of his rejection baffles him. On paper, he’s an ideal husband. He is intelligent, respectful, employed. He’s not excessive in drinking, or any kind of debauchery that a girl’s parents would fear. He doesn’t push you into sleeping with him, in fact, you pursue him but get no further than some kisses you share, which are adequate. The safeness of it irks you a little, makes you bold enough to ask him outright:

“Why don’t you want to go to bed with me?”

John pulls away from you a little, as you’re sitting close together on a bench. He likes to walk with you in public, likes to stop and chat to people he knows. People look at you with him and smile, happy to see you are trying. He has the square jaw of a football player, and every time you notice how classically handsome he is, you think of Robert’s suggestion that you date a football player. Never in high school did a single popular boy on the football team pay any attention to you. 

He frowns, somewhat alarmed by your directness. You haven’t let on your true nature just yet, and this slip up seems enough to give you away. 

“I’m not sure how serious you are about this.”

You’re entirely too casual and he knows it. There’s being reserved, and then there’s you - aloof. Frigid, even, at least emotionally so. You let out a short laugh, and he stares at you.

“That’s fair.”

“Well, are you? I don’t want a girl who doesn’t see the seriousness in such a thing.”

You barely break eye contact as you take out a cigarette, which you light yourself. You smoke more and more these days. It’s one after another, especially when you’re alone. With John, you tend to have the odd one, it’s not constant like it is when you’re working, or like when you were with Robert. You get a flash of a memory - Robert using the end of his cigarette to light yours when you were in between making love in your hotel room - and then you snap your lighter shut. 

You take a long time to answer him, smoking as you see him trying to read you. 

“You’re quite adamant about this.”

“It’s important to me,” he retorts, offended. 

You study him some more and he scoffs.

“Does it not matter to you?”

You don’t miss this - being with a man whose ideas about sex aren’t modern like Robert’s. Your value changes depending on something that doesn’t affect the value of a man. The hypocrisy was staggering, though admittedly having no guilt when it came to sleeping with Robert, a married man, was unusual. 

“It does,” you lie. You amend this with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t. I think that’s ludicrous.”

He leans in, dropping his voice. “I’m not expecting you to remain a virgin until marriage.”

You almost laugh at this. “Good.”

“But I need more time, and more… indication that you give a damn about me. Or am I just someone to spend time with? Don’t you have other friends?”

That last part was unnecessary. You rise from your seat abruptly. 

“I suppose I don’t, John.” 

  You turn back, cherishing the confusion that turns to embarrassment on his face. Anyone nearby would be able to see your rebuffing of him. 

“Where are you going?”

You ignore him, walking on. 

-

The Oppenheimers welcome a baby girl. You meet her one afternoon with some of Kitty’s other friends. She has Robert’s eyes, like her brother. Little Peter hangs in the doorway to the den, fingers in his mouth. He’s afraid of the baby, like you are. You’re handed it nonetheless and don’t know what to do with her - except stare and marvel at her size. She’s so small, and yet she carries multitudes. Her fingers wrap around your thumb and you smell milk on her breath. 

“She’s adorable,” you manage to say, and then quickly pass her on. 

You do like children. You know this about yourself - you always have. You just don’t want any of your own, no matter what these women around you say. They coo and imply it’s your turn soon. Never mind that you and Ainsworth have barely been seen together in months. You did sleep together, but it was perfunctory, and ultimately quite a lonely experience for you.

It’s easier to be swept up in the work, in the equations and debating and workplace dynamics. 

“You’re such a man,” Kitty teases you, and you blush. “I think you’ll have to be trapped into having a baby.”

“Interesting idea,” you retort, and the ladies giggle with mischief.

Your reputation as a spinster changed over the last year. Now you’re known for being loose and distant, like a femme fatale in a noir film. The concept couldn’t be further from the truth, but you don’t acknowledge anything you overhear whispered behind your back. Supplying the gossipers with any sort of retort serves no purpose. You are still perpetually on the outside, even with Kitty Oppenheimer as a friend, even with the scientists as drinking buddies. You are between worlds. 

You leave with the others, missing Robert by hours. He is out of town again, and you have no fear of a confrontation. You are strangers passing one another in the street, not that you’ve seen him out lately.

-

Christmas Day comes and you rise from your bed slightly hungover, sleeping late. For you, that’s after 9 o’clock. You dress, triple layers, cigarette dangling, and wander into the street. 

Everyone is cheerful, and it’s easier to imitate today of all days. Neighbors wave to one another and you weave past children playing. You’ve run out of milk, otherwise you would have stayed inside until later. Christmas celebrations were happening tonight, and you had books you’d rather be reading. 

You shiver, contemplating who will be attending tonight, but you need not have bothered - you arrive at the general store to find Robert and Groves conversing, Robert’s hands on his hips. They stop talking as you approach, which gives away the nature of their conversation. Top Secret, something you’re no longer privy to since you stopped seeing Robert. Not that he blabbed excessively about classified information; he gave the broad strokes often enough to not name names or strategies.

“Good morning,” you say. It’s the most you’ve spoken towards Robert in months. 

You could have pretended to have forgotten something at home and raced back, avoiding this altogether, but the festive season makes you braver. 

“Is it?” Groves grunts, regarding you. 

In the handful of times you’ve spoken to him, Groves gave you his opinion on women in science - they shouldn’t be involved whatsoever. He often questioned the relevancy of female secretaries, the wives of scientists, being employed at Los Alamos. He was civil, to some degree.

You hear Robert give a breath of a laugh. He says your name, your eyes meeting his fully for the first time. 

“Merry Christmas.”

“You, too, Oppie,” you murmur. You nod at Groves. “Sir.”

“Hopefully it’s our last here,” he says, and you nod again. 

Another year here, costing the government arms and legs and whatever else. All those resources pooled, the massive gamble this entire project is. You watch Robert, but can’t read his face. He’s far away from here. The pause between the three of you is awkward.

“Will either of you be attending tonight’s festivities?” you ask, to break the silence. 

You sense they’re waiting for you to leave to get back to their conversation. The men answer at the same time:

“Yes, briefly.”

Your eyebrows hike and you smirk at Groves, whose grumpy stare is never truly intimidating to you. You turn your heel and keep walking, hearing Groves describe you as “pleasant enough” which for him is high praise.

You feel Robert’s eyes on you, burning the back of your skull as you walk away. Tonight, if he’s there, you know you’ll finally be together again.

Alone. 

taglist: @indulgence-be-thy-name, @forgottenpeakywriter, @amiets2 @dilfsffx (hmu if you'd like to be added)

[wilanserulia]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Prompt 28 - Deleterious

Just a heads-up, this one deals with early stages of depression, among other things, and gets a little dark in places. Intrusive thoughts, mostly. I blame the prompt.

The door to that quiet house opened all of a sudden. And the first thing Wilan saw from its threshold was Delen, the auri refugee from Terncliff that he was letting stay at his place, lounging around in his living room, sprawled on his couch, reading a book in not much else than her smallclothes. They noticed each other, and locked gazes for what felt like a couple of centuries of awkwardness. And then, at the same time, he slammed the door close while she jumped off the couch. From behind the door’s solid wood he could hear heels stomping on the floor as she hurried to run up the stairs, feeling his cheeks grow warmer.

A minute or so later the door’s handle clicked again, opened now by the auri woman wearing a hastily worn tunic. “H-hi.” She stammered, catching her breath from the unexpected sprint. “Hi.” he greeted back, awkwardly. He cleared his voice before speaking again. “Sorry I, uh, I should have let you know I was coming home.” She shook her head and hurried to say. “No no no, I mean, this is your house after all you don’t have to... ask permission to me or anything I was just...” Her cheeks as red as his, she looked away “I mean, you don’t really come back all that often, so I wasn’t...” “Well” he chuckled nervously “that was kind of our deal, no? We agreed I can let you stay here until you get back on your feet because I’m hardly ever home anyway.” he said, and they both chuckled awkwardly. “Look I didn’t think to let you know I was on my way back to La Noscea, and that was on me. I’ll be sure to write you a letter, next time.” She nodded. He nodded to her nodding. And then it occurred to both of them that they were still standing on the threshold.

“Uh, can I brew you a tea?” Delen asked, still not really sure of what to do with herself now that the owner of the house, the Warrior of Light himself, was back home. Wilan had just carried in a crate containing his armor, the one with the white plates and the bright blue surcoat. “Oh, no no there’s no need. I don’t really like tea, actually.” “Oh. That explains why I hadn’t found any in the pantry when I moved in.” she considered, as he joined her in the kitchen. “I figured you had just run out.”

“Speaking of which, oh man... I’m back from a journey and I have a full pantry!” Wilan instead observed, amazed by such a relatively mundane event. “Perishable food and everything. Never mind the tea, I’ll be happy to just be able to make myself a sandwich that doesn’t only have dried meat in it!”

As the au ra drank her tea and the hyur ate his morsel, he filled her in on his adventures thus far. His tales seemed to include his achievements and victories almost as an afterthought, and instead mostly focused on the places he had seen, the marvels he had witnessed, the secrets he had uncovered. So passionate was his tale that it took him a while to find the time to chew his food. “Well, what have you been up to instead?” he finally asked, friendly. His sandwich almost gone by now. “How have you been finding your new life here in Vylbrand?” “Oh, me? Uh...” Delen looked around, as if looking for something somehow equally as interesting to say. Truth was she had barely left the house, save to buy groceries. “You know, I, uh... I kept busy. I took care of the housekeeping. I read some of your books.” she said, trying to make a list out of the precious few things that occupied her time. “And, uh, I guess sometimes I go take a walk near the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?” Wilan asked, suddenly concerned, putting the remains of his sandwich down. “Yeah, uh, there’s a cliffside by the sea, I found out, to the north. You know, next to where the windmills are.” “Why, uh...” he didn’t know how to best ask this, trying to contain his alarm “Why by the cliffs?” She parted her lips, not quite catching onto his concern. She hadn’t really given it much conscious thought. “They... remind me of home.” she said finally. “Oh!” Wilan commented, a bit relieved. “Right. Terncliff. It’s built on a clifftop, isn’t it? I mean, it’s right there in the name.” She murmured in affirmative. “Even back there, I spent a lot of time there, looking out at the sea.” Wilan regarded her for a long moment. That young woman, sitting at his table in front of him, looking away, lost in thoughts. He had known that giving her a place to sleep and to call home, however temporarily, wasn’t magically solve all her problems. But he figured maybe he probably ought to try a little harder to spend more time with her. Granted, he had other worries on his mind, but... he couldn’t ignore this one, either. “Say, uh... do you want to show me these cliffs? Maybe we can go on a walk together?”

A gentle breeze blew from the sea to the east. The windmills turned lazily, in the distance. They had walked for a while in a not quite comfortable silence. He had wanted to talk to talk to her, let her know she had a friend, but he realized he realized he had no idea how to approach a serious conversation with her. He was no stranger to helping people, but he mostly dealt with immediate dangers. Getting innocents out of harm’s way, deal with what wants to hurt them, that kind of thing. That was easy. How do you even begin to tackle this... deep-seated melancholy he felt every time he looked at her?

They were mostly just enjoying the scenery. Which, he had to admit, was beautiful no matter how used he was to it. Especially at this hour, with the clouds over the sea tinting of a warm golden color. So, just to at least get a conversation started, he decided to point it out. “You know, living here, you start to give a lot of things for granted. Traveling halfway across the Realm when there’s such beauty even right next to home.” She listened to him talk, and sighed. A moment later she stopped, all of a sudden, and walked dangerously close to the cliffside, staring wistfully at the horizon. “Home...” she all but whispered.

Wilan noticed she had stopped walking a few paces later, and turned around. He looked at her for a long moment. “Delen...?” he called out in a low, carefully calm voice. “Hey... Isn’t that a little dangerous?” A few moments later she seemed to register he was talking to her. She glanced in his direction, and then at the cliff below, somehow a bit uninterested, as if distantly taking notice of how high up she was. “Mh. I suppose.” she commented, a bit drily. Carefully he stepped up to her and offered her his hand to step away safely from the edge. She turned to consider it, somewhat distantly, and then she took it. “Yes.” she said, stepping back toward the path, a bit disjointedly from the rest of the conversation.

After a moment of silence that seemed to stretch unnaturally, she talked again, in a more lucid voice. “In the city, back home, there were railings and balustrades everywhere.” she explained, not quite meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t really dangerous unless you did something stupid.” “I... see.” “I didn’t think about that, that’s all.” she said, her lips curling into a rapid smile as she resumed walking. Wilan looked at her go, and then hurried up to catch up with her, taking place between the girl and the cliff.

“Wilan?” she asked, as soon as they were back side to side. She hadn’t quite turned to look at him, but her voice sounded entirely like her own again now. “I’ve been thinking... Me staying at your place, isn’t it...” she seemed to chew on the words for a moment. “Isn’t it making things awkward for you and your... I don’t know, girlfriend? Boyfriend? Partner?” She exhaled through her nose, likely annoyed that the wording of that simple question was getting away from her. “I don’t want to cause any troubles in your sentimental life, is what I’m trying to say.” Wilan smiled warmly at her concern. “Nah, there’s no danger of anything like the sort.” he said. The smile still on his lips, but a little sadder. He, too, now glanced out to the sea, lost in a gnawing thought he had been trying to ignore until now, before continuing. “Somebody with, uh... with my lifestyle, with my responsibilities, well... I don’t really think I can afford the luxury of something so normal as being in a relationship.”

The words were a little stilted. It was the first time, he realized, that he had put that feeling into a sentence, but the recent events had made it very clear to him. Delen tilted her head, now looking at his face. “What do you mean?” “Well it... It would probably be kind of selfish.” he said. “And unfair. To anybody who had the misfortune of being in a relationship with me, I mean.” She looked intently at him as they walked, her eyes asking him to elaborate. “The thing is, uh...” he sighed, and looked out at the sea again “To put it plainly, I live a dangerous life. Ever since a few years ago, I’ve been traveling all the time, risking life and limb on every corner of Eorzea.” he said, the words finally flowing out of him, his eyes growing a little bright as he says them out loud. “How do you commit to a relationship, that way? How do you go out and risk your life knowing somebody’s back at home waiting for your safe return?”

She considered his words in silence. Granted, his logic seemed sound. Granted he was making a lot of sense. But... That sounded so lonely. Wilan breathed in in the silence that stretched, as if he wanted to say something else, his gaze still turned toward the sea. She stayed quiet, and listened. “There’s, uh... Speaking of which, I mean, there’s...” he stumbled a little, but she listened. “There’s another reason why I’m back in Vylbrand.” “Mh?” she asked, encouraging him to keep going. “Well...” he tried to find the right words for a few moments and, failing that, he decided to just say it like it was. “Leviathan has been summoned. And... I’ve been asked to slay it. The operation will start tomorrow.” “Leviathan?” “A... kind of deity figure to the Sahagin. It takes the shape of an enormous sea serpent.” He glanced at the thick clouds over the horizon. “That storm brewing over there, that’s probably his doing.” “An Eikon? I learned about those in school. The summoning rites of the savages.” she commented, thinking back to the Garlean-mandated education she received. “And they want you to...” “...kill it. Yeah.”

She scoffed. “Excuse me?” But one glance at his face and she instantly knew she hadn’t misheard him. “...oh.” she said, quietly, stopping in her tracks. “But... But how do they expect you to... what... How!?” He stopped as well and gave her a sad smile. “I’m, uh... a bit of a veteran when it comes to slaying Primals. You see, I’m among a very small group of people who are immune to their―” “Yes I get that but how are they expecting you to fight a sea serpent!?” Wilan’s heart sank. He had no good answers to give her. “They’re, uh... they’re coming up with this plan.” he said. “Basically load this boat up with crystals, and use them to charge an... experimental magitek shielding device, and...” “Wait, so they want to send soldiers out in the sea in a storm to... what, stab a sea serpent with a sword?” A bitter chuckle came from Wilan’s lips. “Well, no. Not quite, no.” he said. “They just want to send me.” “Are then insane!?” Delen all but shouted in outrage. She couldn’t believe her horns. “I’m probably as insane as they are for agreeing to it.” “You did what!?” she looked at him in shock. “Why!?” Wilan pursed his lips, looking away from her worried eyes. “To, uh... Well, to ignore the plights of those you can conceivably save, it’s, uh...” he stammered, clinging onto the teachings of his mentor, but his heart wasn’t in it. “well it’s... indolence. I suppose.” “Conceivably what!?” the auri girl said, growing more agitated that he had seen her since the day they had met. “Wilan there’s heroism and then there’s madness!”

Wilan listened to her protestations. He couldn’t really deny any of it. Mostly because he shared all of them. Yet, as his shoulders sagged and his chest felt heavy, a sad bitter smile appeared on his lips. He looked out at the oncoming storm once again, feeling like he had no control over his own life. “Yeah but... somebody’s got to do it, I guess.”

[qe-podfic]

Check out @lexarturo's FUNKTACULAR cover illustration for Chapter 1 of Quantum Entangled.

AHHHHHHHH. THIS ARTWORK MADE ME PISS BLOOD. /pos

Excerpt below cut:

Gosh, he was late! Anathema—Aziraphale’s formidable but quirky supervisor—was going to wring his neck like a repressed housewife in the 1960s, squeezing the last remnants of dirty dishwater out of a hand towel. Only, instead of soap bubbles, it would be Aziraphale’s bloodied guts spilling out onto the linoleum floor. Anathema was a kind young lady, but there was an unmistakable fire in her eyes. It was the fire of a girl who had gotten her doctorate in her mid-twenties. And, with nowhere else for her limitless passion—and it had to be limitless, because writing a PhD at forty wasn’t an easy feat; doing the same, in half the time, required about as much mental fortitude as one might expect (ergo limitless)—to go, she had adopted Aziraphale as a kind of pet project. If you knew her, and you were gifted with any sense of self-preservation, no matter how small, you wouldn’t willingly get between Anathema and her latest pet project.

Aziraphale was currently getting in between Anathema and her latest pet project.

Never mind that he was the pet project, he wouldn’t put it past her to learn the lost art of necromancy in the wake of his recently corpse-ified body, post-murder on account of tardiness. A trivial little thing like death couldn’t put a stop to Anathema Device. Perish the thought!  Supposedly—on account of some author or another—there were only two constants in life; death and taxes. The first of these we’ve already discussed. The second, according to Aziraphale’s blurry memories of the Device estate and its subsequent callous disregard for bookkeeping—books of prophecy excluded—was no obstacle either. In the wake of such revelations, Aziraphale wished to propose an amendment to the popular idiom. There were only two constants in life; ‘were’ being the preliminary condition. Because, once Anathema Device was born, death and taxes both tendered their resignations and held hands while they skipped gleefully into the sunset. Aziraphale hoped they had a holiday house, somewhere near the beach, where they could grow old together. He would do the same if he didn’t fear Anathema finding his proverbial vacation-inn and thoroughly beating the—proverbial or otherwise, Anathema wasn’t much fussed—ever loving crap out of him.

The dark storm cloud of his—Anathema themed—violent musings had brought Aziraphale all the way to the faculty staff room. Its thin pine door was a wooden board lacking stature, opulence, and foreboding, but trying its best to make up for it by acting as the sole barrier between Anathema Device and the outside world. It was a futile effort as Aziraphale, easy as anything, pushed it open—the lock had broken an indeterminate number of months prior, and no one was bothered enough to do anything about it—entering the domain of his supervisor.

“Ana? I know I’m late, but I’m here now if that counts for anything!” Aziraphale called, wafting the gift of crappy university coffee towards the hunched pile of sweaters sitting at Anathema’s desk. The sweater pile turned to look at him, revealing circular spectacles that enlarged the eyes beneath them. Her elk-fur coloured irises, blown out to proportions more fitting for an alien, or an animated bug in a Disney classic, were not tempered by the human habit of blinking. Anathema had mastered the unmoved stare by the age of four, she was not going to let her streak—almost three decades unbroken—end now.

“Aziraphale,” she said in a tone that implied that it could list your sins verbatim, without need nor want for breath. There was a moment of silence. Then, unlike herself, she sighed.

“You don’t even have a paper for me to demand a draft of yet. Neither of us have any work to do. For all intents and purposes, this is a social call. You can’t be late to a social call, Azzy. It begins precisely when it does, with no interest in the time it was planned for.”  Anathema explained, making Aziraphale feel a mite foolish, as she was often wont to do. Having deposited the lukewarm beverage onto her workspace anyway, he made himself comfortable in the cubicle-desk hybrid opposite her; where she was regarding the cup with the conditioned wariness of someone who had already known the taste of the grim sludge TadU had taken to calling ‘coffee’ these days. Her first sip wrestled a grimace onto her typically calm features, but by the time the second sip hit her tongue, she had acclimatised to the amalgamation before her. She continued drinking it, her exterior, at least, affecting unperturbed. Anathema was always more for the content than the aesthetics. In this case, the content was caffeine and the aesthetic was the offensive chemical concoction that contained said caffeine.

“I spoke with Crowley today,” Aziraphale remarked, apropos of nothing.

Anathema hummed appropriately, if not disinterestedly, before actually processing what he had said.

“The thesis guy you were so excited about? The one with the dissertation on primate social behaviours and their implications for modern notions of evolution?” Anathema probed, suddenly interested in the conversation.

“The very same.” 

“Holy fuck, Azzy. You’ve had the biggest crush—” Her words were interrupted by the swift interjection of one—rather embarrassed—A.Z. Fell.

“Academic crush. I value his unique perspectives,” he didn’t need to say more on the matter. It was a well trodden argument.

“Fine, you’ve had the biggest academic crush—” She coughed something that sounded an awful lot like ‘bullshit’ before continuing. Aziraphale offered her his handkerchief, regardless. Politeness was something he prided himself on, even when his friends were being obstinate hecklers.

“—on him for ages! This is big news! What did he say?”

Aziraphale floundered for a moment, unsure how to distil their brief meeting into something comprehensible. While most of Aziraphale’s conversations strayed into the territory of ‘a bit odd’, his exchange with Crowley was more than ‘a bit odd’ even by his—somewhat unusual—standards. No, the banter between him and Crowley ventured past the ballpark of ‘a bit odd’, beyond the neighbourhood of ‘somewhat peculiar’, and landed straight in the realm of ‘Weird Nerds saying Weird Nerd Things’—capitals included. Not that Anathema wasn’t a Weird Nerd herself, it was just that her particular brand of Weird Nerd veered more towards occult philosophy and historical chronology than it did towards quantum mechanics.

“He recognised me, actually. He mentioned my Master’s in passing and even asked for my number.”

Anathema knew all about Aziraphale’s MDiv, having friended him doing a joint research project on the Salem Witch Trials. This meant that she also knew, more intimately than most, how utterly boring his thesis was. Well, boring to anyone who wasn’t specifically that brand of Weird Nerd. It both surprised her and didn’t surprise her that Crowley was exactly that brand of Weird Nerd. Surely, for as prolific and expansive a researcher as Dr. A.J. Crowley was, it wouldn’t be beyond justification that his interests swept the dusty niche of Pauline Christian theology. But, on the other hand, it simply didn’t fit the vague sense of academic identity he carved out for himself. His debonair leather jackets and faux-suave saunter never seemed like a natural counterpart to the stuffy rigmarole of pastoral philosophy.

“Did he ask for your number? Or did you bluster your way into his contacts?” Her tone was suspicious, and not unwarranted. Aziraphale had—mostly by accident—ambushed himself into the texting roster of many a fellow bar patron, classmate, and—on one notable occasion—a critical care nurse. It was an unfortunate habit of his, coercing people into adding him as a new contact. Therefore, Anathema was not unfounded in her doubts.

Finding himself unwilling to explain it, Aziraphale just handed her his phone. Letting Anathema draw her own conclusions was often the best option available when she scented a curiosity. Upon viewing, she grimaced. First at Crowley’s comment about wanking on Bohr’s grave, and then at something she alone could parse. It was the kind of double take that only she could do. One where the art of it was that she could present the aura of looking away without actually taking her eyes off of the chat logs.

“He sends an awful lot of kisses, doesn’t he?” was the sole comment she graced him with.

“I think that’s just how he types,” Aziraphale returned, for lack of a more poignant remark. Anathema nodded solemnly, like the text chain in front of her was instead a trial record straight out of Salem. It was oddly familiar, an absurd echo from their early post-grad.

“Angel?” Anathema questioned—something wicked about her—as she reread the nickname, thinking that she might have misinterpreted.

“Oh! I’m afraid that’s an in-joke of a sort. Nothing as untoward as what you’re implying, dear girl! Ho ha!” Aziraphale chuckled with the odd inflection of a bad liar, even though he wasn’t—technically—lying.

“Sure.” Anathema snorted, as unconvinced as a woman of her intelligence should be when faced with such an awful performance. 

It was in the ensuing silence (an intentional silence, on Anathema’s part—she could break even the toughest of method actors with her intentional silences) that the telltale ‘bzzt’ of Aziraphale’s phone brought news of an incoming text. Faster than Aziraphale by whatever metric you wished to measure them—other than, perhaps, the metric of who could devour a pie, éclair, or other sweet treat fastest—Anathema ducked under the desk to read what she hoped to be another message from Crowley. Lady luck, as it appeared, was on her side (or was just pissed with Aziraphale for no particular reason).

“Angel?” she recited with all the dramatic flair of a thousand William Shatners thrown into a Kugelblitz black hole.

“Did your supervisor…” she paused for effect, and also to kick away Aziraphale’s reaching hands as he tried desperately to get the phone back.

“Actually kill you?!” she squealed, peals of laughter interrupting her very serious and not-at-all-over-acted sobs. Steadying herself with a slow breath, she retreated further into the cubicle half of the cubicle-desk hybrid.

“I might just have to avenge your death,” she read, voice gravelly as she felt the ‘script’—or ‘Aziraphale’s private texts’ depending on whom you asked—required it.

“—if they’ve truly gone and skinned you alive.” The message ended with two obscenely wet kissy sounds, paying homage to Crowley’s typical sign-off. Then, prim and proper as anything, she got up from the floor under her desk and handed Aziraphale his phone back. She had the grace not to laugh outright as he hastily scoured the message with greedy eyes of his own.

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