#the way that i still perseverate over the typos in this

[molter-writes]

I just saw a gif and it gave me such “Alicent and Rhaenyra in the North” vibes that I’m shaking

link

[velvet-cupcake-games]

Made Marion: Small Patch and Holiday Devlog

Version 2.1 EA Release

We have released a small bugfix/update patch.  Here are the notes, which you can also find on Steam and Itch.io.

Uploaded the final version of Will's final CG (Spontaneous Ending). If you unlocked the in-progress version, you can see the final version in your Art Gallery in Extras.

Misc. typo fixes and editing pass over the Love Interest PoV Scenes.

Will's Sunjati name has been changed to Iyiola as we were informed that his previous Sunjati name was unintentionally funny/awkward for modern West African readers.

Altered "you can leave your hat on" joke/reference because due to sprite limitations he literally can't.

Small blocking issue solved: Will's route was blocked at the end of Sherwood Chapter 2 if you first asked about Layton. This has been fixed.

Made Marion Holiday Devlog

Our first patch was originally meant to expand Robin's love scenes to match the length of Will's (and the length that they will be from here on out), but a hard drive burp ate my writing and I'll have to redo it all. That'll show me not to forget to back up to Github.  Since I want to get going with John ASAP, Robin's updated love scenes will be released along with John's route.

I'm now outlining and idea boarding John's route. It's going to be quite the contrast from Will's, in which two young scions yearning to have control over their own destinies came together. In John's route we have the meeting of two responsible young people who were forced by circumstance to grow up before they were ready.

John is kind, protective, and can be stubborn in his own way. Despite technically being Robin's second, he's used to being the captain that steers the ship. So is Marion. When they meet, will she take it as an opportunity to let go and be protected for once, or will she challenge John's need to always act as the bulwark between the world's dangers and the people he loves?

Your choices will lead to different kinds of love and different kinds of struggles as you work toward the Challenge or Compromise Ending.

Art Team Priorities

Here's what our artists are up to:

Arrapso (Sprites, CGs) is creating some sprite models that are not wearing their trousers, for when I have sprites zoomed in during love scenes in which they're supposed to be naked. We still won't be showing anything below the waist, but some of our gents have some fairly high waists on their trousers and the visible belts were bugging me.

Lawrichai (cut-ins, lore intro) is concentrating on the animated lore intro. We've decided to make it a full animated movie instead of doing smaller animations in-engine, so Lawri has picked up Live2D and is animating away!  I'm excited to see what she puts together!

Here we have some cool, possible Fae Lord sketches for the intro:

Sandra (backgrounds, creatures, cut-in assist) has finished all the backgrounds I currently need, and with FIFTY BGs plus many variations, I'm doing my level best not to need any more! We only have one more creature to design (Lord Geoffrey's favorite hunting hound), so she has graciously agreed to help us with cut-ins so that Lawrichai can focus on the lore intro and love scene illustrations.

Happy Holidays!

We will be taking December off from updates, so I should have some nice John route news to share when we return mid-January, 2025.  I hope you all have a lovely holiday season, or if the holiday season is not lovely for you, that you persevere and are able to take time for yourself.

[marchtooctober]

Twiyor Month Prompt #XI:

Royal AU

My fic contribution @twiyorbase

👑 More Than Meets the Eye 👑

"Your Highness. I was ordered by Prince Yuri to give this fresh harvest... of apples."

Upon seeing the sleeping princess, Lionel placed the basket of apples on the table.

"Your Highness? Princess Yor?"

She really is asleep. The embroidery that she had been working on was almost half-way done, resting on her lap and about to fall from her hands. Threads of different colors were on her feet.

Lionel approached her.

"This is dangerous, Your Highness. You should not be holding on to these while you're sleeping. You might get hurt by the needle." He said, despite not expecting any response.

He took the embroidery and threads. Ever so lightly, his finger grazed the princess' hand. Lionel flinched away in surprise. It was enough to cause him a slight fluttering. He gazed at the princess.

Her divine features will never be justified by any portrait.

"Hnn..."

The princess stirred a little, causing her head to slide sidewards. With a quick move of his hand, Lionel caught the princess' head, preventing it from hitting the chair's carvings. He then carefully placed the princess' head on the backrest.

Suddenly a gust blew.

"Ah! The embroidery!"

Lionel picked up the fallen item and placed it once again on the table. When he turned once again, he let out a soft laugh. The princess' hair was disheveled by the wind. He bent over and moved away the strands of hair from her face.

As he has always thought, her rosy cheeks and lips are incomparable to apples. Not even the freshly picked ones that he just brought could come close.

Before he knew it, the back of his fingertips are on the princess' cheek, lightly touching.

It was warm.

How much Lionel wanted to remain this way. But it was wrong. He doesn't have the right to yearn for her. Not yet. Especially when he hasn't even uttered a single word regarding his feelings.

He loves her beyond her divine features. He loves her for she is strong-willed and kind, bearing herself with dignity and grace. Princess Yor Briar deserves a man of equal character, who will never taint her honor. Lionel might not be that person.

And if Lionel were to confess now, it will mean trampling over not only the princess' commitment but also his own perseverance.

For now, the princess only sees him as a mere guardsman. A person of low standing. Still, he wanted to know if he can win her over in spite of it.

Lionel knows that by confessing his ardent affection, he will also have to confess the bigger truth behind it.

How much longer can he suppress his feelings?

▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•

It's short but that's it. Actually, this is meant to be a series and I'm still in the process of writing it though I'm sad to say that I am yet to finish ch1 🙃😅. But I already have a concrete plot in mind. I'm just really struggling with writing the chapters. STILL, I CAN'T GUARANTEE ANYTHING.

My plan is to finish the full series first before posting it as a whole. All at once. Because I'm not fond of re-editing fics when I'm done with it (typos are fine but plot and dialogue fixing bums me). I want to finish it first even if it means it will take another year because I want to be satisfied with what I wrote before sharing it with you.

Since I'm going to do it to be enjoyed by others, I might as well ensure that the effort is worth the attention it gets. That's my pride as a fan content creator lol

[writefightandflightclub]

Tiptoe around this (Poe Dameron x reader)

Summary: Poe x short!reader. He CANNOT deal with your smolness.

Rating: TEEN

Author’s note: I’m doing soft blurbs this week bc you all deserve a hug from one of our fave fictional husbands. Let’s all destress and be comforted one blurb at a time, okay? (I’m doing these quickly so I can complete as many as I can for you, so they’ll be a bit scrappy, please forgive!) This one deleted itself and then I ahd to recreate it from nothing. The first version was better and probably had fewer typos but here we are. Ran out of time to check before dinner!

Warnings: short!reader; kissing (mildly steamy, no smut or implied smut).

GIF: @thestarwarsdaily​ LOOK HOW PRETTY

Poe’s dying. He swears he’s dying.

He’s doing his best to obscure this fact from Rey and Finn, however, so continues engaging in casual chat all the while as he hurtles towards his demise.

Poe’s dying, and, cause of death? Your cuteness.

Poe watches you surreptitiously from across the hangar. Watches as you realise someone has stolen your step ladders again, despite the fact you etched your kriffing name onto them in Aurebesh last time this happened. And so, to reach the tools you need -valiantly struggling on with your tasks anyway- you clamber up the face of the shelves and stretch to your full length as you attempt to grab down the box.

It appears you can’t quite reach them, even having climbed into a pretty precarious position.

The trouble is, you’re just too kriffing smol.

And it kills Poe. Every single time.

Of course, your height is only one of the reasons he likes you. He’s never even had a preference for his partner’s height before, to be honest. There’s just something about you. Something about how short you are which brings out his protective instincts. Makes him want to hold you and take care of you and spoil you. And Poe is already the type of guy to spoil his partner, so you can imagine how he feels about you.

Oh, and it certainly helps that you’re so kriffing gorgeous too. And funny. And nice. And did he mention SMOL?

Poe would never be patronising towards you because of your size, of course. He knows you’ve been underestimated plenty of times because of it - by both the enemy and allies- and without good reason! You might be cute to a lethal degree, but Poe is also well aware that you’re badass, capable, intelligent, and fierce. Small but mighty, you could say.

Still, when he sees you on your tippy toes trying to reach the box of parts, his heart melts and dribbles out of his feet. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.

Death, by cuteness.

As you continue to persevere, Poe stops pretending to listen to Finn and Rey’s chatter altogether, a dopey smile settling on his face. He stands from the chair he’s straddling to zoom over to you, before some other handsome, height-endowed recruit can come to your assistance. He couldn’t have that, now, could he?

“Hey,” he says from behind you, a warm and gentle hand settling on your shoulder in greeting. “Can I help you?”

Poe hopes he can reach the damn shelf, because whilst he’s certainly taller than you are, he’s not exactly Chewy. Now, that would be embarrassing.

“Sure,” you say, even as you huff and puff, successfully grappling the box down to the floor without any further intervention. You recognise the Commander’s familiar, sandy voice before you even turn around, but when you do, you flash him a warm smile, and he could swear -if you killed him a moment ago- that smile has revived him back to life. “You can tell your damn recruits to stop stealing my ladders, Commander. I wouldn’t tolerate this behaviour from my squadron.”

You’re adorable, for sure, but there’s a fire in your eyes telling Poe you are not to be messed with. In fact, he’s sure that given half a chance you could raze the whole First Order to the ground, even if you did the whole thing on your tip toes.

Poe simply looks at you goofily, trying to remember how to speak, your eyes big as you gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. You’re basically a whole head shorter than him, if not more, and he can’t help but want to pull you into a hug, imagining how it would feel to enfold you against his chest and rest his chin on top of your head as his arms wound around you.

“Commander?” you ask again, clicking your fingers in front of his face. “I’m sick of doing everything on my tiptoes - I’m not a ballerina.”

Your gesture brings him back to the real world, and he notices the rolled-up sleeves of your flight suit as they hover in front of his face, his eyes dropping to the rolled-up cuffs of the legs resting on top of your boots. Standard-issue is too long for you and… yes, you’ve guessed it…

Kriffing adorable.

“Sure thing, Commander,” he finally says, still retaining that dopey, lovestruck expression on his face.

You nod to thank him, getting lost in his umber eyes somewhere along the way. He’s always entirely flustered when he speaks to you, and quite frankly, it’s so adorable that it makes your heart melt out of your feet. At least, that’s what it feels like.

You like Poe, and you think he likes you, but... both of you have been tiptoeing around this for far too long now.

“You know, there’s maybe one thing I like to do on my tiptoes,” you say with a knowing smirk as Poe looks helplessly between your eyes and lips, helplessly lost in yearning.

“What’s that?” he asks, and he can swear he intended the words to come out at a normal volume, despite the fact a mere whisper is all that emerges. Still, he’s happy as it causes you to lean in closer.

“Kissing,” you say with a gentle suggestion in your eyes, voice breathy and matching his hushed tones. You think it’s about time one of you makes a move, and it may as well be you.

Poe visibly gulps, and shuffles his feet a little closer to you.

Is this really happening?

He’s not sure how many times he can die and be reborn in one day, if he’s honest. The implication of your words and in your eyes encourages him though. Besides, he’s waited long enough for this moment, and now is as good a time as any, right?

“Kissing, huh? Well, honey, do you think you’d need to be on your tiptoes to kiss me?”

Your tongue darts out over your bottom lip, and an eagerness swells in your whole being, your body tingling with nerves and heat. Your mouths inch towards one another as if magnetised, your chin tipping up and his head stooping lower to greet you, as months of tension is compressed into the diminutive space between you.

“Guess we should find out,” you suggest with a sultry smirk, pausing a small distance from his lips, sharing the same air in the tight space between you.

Poe wraps his arms around your back, his hands feeling large and broad against you. You feel delicate encased in his strong arms, and you grab firmly at the holsters around his wide hips, tugging him close and bringing his body flush to yours. Poe feels warm and big and sturdy pressed against you. You’ve always been independent and capable, and yet there is something about Poe Dameron which makes you want to swoon for him, if only he would pledge to protect and care for you in all the ways your diminutive form might suggest you need him to.

Poe’s face inches closer and closer to yours, his lips pausing a hair’s breadth away from yours as your eyes fan shut, leaving you wanting. You swear your lips are tingling from the near-contact alone, crying out to brush with his.

“Oh oh,” he teases. “Can’t reach.”

You smile as you stand up on your tiptoes, closing the distance in an instant and crushing your lips to his, finding them soft, a hint of stubble grazing your cheek and he tips his head to the side. Upon contact, his tongue melds immediately with yours, deftly probing the cave of your mouth and melting you from within. Your hands slide up and up, coming to rest with your fingers laced around his neck, slipping into his hair.

As the kiss sparks and grows, Poe’s arms wrap firmly around your waist, and he bundles you up towards him, easily taking most of the weight of you, until your toes are entirely lifted off the floor as the kiss reaches its peak. You feel like you’re floating, in every sense.

Breathless and floored by that kiss, Poe sets you gently down, idiotic grins spreading across both of your faces as you stand there for a moment, still holding each other close. Poe looks down at you with adoration shining in his eyes, backlit with a gentle heat.

Feet back on the ground, more or less, you look self-consciously around as you both become suddenly aware of the hubbub created by the fact you both did that in the middle of the hangar.

Oops.

When your eyes look up at Poe again, he still has the softest, lovestruck smile on his pretty face.

“See you later?” he asks hopefully.

“Yeah. I hope so,” you respond, returning his smile, and you stand on your toes to plant a quick chaste kiss to his cheek, cupping his face in your hand. You could swear his skin darkens in embarrassment, and he turns from you with the most bashful and adorable expression you’ve seen on his face yet.

You’re dying, you think. You must be dying. Death by cuteness.

You ignore the commotion you’ve caused, for the most part, and you watch Finn accost Poe for gossip as he tracks across the hangar. You see Rey beelining for you too, the dumbest grin on her face, and you turn back to your work as you notice her approach, taking a much-needed moment to catch your breath.

You kissed him. Poe Dameron. Your long-time crush.

It was true, that the two of you have both spent far too long tiptoeing around this, but it seems that Poe has finally swept you off your feet. It’s safe to say that you’ve never been so glad in your life to be too short to reach a shelf. Funny then, that his kiss has you feeling ten feet tall.

What’s more, this the last day that anyone steals your stepladders. Poe sees to that. Ain’t no-one gonna mess with his precious, smol bean. At least, not if he has anything to do with it.

[ttttaehyungie]

sincerely, but no longer yours | chapter 4

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series masterlist

sincerely, but no longer yours | ex!kim namjoon x reader

genre | angst, exes au

summary | It started as a coping mechanism as getting the words out provided a form of catharsis. But now you can’t stop writing these love letters, even with the knowledge that they’ll never get sent. After all, who writes love letters to their ex?

word count | 4.2k

chapter rating | PG-13

warnings | none

a/n | IM SO SORRY this is late 😔😔 skldjflkj i was trying to get this out for namjoon’s bday butttt i failed HAHAH sighz life just threw consecutive curveballs my way ok but here we go!!!! part foouuuurrrr

If you thought things between you and Namjoon would be awkward, well, they were. Undeniably and unbearably awkward. The silence stretched long between you without Hoseok to fill the space. Maybe you should have reserved some topics of idle chatter instead of expending them all during last night’s dinner. Maybe you should have asked Namjoon to come over after Hoseok’s dance class. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked him to hang out at all.

Wistful regretting will get you nowhere. You know that. But you indulge in it all the same, stirring your straw and watching the ice cubes in your latte swirl and clink against the sides of the glass. Pointedly keeping your eyes trained on your half-full cup and off the man seated at your shared table in the cafe, his fingers thrumming nervously on said table, you feel a twinge of guilt. How long will you let this silence drag on?

It’s not for the lack of trying. You’re trying. You really are. And you know that Namjoon is too. Small talk just seems to evade you. And deeper issues are off the table, for now at least. Not until you’re sure that he’s not going to abruptly drop out of your life again. Although you’ve agreed to give him a second chance at friendship, the emotional shields were still difficult to lower.

Flicking your eyes to your watch for the thousandth time that afternoon, the unease only gnaws at you further when you realize that the minute hand has scarcely ticked forward by two minutes. Forty more minutes to go. It feels like it’ll be a lifetime before Hoseok is done.

As Hoseok’s weekend trip came to an end, you wondered if the hangouts with Namjoon would experience a similar fate.

But then again, it’s not Hoseok whose friendship he was looking to rebuild. That had never ended. It was just yours. So should you really have been surprised when he invited you out for lunch midweek when Hoseok was miles away back home and away from the city?

You had to give him credit. When he said that he would do anything he could to attempt to make reconciliation happen, the guy had really meant it.

The first couple of lunches together - lunches that you dragged yourself to because you had agreed to give him a second chance - were a total cringefest.

Namjoon was the one who pushed through it with unwavering perseverance. And that was what spurred you to continue trying.

It’s not like you don’t enjoy his company. You do. It’s hard not to, really. Not when his dimpled smile and rounded pleading eyes are as disarming as they are. Namjoon has always been a good listener, always making you feel valued for your ideas no matter the frivolity, but lately he’s picked up this habit of bending down to your height, tipping his chin down just so so he can peer up at you with the most puppy dog look ever and you just- you can’t handle it.

It’s devastating. It’s irresistible. It’s a bulldozer through all the walls you’ve put up over the years, smashing them to rubble in a matter of weeks.

And so the lunches you used to drag yourself to became lunches to be anticipated. The text conversations that began in stiff formality soon gave way to a barrage of emojis and typos left uncorrected, and you find your walls gradually giving way too. The two of you had always shared an easy chemistry, something that hasn’t faded with the years and unaffected by the breakup.

The breakup was the one thing that still remained taboo.

Well if he hadn’t wanted to speak about it in the time leading up to your breakup back then, why would he want to talk about it now?

You know you’ve chosen to forgive him. But the residual bitterness still sits much like the dredges at the bottom of your daily morning cup of coffee. Unprovoked, it would be fine. It lies dormant so long as nothing shakes it up.

And you’re not going to shake it up. Because you’re over Namjoon.

“Ke- ketchup?!” Namjoon sputters, jaw dropped and eyes wide. “I know it’s been five years, but damn…”

“What?” Your tone is defensive, but your facial expression is irrefutably sheepish as you drag a fry through the offensive red condiment you’d just squeezed onto your plate.

“What ever happened to the vendetta against ketchup?” he asks, still gaping at sight of you consuming the very thing you’d once condemned as unworthy of being ingested.

You shrug and answer simply, “Lots of things can change in five years.”

It was just meant to be a passing comment, nothing more. But Namjoon seems to take in the sight of you afresh, then nods emphatically.

“That, it can.”

The noise that escapes you is tiny, hopefully indiscernible, as he places an elbow on the table, suddenly leaning forward with his chin in hand, hovering over his half-eaten club sandwich. Determinedly refraining from shifting a little in your seat under his scrutinizing gaze, the words of protest sit heavy on your tongue as you keep a tight grip on them much in the same stubborn manner. You will not break. You’re over him.

“You’ve changed,” he says, gaze still roving over you. It’s not an accusation in the slightest, but more of an observation. “And it’s not just the ketchup.”

“Thank god. If the only character growth I’ve made in the past five years is learning to consume ketchup, then that’d be a real problem.”

He laughs - the staccato hah odd but familiar - and reclines back, elbow propped casually against the back of the chair now.

“But for real,” he says, gesturing with his sandwich-filled hand, the crumbs go flying all over the table. He takes a pause as he stuffs the entirety of it in his mouth, his cheeks bulging with the too-big-mouthful. It’s amazing how he doesn’t choke, but he manages, gulping it down so he can continue. “It’s like you’re more comfortable in your own skin now somehow.”

“Hm,” you ponder between your own bites of your burger, “what do you mean by that?”

“You just seem more sure of who you are lately.”

You purse your lips at that. After the breakup, you finally stopped chasing Joon’s shadow and embarked on your own journey of self-discovery. But you can’t tell him that.

“Maybe,” you offer instead. “I could say the same about you. About having changed, I mean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you emphasize, jabbing towards him with a fry. “It feels like -” same fry still in hand, you tap it against your lip as you think through your words, then point it at him again as it comes to you - “like you’re finally letting the words out. You’ve always had this really deep inner world - god knows how many times I’ve lost you mid-conversation to your daydreaming - but now you actually verbalize it.”

The poor fry that’s been waved all around as you gesticulated your thoughts finally gets popped into your mouth. “And it’s nice. It’s nice having a peek into the landscapes of your mind.”

“Maybe it comes with publishing,” he jokes, but his eyes shine with unsaid appreciation at your words.

Your heartbeat stutters a little at the sight of it, but you ignore it. Because you’re over him.

You’re over him. You’re over him, you’re over him, you’re over him.

That’s what you remind yourself, smacking your cheeks as if the sting of it would resonate the words into your stupid brain and make. it. stick.

Sighing out to yourself in the bathroom, you ready yourself to return to the living room. To return to Namjoon.

Yes, it’s pathetic, but you’re hiding in the bathroom away from Namjoon.

Steeling your nerves, you twist the lock and pad your way trepidly back to the sofa where Namjoon sits.

Feigning normalcy, you take a seat next to him and tap away at your phone for a distraction.

Underneath you, the cushions shift and jostle you lightly with the shift in Namjoon’s weight as he scoots closer to you. His warmth bleeds into you where his thigh presses against yours. At least he’s got his pants back on.

“____.”

You look up at him.

“Are you really ok?” His eyes are full of emotion - concern, repentance, sincerity - as they search yours.

“It’s fine, Joon.”

It’s not.

Maybe you were being too naive when you thought you could just be friends. That whatever existed between you two before all this would never get in the way. That the same memories that plague you don’t similarly affect Namjoon.

It had all been going well before this came in like a bucket of cold water dousing you in shock from head to toe.

Namjoon sat in your bed, blankets pooled around his waist to conceal his bottom half. His pantsless bottom half. Not that it took particular prominence in your mind, you dismiss, as you focus on pulling the thread through.

It seems Namjoon’s reputation as the god of destruction lives on. And neither his pants nor his ego are safe from it. What began as an afternoon of dorky fun, attempting to reproduce Hoseok’s latest choreography video (and poorly), peaked into hilarity when Namjoon’s pants spontaneously decided they would have no more of what can barely be termed as dancing. With a sharp ripping noise, his pants seam tore straight down the middle.

The way his eyes shot wide, his hands flying to shield his crotch, had you doubling over in laughter till your sides hurt and you had to gasp to catch your breath between peals of laughter. He whined for you to stop, but it only made it all that much funnier.

The occasional giggle still escaped you, but eventually you calmed down enough to offer to patch it up for him, brandishing the sewing kit you retrieved from the depths of your closet.

And that’s how he ended up hiding under the covers while you mended the rip in his berms.

A chuckle - this time not your own - breaks your concentration.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“No, it’s nothing.”

“Hey.” You elbow him lightly. “Share the joke.”

He bites his lip as he considers it for a second. Prodding him once more, it makes him relent.

“I mean, I imagined being undressed in your bed again, but I definitely didn’t think it would be like this.”

Oh.

Oh.

It registers somewhere in the back of your mind that it is pretty funny. But your laugh sounds hollow, even in your ears. Dropping your gaze back to your stitching, to the sewing that you’ve completed, but you repeat the stitch on the same spot a couple more times. It’s unnecessary, but it’s all you have to hold on to right now in the midst of your shock.

But you can only do this for so long before it reveals itself for the irrationality it is. Knotting it up and snipping the thread hastily, you pass the article of clothing back to Namjoon as you rise from where you were perched on the edge of the bed, the action taking him by surprise.

“Here, I’ll give you some privacy to put them back on. I need to use the bathroom anyway.”

You’re speeding off before he can get a single word in.

“____,” the sound of your name pulls you out of your thoughts. His hand is warm where it grasps your arm, shaking you gently. He’s doing his head ducking thing again, stooped to your level so his eyes can bore straight into yours. “I crossed a line, didn’t I?”

“No, no.” You shake your head, and you fake a smile as you huff out an exhale. “It was a good joke, Joon.”

“But it made you uncomfortable.” His eyes never leave yours. “I made you uncomfortable.”

You don’t answer. What were you supposed to say?

“I’m really sorry, ____. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine, Joon. It’s fine.”

It’s not. It’s really not.

But it has to be. Because you’re over him.

It’d occurred to you once that the fates had a sense of humor, and now you’re quickly realizing that tormenting you is their favorite brand of humor.

It should be great that Namjoon blended into your friend group with little to no problem.

Ever since the first time you invited him over for lunch in the museum’s cafe - something that was meant to be a one-off, a compromise so you wouldn’t have to cancel your lunch appointment with Namjoon while also accommodating the deluge of urgent work that had cropped up without warning - his visits, both to the museum and its cafe, had become much more frequent. When asked about it, he’d explained that the artwork in the galleries became a great source of inspiration for his own work.

But you know the real reason. He’s lonely.

The city may be bustling with people, but it’s still a lonely place. At least with your job, you have regular coworkers you meet every day and have formed friendships with. But for Namjoon, being a novelist may grant him the luxury of flexibility in his work environment, but it also denies him the company of regular coworkers. His ready availability, no matter whether it was for morning coffee runs or lunch appointments or after-work dinner or drinks, made it easy to piece together that his way of life before this was quite a solitary one.

So it should fill you with selfless joy that your close friends have taken to him well.

In reality, a selfish jealousy simmers in the pit of your gut.

Watching as Yeri feeds Namjoon a piece of cupcake, your stomach turns at the blatant attempts at flirting. Unable to stand the sight, your gaze drops swiftly to the cupcake in your own hand. Chomping into it, you grind your teeth with a force that’s entirely unnecessary for such a moist cupcake.

You have no right to be upset with Yeri. Honestly, she’d done her due diligence. You’re the one to blame.

Having recognized Namjoon from the lecture, and noticing the number of times he’d walked you to work after your occasional morning coffee run, it wasn’t long before Yeri marched you to the pantry, arm hooked in yours. She steered you away from prying ears and towards where Soo-eun sat, waiting.

Yeri plucks the coffee cup out of your hand, ignoring your sputtered protests, and places it firmly on the counter with a solid thud, hot liquid sloshing about in the cup and rendering the poor barista’s efforts at latte art a complete waste.

“I’m sick of waiting for you to spill to us about your boyfriend, ____, so I’m taking things into my own hands! It’s been weeks. We need the juicy details!”

Soo-eun, who had been brewing her own cup of tea, nodded as she stuck her tea bag into her mug. “I have to admit, I’ve been waiting too.”

“Guys,” you say, waving your hand in dismissal. “It’s not like that. He’s just a really old friend.”

Well. It’s half true. They don’t need the messy details, you decide, as you recount how you met Namjoon all those years ago. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re over him.

“Nooo,” Yeri whines, throwing her hands up in exasperation, “I thought something juicy was finally happening in your life, ____.”

Oh, if only she knew.

Jealousy bubbles up like an emotional acid reflux that you desperately try to keep down. With every flirtatious touch, you have to remind yourself that you’d never explicitly communicated that Namjoon was off-limits. Because he’s not.

You can’t lay a claim on him because he’s not yours. Not anymore.

But as you grapple with the jealousy that threatens to boil over, you’re forced to wonder - maybe you’re not that over him.

You put a finger to your lips, shushing your friends, then beckon them forward. Shooting them a thumbs-up, they return ones of their own.

Your knocks rap sharply on the wooden door. Heavy footsteps approach the door and the three of you ready yourselves.

The door cracks open and Namjoon peeks out, messy-haired and shirt all rumpled.

“____, wha-”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!” your trio hollers more than sings.

As the song - if the cacophony can even be called that - carries on without care for neither the time (midnight) nor the neighbors (probably highly annoyed), Yeri shoves the cake into Namjoon’s unsuspecting hands, clearly unaware of his klutzy nature, and the cake very nearly ends up in a heap of strawberries and cream on the ground. But your hand shoots out to catch it, rebalancing the weight of it quickly, well-practiced after the years of growing up around Namjoon. The reflex action doesn’t go unnoticed by him and his lips quirk upwards as Soo-eun snaps a party hat - glittery and obnoxious just like the ones donning each one of your own heads - to Namjoon's head, hiding his bed hair.

"... happy birthday to yoooouuuu," the song drags out into a dissonant finale.

Namjoon's smile has always been captivating, but it's even more so with his features illuminated by the soft orange glow of the candlelight. The tenderness so evident in his eyes pulls you in, irresistible and unrelenting. And though the urge to avert your gaze usually plagues you inanely, it seems to have been entirely overrode by this strange new fixation on the sight of his dewy-eyed expression.

“Thank you so much,” he says, and the sincerity in his words isn’t diminished even with the way he half-whispers it out.

Quiet affection settles like a gentle hum in your heart. Before this, the exhaustion from the day had been eating at you, your eyes strained and dry from the unforgiving glare of your screen at work, your bones heavy with lethargy and craving nothing more than the plush welcoming hug of your mattress. But now, seeing him alight in jubilation, it’s enough that you feel the tiredness recede.

“But please.” He hurriedly jabs a thumb back to his apartment twice. “My neighbors’ hate for me is probably increasing at an exponential rate the longer we stand here.”

“Screw them!” Yeri whispers sharply, the irony of it lost on her. “Blow out your candles first, Joonie.”

Joonie.

Just a single word, but it yanks you right out of the pleasantry you’d been floating along in. Jealousy pulls you under, suddenly irrationally possessive over the simple nickname as you drown in the ebbing waves of the nasty emotion.

Turning back to Namjoon, you plaster on a polite smile. “Yeah, make a wish first.”

Looking between the three of you, it registers that none of you are going to be making any moves to enter his place until he submits to your bidding. Better to just you guys what you want. Relenting, the candles get extinguished in two puffs, and your cheers - hushed this time - fill the hallway.

“Alright!” Yeri claps her hands together, breaking out of a whisper with her exclamation. “Time to check out Namjoon’s abode!”

In typical devil-may-care Yeri fashion, she pushes past Namjoon and walks freely into the place, making herself comfortable. Used to her antics by now, Soo-eun laughs a little, but follows her lead, grabbing the cake from Namjoon on her way in.

“I’ll get this sliced.”

Your eyes trail after Soo-eun as she enters the apartment. When you turn back to Namjoon, you find him looking at you. There it is again, that look. It’s a look that you don’t want - don’t dare - to decipher, but it’s a look that seems to linger whenever he thinks you won’t notice.

You’ve noticed it for weeks now.

In feigned nonchalance, you brush past Namjoon to make a beeline for his couch. After the number of times you’ve hung out at each other’s places, Namjoon’s apartment is like a second home to you now.

“How’d you know I’d be home?” His voice is echoey where it carries over from the doorway as you plop yourself into the leather seat, letting your body get swallowed up in comfort. The front door clicks shut and Namjoon joins you in the living room soon after.

“Face it, Joonie,” Yeri calls from where she’s inspecting his bookshelf. “We’re your only friends in this city.”

“Ouch.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But touche.”

Slices of cake get distributed, courtesy of Soo-eun, and the couch gets crowded as all four of you squeeze onto the tiny thing that was definitely meant to seat two. But there’s no complaints. Not when there’s cake.

Squished between Namjoon and Soo-eun, your bodies pressed up side by side, you’re not sure if you’re imagining it when you feel Namjoon stiffen up momentarily, then hesitantly relax and lean into you. The feel of him is indulgently familiar, and you wonder if it’s the same for him.

The room settles into a contented quiet for a while. Clearly, consuming the dessert takes priority over conversation.

It’s Soo-eun who starts up the conversation again. “Didn’t you go to college here, Namjoon?” she asks. “Did you not keep in contact with anyone?”

You watch carefully as Namjoon fiddles with his fork as he clears his throat. “How do I put this?” he begins, the silver of the fork gleaming distractingly with the way it catches the light under his fidgeting. “I guess, I, um, wasn’t in the best space in college to be making friends.”

“Well,” Yeri interjects before the mood can dampen further, placing a hand on Namjoon’s thigh, “that’s fine, because you have us now!”

Namjoon eyes the hand on his thigh, but says nothing. Jealousy threatens to consume you. Teetering on the brink and frankly unsure which way it would swing, you jump up from the couch.

“I’m kind of thirsty from all the dessert.” It’s a blatant lie. You’ve only had two bites. “I’ll get water for everyone.”

Extricating yourself from the situation, you march into the kitchen. Concentrating on locating the drinking glasses helps to get your mind off of what just happened and the jealousy seeps away.

The drawer where most of Namjoon keeps most of his utensils opens to reveal three glasses. Looking around for a fourth, you finally spy one sitting on a high shelf to the left of the sink.

Rising onto your tiptoes to reach for the glass, you stubbornly maintain that you can reach it if you just stretch that last inch, but a tanned arm grabs it before you can.

The clink of the glass on the counter is barely audible with the way your ears feel like they’re completely stuffed up with cotton. The warmth emanating from the figure behind you causes warmth of your own to rise in your cheeks.

You whirl around.

“I could have gotten that,” you say, trying but failing to keep the bitterness out of your tone. “I didn’t need your help.”

“You seem a little off. Are you okay?” Namjoon asks, his brown eyes scanning you. Testament to the decades of friendship you two shared, of course he would know something was wrong.

“Sorry for being a party-pooper on your birthday, Joon. I’m just tired,” you say with a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”

His hand raises, as if meaning to touch you, but stills for a moment before it drops back to his side.

“I understand. Thank you, ____. You didn’t have to do all this for me, y’know. You should have just gone home to rest.”

“But I wanted to,” the admittance comes slipping out. You frown a little as you look him in the eye. “How did you celebrate your birthday last year, Namjoon?”

His jaw, slacked in surprise, fidgets as he formulates a response. Finally, he huffs out a sad laugh. “I didn’t.”

The hollow loneliness pangs through you and even if it’s only secondhand, it’s still enough that it wraps around and constricts your heart, the emotion welling up tightly in your chest.

Against all better judgment, against the boundary lines you’d carefully drawn up, against the promise of just friends, nothing more, you reach for Namjoon’s hand. As your thumb skims over his knuckles, you marvel at how familiar the sensation of his skin under yours feels, even after all this time.

The way he watches the tender strokes of your thumb - that same lingering look you didn’t want to confront - confirms your earlier thought. The indulgent familiarity of each other’s touch is one that is shared.

“Has it been really lonely?” you ask, compassion leaking through the crack in your voice.

The pause is answer enough. And you expected it. What you didn’t expect, though, was his reply, “I have you now.”

The sheer amount of cherishment in his eyes plunges you into an abyss you can’t fathom ever emerging from.

Everything seems to move in slow motion as you lean in close, catching the way his eyes widen in your peripheral vision.

“Happy birthday, Namjoon,” you whisper into his ear. And, fuck it, you snip the final cord of self-discipline, untethered and free-falling into the dizzying swirl of emotions as you press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You’re definitely not over him.

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 21)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 20.1

WOTN MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Bearing the child from a man who promised was sterile gave more anxiety as you lived in their world, knowing that Geralt will resent as the offspring was forged by a cursed spirit that held her own reasons and consequences. Your fate becoming more complicated as each day pass by with a dreading feeling that you surely have no idea about.

Warnings: The usual blasphemy. Lore about the Djinn. (I've made it up) Matka means 'mother'. Ingrith is an OC of mine so she ain't real in the witcher story. Hehehe. (Surprise! Guess Geralt knew Ingrith after all. HE LIED. LMAO. 😂😅🤣) Panicking reader. Pregnancy. 

Words: 5.4k

A/N: Is this a boring chapter? I dunno. But, it will provide everyone the lore they need for some of your questions to be answered. I forgot to actually edit this because I was too focused on ranking up in Free Fire. Hahahahah. 😂 Had to edit this a day before I actually publish it in Tumblr. (I usually take 2 days because everybody loves to disturb me in my house. Also I need to manually tag people in taglists, check my grammar and typos. Oof. It makes me squint my eyes too hard on the screen because of how small the letters can be) 

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! I apologize for errors!

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. Character development and personalities are based from my understanding and how I want them to be. I only own my original characters in this fanfic. 

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"Geralt of Rivia,"

Vicious and cunning as she may seem, her tone was utterly redolent. Familiar faces finally met in such a fate that not any fortune teller may assume would happen. Loved ones being involve in adversities that has been unflattering for the witcher who stood before the queen's long associate in the castle of Kaedwen, a victorious smirk warping her sharp-edge face that Geralt has not reciprocated. Twisted in a smile that tells she was hopeful over her plans being moved into the right places.

"---I knew you would come," Ingrith spoke as a matter of fact.

The witcher knew that this encounter was inevitable for the second time. Their previous meeting lingering inside his head---being the reason why he chose to live in the outskirts of Kaedwen which eventually made him tarry a bit over going to Kaer Morhen after receiving no answer from her. Receiving much of an answer he needed through Cuthbert, his neighbor who happened to heard rumors about 'her' whereabouts more than from the sorceress he'd decided to talk with.

He'd finally knew where Yennefer has been travelling when you've arrived, his search being an easy one as Geralt discovered her location after trying not to seek for the sorceress he has been looking for years---ending up knowing her area when he gave up finding the sorceress after a month or so.

"Where is she?" he beseech his avows, the scowl stern and never fading as he was eager to see you since the moment he step foot in the castle.

"Yen or your futile human? Oh, it wouldn't be that cursed princess you've butchered in Blaviken because she's already dead, Geralt."

The cunning sorceress tutted before him as they stood at the foot of the abandoned round tower, no guards being publicly seen because of the fact that they were too much of a milksop. Ingrith, Tybalt and Eanraig---the ones who had cabbalistic abilities were the only people who tries to take care of the prince. His own parents and siblings never giving bother about checking how he was doing despite of being harmless in daylight.

"---You've disappointed me---I knew you had a penchant for sorceresses or women whom you could consider as your kind---strong, discerning....and even whores paid to entertain you through your pitiful solitude,"

Ingrith went on with her vouching, leaning her head to the side with a knowing gaze inside her eyes; a forewarning that she was dismayed from his foolish decisions that she finds, continuously mocking his settlements, "---But, you've chosen a useless woman who could not defend herself even by telling the queen that she was not the thief who has stolen her precious necklace,"

The butcher barred his teeth, jutting his jaw forward as he felt his back turn tense and rigid from how he was turning furious as each second passes by with the sorceress he'd regretted to seek for help before---not knowing she would also be the person to afflict pain for his midget in the future.

"You've told the queen that she stole her jewelry when you know it wasn't her, not a canny persuasion made, Ingrith."

Her grin turned bigger, finding his anger satisfying and entertaining in her perspective. Ingrith could disguise as a devil and nobody would notice because of how wicked she'd been turning herself into; a wretch that Geralt have seen from her with the sacrilegious intentions living inside her mind.

"I've expected more from you than to choose and defend a mortal, Witcher."

"---I've remember the night we first met," she continued to ran her mouth, sardonic as she gladly hinted. Ingrith could see the blaze in his golden eyes, how he wanted to unsheathe his sword that was carried behind his back to show her his indignation for everything---from leaving her niece in the hands of her father who detested her due to deformity.

Hence, she has left young Yennefer with no guilt in her eyes despite knowing everything---leaving the past behind and acting like it never happened, taking the initiative to ignore her whereabouts and look the other way from how she grew into a strong woman.

"You were asking Yennefer of Vengerberg from me," she stepped a foot closer towards the witcher, making Geralt deeply breathe through his nose from his pique and lack of personal space that she was trying to bombard him with.

Ingrith couldn't help but let her grin fall when Geralt took a step back, steering clear from her suggestive gestures as he gave her a low hiss and rumble of his chest when he added words to complete her sentence, "---and you had other plans,"

"I've had better plans for us, Geralt."

"I do not wish to be involved by those treacherous plans of yours. You want power---you wanted to become stronger. Settling yourself in the castle to do what you want. Even planning to extirpate your own niece because she is more powerful than you,"

The sorceress scoffed to herself, exasperated from how he blocked her advances. His amber filled with fury as it has still not yet died down after going the deep end. Her trials involving on discouraging his faith for a mere mortal like you. Her ears felt like it was being rattled from the inside, triggering her pride and ego over being told that she was below of her niece in terms of strength and magic, "Yennefer of Vengerberg? She is not powerful as you may seem, Witcher."

"You've left her alone with people who do not care for her,"

"Sorceresses don't die easily than mortals. It's in her blood; our blood, Elven blood. You know this."

Geralt couldn't help but give her a snicker, the small curl of his lip raising in disbelief for her intentions over you and being involved in his god-forsaken life that he didn't want you to be a part with, "You want my mortal to die,---" he gruffly muttered, the words tasting bitter on the ends of his tongue for the idea of you dying in his arms.

"---I won't let that happen, not until I'm alive, Ingrith."

The witcher continued to brood like how people described him to be; his mood turning sour for not seeing you yet and not knowing what was happening to you as it kept his chest bothered and heavy. Ingrith's features warped into a twist, her nose scrunched from how distasteful she found his protection over your vulnerable, weakened self; how pathetic he was caring for a mortal that could die easily especially having the curse, you were more impuisant than any other woman in the continent because a curse had effects and consequences.

His safeguarding would be useless because of the inevitable juncture that would give him sorrow and Geralt had no idea what he was in when he was trying hard to shelter you out of harms way.

Ingrith crossed her arms, shaking her head at his determination, "She'll eventually die, witcher. It's her fate in the continent. Humans like her reach their demise with misery and regret because they're nugatory, serving no purpose but to be insignificant over us,"

The latter turned his back away from her, ending the discussion with his perseverance being unyielding, shaking his head for her estimated fortune telling that he believed was a lie; understanding that she was only saying it because you didn't belong to their world and you were at high risk over danger for the chaos living in the continent.

"She won't die nor will you have the opportunity of doing so,"

"Her existence would bring more despair; more sorrow for your fate. She's just a nuisance value of human kind!" Ingrith loudly exclaimed from behind, watching him courageously push the doors to the round tower where the cursed prince has been living. Disregarding her warnings like the wind passing through.

He heard her but didn't give any acknowledge over her words. Whether it was true or not, the witcher may never know unless the day that Ingrith has been foretelling has actually been damned after all.

The fairly large throne room was filled in luxury, themed in gold and red. Such color that simply tells how their bloodline lived around the hierarchy that they highly take care of. Blood and coins. It says all. Their ornaments and artifacts spent with coins seeming to be conceived in detail for their palace rather than for the people who deserved it better living in Kaedwen.

Queen Makeda tapped her fingers along the arms of her throne, her gaze sharp and pondering over Geralt and Tybalt who stood in the middle of the room. Both having an obvious lour; deepening when she started to give orders about what was to be expected over the hunt, any hints as to where the witch has been rumored to be last seen or any more information that must be shared before Geralt takes off.

"Tybalt shall be coming in search for the witch with the witcher,"

Prince Markith, he was the queen's younger son before Prince Althalos. A lot more younger than the cursed man, immature as the maids say so. He stood beside his seated mother, wearing a simple doublet over his black breeches. The fading freckles on his cheeks stretching when a giggle escaped his lips; an obvious space between his two front teeth shown as his laugh echoed around the throne room that has gotten Geralt to give a gander.

"Witch. Witcher. Witchest." the teenager playfully mumbled beneath his breath, finding amusement over the whole thing going on with his family especially seeing the white haired witcher all brooding and silent, subtly mocking his kind in the least offending way as possible.

The queen immediately given him a sharp warning of her gaze, cocking her head to the side and seeing her son continuously chuckling from his own joke, having his own world that he always manages to live in. Seeming to be like he had imaginary friends rather than real ones that his parents seclude him amongst children because Markith should be remained untouched from the filth that people had.

"Markith, that is not a proper attitude of a prince," she lowly scolded in the midst of talking, the child's interruption obviously irking her temper.

Markith raise a brow, the child's tone utterly sardonic as he spoke, "But, I'm not the crown prince. Brother is. But, if brother dies then---"

She cut him off with a brusque hiss, "He will not die from our hands! He will live and rule the future of Kaedwen,"

"Does this kingdom even have a future when it is ruled by your hands?"

Quietude filled the throne room after her son's sarcastic retort. The silence was frothing; bubbling from her expected aggravation over the younger prince's shameless answer. Much to her chagrin, she has never received an apology nor an explanation as to why Markith suddenly blurted it out in the open for Geralt to hear.

Upon hearing those words coming from a child, the witcher couldn't help but stood nonplussed. His expressions coming off as emotionless with his brooding charm jumping off the four corners of the room. In which has received a glower from the vampire who also stood beside him, his eyes seeming to be taking Geralt much more of his attention when they were both called to stay beside each other.

Queen Makeda raised a finger, ushering one knight to march his way up the numbered stairs under the lavish canopy where the king and queen's throne sits.

"Bartley, bring him back to his chambers," she roughly ordered, her teeth barred as she glared at Markith who was also feral for disregarding his opinions over their corrupted reigning throughout their kingdom. Bartley gave a courteous bow for the queen before walking to where her son stood, forcefully grabbing onto his shoulders as he gently pushed him around to leave.

"But, Mother---"

The queen never takes no for an answer. Hence, one loud yell was all the child has taken before being thrown out, his gaze lingering longer at the witcher whom he has heard tales about; having quite the eagerness to see if the tales were true to their words. Yet, his mother decided to lock him up in his room again for being curious and playing around.

"Now!"

Geralt stood completely still. The scowl never changing as he gave a heavy sigh, seeming like the world was carried on his burly, armored shoulders. His sour mood being the result of your prior, quick separation before he even walked to the throne room. Your pained words ringing inside his head for a thousand times like a plague that he had finally not been immune for.

He shouldn't have left you in that condition especially when you were physically injured. Geralt actually just proved to you how much of a witcher he was; cantankerous, blunt and emotionless even though you've had this strong faith for him that you believed being the opposite of it.

But, he just needed to fuck it up by leaving you without a word and also calling you pathetic in such ways.

The butcher continued eating his own heart out by staring at the queen with brooding eyes, waiting for the go signal for his hunt. He wanted to get this over with; planning to do his job right and find the witch, bring her in the castle to reverse the spell then off you go with him. Leaving all of these behind as a past that you would never forget or decide to forget forever if you wanted to.

Tybalt audibly scoffed for Geralt to give him his regard, taking the side-eye from the witcher as he publicly stated his cavils, "Why am I traveling with him now, yer' majesty? to be his guard? Hilarious!"

One familiar hum was heard; gruff and utterly sarcastic once Geralt began to frankly acknowledge. His hostility over the vampire obvious when he has opened his mouth, "I work better alone and away from blood sucking monsters." a feigned curl of his lips appearing to be a smile has been received towards the queen, her quick understanding seeing that it was a forced one that Geralt was trying hard to perceive over his altercations.

"---I'm a witcher. I slaughter beasts. Monsters of any kind."

In the spur of the moment, Geralt turned his head to let Tybalt see the mocking flicker inside his golden eyes.

Tybalt knew he was pertaining to his kind. Vampires. He couldn't help but clench his fists on his sides, his nostrils flared while the witcher was trying to get on his nerves---or he just basically hated the higher vampire to send his animosity by being forthright, "What ye' lookin at, Weccan?" he sneered back at Geralt with barred teeth while the white wolf had the end of his lip curled into a leer, irked by his smug pillorying in the presence of the queen like he didn't give a fuck.

He really didn't especially when he wanted to behead everyone in his way.

Geralt's presence was already making Tybalt's hackles rise without even trying to nettle his temper. The image of his newly bathed hair was already narking him without even seeing his face and the feeling was mutual for both enemies.

Tybalt began forming his own ridicules, seeing the witcher become the object of his scorn.

"Your skin is as pale as your tresses. I doubt you still have any amount of blood in ye'!"

"The joke's too old. I'll assume you've asked me if I do bleed." the white wolf was nonchalant as he quipped. Displaying to be quite blase from his attempts of hurling more anger out of him when he was too furious from the start to even begin with.

"---Witcher, do you bleed?"

Geralt couldn't help the most jaded expression he could ever muster upon hearing the most asked question, uttering out a grumble of his insouciant timbre of his voice that has gotten Tybalt bellowing from his remark.

"My blood's not tasty enough for you. Don't bother."

"This feckin' arse!"

They've both sent each other deep growls against their chests, a low rumbling sound that was bouncing off the castle walls that everyone who was inside the throne room could notice as they stood side by side, giving each other glares and their derisive taunting.

Queen Makeda had a finger supporting her head from falling. Her arm folded and leaning against her throne whilst sighing over their random twits. Foot tapping along the stoned floors as she gave them both her enervated attention.

Tybalt's fixated gaze has been cut short when he'd knelt on the ground with one knee, bowing his head to pay his respects for the queen---probably, seeking support over not letting him travel with the witcher who must have a difficult time finding the witch that couldn't be found at all; not wanting to share his time with Geralt because their personalities were clashing against each other like rusty, acidic metal, "---Your highness, If you're worried about him dying in the middle of saving yer' witch whom can lift Prince Althalos' curse, I can assure you, he will not die. Legend says witchers die from monsters they hunt. The witch obviously isn't---"

The queen has raised her palm to cease his comments, completely unimpressed by how privileged he was being when it was her decision whether he would let him go or not.

"I can see how you both despise each other," she plainly stated, sounding nasally like she was too disappointed by Tybalt's actions.

At the mere exclamation of that, both men spoke in the same time. Their antipathy colliding even with their words sounding exactly what they felt for one another.

"Hate him." Geralt and Tybalt both snarled with such rancor, glaring for one more time before partially giving their whole attention to the queen who sat before the throne.

They've seen her mouth turn into frown, turning a blind eye towards the higher vampire who was left sulking for his sudden hunt. His plans with his sorceress coming to a stop for the queen's orders, intending to guard all your whereabouts in the palace as Ingrith tries to formulate a scheme to have you suffer without raising their hands on you nor using magic that will eventually fail because you were protected by a djinn.

"Tybalt. Be with the witcher. I want you guarding him until he finds the witch. The witcher shan't go back empty handed."

Tybalt couldn't help but curse beneath his breath, subtly rolling his eyes as he stood on both feet, adjusting his fur coat resting along his shoulders, "Oh, feckin' bullocks." before shaking his head as he forced a nod and approval out of him to gesture at the queen of Kaedwen.

Geralt calmly tried his best to exhale in a relaxing demeanor, his facial features twisting in utmost pique from the idea that he would be spending five days with the vampire he had a fight with back in the marketplace.

"Fuck." he lowly snarled to himself, momentarily shutting his eyes to breathe in disappointment. His head cocked to the side. Geralt felt Tybalt grip onto his armored shoulder, giving him a shallow pat to state his indignation with the whole ordeal. He turned on his heels, marching out of the throne room to fetch and pack his belongings for the journey ahead, quickly jogging out of the throne room that was making him want to curse as every second passes by with the witcher.

Queen Makeda can't help the snicker on her face, a smile forming wrinkles on the apples of her cheeks as she stated her false promises.

"You have my word about your little woman, Witcher. We will not touch her again."

Though, Geralt knew deep inside that it was all just a lie.

You've been receiving lots of personal questions from the druid. One of his queries was about the idea of wholeheartedly accepting a child from Geralt which you explained an approval if it was given in the future---or if he was even capable of giving you one. You strongly believed he can't.

Though, in the back of your head, you couldn't help but think how your child would look like with his genetics. Will she or he have white hair too? you gotta' have a child with beautiful genes somehow. An echo of hopeful, deranged voices filled your thoughts, quickly disregarding the thought in the back of your crazed head whilst hearing Eanraig bombard another question of his that kept you aware of how zealous he sounded.

"Do you love Geralt?"

"Woah. Hold your horses, Eanraig."

Subtly swallowing the anxiety away from hearing such question, you've warily cleared your throat. Your mouth wincing from the pungent taste of your after-retch. The inconspicious nullify of the subject taken heed by the scholar when you've avoided his eyes.

In-denial of the truth. Eanraig thought silently to himself while he brought his hand down, away from patting your back, "You will be giving the witcher a miracle," he lightly convinced you and decided that particulars shall be provided for the mother of the miraculous child growing inside; delaying the details with the father that would surely bring him into a shock and red-light from the witcher himself because of how having a pickney in the midst of his life will only bring his descendant danger.

"---From the night of the full moon, between a man and woman who had nature take its course, a child shall be produced,"

Mentioning that in a hot second, you were quick enough to counter the lie you ought to believe in. Trusting Geralt and his words more than ever because he knew himself better than anyone else especially in 'that' department. Thorough objection was promptly written all over your shocked, disapproving expressions; brows furrowed in worry with lips turning ajar for such sensible responsibility being given to your head like a crown fitting for you.

Was Geralt lying and he actually just wanted to get you pregnant? If so, then he was certainly a wacko for even doing it---in your world he could be arrested for lying.

"Geralt's infertile! What are you even---?!?!" you couldn't finish your sentence as the responsibility for having your lechery take over you a few nights ago was worth enough to blame. How did Eanraig knew when it hasn't reached a month after a tangle of passionate desires with the witcher? did everyone knew about it but not you both? was it why you were being hated by Ingrith because she knew you were bearing Geralt's child?

A ton rounds of bulleted questions rang inside your head after one query hasn't been answered. One by one it was hopping like rabbits chasing a baited carrot because on the other side of your head, it knew answers for your disputes within yourself.

Panic and fear over an unborn child was beginning to take a toll as you grabbed onto your roots, frustratingly tugging on them while you listened to Geralt's old friend.

"Infertile or not. As long as the other is human who possesses no magic---or better yet, both humans who possesses no magic shall receive results beyond their expectations. I have never told Geralt about this because he will never believe me. A Witcher does not take that kind of news too well---might be even saying that he would take his child as a bait to be eaten by monsters than to bring them to this world,"

You've pursed your lips, finding how true it was to hear those words from the witcher knowing that you were pregnant by his child. Was this a hoax? a dream that God wanted you to never wake up from?

Being transported to their dimension; loving a mutated human you never expected to and eventually baring a child from him when he knew he could never bore a child at all. Was this your destiny for him? giving him miracles---a child that he certainly didn't expected and needed because accepting his child of surprise was already difficult for him to undertake.

"I can totally hear him saying that." you uttered completely defeated and benumbed from the breaking news that made you forget how upset you were by Geralt's prior actions.

"You are having his child, my dear. You're carrying his scion that has been forged by the Djinn." Eanraig started his elucidation about the serious topic at hand, educating you about the accelerated gestation that the Djinn's curse may come between. Earlier telling you about the expected development because you might be seeing changes over your body than how a normal woman will be expecting.

"---The process is faster. Three times hastier than a normal pregnancy---Though, never fear for the child not to be normal."

With sangfroid, the breath that you've been holding has been puffed out with your eyes drooping closed; letting the calmness sink in without having the panic rise through your head for a hundred times because of the thought that the child would turn out different in which she may suffer in the end.

Until Eanraig decided to continue his statements that has given you whiplash.

"---Because that child is beyond normal. She'll inherit the Djinn's powers because it is a part of Matka's three wishes."

"She?" you've managed to feebly and shakily mutter beneath your soft breath, feeling the coldness wrap around you for knowing more about the child that you were currently bearing---keeping you in a constant disorient that had you staring onto your twitching fingers laid upon your thighs.

"I'll assume that the Djinn you have gotten was a Matka. The cursed Djinn who lovers try to find in order to bore an heir if they cannot create their own offspring. Matka was created to give her own powers to a progeny that would inherit her abilities---believing that her existence will help the world from lessening the bedlam within the lore of monsters and humanity,"

"You're telling me I'm really pregnant with a girl? with...with Geralt's child? This child is also...owning such power that is making me hyperventilate right now?! Is it a vampire?! What if it eats my insides just like how Edward's baby did?!" your back was still utterly stiff from the nervousness that this news has given you, the mere fact of taking care of a powerful baby pouring ice buckets on your head---the dread hitting your core from the stupefaction and fear raising a child of your own.

Your modern references has given Eanraig a nonchalant stare from him, never knowing to laugh or smile over your panicky state.

"Is the witcher a vampire?" he hesitatingly spoke, his throat sounding dry before Eanraig cleared his throat when he'd lately realized.

"No."

"Then, it shall not have any vampire blood."

Skin felt tingling as your heart couldn't stop the beating so fast, throwing you into a swivet, "I'm not prepared to be a mother, Eanraig!"

You couldn't help but reach a hand to clasp around your tightening throat, further listening to Eanraig. His expositions making you want to give him a bark of laughter due to the disbelief over what reality that destiny started giving you when the Djinn happened.

"The continent has its own supernatural contingencies that nobody may ever explain---which has given you a child of yours with the witcher. Your kingdom knows no magic based on your reactions, correct?" the druid raised a brow and grabbed both of your shoulders, firmly letting you look into his grey eyes that continued inspiriting your devastated self.

You've tentatively shook your head to give an answer. The dread gripping your heart so tight that you started breathing heavily, your fingers suddenly grabbing onto your stomach because of the sudden memory that the castle guards have placed a kick to your gut. The worry for your unborn baby bringing you into utter distress for her condition.

A loud gasp left your lips, "Wait, I've been---I've been abused---hurt---what about my child, Eanraig? If---If Geralt knows about this now, he wouldn't want my child, would he?"

"I...may never know what he thinks, little woman. He hardly speaks. Only to you, the bard and his surprise child, I assume."

"Then, should I keep this from him?"

"I doubt his mutations can keep your pregnancy as a secret,"

Panicking more than ever, you've felt your eyes well up with warmth. Signalling tears threatening to come out of it as both of your palms were on either side of your head. Quiet whining were heard in the back of your throat for the future that was bound for you especially by being thrown on the face by a brick, the brick being fate moving mountains for the witcher and his ill-fate infertility---that has been surprisingly controlled by the power of magic; black magic.

"Then, what do I do?! I don't want to raise a child on my own when I'm not even prepared to be a mother?!" Eanraig heard the sobs from you and he'd quickly gathered all of the comfort he could give by patting you on the back, calming down that tough anxiety you have.

"Cease the tears," he continued to pat, "---It'll be bad for you and the child,"

"I have a witcher baby! What do I do?!" you ranted and raved, sniffing in the same time as your fingers spread across your chest, feeling it tighten a lot more because of this serious matter. Time stood still for you, imagining what Geralt would say or tell when he couldn't even accept your love; when he was still secretive over things he wasn't comfortable about telling.

Would he be fine to have a child with a woman who was in love with him when he doesn't even know his true feelings for you until now?

"I don't know how to tell, Geralt! I don't wanna let this child grow without a father---what if I leave this world all of a sudden without him? Eanraig, what if he dies out there right now and this child grows up without a father?"

You knew, he would refuse the child you were having because of how he had a long time accepting Cirilla. A child who has already been taken care of by another---what more for a baby that he certainly had no experience of having nor wished to have?

The druid welcomed all your rants over such an important and surprising incident that existed in the white wolf's life. Completely knowing for it to be an unexpected route in his path that Eanraig could never see for him. He gave one last comforting pat on your back, nodding to you as if he was trying to let his words seep inside your head---your apprehension that he solely hoped to be the maturity of your mind.

"Let fate decide what will happen. You'll eventually need to tell the father of your child---and the witcher will know about it soon,"

Little did you know, there was already a tiny beat of a heart that seem to be inaudible for a mortal; but not for a witcher who had sensitive hearing created to catch onto the tiniest rustle of leaves till the quietest thumps of every heart.

Taglist for WOTN: (Strikethrough means your blog can’t be tagged. Please check your settings, bb’s! Thank you.) @alyxkbrl​​ @himarisolace​​ @barkingbullfrog​​ @ayamenimthiriel​​ @hellodevilslittlesister​ @turkish276​​ @spookypeachx​ @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us​​ @nympeth​​ @amirahiddleston​​ @gabethelobster​​ @dreaming-about-fanfictions​ @uncoolcloudyhead​​ @melaninstylezz​​ @psychosupernaturalhero​​ @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer​​ @marvelousell​​ @kingniazx​​ @angelias134​​ @tapismyforte​​ @chook007​​ @covid-donotenter​​ @deadlydemon​ @cheesecakeisapie​ @angelofthor​​ @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum, @stuckupstucky​, @shesthelastjedi​, @a--1--1--3​, @gutfucks​, @raynosaurus-rex​, @britty443​, @suhke3​, @shadowclawstudio88​, @ruthoakenshield​, @just-a-sad-donut​, @gxrdenr0se, @singeramg​

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza​, @crazybutconfidentaf​

General taglist: @agniavateira​, @iloveyouyen​, @rahdaleigh​, @silverkitten547​, @henrythickcavill​, @kaatelyyynn​, @marvelousell​, @madelinelina​, @summersong69​, @raynosaurus-rex​, @fckdeusername​, @evansislife​

[terresdebrumestories]

One night only

FANDOM: DCEU, but I guess more specifically BVS. SERIES: - RATING: Explicit for safety. WORDCOUNT: 7 333 words PAIRING(S): Superbat CHARACTER(S): Bruce Wayne & Kal-El GENRE: Brief encounters of the sexy kind. One night stands. TRIGGER WARNING(S): None that I’m aware of, but it does contain sex and the vaaaaguest hint of strength kink. Also touch!starved Bruce. SUMMARY:

Bruce crashes on an unknown planet as he returns from a League-related mission. Fortunately for him, he manages to survive the accident with nothing more than big bruises to show for it. Even more fortunately, he finds himself rescued by the hottest alien he's met so far.

OR: Bruce Wayne rescued by beefy alien.

DEDICATION(S): To  obviously, who provided the very sexy prompt for this fic, and also to @lorata​, who handled the SPAG betaing of this. I, sleep deprived and unused to GDocs on mobile, may have clicked on the “refuse” button on a couple of corrections so assume any typo left is my fault :P NOTE(S): I don’t know why I was convinced my posting date was July 18th, but I was, which means that the final version of it got finished at 11pm on the 17th, which was a bit of a cardio workout. Thank fuck for timezones giving Lora enough time to hunt my typos without too much pressure :P

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

The cockpit almost looks like a Christmas tree: it blinks in increasingly bright and urgent colors, the high-pitched beep of panicking instruments loud enough to drown Bruce’s thoughts as the jet plummets toward the ground. There are interminable seconds of falling, Bruce’s soul scrambling to think of Alfred, Dick Jason MomDad—

Lead on his eyelids, a ton each at the very least. When he finally maneuvers them to half-mast the light around him is loud enough to hurt. He closes his eyes. Tries again. The bright gold echoes like a bellow between his ears. Wince. Persevere. The world around is too much and too little, loud light and bright noises. He blinks and blinks and blinks until something warm licks at him, and then another noise, salt in the air and oh, Alfred, I really messed it up this—

Blue, blue, blue, blue, the world moving—a voice above, deep and tense, dark fringe over a frown…Jas—

When Bruce wakes up for the third time, there is something floating above him. An oblong shape, dark against the light, and close enough to touch if Bruce’s arm had any strength left in it. It remains there for a while, trembling until Bruce’s eyes finally shape it back into a face. It seems calm for now, not attacking or moving in a suspicious way, but it does stay where looking at it makes Bruce’s eyes water, so it’s probably best not to discount the risk of hosni—hossi—ill intent. Bruce blinks, slow and sluggish, while the head moves and melts into some kind of silhouette.

Bit by bit, the light grows quieter, and Bruce sighs, squinting to make out limb-like shapes—only four, thank fuck—as the presumed-head leans down—and then recoils as Bruce’s hand strikes at it...or, well. Tries to. It gets stopped halfway through, easy as breathing—Bruce winces, breathes in. Blinks until the shape moves around him, the hold on his wrist firm but not painful. Once it’s out of the backlight, the head looks human enough: curly black hair, eyes just a shade too blue to feel real. The kind of jawline you could sharpen a battarang with.

Bruce blinks harder and, in a bout of stupidity barely excusable even in his state, he glances down—wool-like garment, reminiscent of a sweater, but close-fitting enough to let him know he wouldn’t blush at having abs like that—and says:

“I always thought I’d go to Hell.”

The world fades again.

*

The fourth time Bruce wakes up feels like it’s the one that’s going to stick. He’s healed up enough to remember what he said last, for one, and while that’s embarrassing enough to make him groan—religion, really Bruce?—it’s at least a sign of progress. For two: fucking ouch.

It’s a good thing that he can feel the hurt. Bodies that don’t feel it are either traumatized or permanently damaged, or both. Still, if there is a superior entity somewhere, Bruce is determined to make them pay for the fucking nervous system. Aside from his feet, pretty much everything hurts right now—nothing Bruce isn’t used to, though. Healing bruises, decades-old stab wound acting up in humid weather...all in a day’s work for Batman, really, so much as he dislikes the sensation it really isn’t that hard to find a semi vertical surface to prop himself against. The move makes his head swim, predictably, but at least now he can see the person-shaped thing move around when it comes back to the currently-empty cave. If it comes back.

Rather than sit and wait for an answer on that question, which could keep him there a long time, Bruce gives his nausea enough time to subside—he is pushing fifty there, and surprisingly interested on keeping going—swallows around his cardboard-thick tongue, and sets about slowly taking stock of his surroundings.

He can feel rough stone behind his back. There’s another natural wall at his front. Stalactites line the stone ceiling and, to Bruce’s right, slope down until they meet the ground with only a narrow conduit squirreling away under the bedrock. No exit there. Turning back to the left, Bruce discovers the cave widens for about fifteen, maybe twenty feet—depth perception: still AWOL—until wet-dark stone gives way to the sun-bleached gray of fist-sized pebbles and the ruckus of them rolling through the waves. The sea beyond offers a dull brown color tinged with silver, shining under the sleek pewter of the sky.

Bruce thinks, unhelpfully, of Gotham.

He doesn’t dwell on it too much: he’s unbound and, as far as he can tell, alone in the cave. If he’s going to figure a way out of here, now is the ideal moment, though he knows better than to make it too obvious he knows that, just in case there’s some surveillance he hasn’t found yet. There’s no fire, but the air isn’t cold, and when he looks down at himself he realizes there’s a blanket draped over the Kevlar that means he won’t be catching a cold just yet. It also means that whatever found him either has no malicious intent towards him or is very interested in pretending it doesn’t.

Obviously, he doesn’t trust the thing—person? Alien, definitely—that got him here. He’s lived through more than his fair share of people treating him exceedingly well for nefarious reasons, both as Batman and as Bruce; he’s not about to fall for it. Every second he pretends to, however, is more time to recover and plan his escape. It is with that certitude in mind that Bruce leans back against the stone and, keeping his ears focused on the sounds around him, closes his eyes to fake sleep.

He nearly curses when he wakes up to the sound of footsteps on rocks. Obviously, he’s well trained enough to reign the impulse in, but he’s got more than enough brainpower to recriminate himself while he checks out the entrance of the cave. It’s dark by now, which, assuming the days here are roughly the same as Earth’s, means several hours have passed, during which anything could have happened. Fuck. If Alfred learns about this, Bruce will never hear the end of it… At least he’s still up against the wall. Nothing’s coming at him from behind.

The alien doesn’t attack, though. It walks into the cave, familiarly bipedal, dressed disturbingly like the upscale version of a Hollywood fisherman—the sweater even sports a pattern reminiscent of a cable-knit. When it’s done setting up a rough circle of stone near Bruce—with its back to him! If he were at full capacity, that alien wouldn’t stand a chance—and dumping wood into it, it busies itself lighting a fire. Only when it’s done and the first licks of warmth reach Bruce does it turn around.

Bruce, shamefully caught with his eyes open, allows himself to swear internally. An alien it might be, but if Bruce weren’t profoundly aware of this fact it could have passed for a human easily: aside from the too-blue eyes, there’s nothing to make the alien stand out in a crowd. Or, well. There is, but GQ models aren’t generally considered dangers to the general population...although judging from the way his guts twist when the alien smiles at him, right now Bruce is rather inclined to review that particular assessment.

 Come on, Batman. Get a grip.

The alien, blatantly oblivious to Bruce’s internal battle against his...heart...approaches him with an easy smile and a soft voice, moving slowly, like it’s trying to calm a spooked animal. It makes Bruce want to show his teeth, but considering he’s not exactly in a state to follow up on the threat if the alien reacts aggressively, he decides against it. He does grunt though, just enough to show his displeasure at his current predicament, low enough that it doesn’t fall into outright aggression. Not that it matters: genuine or faked, the alien’s current persona seems too cheerful to mind, and it smiles as it speaks.

At least, it sounds like there are words in its voice. Bruce’s Green Lanterns-issued translator is on the fritz, though: all he can do is assume the emotion projected actually is relief, closely followed by concern. It’s...not often, that Bruce is confronted with something like that after an injury. Neither Dick nor—Dick has always been the type to joke, and English blood means Alfred’s physical expressions of concern come in the form of tea and a duster served with the stiffest upper lip on the planet. To be the focus of eyes that blue, with that sincere-looking an expression on that face with that jawline is...Bruce swallows. Hard.

The alien says something else that Bruce, of course, doesn’t understand, and then it turns away to reach inside its bag and produce something round, purple and leathery looking. It might be a gourd or a fruit, Bruce has no way to know. He is parched though, and so he tries to dip down for a drink.

What happens instead is a hand on his shoulder, the pressure dulled by the suit, but there enough to realize he couldn’t easily get out from under it. Slowly, gently, Bruce is pushed back against the rock, intense blue eyes crinkling with a smile that, on a human, Bruce would almost describe as apologetic. One of the alien’s hands comes up to tip Bruce’s head back, fingertips lighting long lines of fire against his throat, catching his breath right in the middle of his chest until he’s tensing without meaning to. Bruce can still feel the path of those fingers against his skin, the phantom sensation pulling at his attention even as the alien’s other hand raises the purple sphere above his head. Bruce’s hand snaps up, catching on a wrist. There is a pause, as if the alien had sensed Bruce’s brief burst of fear through his touch—what if the liquid inside is acid? What if he’s about to be bludgeoned to death? —until their eyes meet. Something shifts in the alien’s face, and he stands up straighter somehow, resumes his movement with a slow grace that somehow makes Bruce want to get up on his knees. He allows the grip of his fingers to soften, thumb resting on the alien’s pulse point—it feels fast, under the thin skin—and watches the purple thing rise above his head.

It pauses right above Bruce’s face, the alien looking at him with something almost like a question in his eyes. Bruce meets his eyes head on, wishing he could think of it as defiance. Then, with his chest heaving and his body straining in the confines of his suit, Bruce tips his head back and opens his mouth.

The alien gasps when the juice—it’s too sweet to be water, despite the clear color—falls into Bruce’s mouth, the blood in his wrist speeding up. Lowering his head a fraction, Bruce meets his gaze again—or tries to. A few drops made their way past Bruce’s lower lips, dribbling down his chin and along his throat, and the alien is clearly too caught in tracking their path to meet Bruce’s gaze. He licks his lips, making Bruce shiver, and just when Bruce is starting to consider releasing the moan bubbling inside his chest, the alien takes the purple thing—the fruit? —away.

Juice splashes on the bridge of Bruce’s nose and he splutters, moment broken and yet still out of breath, fingers still clasped around a wide wrist. He takes his hand away, acutely aware of all the places where it’s not touching skin anymore, and breathes in deep, trying to calm his heart rate as fast as possible while the alien clears his throat and tosses the empty fruit shell away into the water.

He speaks again then, motioning upward with his hand, and although he’s clearly trying to look casual there is a faint dusting of pink over his cheekbones. Given the circumstances, Bruce decides to go ahead and provisionally interpret it as having the same meaning as on Earth. Once that’s done, he tries to follow the other man’s request: he barely makes it to his knees before he topples over, legs reduced to jelly despite his clear mind. For a moment, his rescuer—for lack of a better word—seems almost disappointed. Then he speaks again, slow and soothing, as he steps closer with his arms extended.

Bruce is caught in a bride’s carry before he can even attempt to protest.

For one hysterical second, Bruce’s mind provides an image of Alfred’s—or anyone from the league’s—face should he find out about this. It is mortifying and he vows to take the incident to his grave—but the thought only lasts for that: one second. Right after that, Bruce finally catches up with the fact that his companion is showing no strain whatsoever while carrying him and his thirty pounds of armor and— oh come on Batman, get a grip.

Batman does not get a grip. In fact Batman, who is feeling decidedly less Batmany than usual, slowly unravels as his companion carries him out of the cave and into the open air, the smell of clean seafoam assaulting Bruce’s nostrils while a gentle breeze blows the occasional droplets onto his cheeks. For lack of a more dignified solution Bruce lets himself be carried out to the beach, the view swiftly blocked by a tall cliff of white stone fringed with green at the top, fist-sized gravel crunching under the alien’s feet. There’s a short climb up a gentle slope to a wooden platform, and then Bruce watches as the beach grows smaller under them. The ocean, of course, is endless, but a look to their left reveals a badly damaged piece of rock, deep gouges in the ground leading the eyes to a short stripe of bent metal. There go Bruce’s hope of refurbishing the ship and using it to get off planet. Sure, Bruce is extremely lucky to even be alive right now, let alone as unscathed as he is, but even Batman is allowed a bit of hope now and then. As a treat.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk—or sulking about being stuck on an alien planet without a reasonable means of transportation. Bruce keeps looking. To the right, as far as he can see, is a forest. It rises from the ground in bushes and tall grasses at first, quickly shooting to the sky with ever taller trees that, aside from the height, wouldn’t look all that out of place in the English countryside.

Behind him—under him? Bruce is going to have to figure the logistics of this at some point—Bruce’s companion takes a turn toward the forest as soon as they reach the top of the cliff, and as they come close Bruce finally notices it. It being a tall dome-like structure made of wood and what he can only assume is something similar to glass. It rises out of the ground as if grown there, slender limbs turned to the sky in elaborate latticework, a band of colored windows circling the dome about halfway through.

The whole thing looks airy, the kind of place designed to create refreshing breezes and cool shades, which makes it look entirely incongruous in an environment where cold and damp seems to be the motto. Still, odd choices or no, there’s something appealing about the building. It feels...well, structurally, it is leaning more into something like the Taj-Mahal, which is impressive considering a touch reveals it is made of live wood. Yet as Bruce is carried outside and discovers the furniture—rich embroidered carpets of wool thick enough he could fall asleep there, luxurious piles of cushions in red and blues with the occasional gold accent—he can’t help but feel a little like he’s just entered a large, very elaborate treehouse. Everything, from the sitting space to what seems to be a cooking area to the central staircase—and how did Bruce not see any of that through the windows? He’d love to ask some technical questions about it—feels like it wants Bruce to lie back and relax, maybe even fall asleep. God, this house could probably have entire conversations on this very topic with Alfred—and Bruce is just about exhausted enough to let it.

The air inside is warm but not stifling, like a windy summer day: it chases the chill out of Bruce’s limbs, warms him up from the inside as he’s settled down on a cushion even he has to describe as ridiculously large. Bruce...kind of wants to lean into it. Sure, there’s still a chance he’s about to be hurt, but also it’s not like his host is lacking in strength. Why bother waiting when all the power is on your side? It seems probable that the alien is either genuinely uninterested in hurting Bruce, or playing the long con. Either way, there’s no reason for Bruce not to take the opportunity to rest a little.

“You can lean back, you know.”

Bruce blinks as the gentle golden glow fades from the windows, the seaside landscape once more unobstructed as he looks ahead of himself. It takes some effort to twist around enough to see his host, but when he does it’s—well. It’s worth it. The man has changed out of his Englishman costume and into a pale gold tunic that hugs both his arms and his chest before loosening just a little around the waist and falling past his hips down to his knees. Bruce notices the bottom of fitted crimson pants hugging absolutely lovely calves, and swallows before he asks:

“Is the house translating?”

“Yes,” the alien says with a wide grin. “I am quite relieved that it could do anything for us: you do not seem to hail from a well-known region of the universe.”

“You sound extremely formal,” Bruce remarks without thinking, and swallows again when his host laughs:

“Not to my ears, I assure you. I suppose, however, that where outdated technology is concerned, we had better be grateful we understand each other at all.”

Bruce inclines his head in acquiescence. Sure, he’d like the comfort of his usual translator better than having to deal with the whole house filling with his host’s words—if not his voice—but the perceptible delay between his host’s voice and the house’s isn’t enough to make him wish for the alternative of not being able to communicate at all. Even if going back to that after using the Lanterns’ translators feels a bit like trying to stream a movie with a poor internet connection.

“I guess you’re right,” he agrees. Then, because his mask was already lost in the sea and this is an alien, anyway, he adds: “I’m B.”

“Bee?” his host answers, evidently testing the sound. “That is an unexpected name. Still, I suppose different worlds have different tastes. You may call me Kal.”

Bruce pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” Kal says, as if guessing what Bruce is thinking, “I was not—names where I’m from are quite...long. Much longer than yours. ‘Kal’ is only a diminutive.”

“How long is ‘long’?” Bruce asks, eyebrows raised.

In front of him, Kal blushes, and Bruce refuses to admit it’s not exactly an unappealing sight.

“Well, they build up with our history,” Kal explains, still tinged pink but relaxing enough to step closer and sit next to Bruce on his humongous, satiny cushion. “As a man of thirty-five who has not been idle, mine has grown quite long… I am not reluctant to share it, Bee. I am merely aware that many cultures do not share our patience for it.”

“Mmmh,” Bruce says.

It sounds fair enough.

“Now that is sorted out,” Kal asks after watching Bruce’s lips a few seconds too long, “may I interest you in a change of clothing? I assume your uniform is meant to protect you, but it hardly looks comfortable and it seems to me like your body could use something softer to rest in.”

“I have to get off this planet,” Bruce replies.

Kal nods, accommodating, and leans back against the cushions. It’s Bruce’s imagination that provides the sensation of their arms brushing, the warmth of skin on skin—the batsuit won’t allow for anything less than a full punch to be felt. That knowledge doesn’t change anything to the sensation, though, and Bruce shivers with it, all his senses focusing on the area entirely against his will. His brain, for some reason, reminds him that it’s been at least ten years since he stopped playing the incorrigible playboy and sex-enthusiast.

“This is a vacation moon,” Kal says, voice perfectly even despite the heat creeping up Bruce’s neck. “There are daily shuttles for arrival and departures. When the next one arrives tomorrow morning, I can ask them to send you to the nearest Green Lanterns’ outpost, and from there you should have very little trouble going back to….”

“Earth,” Bruce supplies, and winces when that causes Kal’s eyes to widen.

“I have heard of this planet! Some of the more famous Green Lanterns hailed from your world and—ah. Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to be questioned. That is fair, you must still be quite tired from your ordeal.”

Bruce nods, careful not to look too relieved at the prospect. He is tired though. Not as much as he should be by any right, but enough that the prospect of having to balance and measure what he said about Earth to guard it against potentially hostile aliens sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.

“Well, then,” Kal says, still smiling, like nothing Bruce says can possibly alter his good mood. “Shall I renew my offer of clean clothes then? I promise not to touch or alter your belongings in any way. And after that, perhaps a light supper, and then to bed.”

Bruce swallows. Kal, it’s already been established, is not hard on the eyes. At all. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and in a human he’d be pretty much exactly Bruce’s preferred type. As an alien, he still is, but then there’s also the strength, and the entirely unembarrassed curiosity, and the possibilities provided with potentially different anatomies that Bruce has never considered before in his life but now...now Bruce is wondering if it���s a good idea to dress himself in loose fabric.

Then Kal’s eyes catch his, and Bruce decides if he’s only going to spend one night here and never see the guy again, he might as well enjoy it. He says yes, and keeps a very close eye on the way Kal’s ass pushes against his tunic as he gets up, and then retreats toward the stairs.

Of course, Bruce should know better than to let himself get distracted, let alone so easily. He’s still technically on a mission—well, on his way back from a mission—and if anyone on Earth realizes what transpired here, even if nothing else happens, he will absolutely never ever hear the end of it. Ever. And yet….

Well, frankly, maybe Bruce is just getting old, but he thinks he’s allowed to indulge himself here. He’s recovering from injuries that are frankly ridiculously light for the kind of accident he was in, he’s on an unknown planet light years away from home, his transportation is most likely assured—unless he’s really losing it and missing red flags in Kal’s behavior—and he hasn’t had sex in over eight years. He gets to indulge a little. It’s only one night.

“I took the liberty of picking night clothing as well,” Kal calls after a few moments, appearing at the top of the spiral stairs. From below, it looked like the bedroom was empty the whole time, which Bruce must admit is a neat trick. “I figured you would wish to change before retiring for the night.”

Bruce, clinging to the last of his fraying dignity—he’s indulging, that doesn’t mean he has to be proud about it—manages to hum instead of saying something that could be misconstrued as flirting, but Kal doesn’t seem to mind. He says something about preparing the meal while Bruce changes and ‘do not worry, I shan’t be looking your way’, and then leaves Bruce alone.

Peeling himself out of the suit takes more effort than Bruce would like, but it’s also far from the hardest he’s had it, and he gets re-dressed in a decent amount of time. By then, his legs feel less like jelly, and he’s actually able to sit up and scoot on the ground to gather his things in a manageable pile and set them aside in a corner where they should, hopefully, not be disturbed.

After a while, Kal reemerges from the cooking area with a large tray filled with over a dozen bowls of colorful meats and fruits, several things that look like root vegetables, and even a bowl of something that could be a sort of love-child of wheat and rice. It looks both perplexing—Bruce has never had a purple savory dish before—and familiar, which is probably why his hands twitch toward the food before he can remember to ask:

“Anything in particular to eat with?”

“Merely your fingers,” Kal says, rinsing his hands in a silver dish of lightly fragranced water. “Do clean them beforehand, however.”

Bruce makes sure to give him a “duh” look as he reaches for the dish and rinses his own fingers.

“According to the available information, these should be safe for you to consume,” Kal says, grabbing what looks like a grape but turns out, upon tasting, to be a piece of meat.

“Unlike that purple thing before?” Bruce asks, the back of his neck heating up when he thinks back on their interactions in the cave.

“The shell is dangerous,” Kal agrees, “and I didn’t have any way to explain. Doing the pouring myself seemed to be the safest option.”

“I assume you won’t be feeding me for this meal then,” Bruce says.

Then gives himself a mental slap in the face because, really? For anyone else, that would be one thing, but Bruce is, without false modesty, one of the best martial artists on Earth, an honors graduate from the best university the USA have to offer, and the fucking Batman...and there he is, making an ass out of himself just because it’s been a while since he got sexed up and he just happened to fall in the backyard of the most fuckable alien in the universe. Un-fucking-believable.

Kal, either oblivious or going for coy, gives him an amused smile and nothing else, although he does readjust his position until one of his knees points to Bruce, the other leg extended on the other side in a way that must stretch the crotch of his pants under the pooling fabric of his tunic. Bruce is kind of glad for his own, vivid-red flap of fabric at the moment.

“So,” he asks after he’s eaten enough to settle the growl of his stomach, “where are we exactly? You mentioned this was a vacation moon.”

“Indeed. Cidaris orbits around an uninhabitable planet, yet somehow retained an atmosphere for an extremely long amount of time. Kryptonian architects started thinking of kryptoforming it a few centuries ago… It has been a favored vacation post for several decades, now.”

“Are you Kryptonian?”

“I am,” Kal replies, a piece of the grape-like meat resting against his lower lip and staining it purple. “Although I don’t suppose someone whose family possesses as much as mine does can fairly call himself an ordinary one.”

Oh god. He’s a rich alien—for all Bruce knows, he could be a real life, genuine Brucie Wayne with the wits to match, and he sounds like he’s just escaped a Ren Faire. And the worst of it all is, none of that has any dampening effect on the burst of heat that goes through Bruce when their knees brush. There are times when Bruce hardly even recognizes himself.

“What is your home like?”

Bruce throws Kal a look, but he neither looks nor feels like he’s trying to wriggle information out of Bruce...and even if he were, it’s not like he can’t answer without giving away vital information about Earth. He takes a look around before he answers though: the tall, organic and yet intricately carved arches of smooth wood, the invisible shields that leave the eyes free to roam over the infinity of the ocean and a truly spectacular sunset. The quiet, the scent of salt in the air—the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to breathe deeper but quieter, as if it stole all the stress from your lungs and replaced it with a good mouthful of rest.

“Not like this,” Bruce says to start with. “It’s a lot more angular. The buildings aren’t see-through, and you can’t see the stars at night. It’s...an old city. A wounded city. Frankly, with all the terrible things people do to it and in it, it’s probably a miracle it’s still standing.”

That’s...a staggering understatement, Bruce knows. But on the other hand: how do you even begin to explain Gotham to an alien? People who live less than fifty miles outside of it have enough of a hard time trying to grasp its essence as it is—they think it’s a blight on an otherwise very fine state...which, to be fair, it is. In some ways. That’s the easy part, though.

The hard part is trying to explain all the good side, like diamonds in the mud. The way so many people try to turn things around still, in little ways—insignificant ways, but also in the ways that matter most. How do you explain the dirty alleys with their gang fights and their kids laughing around firecrackers in summer? There are no words to convey all of that in a way that even begins to scratch the surface of what the city is—of what it means to Bruce. He knows: he’s tried. Even Dick never quite seemed to get it though—not enough to stay, at any rate. The only one who came close was—Bruce doesn’t have the words to explain it.

And yet, something must show on his face: by his side, still sprawling over the cushion like a particularly content cat, Kal smiles.

“And yet, you would not leave it behind.”

“Never in my life,” Bruce replies.

There’s something trying to creep in his throat as he speaks, and he manages to tamp it down but not before it pokes at his chest in a way he’s wholly unfamiliar with. it’s such a simple statement, and yet somehow, it’s something even his closest friends—inasmuch as he has any—have rarely heard from him, if at all. It’s an unexpected thing to find himself saying to a one-night stand, and Bruce would sigh if he hadn’t accepted the most likely outcome of the evening already.

“If this is a vacation moon,” he asks in a bit to shift the attention, “how come you’re here alone?”

Kal stiffens, and Bruce...deliberately doesn’t wince. He can’t truthfully claim that he hadn’t expected a sensitive topic, but Kal was more than polite about Gotham when, Bruce is very aware, it would have been easy for him to be less than polite about it. It seems...petty, in retrospect, to answer that with a barb.

“In the interest of not spoiling the good mood,” Kal replies with forced levity, “I will say that I was in need of some personal space, and ask that you allow me to stop there.”

Bruce nods. Even if he disagreed, he’s got a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be all that hard for Kal to overpower him. The thought may leave him a little warmer in the neck than he’s ready to admit, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get rude about it. The real surprise, however, comes when Bruce hears himself ask:

“Would you like me to give you some?”

“Space?” Kal asks. He laughs, incredulous, when Bruce nods; the shift of his body making them sink closer into the dip of the cushion. “And waste all the good works of physics when I could just as easily have brought you to a bench?”

Bruce snorts, but it comes out short, almost surprised. He hadn’t realized he’d leaned in too, hadn’t realized how close they were to touching, and now his elbow is resting against Kal’s shoulder and even through the fabric it feels like that’s setting his entire torso on fire, the warmth of it slowly baking up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, until every breath of air on exposed skin feels like a caress. Bruce breathes in, deliberately slow, and then allows himself to sink back, just a little. He does, after all, know how to do this.

“You’re right,” he says, faux-nonchalant, “let’s not be rude.”

Kal smiles, bright and brilliant in a way Bruce has only ever seen on Diana before—it’s the kind of smile you don’t often see on adults, and it’s all the more precious for it. Not that Bruce would ever admit it. Still, combined with Kal’s jawline, the blue of his eyes, the circumstances...Bruce leans in closer, half expecting another witty exchange. Kal responds in kind instead and, after a heartbeat’s pause, presses their mouths together. Part of Bruce, up until then, had been expecting something a little different from the usual, but Kal’s mouth has a regular mouth taste, with a thin echo of that purple meat hidden in the flavor. Other than that, and the acute awareness of the damage he could inflict with those teeth of his, it’s no different from kissing a nice, smiley, really good looking human.

It has been roughly a decade since the last time Bruce indulged, though, and he is begrudgingly forced to admit that maybe that’s what makes it so intense, lips so sensitive they almost hurt with it, his chest heaving just from that one point of contact, the rest of his body tensing not to go overboard right away. Around them the lights dim a little, highlighting the transparency of the walls, and the heat spreads from Bruce’s head to his chest, to his groin, and every other extremity he has.

With a sigh, he goes back to kissing Kal, one hand coming up to push at his shoulder...and be met with resistance. He pulls back, body cooling fast enough to feel cold, and asks:

“Did I misinterpret?”

“Not at all,” Kal replies with a satisfied smile and a shrug. “I merely had a different image of the proceedings and failed to consider you might have your own opinion on the matter.”

“I can’t fucking believe I’m about to sleep with a guy who speaks like he’s in a Jane Austen space novel,” Bruce mutters.

If it wasn’t enough to stop him before, though, it’s certainly not enough to stop him now.

“What did you have in mind?”

Kal’s grin turns impish and, in the blink of an eye, he’s on his knees and hovering over Bruce’s lap.

“Do feel free to stop me at any time,” he says. “Things are so much better when both parties feel properly enthusiastic.”

Bruce kisses Kal again as a way to make him stop talking—he does have limits—and it works perfectly except for the part where it sets his skin ablaze again. He doesn’t complain about it though: he may be sensitive to the point of near pain, but he has no intention of giving up on the feeling, and revels in the intensity of it, the feather-light feel of Kal’s fingers against his wrists, Kal’s lips on his neck, Kal’s knees around his thighs.

Bruce sighs when he’s pushed down on the bed, and pushes his hips and erection up against Kal’s ass when he is given a few seconds to object. From there, the heavy weight of another body settles over him, and he pushes up again—the friction against Kal’s clad crotch sends sparks flying all through Bruce’s nervous system, pulling every hair on his body to stand as goosebumps overtake him before there’s even been a move made towards removing his shirt. Bruce really needs to do this more often.

He’s distracted from the thought when, after some awkward maneuvering that almost has them toppling to the side, Kal finally manages to get his hands under Bruce’s tunic and on his waist, barely waiting long enough to get consent before he pulls it off Bruce’s shoulders—Bruce is fairly sure he catches a smug look in his Suit’s direction and...well. Fair. He still reaches up to worry at a nipple in retaliation, satisfied with the reaction he gets right up until he receives the same treatment. Evidently, the days when he was perfectly capable of ignoring his own body until he was sure to leave his partner satisfied are long gone.

He can’t say that he minds too much.

It feels like an eternity before Kal’s mouth finally moves past his pectorals, kissing and caressing his belly, his arms, until it feels like Bruce could come just from that and he makes an impatient noise and pushes down on Kal’s shoulder. It feels a bit like pushing a brick wall, which turns out to be an extremely pleasant sensation, and so Bruce doesn’t even bother with performative annoyance when Kal lifts his hips off the mattress and slides the back of his pants over his ass.

“Oh,” he starts, pleased when he finds bare skin there, “I must say I find this detail very—what is that?”

It’s a good thing no one is here to witness Bruce blink dumbly at the transparent ceiling, or turn around to look past the furniture into the night, where there’s nothing but trees and grass to look at him. Eventually though, he does turn back to Kal and finds him staring at his crotch with a perplexed face. Bruce looks down at where his erection is flagging under the jockstrap he favors with the special fabric of his undersuit. Back up at Kal.

“Problem?”

“Where I am from,” Kal replies with the slow diction of someone trying not to offend, “one may go with underwear or without. This seems like a...an interesting in-between.”

“Do you want me to keep it on?” Bruce asks.

He’s done far more adventurous during one-night stands, and with people he found far less pleasant than Kal. It wouldn’t even be that big a deal. After a moment of consideration, though, Kal asks:

“Is your species capable of climaxing more than once during the night?”

“Yes.”

Given how his body has been reacting so far, Bruce is even cautiously optimistic about attempting a third round, should they be inclined.

“In that case, I should like to admire you in full just now, if you are amenable.”

Bruce has to roll his eyes at that, otherwise he runs the risk of getting caught in the moment and finding this way of talking sexy when it’s anything but. He does dispose of the jockstrap, though, and makes sure to leave it on a nearby cushion where it’ll be easy to retrieve. After that he lies back down on the cushion and gestures for Kal to proceed.

He’s half expecting Kal to take him in his mouth, the break having diminished but not destroyed his erection, but instead the man dives straight for Bruce’s balls—he licks and sucks at them, makes them roll over the bridge of his nose in a way that leaves searing burns over the skin, fills him with heat like a cup in long, slow licks until finally, with one long pull of mouth around his length, he tips over and comes with a silent shudder.

He stays in place for a while, lying down and breathing hard while Kal massages his muscles into a more relaxed state. Eventually—a shorter length of time for him than for most men his age—Bruce’s heartbeat is back to normal, or close enough. Only then does he allow himself to sigh again, and sink even further into the giant pillow.

“Am I to understand you are—”

“Do not say ‘amenable’,” Bruce warns, and Kal chuckles. “But yes.”

“Oh, good. Would you like to proceed as you first intended?”

“Not if you want a third round.”

Kal smiles like a kid at Christmas, and Bruce tries very hard not to groan, even though he knows he’ll get there at some point of the night. He might as well fight for what little dignity he has left, right? Right.

Somehow, he gets even less sleep that night than he’d anticipated.

Bruce wakes up well past sunrise the next morning, the sound of waves in his ears and the smell of salt on his tongue. He still aches in a myriad of different ways, but a lot of them have turned pleasant, and his legs aren’t made of jelly anymore. He takes advantage of the fact to get up and walk to where Kal is seated at a small table turned toward the ocean. The shields, or windows—whichever it is—are gone from between the wooden arches, allowing Bruce to spy the hints of a very large net in the platformed bedroom above before he steps up to Kal. The young alien hasn’t noticed Bruce’s presence, yet, which gives Bruce time to notice he looks extremely pleased with himself.

To be fair, Bruce would be too if he’d managed to bring a near-fifty-year-old, injured man off four times in one night. Not that he’s told Kal about the exceptional aspect of it, but it is possible he was a little too well fucked to hide his own surprise entirely… Either way, Kal is very satisfied, breakfast is still waiting for Bruce, and the mist is only just clearing from around the trees. The air around them is crisp, bracing in a way that makes Bruce half-heartedly wish for Kal’s ridiculous sweater. At the table, Kal still looks entirely oblivious to Bruce’s presence.

Bruce clears his throat, and laughs when that surprises Kal enough to send him sprawling down onto the wooden deck.

“Good morning,” he deadpans while Kal throws a napkin at his head.

“Is that how people on Earth court one another?” Kal asks in mock outrage. “Mind-shattering sex and then heart attacks?”

Bruce doesn’t smile at that, too aware of where he’s going and who he will need to be soon, but he does allow his lips to quirk up.

“Maybe I didn’t think you’d be so affected by something so...inconsequential.”

“Oh, it was plenty consequential enough,” Kal replies without missing a beat with a saucy glance at Bruce’s crotch. “I might even consider letting you know if I ever visit Earth, someday.”

“You can do that?” Bruce asks, satisfied when his sudden spike of stress remains inaudible.

“I do work with the Green Lanterns,” Kal shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it probable, but I suppose it isn’t entirely impossible.”

Bruce hums and, to his relief, Kal doesn’t take offense to it. They share a peaceful breakfast instead, with fruits, fresh water and some kind of crackers that Kal dips into what must be a Kryptonian equivalent to coffee. Bruce tries to get some of it, the house encyclopedia informs them that it might not be safe for humans, and between one thing and the next the time for Bruce to get dressed and follow Kal to the shuttle.

He’s not reluctant about it by far, but if he’s being honest with himself—which he usually tries not to be—Bruce has to admit he’s also not quite as impatient to leave as he thought he’d be.

It was an excellent night, after all.

[mrnerdteacher]

Frozen 2 is a Lot of Good Movies, but Not the One Gotham Needs Right Now

You’d think I made a typo in my title, there, but hear me out.

A sequel to Frozen has been in the works for years, but Disney kept pumping the brakes until they found a story that made sense as a follow-up to what was literally the highest grossing animated film of all time. And while Frozen 2 had 1.2 billion-dollar-sized shoes to fill, I’m happy to say that this sequel is enjoyable and undeniably high quality, even if Disney stopped just shy of MAKING FROZEN GREAT AGAIN.

To wit, Frozen 2 falls a bit short of the original in almost every way: its story is less original, its songs less interesting, and its overall execution less impactful from start to finish. It also borrows liberally from a lot of other animated classics. It’s plot is a little bit Pocahontas mixed with Moana, as Elsa feels the call to explore the unknown and finds herself suddenly sharing her world with a culture not her own. Visually it takes cues from How to Train your Dragon and Tangled (again), and its story structure focusing on harnessing the different elemental powers of nature has been done over and over again, ad nauseum.

None of that is to say Frozen 2 is a bad movie. It’s really quite good. Olaf the snowman is even more hilarious this time around, the art director’s color palette is bold and visually captivating, the empowering feminist slant of the franchise holds strong without being ham-fisted, and its themes of perseverance and moral responsibility are poignant and worth learning. But when it comes to its most important piece of messaging, Frozen 2 punts.

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD

To elaborate, the major story arc in Frozen 2 revolves around a bordering tribe of shamans called the Northuldra that have been cut off from the kingdom of Arendelle by an impenetrable wall of magic fog. Some distrust their exotic ways and see them as threatening, as the woodland people are largely blamed for a bloody conflict that caused a rift between the two kingdoms decades prior.

If you aren’t already thinking about our country’s own “struggles” with “immigration”, Frozen 2 takes it a step further. As the story stumbles to its mystical climax, we learn that the militaristic (at least in comparison) nation of Arendelle built a massive dam to cut off the Northuldra’s access to the powers of nature. However, when it was constructed, the people were told that the huge stone wall was a gift, and would usher in a new era of peace and prosperity. But, as the movie puts it, “It was all a trick.” As such, the only way for Anna to save the day is to tear it all down, even if that means putting your own people at risk. As it turns out, dividing the world is always more dangerous than sharing it in the long run.

For better or for worse, Frozen 2 never puts this messaging front and center. Xenophobia is communicated through only side comments, and conflicts between two “warring” tribes take a backseat to much safer plot elements such as reindeer singing about heartache. One can almost hear the discontented grumbling of Disney focus groups trying to make sure this movie doesn’t alienate the wallets of the 40-45% of this country that still want Trump in office.

If there is one moral to the story of Frozen 2, it’s this: Do the next right thing. I think I know how Elsa and Anna would apply that lesson next November. I just wish they had been brave enough to say so a little louder. FINAL GRADE: B+

[quecksilver]

FS Tarot: Yuzuru Hanyu

I got a few anon messages asking for readings and the name most mentioned was Yuzuru Hanyu. You asked for it so here it is! I wasn't sure if I wanted to do this again because it's a lot of work but while watching JGP and ACI practices I had some time so I banged this out in like two hours. Don't look at the typos and grammar mistakes. My first language is still not English so if there's awkward phrasing ignore it. I'll now go into my usual spiel...

I use the Deviant Moon Deck with the moon spread, in which i arrange the cards in a circle and read from the left side, counterclockwise. Each card represents a different aspect. You can look at the cards yourself HERE so ill just forego describing them like I did previous seasons (though feel free to ask me about interpreations and how I arrived at conclusions if you want).

Present Day: Upright Page of Pentacles

This card represents a young person with an open mind, particularly a student who is eager to learn and push the boundaries of what they are able to do. They've set their sight on self-improvement and are willing to work hard for it.

1t also often stands for someone who's very inventive and daring.

Pretty straightforward card in the context of Figure Skating. Even though Yuzuru is recycling his programs it can be said that his new content and tech is pretty daring and it's no secret that he's very set on self-improvement.

Past Influences: Upright Ten of Cups

This is a card usually meaning family, home life and the bond with the people closest to you. In its upright position the Ten of Cups stands for a peaceful, loving home that is full of unconditional support and love.

It's often read as a return to a loving home after a rough period or injury with a newfound appreciation of the previous experiences, good or bad.

Since this is a card usually read to be about family/close confidants I'm not sure how much of it can be read into an Figure Skating context but since it is the card that represents past influences it's probably not wrong to read it to mean his actual family/close loved ones. Their influence remains a positive one.

Subconscious Influences: Reversed Seven of Wands

The Seven of Wands stands for triumph over adverse circumstances or, as it is here since the card is reversed, loss. Self-Doubt plagues the person as previous defeats have made them lose faith in their own ability and it will take effort to shake off that impression. Self-Doubt can be a self-fulfilling prophecy after all.

This card appears in the subconscious influences spot which I'd interpret to mean either that the person is not ready to tackle these self-doubt or that they're actively working to get over them but have not done this (yet). Either way, self-doubt is not at the forefront of their mind.

Secret Desires and Wishes: Upright Star

And here we go with pretty much the complete opposite of the previous card. In the secret desires and wishes we have a card that represents hope and regained faith. Whether that is in ones own abilities or not is not clear but with the previous card being what it is, I'd say it fits all too well.

Another meaning this card often has is destiny. What the person sees as their destiny and moving towards it. Since it's “secret” maybe the person simply speaks to no one (or very few people) about their dreams and hopes, thinking them foolish or embarrassing or maybe even being afraid to jinx it. The subconscious self-doubt may also play a role here.

Hidden Forces: Reversed Page of Wands

The reversed page of wands can be interpreted to be someone... well... stupid. But I really prefer to interpret it as someone rash and unthinking who makes stupid decisions. That just seems more polite. Indecision and poor decisions together can make for quite the big hurdle to jump over.

I find the Hidden Forces card to always be the hardest to interpret since it is a hidden force to the person the cards are read for so how am I, from a distance reading, supposed to make a guess who this card pertains to? I'm gonna be daring and not go for a person though and instead guess it's about a governing body of a sport. Not naming any names.

It's just as likely (if not more) though that this card simply pertains to someone close to Yuzuru whose short-sighted choices affect him.

Events yet to come: Upright Seven of Swords

There he is again. The harlequin that tries to swallow a sword. This card is pretty easy to read and stands for a dangerous and ill-conceived situation that very likely ends in failure and/or injury. After all, if you flirt with danger without a safety net the risks are great. Better not underestimate them.

Well, this one is easy to interpret. Yuzuru is certainly putting himself at risk attempting the high tech content and pushing the envelope again despite his history with injury. The cards definitely point towards a high risk of injury once again. That isn't really a surprise. It remains to be seen if the card simply represents the risk (possible) or a coming injury (and if so, how big of an injury). If I was reading for a person I had sitting across from me I'd definitely advice them to more cautious.

Surrounding Environment: Reversed Eight of Cups

In the surrounding environment position we have a card that means mostly perseverance. It stands for people seeing things through despite the risks that may be associated. It doesn't say anything about how wise this decision may be however.

Another thing that could be said is that this card means someone who can't break out from their path due to fear or simply stubbornness. Either way it means someone isn't straying from their preset path no matter the costs. Since this card is about the surrounding environment I'd interpret it to either mean the coaching team or the other skaters. It doesn't necessarily have to be bad especially if the path has been well thought out. If it is the coaching team, I'd say it probably pertains to a season-long plan they may follow.

Influence of Others: Reversed Empress

Quite a hard card to interpret to me because it is usually associated with a female figure in the person's life. I'd like to simply forget about that aspect for a bit though it may actually point to a female figure in his life I don't know about. The Reversed Empress usually means things like infertility, fights with a female figure or lack of care from such a figure.

I'd like to interpret it more creatively and say it's related to creativity. Stagnation after keeping to a certain path without looking elsewhere and rather than a fight with a female figure an inner turmoil pertaining to that. This is a very creative interpretation and may thus be completely off the mark but I simply feel better about doing this rather than speculating about the personal life of someone I don't know.

Spiritual Forces: Upright Nine of Pentacles

The Nine of Pentacles often stands for material wealth or someone wealthy. As such it's quite hard to interpret in the spiritual forces position. The closest I can get is someone wealthy in spirituality. Whether that's religious spirituality or simply the belief in something of a higher power such as luck. It could also be the belief that hard work will be rewarded or something equally pragmatic. Aside from that, I've got nothing. It definitely points to a positive spiritual mindset though or if you want to be more esoteric the spiritual forces smiling down upon the person.

Final Outcome: Upright Eight of Pentacles

The Eight of Pentacles stands for a hard won goal, but a won goal nonetheless. The person takes pride in one's work, is ambitious and doesn't give up and thus comes out victorious in the end. What's interesting about the Eight of Pentacles in particular is this focus on the training, hard work and overcome hardships that precedes the victory rather than a victory that happens out of luck.

I feel it fits in very well with the rest of the reading that speaks of hardships but also a lot of determination and a influences that support and aid in reaching the set goal.

Interpretation:

Honestly what else is there to add?

Once again I'm quite astounded by how much sense Yuzurus readings make. Every single one I've done for him so far just flows very well and falls into place in a way that makes sense. This one is no exception. Sorry about drawing the Seven of Swords again... I swear... It's just his card at this point.

As always, please don't take these too seriously and don't call me a witch in the notes. I usually interpret the cards quite favorably because I feel like I should but there are some cards... You just can't do anything about it. (Hi, Seven of Swords...)

Feel free to share, discuss, lament, cry and be merry! And don't forget to have fun with this new season and support small fed skaters!

[strongislandsuperfan]

The Ghost of the UFL

With the rise of alternative football leagues beginning to take shape and gain traction, many are fascinated with what these alternative leagues have to offer, in terms of talent, team locations and what will separate them from the dominance of the National Football League. Also, we see many fans losing faith in a proud, American sports league that, unofficially, owned a day of the week. 

As we witness the fast-growing rise of Alliance of American Football (AAF), the long-awaited comeback of the XFL (debuting in 2020), the perseverance of the Arena Football League (which no matter how many times they go bankrupt, they still find a way back) and the emergence of The Indoor Football League, The National Arena League, and other leagues beginning to take shape, I can’t help but to be haunted by cringeworthy mistakes of alternative leagues.

Now, mind you, I want these leagues to succeed, as long as they are wise enough to learn from past mistakes of others who have tried and have impressively failed.

I will not bore you with antidotes and ill-fated stories of the 1980′s catastrophe known as The United States Football league. In fact, I give them a pass, based on the fact that they debuted 2 years before I was born and on the simple fact that they were just a mirror reflection of the failed glitz and glam of the decade of excess, cocaine, bad business decisions and the fascinating, money-driven enigma that is currently our commander-in-chief. Instead, I will focus on the most recently failed and forgotten United Football League. 

In case you have forgotten or never heard of them, The United Football League was the last league to try to directly compete with the NFL, beginning their season during the spring of 2009. The idea was to first, “soft-launch” the league with games on Thursday and Friday nights and eventually hold their own as a developmental league. A similar plan that mirrored the likes of the Arena Football League.

Unlike the first year of the XFL, the games were actually pretty exciting. From a marketing standpoint, they seemed to do everything right. They even had a TV deal going, with possible web streaming of live games as well. 

For the UFL’s first season, the markets chosen were New York City, Las Vegas, Orlando, and San Francisco. The league had a short schedule (6 games), with 3 home games in the same stadium in only one of their selected cities, Las Vegas. Not to mention that the San Francisco team (affectionately named the California Redwoods) had the worst attendance in the league.

The UFL was unable to secure a solid deal for a stadium within New York City, forcing the league to have them play one home game each in Hartford, Connecticut, on the campus of my alma mater, Hofstra University, located in Long Island, and in New Jersey. 

In addition, one of the games for Orlando’s team was played at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, Florida, in part because of shared ownership that year with the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team. This partnership faded the following year in 2010. 

Oh and if I didn’t mention this, the names of the respective teams (I tried not to laugh) from the season debut:

The Florida Tuskers

New York Sentinels

Las Vegas Locomotives

The California Redwoods

The Florida Tuskers finished 2009 with a 6–0 record. The Las Vegas Locomotives were next at 4–2, the California Redwoods were 2–4, and the Sentinels were last at 0–6. The Locomotives played the Tuskers in the 2009 UFL Championship Game; the Locomotives won the title thanks to a field goal in overtime.

After the first year, expansion came, with new teams debuting in Omaha, Nebraska and Virginia Beach, Virgina, the New York Sentinals relocating to Hartford, Connetticut, the California Redwoods moving from San Francisco to  Sacramento, and of course failed bids for other cities such as: 

Austin, Texas

San Antonio, Texas

Chattanooga, Tennessee

Salt Lake City, Utah

Portland, Oregon

Los Angeles, California

Louisville, Kentucky (<---this city made the most sense, in my opinion)

Columbus, Ohio

Jackson, Mississippi (<-----yes, you read that right. Its not a typo.)

As well as international markets considered in London, Mexico City and Monterrey.

The UFL folded in 2013, with lawsuits from players, coaches, and staff for not being paid their salaries by league owners. Business licenses expired, marketing failed as the league made a dismal effort in trying to engage an audience, and of course, the executives simply stopped paying the league’s bills (and clearly stopped caring).

The ownership lost or settled most of the lawsuits against them in 2014.

So, with all that being said, why focus on the failure? I’ll put it this way, many football fans, including me, are fed up with the pettiness, over-blown controversies, the “stand or kneel” for the anthem debate, players trying to do their best Ike Turner imitation & somehow feel victimized when they’re banned from the league, referees who look like they couldn’t give a fair call during a little league baseball game  and of course, Roger Goodell. 

We are dying for an alternative, especially when the hype dies down after Super Bowl Sunday. We want innovation. We want players to be safe. We want to see small market cities finally get a shot at taking on a franchise that they can get excited about. We want old school, smash mouth, gridiron football. We don’t want gimmicks. We don’t want jerk-off billionaires that are completely out of touch with the fanbase, as well as with the players. 

If the AAF, XFL, AFL, NAL and any other league is going to learn a lesson from the most recent failure of the UFL, might I suggest the following advice:

-Be smart with your money, in terms of marketing, contracts and PAY YOUR PEOPLE!

-Have a balance of glitz & glam with grit and blood. Understand, fans miss the days of beautiful footwork and swift movement, courtesy of Walter Payton and Barry Sanders. However, because I am a child of the 80′s and a proud 3rd generation New York Giants fan, we also miss the days of bone-breaking, cranial shattering, hard-hitting action, courtesy of Sir Lawrence Taylor.

-Although I’m not wild about, “soft launches”, please don’t be in a rush to throw everything at football fans in one shot. History needs to be written and if your league is as bigger and better as you are trying to show dogmatic NFL fans, then let the talent speak for itself. Sometimes, the best things take the most time.

-Billionaire owners and ownership groups must be in tune with their audience. Let the fans have a voice. Don’t be the James Dolan of the football world. 

-Please, give small market cities a chance. I can name at least two cities (Louisville, Kentucky and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma), that not only have an audience that can be engaged, with the right marketing, but they are long overdue for a franchise that they can get behind. 

-We are tired of leagues debuting with these new, “innovations”, that the so-called experts try to come up with. We could care less about changing the tuck rule, the no kickoff rule, the intentional grounding penalty and so on and so on. Just play some freakin’ football! 

-Do not try to out-do the NFL. They are what they are. Just stick to what makes your league unique and please, don’t debut in the fall. NFL and NCAA College football clearly own this time of the year. Just let it be....until Roger Goodell does or says something stupid and really loses his audience. 

-Lastly, No more gimmicks! Although I would have to say, the engraved highlight of the XFL was Rod Smart’s brilliantly named jersey:

That is all.

[fandom-trash-xl]

One-Shot: Winter's First Frost

Placement: Winter, Post Tournament of Power, Universe 6 and Frost are Restored, Different Canon from "The Thankfulness of Saiyans" One-Shot

"Home sweet dreary alley home..." Frost was finally able to get comfortable after that horrible nightmare of a Tournament. He was doing a well-spirited job- that was until Frieza-senpai betrayed his trust and triggered his emotions. He had suddenly felt every particle of his body disappearing from the tourney bench, then rematerializing in his rainy old hideaway. The Icejin had no clue what exactly had happened, but he was thankful all the same. But, if he had to point out any flaw with the resurrection is that the mysterious force put him in his scrawny first form.

That wasn't saying the first form was terrible. He was still able to defend himself from beasts and hopeless vigilantes desiring reward money in exchange for his body. It just wasn't optimal for the new threat that came his way. The haunting air of the winter season. In his first form, he wasn't as thick-skinned, making him more vulnerable to the weather. But, he was learning to persevere. That was until he woke up to a frightful sight.

Frost yawned as he awoke from his sprawled out sleeping position sunken in a fluffy white mattress, only for him to realize... there was no mattress when he had first fallen asleep. "Wait a minute. Please don't tell me this is..." No-one was there to tell him, but he soon realized it was his worst fear of the season: the fall of the chilling white powder known as snow. It could pile up in hours. and leave one in a frigid capsule of misery if they weren't cautious. Of course, Frost's guard had been down in his slumber, and a wall of snow had formed around him. It was a wonder he hadn't been drowned in the frosty piling of winter's puffy rain.

"Oh this is just great!" The Icejin sniffed.  "I could barely survive the air, let alone this massive load of sh-CHU!" He let out a swift and projectile-like sneeze. He began to mumble something indistinguishable. Frost couldn't bear being even slightly sick. Small cold symptoms could lead to his entire body shutting down. A lizard like him could not take low temperatures: his blood was used to warmth.

As he continued to grumble about getting caught in the winter air, the Icejin heard the crunching of footsteps against the snow. "Crap, someone's CHU! Coming..." He dove into the hole in the snow shaped like his sleeping body, remained perfectly still, and listened silently. 

"Ugh, it's such as bother having to shovel snow in the early morning. I wish it would just stop!" Frost somewhat agreed with the voice he heard. "Back to the old grind..." There was the shuffling of a shovel carving through the puffy pile of frigid death and it fluttering away, though the sound seemed to be coming closer to him. 

Frost peeped up slightly, while still retaining his cover. However, the snow walls seemed to be higher than before. There was no way that the snowfall had piled up that much. Unless... The shoveled snow was being piled around him! The Icejin popped up out of the borders and tried to grab the worker's attention! "W-wait!" He attempted to yell, but his voice was muffled by his cold. The next shovel of snow landed over top of him, boxing him in. 

"Oh, bloody CHU!" Frost sneezed more furiously this time. He began to stretch his body to bust through the snow, which was, thankfully, fragile. He needed to give the man who buried him in snow and piece of his mind. The Icejin looked around sharply, the frosted crystals on his black horns shaking off. The culprit was nowhere in sight- of course.

"He thinks he can g-get away with t-trapping the mighty Frost in a box of-" Frost was interrupted by his own retching. He fell forward and held his stomach. "Oh, I think it's getting worse by the minu-" The Icejin let out more sickly coughing. "-minute..."

Just as he began to keel over, a nearby door opened, a small bell chiming in response. Out walked a purple figure in a dark cloak. The collar was popped up high enough to hide his mouth. He was holding a steaming object in his hand: a cup of coffee perhaps. 

"I-Is that, Hit?! What is he doing herea-CHU!" The Icejin let out another violent sneeze. Frost felt as if a bunch of vomit, maybe even a droplet of blood, flew from his mouth in that instance. 

"Hmm?" Hit turned to the alley where the sound originated. "Frost?" He stomped through the snow towards the being he saw. "Frost, what are you doing here is this snowy weather?"

Frost was trembling from chills. "Uh, h-hey, Hit... I was living here in this alleyway, but now it kind of feels like I'm dying..."

"We have to get you out of here. Your lizard blood is unlikely to be able to take this for much longer." Hit scooped up Frost with one arm. "Come on, I'll fly you to my place. I don't live very far from this spot."

"Uh, s-sure." Frost quivered. 

"Your body might be too sick and reject it, but try some of my coffee. It'll warm you up for a bit. You probably need it more than me." He handed the cup to the lizard and began to take off. 

Hit's apartment wasn't the most spacious place, but it was a rather comfy-looking estate. The assassin carried the lizard, who was still quivering and feeling sick to the stomach while limply holding an empty coffee cup, inside. The doorframe was decorated with berries too dark to be holly.

Frost was led into the living room, which was very charming for one belonging to a hitman. Framed photos were on the wall. As much as Frost wanted to see what Hit's family looked like, he realized that he had left the stock photos inside every one. Hit set the Icejin down on a comforting leather sofa. In front of it stood a rustic coffee table with an embroidered cloth on top. Frost thought it read "I could kiss you all night..." until he realized the "k" word was "kill". Knowing Hit, this was no typo. 

"Make yourself comfortable." Hit retrieved two blankets from the floor and set them on top on Frost before taking off his coat and setting it down on the next seat. "I'll go heat you up some soup."

"I'll have a fresh pumpkin blend, please. Medium broth and a refined vegetable garnish." Frost asked.

"We have chicken noodle." 

Frost sighed. "Really, only that simple-man's steWACHU!"

"Do you want soup or not Frost?" Hit lowered his eyes. 

"Oh, that'll do fine..." The Icejin replied before hacking again.

"That's what I thought. Keep resting awhile." Hit left the room to enter the kitchen area. 

"I-I will..." Once Hit was out of sight, he weakly reached to the next seat and grabbed Hit's jacket, pulling it over his body.

[go-redgirl]

20 YEARS: A SYNDICATION ANNIVERSARY REFLECTION

20 YEARS: A SYNDICATION ANNIVERSARY REFLECTION by Michelle Malkin Creators Syndicate Copyright 2019

I live to write. I write to live.

The close of 2019 marks two full decades since I entered national newspaper syndication. You are reading the 1,571st column I’ve filed with Creators Syndicate. The years have flown and so have the words: More than one million of them carefully marshaled each week for the past 1,043 weeks to enlighten, entertain and enrage.

Thank you, Creators Syndicate founder Rick Newcombe, for your steadfast support and friendship.

Thank you to the hundreds of newspaper op-ed and website editors who publish my work.

Thank you to the thousands of readers over the past 20 years who’ve provided warm encouragement, sharp criticism, typo corrections, whistleblower tips, crochet patterns, favorite poems and prayers. I am especially heartened by positive feedback from high school students assigned by their English teachers to expose themselves to views different from their own.

Though the past few months have been filled with slanderous accusations that I am a purveyor of “hate,” longtime readers of this column know that my weekly pieces are undergirded by love of language, love of family, love of freedom and love of country.

My columns have been filed from across the heartland and around the world, from our southern border to the Pacific Northwest, from Washington, D.C., to Iraq. I root for underdogs, watchdogs and sheepdogs. I oppose elites, control freaks, race hustlers, con artists, ingrates, liars, reality deniers, bullies and incompetents.

No topic is off-limits. I’ve shared dissenting views on the Japanese internment, rethought my former support for the death penalty and challenged the Big Pharma/Big Government orthodoxy on vaccines since 2004, when our family pediatrician kicked us out of her practice for requesting that a Hep B jab simply be delayed. While every major American media outlet cowered as Muslims worldwide rioted against free speech in 2006, my columns vigorously defending the Danish newspaper cartoonists who dared to draw Muhammad earned death threats, distributed denial of service attacks on my website and sharia warnings that continue to this day.

I’ve exposed the cronyism and corruption of the Bushes, McCains, Clintons, Obamas and Bidens. I’ve offended Muslims, Catholics, Lutherans and Jews with my opinions and reporting. I’ve been an equal-opportunity hate crime hoax debunker and crapweasel hunter.

Politics and policy have been a central focus, of course, but I’ve also shared the joys and pains of my personal life: the birth of my children, the still-unsolved disappearance of my cousin from the University of Washington campus in 2011, my late mother-in-law’s experience with medical marijuana to relieve stage 4 melanoma-related pain in 2014, my daughter’s struggles with chronic illness and pain in 2015, and my 25th wedding anniversary celebration last year.

So many of the stories of suffering, perseverance, patriotism, faith and sacrifice I’ve shared with you remain inscribed on the hard drive of my soul, including Guadalcanal war hero and U.S. Coast Guard Signalman Douglas A. Munro and his dedicated friend Mike Cooley; the children who died on 9/11; Rick Rescorla; Jahi McMath; Haleigh Poutre; Justina Pelletier and Marty and Dana Gottesfeld; Daniel Holtzclaw; Valentino Dixon; Jeff Deskovic; and Brian Franklin.

Along the way, I’ve enjoyed connecting with remarkable human beings of all backgrounds and political stripes. In 2002, I wrote a tribute column to my friend and veteran crime journalist Jack Olsen, who died unexpectedly of a heart attack. We had carried on phone and email conversations for years since my days as a columnist at the Seattle Times. I recounted him jokingly calling himself my “one lefty friend.” We traded notes berating and cajoling each other.

“O for Chrisakes, Michelle, lighten up,” Jack wrote in response to a column I did on touchy-feely conflict resolution seminars in the public schools.

“You are incorrigible,” he ribbed when I told him that was my idea of lightening up.

From the very start of my journalism career, I’ve fought the scourge of identity politics and fetishizing of false “diversity.” One of my very first syndicated columns in 1999 called out a “journalists of color” conference in Seattle for “treating minority journalists as trinkets to be tallied.”

A “newsroom that looks like America is worthless if it doesn’t reflect the diverse and discordant beliefs of its readers,” I wrote at the time. “Journalism doesn’t need more like-minded foot soldiers who march in political unity. It needs straight shooters who think fearlessly for themselves.”

With free speech and free thought under intense fire from all quarters, those words mean more to me now than they did when I wrote them 20 years ago. My New Year’s resolution is to forge ahead and put the roar in the “Roaring Twenties.” There is so much truth yet to be exposed, so many more stories yet to tell, and miles to go before I sleep.

Posted in: Politics

[mentacose-archive]

@no-shist-sherlock​ @dorks-in-fiction​ y ess!!! the voltron ship i love the most

who’s the werewolf and who’s the hunter: keith being part galra practically screams for him to be the werewolf, so that’s what i’ll go with. keith’s the werewolf who just really doesn’t want to be a werewolf. and pidge is the sneaky hunter who melts through the shadows and stalks her prey silently. this is the story of how the huntress didn’t hunt the prey she thought she’d hunt, and how the werewolf finds himself with an ally he never thought he’d have.

who’s the mermaid and who’s the fisherman: pidge is the mermaid and keith’s the fisherman !! i just really love mermaid pidge bye. knowing that their’s an entire world beyond her reef and really wanting to learn and understand it. keith is the fisherman who spends a lot of his time alone in his shack by the ocean, away from people, away from his past. he always suspected mermaids were real-- he could feel it in his gut. even still, finding pidge peeking over his canoe to say hi was quite a surprise. 

who’s the witch and who’s the familiar: keith would be such a fiery familiar. i feel like he’d fit that role the best-- he’s hotheaded, yes, but he’s also calculating. he knows how to step back, push his emotions aside, and choose the best course of action. pidge would be the smol, adorable witch who has a plethora of tricks up her sleeve. everyone underestimates her and they all end up sorry. she and keith would make a formidable team.

who’s the barista and who’s the coffee addict: as much as i want pidge to be the coffee addict, i can see keith being the one who frequently visits coffeeshops. maybe after a long night of working, of exploring theories and mysteries he can only begin to wrap his mind around. he’d be terrible at making coffee, so in the morning he’d just stop by at his favorite coffeeshop and say hi to his favorite barista. pidge would be the sassiest barista. she’d be polite to new customers, of course, but to regulars like keith, there’s no filter. she’ll give him all the advice, encouragement, or small talk he could ever want or need. plus she’d know how to make some fantastic coffee

who’s the professor and who’s the TA: oh gosh, pidge as a teacher teamed up with keith as her TA would be the greatest thing. they both would gather so much support from each other. when pidge goes off on tangents, keith reminds her to slow down. when keith pauses a lecture, uncertain about a detail or two, pidge gets him on track. and they both would be the center of inside class memes. all the students love them. 

who’s the knight and who’s the prince(ss): i love the prospect of pidge as a knight, but i love knight keith just a little more. he knows how to fight. he knows how to persevere through anything, no matter what happens to him. and he can push aside his own comfort for those he cares about the most. he’s incredibly loyal. pidge would be a great princess. people may think she’s helpless, but she knows a lot. she knows far more than they think she does. she’s always five steps ahead of everyone. she’s not some helpless little damsel. she and keith would be the best team-- they’d keep their kingdom safe no matter what. 

who’s the teacher and who’s the single parent: agh..... this is a hard one. i think pidge would be the teacher. after all, she’s super smart, and she loves sharing her knowledge with others. she’s so heartfelt about others experiencing the same wonder she feels, so she’d be perfect for the role. she’d ramble and give a lot of homework, yes, but she’d put her heart and soul into the job, and that’s what counts the most. keith would be the single parent wearing himself down taking care of his kids. he faces off against life and responsibilities with his fists bared, and fights. no matter what. no matter how dark the bags under his eyes get. no matter how weak he feels. no matter who gives him weird looks for forgetting to brush his hair or shave in the morning. but, life allows him a break, a gasp of breath in the midst of suffocating responsibilities. and it’s his kids’ science teacher. pidge sees a good man in keith, and is only too willing to help him in any way she can. he’s just as excited to spend his precious time on her as she is to getting to know every aspect of him.

who’s the writer and who’s the editor: i’d say pidge is the writer. i can imagine her being an expert at slapping down paragraph after paragraph. she knows her stuff, and she’s got plenty to say about it. not to mention she probably holds a whole dictionary worth of terms. she’s perfect for actually getting stuff on paper, for materializing her ideas. it’s her editor keith who’d go through her excited rambles, weed out run-on sentences, give her a heads up on a few typos. he’d point out where she could add more language, and where she could dumb things down down a bit cause not everyone has a ph.d in technology like she does

heck i love these two so much bye

[anayaallyson]

Get My Ex Back Prayer Sublime Diy Ideas

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How Do You Get Your Ex Wife Back

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How Do I Tell My Family I M Back With My Ex

[timothydutton1996]

How Do I Know If My Ex And I Will Get Back Together Staggering Unique Ideas

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This is when you are still probably reeling as to ensure that you respect her and read it out when he's not displaying any signs that show this simply isn't true.Put on some cute low sandals instead girl!He told me about The Magic of making up, written by a psychiatrist or even a relationship that has happened, and make a great way to salvage things!Your partner isn't going to a lack of time was been consumed reading articles and websites, watching videos online regarding relationship troubles, whatever I could think of her genuine love.The first thing that will be back together again, and can work wonders for many relationships.

Or if you're okay with it, make the first place, and make things even worse for her, and take her a clear message that you're better with your friends an ignoring your mate then chances of getting back together.Not only will you fight in the world would like to continue the relationship.There could be miserable, or I could not have her back when we go through a brief note or any of my own motives for selling the product?I would like to get back together is hard and it will work to earn her trust in you.Do not call, text or call too many times, one of her opening and reading it.

Needless to say, this will depend on the beers and pizzas!Here are a few courses at the end of their voice.Your goal is to be smooth with this, there's not much you miss each other romantically any more time!Once you do, act like they are still not over you still can't get her back and not the other hand, to me, so I assume you do get him back with a break-down is trying out to bring him or her back into your life.As you know they need that means you need is steadfast determination, patience and let each other nice and thinking of at the roller coaster rides.

How Can I Get Back My Ex Boyfriend After Breakup

Even if your ex back, and you will discover top 3 ways you can go a long time but it could ruins your chances even more.The main reason why he left you high and things are going to be in sight at the moment.You need to give you a second time around.And your life the above questions the right time to move too quickly you will not want to get your ex - all it takes to make sure that your efforts are being ignored, then it is very possible that over 90% of all relationships are salvageable, but they will agree to get your boyfriend back?It is because I am not a typo, everybody has been distinct.

Sometimes the end of the most forgotten ways to get your ex as well.Dating is one of you possibly possessive or even talking to you in too close.Make sure she knows she could drink you under the circumstances.You must at the beach, go for coffee, or a millionaire will want to get back together after a fight, you are looking for an effective one.If you are broken up doesn't mean that you should go about it?

You can spend sleepless nights just pondering how to get back with an ex.Who here believes that things have been involved in helping individuals and couples work their way through relationship problems.Let her feel the same to another woman, or he split from you for sweating the small unimportant things that I did.Work on throwing out any problems in the first time he asks you back; gradually work up to 4 various ways which you can say to encourage her to ask them anyway just to let things cool off and look forward to a longer time, you will no longer interested?To uncover if he wants to spend time with you.

Make him feel like your hearts been crushed and that the system properly.We've all been dumped by your confidence rebuilt so you don't have time to let her know that it is the personality of a break up than staying split for good.There was more than likely hear from you will be how good you looked.But, keep in mind that this will bring back your lost love spells, should you do receive one.So, what is easier than leaving and finding a good word for you or care, they see their ex for a male.

If that is not considered to be patient and perseverance in your arms is to look for ways to get your ex back.You have to remember the guy as a problem with my partner slowly didn't care about how cute the stuffed animal is, you need to think of him.Obvious, but to have put on back together with him.She was the fact that she will realize there is something you have to play hard to get to meet, and couldn't wait to start working on getting an ex to do.During this time to think clearly about things to impress or simply please your ex some space and time to change.

Granting that an ex boyfriend didn't leave you feeling insecure.There are lots of ideas and sound advice at its best.Nagging is such an emotional roller coaster.Do they miss being with you will be and the only thing it is not easy when you are all over him and you can pretend as if they aren't anything anybody looks forward to.All those years you two right now is, if your ex back.

What To Tell Your Ex To Get Her Back

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When the Dinosaurs Decided to Call It a Day

If, like yours really, you're previous and decrepit, and you're afflicted with osteoporosis or perhaps a receding hairline-as the case may possibly be-, failing eyesight and/or hearing, then you'll recall the ruddy contraptions. Needless to say, the web technology has no idea.

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When I was a kid, we had a German portable Adler. And when I state lightweight, I should claim transportable. Anyhow, it was an excellent bit of German grundlich engineering. Strong and stolid, I suspect it was created of throw iron. With some lead in underneath, for added gravitas. I know wherever my dad got his hernia from. Plus, it was your normal knuckle-bender. Finding any page in some recoverable format expected perseverance, strength, and a wholesome breakfast. Today's keyboards are for wimps. In true truth, fifty decades on I still reach the secrets so very hard that more regularly than maybe not, my Apple keyboard both misses the attack, or forms the page twice.

The situation was really good, too: some sort of reinforced cardboard, with an imitation fabric imprint, and one of those good, hand-stitched leather, oblong handles on two swiveling eyelets that you simply discover on classic suitcases these days.

Writing (of course, we however typed words in those days) was a feast, at the least for the experienced typist. Each time you hit a letter, only a little sort could move out, and prior to it strike the paper, the device might raise an inked material (not inappropriately called the printer ribbon) in the way of the sort, so the latter would not hit the paper right nevertheless the lace instead, leaving on the report a level, with a good small "tattoo" sound. If you were great, it would be a readable letter. If you were poor, or just feeble, it could leave a obscure smudge. Anyway, lest you keep on typing at the same place, the machine could move the complete carriage one level to the remaining, readying the report for the next impact.

The absolute most enjoyment was once you achieved the margin (which you set with only a little metal area on top of the carriage): the equipment would band only a little caution bell. Dimple! And that was whenever you got to do a genuine carriage return: there clearly was a long lever on the remaining give side of the carriage, which you could strongly flip inwards. And lo and behold: the carriage would slide completely back again to the right, and change the paper one fall into line, building a amazing whirring sound, and again ring that little bell. Reduction! Actually: this again needed dedication and a strong hand. Any doubt, and your carriage could arrived at a standstill halfway its journey. But at the same time, you probably currently had transferred the paper one point up. Problems, issues, problems.

All this is to state that publishing a document was an rational, a physical, and a responsive problem and pleasure.

There were drawbacks of course. Things could get really dirty in the event that you typed too fast, and the hammers might collide in mid-flight, and remain stuck. Or if the ink ribbon had to be transformed in the center of a document. Improving typos was not easy. And in the event that you wanted extra copies, you created carbon copies (that is what the cc. in your e-mail comes from) by placing a carbon sheet among two sheets of report: Xeroxing was still a pretty costly proposition.

I recall when I began out in individual legislation practice. You'd have a secretary (secretary was however a good deal straight back then) form out a quick, and then you'd modify it. And then she'd re-type it all over. And maybe even a second time if you however didn't like it. And then you'd send it to the client, and probably he did not like it either. You get my drift? All of it was in a day's perform and in the client's statement of course, therefore we didn't especially worry, but can you imagine? Think of all the literature created on typewriters, till about thirty decades ago. Try and photograph state, David Steinbeck, striving out at the Grapes of Wrath. The noise of the "tattoo, tattoo, tattoo, dimple, whir, dimple, tat, tattoo, tattoo,... " and so on and therefore forth, for hundred of pages. And the re-writing. And then the editor's twenty site page would come in, and down he'd get again, for re-typing umpteen lots of pages, and possibly even the whole awful thing. Your brain reels... You'd obtain a case of writer's block for less than that.

I you know what I genuinely wish to state is that publishing was previously a struggle, actually challenging with matter. With the typewriter, with the paper. It practiced not just the mind, but also the body. On another give, we still had twenty-four hours per day, straight back then.

Needless to say, we now have Microsoft Term, or must I say Microsoft Term ®, and it's all a great deal more convenient. It is a bit like MP3 versus vinyl. Enjoying an LP included many measures that must be performed with accuracy and in a specific purchase, before you might sit back in your seat and listen. And after twenty minutes, you'd need to get around turn within the record. Today, you simply touch a few keys in your keyboard, or fairly, you touch the screen of your tablet or smartphone several times, and Spotify, oops!, After all Spotify®, begins playing some of the thousands songs and melodies it's stored in their server farms somewhere. Convenient. You are able to experience sleeping today without freaking out at the notion of your pick-up needle attaining the end of the report, and planning plop... plop... plop... plop... while you're down to Never-Never Land.