#there are things you know & are aware of & are familiar with

[cntloup]

Simon trusts you, and he knows that he can't trust anyone but you. not even an ounce. he's aware that he has his fair share of enemies due to his line of work. that's why he always manages to stay vigilant when he's with you, out and about in public.

he's constantly on high alert, but tries to hide it so you won't get nervous. he always tries to get you to be at ease in his presence. he's got everything under control. you can relax.

"relax, Si." your voice is the only thing that makes him realize how tense he's been the whole time and he hasn't been successful in his attempt to hide it from you.

with a gentle hand on his cheek and a soft smile, you bring him back from the confines of his own mind.

"sorry..." he mumbles, turning his head to place a kiss on your palm, "it's ok." you respond so sweetly, nearly melting his heart. you always have that effect on him even by the smallest gestures.

he lifts the glass of bourbon from the table and brings the rim to his lips. he lets the liquid run past his tongue and throat, spreading the familiar warmth on its way.

"you don't have to always look out for any danger, you know?" you say with a tilt of your head, "you never know." he replies dryly which makes you scoff as you sip on your own drink.

your eyes lock onto one another and you both got that knowing look before you lean in and capture his lips with yours, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

your kiss, simply you make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, make him let go and be free even for a brief moment as you bring him back home by your touch.

you help him unwind as you both make out in your corner of the bar, drunk off each other's taste without a care in the world.

[simonsrileyhusband]

Hello!! I don't really know who exactly you write for but! I'm a huge sucker for cod men.

I'd love to see a reader x (any, completely your choice) cod men. But, reader has Vasovagal syncope. I actually struggle with this condition and know first hand what it's like. Honestly, I just want to make this condition to be a bit more normalized and I'd love to see a reader with the same struggles I have.

In my mind, the one shot, Drabble or fic, completely your choice of what you want to write it as, it's got all three- angst, fluff and smut. But that's just in my mind.

If you don't feel comfortable with this request I completely understand and respect it! After all you are the writer!

note: im not very familiar with the symptoms of this condition, so sorry if i this isnt as accurate.

implied nsfw:

simon is very hyper aware of you all the time, always making sure you don't stress out, stand for too long in the sun, don't get overwhelmed, etc.

but sometimes it just happens, your vision gets blury, your hands feel numb and before you know it his big arms wrap around you and pull you to his chest, keeping you from falling, your head resting against his fast heartbeat.

"come on lovie, lets go rest" he kisses ypur forehead as he carries you to the couch, gently sitting down with you sat across his lap, holding you like a baby he is afraid to let go off. "take your time, need water or something to eat?".

simon is used to you fainting of being close to it, but it still shakes his body, making him act like he hasnt seen you like that before.

"what's wrong baby? talk to me"

"just work, had been thinking a lot about it and... i think it got to me."

"mhm." he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there of a few seconds. one of his hands rub circles on your back and the other rests gently on your thighs.

"we cant have that happen again, can we? my lovie cant stress out about things like that." he starts kissing your cheek, down to your jaw and neck. "dont worry baby, ill make sure you dont think about anything for a while."

[fandomfablesunleashed]

What are we?

Law x reader (she/her)

English is not my first language

Once again, it was supposed to be something short, but apparently, that's not possible for me.

Just Law being terrible with feelings.

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She takes a deep breath, her heart pounding relentlessly in her chest, each thud echoing in her ears. This could go either way, and she is aware of that. But she has to ask. She needs to know.

“What… what are we?” she asks, her voice a fragile tremor, barely holding back the storm of emotions beneath. Vulnerability laces her words, hanging in the air between them like a delicate thread ready to snap. “I mean… I know we have this connection, this bond, but… what does it make us?”

Her gaze flickers up to meet his, searching for anything that might give her a clue to what he’s thinking. Law’s golden eyes pierce through her, sharp yet enigmatic. He watches her intently, but there’s a careful restraint in his movements, the same kind of precision he brings to the operating table.

His arms rest on the desk in front of him, unmoving, though his fingers twitch restlessly, as if they’re craving something solid to hold on to—perhaps her, perhaps the truth. The room, typically filled with the quiet hum of the submarine's engines and the familiar scratching of Law’s pen across paperwork, now feels eerily hollow, as though the tension between them has consumed every sound.

Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, the practiced mask of a surgeon that he wears so effortlessly, Law is internally unraveling. A relationship—anything resembling emotional vulnerability—wasn’t a thing he had even remotely prepared for. Hell, he hadn't allowed himself to feel like this in years, hadn’t been with a woman in longer than he cared to admit. He had locked those parts of himself away, buried them deep, refusing to ever dig them up.

However, the mere thought of rejecting her evoked a profound sense of regret within him. Law mentally cursed himself for being affected like this but couldn't help himself. He cares… More than he’s willing to admit.

His mind races, frantic thoughts clashing, tripping over each other as they fight for dominance. A thousand responses fill his head, most of them irrational, some outright absurd.

Could he tell her?

The words—the ones he'd never even let himself whisper, let alone speak aloud.

I care about you.

The thought flashes across his mind like a lightning bolt, and immediately he recoils. How could he possibly say that? It was foolish, reckless, even. People come and go—he knows this better than anyone.

His heart has grown a thick, unyielding shell, a defense mechanism carefully cultivated to protect him from loss and pain. But this woman, this stubborn, damn persistent woman, had somehow broken through his defenses. She’d slipped under his guard, worked her way past his walls, and settled into a part of him that he hadn’t even realized was still there—his heart.

The realization terrifies him.

And yet, there’s an undeniable pull that excites him, too. He’s torn, teetering on the edge of two opposing desires—one urging him to push her away, to protect himself, to keep her at arm’s length, safe from the jagged edges of his soul. The other is stronger, louder. He wants her close; he wants her warmth against him; her laughter filling the spaces of his life; her touch soothing the scars he keeps hidden from the world.

He wants her.

He wanted to hold her close, touch her skin, kiss her, make her laugh, make her moan, and make her his.

He wanted to open up to her. To tell her stories from his past, share his fears, his dreams, and the most intimate parts of his soul.

He wanted to be vulnerable.

But even as he yearns for this, something inside him resists. The thought of being that vulnerable, that exposed, sends a cold shiver down his spine. It feels foreign. Unnatural.

No.

Scratch that.

It is foreign.

For years, Law had trained himself to shut down, to lock away his emotions and never let them see the light of day. Acting on feelings was dangerous—he’d learned that lesson the hard way. The path of emotional attachment only led to pain.

Right?

Yet, the way she looks at him now, her eyes wide and hopeful, her lips parted in anticipation of his answer, makes his heart twist painfully. She’s waiting.

Law clenches his jaw so tightly that it seems like his teeth might crack. The tendons in his neck stand out like cords, tense and strained, as if his body is locked in a battle with itself. He can sense himself caving, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, threatening to break through the surface.

The silence in the room felt crushing, suffocating, like the very atmosphere was pressing downward upon him. He felt both excitement and dread rising in his chest. Law knew he had to speak.

He had to answer her.

Law swallows hard, the lump in his throat tingling like a jagged stone lodged deep in his chest. He opens his mouth, but the words are thick and unsteady. “I… I don't know”.

Damn it. That was not a good start.

His eyes flick to hers, searching her expression for any sign of her reaction to his reply. He saw her eyes flash in the light, a glimmer of…what was it? Disappointment?

Law cursed himself internally. This was not going well. What the hell was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to answer her question? What did he want them to be?

His grip on the edge of the desk tightens to the point where his knuckles are turning white. Law could feel a frustrated anger bubbling up inside him, mostly at himself. For once, he was at a complete loss of how to act, what to say, and what to do. And that was something that deeply disturbed him.

He felt like a fool. A complete and total fool.

Here he was, this brilliant doctor, an established captain of a fearsome and infamous crew. He could perform delicate, life-saving operations without breaking a sweat. He could lead his crew into battle and outmaneuver enemies who underestimated him.

Yet, all he could do was just sit there, staring at this woman like a dumbass, unable to manage more than a few short sentences.

Inside, Law was screaming, a howl of frustration that echoed in the caverns of his mind. Damn it all! He was never good at this—talking, sharing emotions, laying himself bare for someone else to see. His emotions were like tools, to be kept under tight control, used only when necessary.

But this was different. This was important.

His eyes flick back to her, seeing the shift in her expression, the growing worry, and the faint edge of disappointment pulling at the corners of her lips. The sight of it was like a blade twisting in his chest—sharp and unrelenting. He didn’t want to see that look on her face. He wanted to erase it, to make it vanish, replaced by something else—something softer. A smile. Her smile.

His throat feels impossibly dry, like every word he might say would crumble to dust before it could leave his lips. He has never felt so exposed, not like this, not with his heart laid bare and his defenses crumbling in front of someone else.

Sure, he’d been with women before. But those moments were fleeting, shallow, serving only to dull the edge of his stress, to fill the void of a momentary need. They meant nothing.

This was different. She was different.

He wanted more from her. So much more.

He wanted her trust—her unguarded, unbroken trust. He wanted her time, her laughter, her attention. He wanted her body pressed against his, yes, but not just that. He wanted her.

He wanted her love.

The last word slams into him like a physical blow, knocking the wind from his lungs. Love.

It’s the word he had thrown away long ago, buried so deep in the darkest corners of his soul that he’d convinced himself it no longer existed. It was a word he had told himself he would never trust or let near his heart.

And yet—there it was.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut.

He loves her.

And the fear of it—of what that meant—gripped him like ice in his veins, numbing him, paralyzing him. His hands shake slightly, the tremor small but betraying the storm of emotions raging beneath his surface. He wants to run, to bolt, to push her away, to deny it all and bury that damned word so deep inside him that it never sees the light of day again.

But he can’t.

Not anymore.

Because she had done something no one else had managed to do. She had stumbled into his life, into his guarded heart, and had somehow found a way to stay there. And now, she wasn’t just in his heart—she was in his thoughts, his very bones.

He didn’t know when it had happened. Maybe it was the first time she smiled at him, that soft, genuine smile that had disarmed him in a way he couldn’t understand. Or perhaps it was the moment their eyes first locked, that indescribable sensation stirring within him as they connected. Maybe it was the way her hand brushed his for the first time, and he hadn’t been able to forget the feeling since.

Or maybe it was the simple fact that someone like her—someone so beautiful, inside and out—had made the effort to understand him, to truly see him for who he was beneath all the layers of cold distance.

He just knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he couldn’t deny it any longer.

He loved her.

“Come here”. Law’s voice was a quiet rumble, like thunder rolling low across the horizon, cutting through the thick silence of the room. His eyes, that familiar golden gaze, held her captive. The intensity in them was different tonight. The gold seemed to glow, flickering like embers in a fire, beckoning her across the small but seemingly vast distance between them.

Her feet moved before she could even process it, carrying her across the room with a quiet, almost tentative grace. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of her soft footfalls. She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, her body responding to the call in his voice, the command in his gaze.

When she reached him, Law hadn’t moved. He remained where he sat, behind his desk, his eyes never leaving her. He watched her intently, as though studying her every movement, every breath, every shift of emotion that flickered across her face.

“Sit”.

He didn't know where this boldness was suddenly coming from, but he went with it. The word was quiet, but it carried the same weight as before—firm, unwavering. He gestured to his lap, his fingers barely moving, but the meaning was clear.

Without a word, without a second thought, she moved. She turned and lowered herself onto his lap, straddling him. The moment her weight settled, Law’s hands were on her, sliding up to her waist, pulling her close until there was no space left between them.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds in the room were the distant, low hum of the submarine’s systems and the uneven rhythm of their breathing. His chest rose and fell beneath her, each breath deep and slow, while hers came in short, rapid bursts.

Law kept his eyes on her, those burning golden eyes, as though he were searching her face for something—some sign, some answer. Her face was so close to his, mere inches separating them. He could feel the warmth of her breath, soft against his skin, and could smell the faint, intoxicating scent of her, earthy and sweet, like herbs and honey.

Her face was so close, mere inches from his. He could smell the faint scent of her skin, like a subtle mix of herbs and honey, and experience the warmth of her body when it touched his. His gaze traveled down to her lips, taking in the full, pink shape of them. He'd felt them before, tasted them even.

The memory of that first kiss had replayed over and over in his head, in his dreams. The taste of her had been addicting, leaving him craving more.

It played in his mind over and over, unbidden, each time leaving him craving more. He’d told himself it was nothing, just a physical need, a fleeting indulgence that he could easily forget. Now he knew how wrong he was. As he sat there, holding her in his lap, staring at her lips, he realized he'd never stopped craving her.

He'd never stopped wanting more.

She was staring at him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short, shallow pants. And in those eyes, he saw her question—What are we? It was there, unspoken, lingering in the space between them.

He knew he had to answer her, he knew he had to say something. He was Trafalgar Law, captain of the Heart Pirates, a brilliant surgeon, a man feared and respected across the seas. Yet here, now, with her in his lap, he felt completely out of his depth. Words failed him, his thoughts a tangled mess, his heart racing like a storm inside his chest.

Damn it!

Frustration flared within him, intertwining with a deep sense of vulnerability that left Law feeling unbalanced—unsteady, almost weak. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hip, his grip tightening to the point of near pain. Yet, instead of recoiling, she leaned in closer, resting her forehead gently against his.

Her touch was a balm to his burning skin, soothing the turmoil raging inside him. The warmth of her body next to his and the soft, warm breaths she exhaled created a heady mix of comfort and desire. She smelled so good, looked so pretty.

His pulse hammered in his chest, loud and thunderous in his ears. He felt it in his throat, felt it pulsating in his head, and the urge to pull her closer battled with the instinct to push her away.

Say something, Law. Say anything!

His mind raced, tangled in a web of conflicting emotions, while his throat felt impossibly dry. He knew what he should say. I care about you. I trust you. I want you. But the words refused to leave his mouth. He could feel his jaw clenching, his fingers twitching against her hip in an anxious rhythm.

He opened his mouth, desperation clawing at him, but once again, nothing came out. Damn it, he thought, frustration mounting. Why was it so difficult to speak? Each passing second stretched painfully, and in the silence, he noticed a flicker of something in her eyes—something unsettling.

Her forehead remained pressed against his, her breath coming in short bursts that warmed his skin, but the look in her eyes shifted. It was subtle but unmistakable—Resignation? No, not that… disappointment?

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. No, dammit to hell, he thought. That wasn't the look he wanted to see on her face. He needed to change that. Law’s fingers dug deeper into her hip, his grip nearly bruising.

“No,” he growled, his voice a low rumble filled with urgency. “That’s not what you should look like”.

Her eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of confusion washing over her features. “You’re not supposed to look like that,” he repeated, his tone almost desperate, his frustration spilling over into his words.

“You're too beautiful to look so sad”.

She was stunned by his statement, the intensity in his eyes overwhelming. For a moment, she simply stared at him, her mind struggling to catch up with the weight of his declaration. But slowly, the meaning sank in.

She saw the turmoil of emotions flickering in his golden eyes—the tension in his jaw, the raw strength in his grip on her hip. Law was an individual who tended to refrain from expressing his emotions, however, at this particular moment, he was confronting a deep-seated struggle to articulate his thoughts.

She reached up with a hand, her fingers delicately brushing against his skin, trailing lightly along the side of his jaw. The touch was so gentle, so tentative, that Law almost flinched. But instead of retreating, he leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment as if savoring the sensation.

His gaze flickered down to her lips, taking in their soft, full shape. The memory of their brief kiss surged to the forefront of his mind, the taste of her lingering like a bittersweet reminder of something he couldn’t quite grasp. It had been too short, too fleeting, and he had tried desperately to forget it.

He wanted that taste again.

No, he needed it.

Slowly, Law tilted his head, his face moving closer to hers. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, a magnetic pull drawing him in. His breath ghosted over her skin, warm and unsteady. She knew what he was going to do, but she stopped him by gently pressing his chest.

“What are we?” she asked once more, her voice soft yet firm, slicing the tension that enveloped them.

Law froze, his face inches from hers. The weight of her question hung heavy in the air, simple yet profoundly complex. He felt her warmth seep through the fabric of his shirt, and he recognized that this was the crux of everything they had danced around for so long.

What are we to each other?

His jaw clenched, the muscles tightening as an unreadable expression settled over his face. He had avoided this question for months, but now it loomed before him, an insurmountable wall he had to scale.

But how could he?

How could he articulate feelings he hadn’t fully understood himself?

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice coming out rougher than he had intended.

It was a dodging attempt and they both knew it.

She could hear the hesitancy in his voice, see the uncertainty swirling in his eyes. She knew he was avoiding the question, deflecting as he always did when faced with raw emotions. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily this time.

“You know what I’m asking,” she said, her voice steady, soft yet firm, cutting through the fog of tension. “I want to know what we are”.

Law’s eyes darkened further, his jaw clenching almost painfully as he felt the weight of her gaze. She was right; he knew exactly what she wanted to hear. But the words felt like stones lodged in his throat, and he fought against the tide of conflicting thoughts and emotions that surged within him.

Tell her the truth. Tell her how you feel. Tell her what she means to you.

But how? How could he put his feelings into words? Law had never been a man of many sentiments; emotions were his enemy, locked away behind layers of cold stoicism. He was known for his coolheadedness and unshakeable resolve. Yet here she was, this woman who had somehow burrowed her way into his heart, making him feel things he had never felt before.

He felt raw, exposed, and vulnerable. Every thought, every feeling, every emotion was laid bare, and he had no defenses left. His fingers clenched and unclenched on her hip, his head lowered, as he fought against the tide of emotions threatening to drown him.

His fingers clenched and unclenched on her hip, his head lowered. He felt like he was drowning, drowning in his thoughts and emotions. He was a pirate, a criminal, a former warlord. Men like him didn't get happily ever afters, they didn't get someone who made their heart ache.

He didn't deserve a woman like her.

He wanted to tell her that. To warn her. To say, Stay away. I’ll only cause you pain. But he couldn’t. Damn it, he couldn’t.

His chest ached with a potent mixture of guilt, longing, and an insatiable need. He wanted her, needed her, craved her. Her hand on his chest, the warmth radiating from her, her intoxicating scent—it was all too much, overwhelming him, drowning out the sound of his thoughts. He felt like a drowning man grasping for air, desperate to stay afloat.

And she was his lifeline.

He looked up at her, meeting her gaze, those beautiful dark eyes that seemed to see straight into his soul. He was a man who didn’t know how to be vulnerable, yet here she was, gently coaxing him into that unfamiliar territory. Her expression was soft, understanding, yet she held his gaze, silently encouraging him to speak, to be honest with her, and with himself.

At that moment, he realized he couldn’t hold back any longer. The words were right there, teetering on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out.

I want you. I need you. I can't stop thinking about you. I can't let you go.

There were a million things he wanted to say, a million things he should say. But those three words, those three simple words, were the ones that were burning the brightest in his mind.

“I love you”.

They tumbled out in a rush, low and rough, but loud enough to echo in the stillness of his office. As soon as they left his mouth, Law realized he had never really uttered those words to anyone—not to his parents, not to Cora-san, not to any woman he had ever known. Yet here he was, saying them to this incredible woman who had somehow captured his heart.

The confession hung in the air, almost tangible. The strangest part was the relief that flooded him, a weight lifting from his shoulders as he finally articulated what had been burning within him for months.

He waited for her response, his gaze fixed on her face, desperate to read her expression, to decipher her thoughts. Would she be shocked? Surprised? Would there be discomfort?

He certainly wasn’t prepared for the smile that broke across her face.

A slow, soft smile spread across her lips, her eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. The sight made his heart skip a beat, breath catching in his throat. She was smiling. He had just confessed his feelings in a rushed, desperate whisper, and she was smiling.

Law's mind reeled, his thoughts scrambling to understand her reaction. This was not what he had expected. He had prepared for shock, uncertainty, rejection even. But not this. Not that soft, beautiful smile.

He felt a sudden rush of heat to his face. Was he blushing?

Law shifted slightly, uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable he felt at that moment. He tried to act casual, to ignore the rapid beat of his heart, the hot flush on his cheeks, but it was useless. She was looking right at him, seeing straight through his defenses.

“You're smiling. Why are you smiling?” he asked, a mix of confusion and irritation coloring his tone.

She chuckled, a soft sound that sent shivers down his spine. “Is it not expected for a woman to smile when she’s been told she’s loved by the man she also loves very much?”

Law froze, his mind grinding to a halt as her comment sank in. She loved him too.

He had confessed his affections, and she had reciprocated. It seemed so simple, so obvious, now that he thought about it. Yet, it still felt surreal, like a dream from which he feared he might awaken at any moment.

“You… love me?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

She chuckled again, her smile growing wider. “Did you really think I would have stayed this long if I didn’t?”

Law’s jaw worked, but no words came out. Her question was so straightforward, so direct, that it threw him off. Of course, he knew she cared about him. They had fought side by side, saved each other’s lives, and faced insurmountable odds together. But he hadn’t realized the depth of her devotion until now.

He had been so focused on his feelings, his confusion, that he hadn't noticed hers.

He was an idiot.

She was looking at him, the corners of her eyes crinkled in that way he loved, her gentle smile still on her lips. Her gaze held no judgment, no anger, no doubt— only a calm, reassuring gaze that ignited a thrill within him.

“For someone so intelligent, you can be really dense sometimes,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Law tried to glare at her, attempted to act like her words didn��t affect him, but he was sure he wasn’t fooling her. She knew him too well, could see right through him. It was true; he was dense when it came to feelings, especially his own.

“I… I didn’t—” he began, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say. He had made a confession, poured his heart out, and now she was there, smiling at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He felt naked, exposed, but at the same time, lighter. He had finally told her how he felt, and she had told him she felt the same.

And she was still smiling at him.

His thoughts were a jumbled mess, a tangle of conflicting emotions. He was relieved that she loved him back but bewildered, scared, and vulnerable. He had never been good with feelings, yet here he was, confessing his love to the woman he had once tried to convince himself he merely tolerated.

He had been foolishly convinced that he could keep his longing for her locked away, that he could just continue on with his life, focusing on his goals and dreams. But she had seen through his facade, had seen through him.

And now she was here, in his arms, in his office, looking up at him with that damned soft smile on her face. He could feel her body heat, smell her sweet scent; it was driving him mad—the proximity, the knowledge that she loved him too.

He didn’t know how to handle it, how to process it. Her hand was still on his chest, her touch burning through his shirt. She was just looking at him, really seeing him, and it was almost unbearable. This was the most vulnerable he had ever felt in his life.

“Law”. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. It cut right into his thoughts, anchoring him in the moment.

His eyes met hers, and he was reminded all over again just how beautiful she was. Her dark eyes, her soft smile, her body pressed against his—it was all consuming. He couldn’t look away. He was trapped in her gaze, and there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Her hand moved up to his face, gently cupping his cheek. He felt very hot when she touched his skin, and leaned into her cool palm without wanting to. She was so close he could feel her breath on his chin, and he realized he was holding his breath, his chest painfully tight. “Now, can you answer my initial question?”

Her question shook Law from his trance. Which question? His mind was foggy, thoughts scattered. All he could focus on was the feel of her hand on his cheek and the sound of her voice. He struggled to remember the initial question, to recall what had prompted all of this.

Then it hit him. What are we?

What were they? Good question. They were partners, allies, friends—but that didn’t seem adequate anymore. Not after what had just happened. He had confessed his love for her, and she had confessed her love for him. So what did that make them? A couple? Lovers? The very thought made his stomach flutter.

“I… we…” Law stammered, trying to find the right words, but his brain felt like it was malfunctioning. How does one define a relationship?

He had never been in one, had never felt any desire to be in one until he met her. She had managed to break down his walls without even trying, getting under his skin in a way no one else had. And now here they were, and he had no idea how to define what they were.

She chuckled, the sound soft and tinged with fondness.

“Is it really that hard of a question?” she teased, her hand still on his cheek, her body still pressed against his.

Irritation mixed with embarrassment flashed through him as he realized she was finding this amusing. “Don’t mock me,” he grumbled, his voice hoarse. “I don’t have a script for this situation. I’m not exactly an expert on relationships”.

“Expert on what?” she prompted, giving him a pointed look, her voice still tinged with that same fond amusement.

His irritation flared, but he knew there was no heat behind it. She was enjoying this, relishing the fact that he was flustered and bewildered. “Relationships,” he snapped, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

Then it hit him again. Why did she make him repeat it? Her question echoed in his mind: What are we?

What were they? Partners, friends, and lovers. The words echoed in his head, each sending a flutter through his chest.

He looked down at her, meeting her gaze. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and the rapid beat of his heart. He was so out of his element, so vulnerable, yet inexplicably joyful at the same time.

“Lovers,” he said, the word low and rough. “We’re lovers”.

He tried to wrap his mind around it, trying to come to terms with the reality of the situation. He was in love with her, and she was in love with him. He had confessed his feelings, and she had reciprocated. They were lovers. It was surreal, unexpected, and yet somehow felt completely natural.

She let out another soft laugh, her hand remaining on his cheek. Her touch was warm, safe. “Was that so hard?”

He felt his irritation bubbling up again, but it was tempered with an almost overwhelming wave of affection. She was so cheeky, so goddamn bold. He loved it. He opened his mouth to respond, intending to snap at her, but then he caught sight of her smile, her bright eyes, and all words died in his throat.

She was beautiful, smart, strong, incredible. And she was his.

The word echoed in his mind, sending a shiver down his spine.

His.

She was his, and he was hers. It was so simple yet so monumental.

[i-am-the-n1-trash]

I'm rereading Tim Drake: Robin and honestly, Tim and Bernard's relationship just makes me so emotional. The fact that they both see each other as the 'bad one' in the relationship, with the other being their 'savior' says so much about their previous relationships.

Tim's biggest canon relationship is obviously Steph and, though I love her to death, their relationship was at points extremely unhealthy, and Tim was often shamed for his actions. He's the bad guy when Bruce won't let him tell her his name. He's the bad guy when Darla kisses him without consent. He's the bad guy for avoiding her when she comes back from faking her own death (against her will, I'm aware, but still), even though their relationship hadn't been in good terms at all when she 'died'.

Though Tim has his fair share of romantic relationships, only two outside of Steph, to me, are as meaningful or well-known enough to warrant exploring, and those are Ariana and Tam (There was definitely guilt with Lynx, but that was from the "she's possibly a criminal" kind, and his issues with Cassie come from a very different place too.)

In both these relationships, there are many times where Tim sees himself as the bad guy. With Ariana, he struggles with his growing feelings for Steph and the guilt of keeping a secret identity from someone he loves, not to mention the fact this is his first serious relationship and he constantly feels like he's messing up. With Tam, the secret isn't a problem anymore, but he ends up constantly putting her in danger just from knowing him, and that puts him off the idea of pursuing a relationship with her altogether.

With Bernard, though, it's the first time in a long time he has a complete fresh start. He's been stuck in a cycle of breaking up and making up with Steph, because they see each other as safe and familiar, but even that is something Tim feels guilty for.

Bernard is someone he knew, who Tim has enough history with to trust him, but who he is still getting to know now as the adults they've become, with no expectations of each other. He still sees himself as the bad guy, as the liar hiding his identity from him. They have a couple step backs, like when Tim has to ask him about the cult as Robin, but even then Bernard makes it clear that while he's angry, he understands why he's doing it, by doubling down on the fact that, regardless of Tim's current actions, their relationship is still a happy part of Bernard's life. (This comfort doesn't work that well, because Tim is a dumbass who doesn't realize Bernard knows he's Robin, but I digress.)

Essentially, to Tim, Bernard is the first baggage-free relationship he's had for a very long time, and he's somewhat plagues by the secrets he's keeping from him. To Tim, he is lying and putting him in danger, and Bernard, who he sees as a bright light in his life, deserves better.

On the other hand, we don't have that much info on Bernard's past relationships outside of Darla/Laura and Tim, but it's still easy to see that this boy is overflowing with self-deprecation.

In both Batman: Urban Legends and Tim Drake: Robin we see that his parents are, in the first one, very unaware of his life, and, in the second one, incredibly disapproving of his 'lifestyle' and even borderline emotionally abusive. Bernard really never met their expectations since he was young, and while he seems almost dismissive of this, you can tell it strikes him deep.

The one big thing we know about Bernard is the cult, and that already tells us everything we need to know. No one joins a cult if they have lot of self-love and confidence, especially not when the cult's main idea is to let go of all your problems through torture.

So when Tim, a guy he's had a crush on for years, someone he knows (or eventually finds out, the timeline is ambiguous) is not only a superhero, but his favorite superhero, Robin, he sees himself as dirty. As tainting Tim's heroism. Bernard is a likely depressed queer kid who fell victim to a cult, who has a history of self harm, with a bad relationship with his parents. To him, Tim is the one good thing in his life, and he says it outright even when they are having what's possibly their first big fight (unbeknownst to Tim, who, as I mentioned, is a dumbass <3).

He doesn't blame Tim at all for lying or keeping a secret identity, because Bernard sees himself as second to Robin in Tim's eyes and never once tries to fight back on that idea. Bernard considers Robin to be more important than himself, in general, and doesn't see anything wrong with that. To Bernard, Tim is the best thing that has ever happened to him, and the fact that they're dating is a blessing he doesn't believe he deserves.

In conclusion, these should like. Talk to each other. Please. And also both go to therapy. They love each other so much

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

It's like a ping pong game now isn't it? And MM doesn't know how to play this game, it's going from bad to worse for Madame Markle..

Well, the rumor as per Lady C (so take with a truckload of salt) is that allegedly Meghan planted the original Hollywood Reporter story herself so she could get some sympathy PR. Supposedly Meghan gave the HR reporter one name to use (my money's on the individual who still works at Archewell because no way would that person talk without Meghan's explicit consent) and the guy dug up the other 11 on his own.

The Us Weekly was 100% a clapback to The Hollywood Reporter. Given how quickly that story came out, it was definitely in the works when HR published. The Sussexes' "no comment" answer to the HR was because the Us Weekly story was already in progress. Which I suspect Ari and WME were probably aware of as well, given how they've nuked similar "exposes" for other clients. It was out of character for them to let a story like this get published without interference, just like it's out of character for Meghan to take a complaint like this lying down.

And now there's a new exclusive in The Daily Beast. The story about Meghan popping off on a florist is not new and has been around for a long time (which is different from the wedding florist rumor), but the preceding quote about how she's happy when everything goes her way but becomes "demonic" when it doesn't is new.

Is this the start of a press tsunami? Certainly does feel like it, and that's significant because Talking Tarot (an old tumblr blogger from the Sussexes' early days whose track record was very good but who left royal-watching in 2020/2021ish) predicted a press tsunami very similar to what we saw August - November 2018 preceding a Sussex divorce announcement.

What feels familiar about this, as also happened in the 2018 press tsunami (and ignoring Lady C's allegations since they can't be verified), is that the originating source of these stories is not a Sussex affiliate planting PR at Meghan's behest but rather someone acting independently, followed by Meghan (with Harry) clapping back so egregiously that other stories, other leaks, other sources speak out.

And this is different from the saga with Tom's letter. Remember, Meghan wrote that letter intending for him to leak it so she could get sympathy PR and when he didn't, she baited him with the People 5 Friends story. That's her usual MO, one we've seen time and time again since November 2016: Meghan claims one thing. Harry or the BRF (or Tom in the People instance) say something else. Meghan claps back with a new narrative or she doubles down.

But I'm advising caution. While this press tsunami eve (if you will) looks promising, we've had many false starts before. Let's see what happens next. Does Meghan respond to The Daily Beast? Does this go away? Or is this the fatal chink in the armor that makes the Sussexes' glass house finally collapse?

[l0stfoster]

Paul anon here to say eeeeeeYEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE ME SOME CURSED PAUL DOODLES THATS MY SCRUNKLY BOY IM LOEHEVDJDGUEHE I LOVE PAUL HOLDEN

I wanna know more about the feather situation now tho ohhhh you got me intrigued ohhhh my goddddd

And paul just thinking and knowing hes the reason johnny’s in a wheelchair and that’ll probably haunt him for the rest of his life cuz now hes so associated with the greasers he probably knows johnny a lot better now and ohhh im gonna be sick . He probably has so many feelings about the shit he did b4 he was kicked out of the house ohhhh my sweet boy i love you so bad

Paul anon I hope you know you're an icon among the writers. Novva has previously expressed how much they want to put you in a jar and observe you (/pos)

As always I am so joyous that you're enjoying Paul here hehe. I've said it once and I'll say it again. Canon Paul can go kick rocks, Cursed Paul, on the other hand, needs a break from me. I talk a lot below so yeah another below the cut.

The feather situation was a little thing I'd thought about recently, since I've brought up to the writers before about how Two would eventually offer Paul a feather for flock marking, and Paul, by god, does NOT want the feather. Not only does he feel like he doesn't deserve it for what he's done; but it proves something about himself too- that he's getting attached. What the fuck does it say about him if he begins to connect with these people? It doesn’t help the guilt, that’s for sure. Two tries for probably months to get him to take it; literally days on end of offering and being ignored or shrugged off- finally, Paul takes it, but he doesn't wear it, nor does he keep it on his person. The only reason Paul wears it visibly for the first time is because god DAMN does Two pull off some REALLY good sad, pathetic bird eyes (and Dally looks ready to kill him for upsetting Two-Bit, so.)

He just gets so damn unlucky with the timing and circumstances surrounding it. Not only do the harpies already hold beef with him because of Two’s original jumping and the feather issue (most of them are clueless to the fact that Two’s forgiven him, while others are aware and have kinda chilled), but having a soc who’s harmed one of their own in their territory does not sit well with a majority of them, even all these months later; something especially impactful to the Shepard’s Gang. The second one harpy spots Paul with this feather, the immediate assumption is that he’d taken it just as he did with the first one.

I don’t talk about the Shepard’s all too much, but this is a good time to mention that Two and Tim are pretty good friends— so, well, he takes this as a matter that he can settle himself; and it’s a good way to warn this rich boy imposing on their territory that he’s on strike two of three, whether he’s one of the cursed or not.

Paul Gets Jumped, Part 2. It’s definitely not as bad as when the socs got him because, despite their gripes, Tim is half aware that Darry does gaf about this guy (he’s very out of the loop, and doesn’t even know the two are dating). As bad or not, it does freak Paul the hell out due to how familiar it felt to the first time he was jumped. That’s called trauma big guy, you and Johnny can bond over shaking like chihuahuas when you walk home alone. They take the feather away from him too, and you bet your ass he will NOT ask Two-Bit for another one because he doesn’t want him thinking Paul had purposefully disposed of it, especially with how often he’d been turning it down. This mf also ends not up being very fond of harpies outside of the ones he knows (ie; Two, Mrs. Mathews, etc) for a little while. Refuses to walk outside the house unless he’s got someone else with the gang. Two dive bombs on and grabs Paul while he’s walking home once and the entire East side loses power for like 5 hours lmao. Two was not happy when he found out about it too. Harpy: “Oh yeah we got this back from a soc while ago here" Two: Two: “-Isn’t that Paul’s?” Harpy: Harpy: “Th. The soc?” Two: “Yeah??? Paul??? Darry’s boyfriend?? This was his-“ Harpy: “I mean, he had it b- ohhh shit. You gave it to him on purpose.” Two:

Tim is very confused when a ruffled Two slams the door open and off its hinges at his house

Two, slamming the door open: “WHY WOULD YOU JUMP HIM WITHOUT EVEN ASKING ME ABOUT THE FEATHER????” Tim, half asleep on the couch: Tim: “..g’d mornin'?”

ON THAT NOTE Paul is,, so utterly haunted by both Johnny's and Two's disabilities, and that is absolutely not helped by the fact that they don't even seem to hold it against him. In Johnny's eyes, Paul wasn't the one who'd jumped him, resulting in him carrying the switchblade that killed Bob. He wasn't the one who held Pony underwater with the intent to kill. Two himself already knows that Paul didn't expect him to be burned as he was, nor was he the one holding the lighter. The blame the gang directs at him varies; especially when they see that the two who fell victim don't even seem to be mad about it. I think that a large reason as to why Pony throws his blame at Paul for Johnny is because, well, Bob's not around to take it. He's an emotional teen who's taking it out on the person he knows had some correlation to it. Besides, I think all of us know Pony blames himself for the church fire; directing that anger at Paul makes it easier to cope.

But yeah, Paul's practically eaten alive by the guilt. It sure as hell doesn't help that he already feels bad for being directly related to the witch that cursed Tulsa.

[calamitys-child]

Still after yesterday and always in general thinking about the etymological distinction of uncanny (standard English translation meaning 'unknown/unknowable/un-careful' - 'ca canny' in Scots means like, be careful - look to what you know, settle yourself and approach with open eyes, 'canny' meaning cunning/wise/knowledgeable) vs unheimlich (original German coining of the concept - lit. 'unhomelike', familiar in that it's recognised as theoretically Belonging To The Home but Wrong somehow), the distinction not "this isn't anything I know what to do with" but "this is in my safe lived/living space and I Don't Recognise Or Like It", an intruder not a stranger - thinking about the abject not merely as Something Other/Dangerous but specifically meaning Something Dangerous That Is Essential To Define Myself, something that isn't just Not Meant To Be Here/Me but rather that defines What I Am Is Specifically In Relation To Not Being This. Thinking about how the implicit colonialism of defining these things in English rather than their original languages is inherent to their meaning. And Gender as perceived by queerness vs by binaries. And the way even in marginalised spaces a dominant narrative prevails in/for wider awareness

[darl-ingfics]

Sicktember Day 25: Summer Flu

Fandom: Seventeen

Sickie: Dino (flu)

Caregiver(s): Seventeen (mainly Seungkwan and Vernon, but also a handful of others)

Word Count: 1,715

“STOOOP!”

Chan jolted awake at the sudden shout, instantly moaning in pain. He touched his fingers to his forehead, body recoiling with achy pain from the sudden movement. He collapsed back onto one of his elbows, still massaging at his head as he desperately tried to find his bearings. The only thing Chan was fully aware of was that an incredibly loud noise had woken him (and something quite loud was still occurring just outside his bedroom door,) and that he was unbearably hot. 

And congested. No, sniffly. No, itchy. Shit…

“Huh’AHtuu! ITcshuu! HA’CHuu!”

Chan moaned again as he reached for the box of tissues on his nightstand with an all-too-familiar intimacy. He just barely registered the door of his room bursting open as he blew his nose, which prompted two more sneezes. 

“Oh shoot, yeah, we woke him.” That was Seokmin’s voice, whispered non-too-quietly. 

“No shit, Sherlock.” Jihoon that time. 

“This is the exact reason I told you all to stop fooling around.” Seungcheol. 

Chan finally looked up, squinting in the light of the doorway. He could see the three members he’d heard, as well as Soonyoung, Joshua, and Jeonghan. Great. A whole party. Just what he wanted right now.

“I’m right here,” Chan whined, sick of being talked about like an inanimate object. 

“Hi Channie.” Jeonghan waved gently. “How you feeling, love bug?”

Right. He had the flu. In August. That’s why he felt like absolute shit. Yippee. 

“Awful,” Chan rasped in reply. He followed that statement with a round of phlegmy coughs that even made him wince from how horrific they sounded. 

“Sorry for waking you.” Seokmin frowned apologetically. “Someone was being… cruel this morning.” He slowly turned to look at Hoshi. 

“Since when has offering a good morning hug been deemed ‘cruel?’” the dance leader shot back defensively. 

“Since you decided that said hug should also include tickling!” Seokmin replied. He was immediately shushed by Seungcheol, who had seen Chan wince at the volume of his retort. Seokmin’s hands covered his mouth in apology, and he mimed zipping his lips closed for good measure.  

“We’d hoped you would sleep through us all leaving for the day,” Seungcheol said with a sympathetic smile as he moved closer to the maknae. Chan frowned as the leader’s cold hand met his clammy forehead, as the sudden cool contact flipped his body’s switch from fever heat to chills. The younger man shivered, arms automatically wrapping around himself. Seungcheol watched the shift happen, and swiftly snagged a blanket from the end of Chan’s bed, draping it carefully around his youngest brother’s quivering frame. (Chan mentally sighed in relief that Seungcheol had chosen the blanket from the end of the bed, cause he hadn’t used that one yet, which meant this one wasn’t absolutely drenched in sweat. Small victories.)

“I wish I had,” Chan muttered, his voice so congested and husky and miserable that everyone in the room felt their heart break just a bit. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” Soonyoung said apologetically. “Kyeomie and I shouldn’t have been messing around. I’m so sorry we woke you.”

“I’d still be left out, though…” Soonyoung whined at Chan’s soft admission, dramatically falling against Seokmin’s shoulder. The vocalist melted too, unable to handle the sudden rush of guilt he felt. He had no real reason to feel guilty; it wasn’t his fault Chan was sick. But that didn’t make it easier to see their hard working maknae forced to stay behind. “Are you sure I can’t come to the studio? Even just to watch?” 

“Sorry, love, you know the rules: fever above 39.5 means no studio.” Seungcheol shook his head sadly. 

“And, no offense, babe, but you literally look contagious right now. Sound it too,” Soonyoung added. Chan’s pout intensified. Joshua elbowed Soonyoung’s side. “Ouch! What? It’s true! I said no offense.”

“Nah, I get it,” Chan replied, rubbing his hands through his hair. “But I hate it.’

“You know, only the performance unit has to leave early,” Jeonghan added from the doorway. “The rest of us can keep you company for a bit! We could even wash your bedding for you, if you want, love.” 

Chan shook his head. “You don’t have to…”

“What if we want to?”

Chan’s brow furrowed. “Hyung, you never want to do laundry.”

Jeonghan’s face fell into an unamused glare as the rest of the members in the room laughed. 

“Come on, Channie-bug. Let’s get you out of bed and into some fresh clothes.” Joshua extended his hands towards the youngest, and Chan obliged as if in a trance, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He tried not to feel too embarrassed as he saw Jeonghan and Seungcheol stripping his bed, tried not to cry as the soft, gentle hands of Joshua and Soonyoung guided him out of his current clothes and into new ones. Sure, he’d actually been the one taking his clothes off and on, but something about being cared for like this made him feel helpless. 

But he did as he was told, including being ushered out to the living room. Chan felt ridiculous as he shuffled towards the living room. He was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt, a hoodie, sweatpants, and Halloween fuzzy socks with a blanket thrown over his shoulders like a cape. In the hottest month of the year. And he was still shivering. How humiliating. 

With a huff of annoyance at the universe, Chan slumped onto the couch. He vaguely remembered Jihoon asking what he wanted to watch on TV, the producer turning on whatever program he’d suggested. He vaguely remembered Seokmin mentioning making tea. He vaguely remembered all of the members who had been in his room reappearing before him on the couch, saying things right out of the playbook for caring for a sick person. But none of it really stuck. Sure, Chan appreciated his members more than anything, and he’d be thanking them profusely for all of this in a few days time. But right now, when he was so miserable and forced to stay home from practicing with his best friends in the whole world, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone to sulk and sweat the rest of this bug out. 

“H’etkCHee!” And sneeze. That too. 

As Chan sat back after being thrown forward three more sneezes caught in his hands, he felt something light fall into his lap, and opened his eyes to a new box of tissues and a Hansol. 

“Bless you,” the older man cooed, folding smoothly onto the couch next to him, one ;eg tucked underneath him.

“What are you doing here?” Chan asked, pressing a bundle of tissues to his nose. 

Hansol shrugged, completely unfazed by his friend’s ill temper. “Making sure you don’t drown in your own snot?”

“Gross.”

“You’re gross.” Chan kicked Hansol’s knee, prompting the rapper to laugh. “No really. I haven’t properly seen you in two days. I wanted to just exist with you for a bit.”

“Don’t you have practice?”

“Well, Nonie and I don’t have to leave for another hour or so.” Seungkwan checked his watch just to make sure as he fell into the seat to Chan’s right. He held a mug of the tea Seokmin had mentioned earlier, set the steaming beverage on the coffee table for the moment. “We thought we’d chill with you, if you’re okay with that.” 

“Sure, if you’re not worried about catching this.”

“Pretty sure that ship has sailed,” Hansol replied. “I’m personally not too worried about it.” Seungkwan nodded his agreement. “We can mask up if that’ll make you feel better, though?” Chan bit his lip, ultimately shook his head. Hansol smirked. “Too touch starved to let us leave, huh?”

“Don’t make fun of meeee,” Chan whined, burrowing into Seungkwan’s side, much to the amusement of his friends.

“Hey, Dino!” The trio looked up, (Chan extracting himself from Seungkwan), to see Junhei in the doorway, miming a throwing motion, a blister pack of pills in his hand. Chan held up his hands, and Jun tossed the packet to him, aim effortlessly accurate as Chan caught the medicine between his palms. 

“Thanks, hyung,” Chan replied. 

Jun blew him a kiss. “Feel better, bud.” Minghao’s head appeared from behind Jun’s shoulder, a sympathetic smile stretching on his lips as he waved. The faint sound of their manager yelling from outside had both of them running out the door. 

As soon as the door slammed behind them, Chan’s whole body collapsed inward in disappointment. Hansol chuckled. “Pouting isn’t going to fix anything, Chan-ah.”

“This is just unfair.” Chan hated that he was whining, but was too tired to stop his mouth. “I just wanna go to dance.”

“I know, hon, but you have to let your body rest.” Seungkwan’s fingers pet Chan’s hair soothingly. 

“This is all Jeonghan’s fault! If he hadn’t locked the door during the last GOSE episode…”

“Oh, trust me, he knows,” Seungkwan said, Hansol nodding along enthusiastically. “He had no idea you weren’t feeling well before that whole incident, so when he found out that he’d locked you in the rain and then made you sit in the A/C for all those hours? It wasn’t pretty, let me tell you.”

“But Wonwoo and Seokmin were outside with me! Why aren’t they sick? Why just me?”

“Well, again, you told us you were feeling off before the rain thing,” Seungkwan pointed out. 

Chan shrugged. “So? Wonwoo-hyung’s immune system is shit. He should be suffering with me.” 

“True as that may be, the honest answer is that life isn’t fair.” Hansol lolled his head to the side, staring directly at Chan. “And I know that’s not what you want to hear right now.” The younger man whined in reply, falling forward so his face smushed against Hansol’s chest. The rapper laughed, patting Chan’s back affectionately. “You’re so cute!”

“Stop saying I’m cute. I’m so fucking gross right now. You said if yourself.” 

“Chan-ah! Language!” Seungkwan chided, his eyes teasing. Chan lifted his head just enough to stick his tongue out at Seungkwan before melting back into Hansol’s embrace. Seungkwan and Hansol shared a look of adoration over Chan’s head. Yeah, this was exactly how they wanted to spend their next hour. 

[beatcroc]

there's no way the bathroom at peppino's pizza is actually that big but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . hey ummm anyway.... i care them...... anyway there's a lil ramble on my take on fake pep's like psyche or whatever in tags on the og post if ur into that kinda thing :y

hey! it's a series! fake peppino world tour: [noise] [noisette] [peppino]<- u are here [gustavo] [gerome] [noisette again]

[throesofincreasingwonder]

Hm. Actually, quick awareness check bc I'm wondering if this is just a symptom of being a musical theatre dyke in 2015:

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

saw some speculation on FranklyDear in relation to the audios and i want to toss my two cents in

so all the thing's i've been seeing have been people talking about how they're a couple, but they're not acting like it, so that must be Playfellow's influence making them put distance between each other

but i immediately interpreted it as - they're not there yet. there might be feelings, but they aren't Together. cause in the 14 bug audios, i feel like it's pretty clear that these are snapshots of the neighborhood outside of the show. cameras aren't rolling, there are no influences, it's the neighbors just Existing on their own dime

'cause the conversations are more natural! the characters seem more nuanced! there aren't any sound effects! so if FranklyDear is already established, wouldn't we have "seen" that in their shared audio 8-14? wouldn't Eddie have just called Frank Frank, without the immediate (and somewhat flustered) correction to Mr. Frankly? and wouldn't Frank call him Eddie instead of Mr. Dear? plus, idk about y'all, but that scene was a lil romantically charged. a little flirty - especially from Frank's side. the kind of tension you get from budding emotions, not fully-realized ones

they just seem to be in a before state. the beginning stages. and anyway, i remember Clown saying that revealing FranklyDear as an endgame couple was sort of an Accident? i think we were meant to watch it evolve and figure it out along with the characters, the way we will with any other relationships (that we Definitely are not aware of / confident about yet).

we're still only in the prologue of the story, so it'd make so much sense if Frank and Eddie are not yet Involved. we're on this journey With them

[queen-mabs-revenge]

there is something so exceptional about the audio form and the kind of...meta-narrative (?) of horror it creates that really leapt out at the end of this re: dracula episode (25 Sept).

seeing the runtime of each episode sets the scene - 27:06? ok, i'm in for something here -- we have a few, uhhhhh, long-winded characters in rotation so it might not be an eventful something, but at this point in the story, we've already been gutted by episodes with longer runtimes so just glimpsing the runtime already sets the scene for heightened dread. you might set aside time to experience the dread instead of maybe quickly listening to a minute long episode wherever/whenever you are.

i luckily got to listen through without interruption and so i was only vaguely aware of the passing time in that approximate way one's body clock ever is. so as this episode came to a close, and mina asks van helsing to not reply if he agrees to meet for breakfast, the dread spiked

i didn't know how long was left in the episode -- the music was still lingering. how much time has it been? 27 minutes? it feels like it could be 27 minutes, but it also feels much shorter? can't be sure. and even if the runtime is nearly elapsed, we know from previous episodes that a telegram can take mere seconds, a journal entry just a few words. is van helsing going to be called away? is he going to cancel the meeting? is mina going to be left alone again with no answers and no friends? with the count and the 'bloofer lady' closing in? how long has the music been playing? holding my breath for the morse code. holding my breath for van helsing's voice. holding my breath for 'letter by hand'. holding my breath for 'letter unopened'...

"this episode featured..."

relief

when reading, you have the unread pages in your hand constantly telling you the story of the progress of the narrative's shape. unless every piece of ephemera of an epistolary story is set on its own separate page, you can see the next item in your eyesight. sure, even if they are on separate new pages, you can see through the printed page the shadows of the text on the next, giving you a subconscious hint of expectation.

with a film, you lose the tangibility of the physical object informing the narrative, but you have other sensory cues - something like a fade to black over the lingering music can manipulate your expectations of narrative completion (and either follow through or subvert them). if you're watching on a device, an accidental activation of the screen or cursor might give you a glimpse of the progression bar, again changing your narrative perception.

with an audio drama you're left with just the one sense as your guide. unless you're actively watching the progression bar as you're listening or actively watching a clock, you just don't know beyond your own imperfect perception of time what you're in for and fuck me the added anxiety because of that is just

whew

[iniziare]

Consider Yelan's facial expression to be my own in reaction to opinions shared on both X and Tumblr, and I guess I'm in the minority of the 'loud ones', but I'm pretty excited for Natlan since that trailer, actually. The previous teasers left me a little 'eh', but this definitely got my hopes back up, and I'm back in the right spirits for it (and ready to catch some Pokémon.)

Now I wouldn't be me if I didn't touch on the salt that I've seen scattered across the dash, so here I go. Listen, I read people's objections and I see what you're all aiming at, but in that light want to note that it's often incredibly easy to point fingers (arguably too much so) at others while being, quite honestly, hopefully rather aware that many of our own countries, cultures, and its populations across the board (and no, I'm not excluding anyone here) would likely be just as easily guilty as MHY is with these things. And no, I'm not blindly defending them, but I also won't point fingers at only one without pointing them everywhere else as well, including those you might think would 'never do such things', because I'm absolutely certain that they would. /continues on in the tags.

[rodeoromeo]

also can I say I think some of you aren’t maybe using your best literacy skills when you’re making judgements about Bob Dylan’s music

[chiropteracupola]

ack ow uh oh oh no

[seveneyesoup]

sunny d and hiiiiiii

hello in lieu of a mortar and pestle for grinding you may use what one of my classmates does to get small samples for melting point, which is to fold the weighing paper in quarters with the sample in the middle and use a watch glass (the round little concave ones) and roll the convex side over the weighing paper, finely grinding the sample without losing any of it, the way using a glass rod or spatula might fling bits of product around