#fascinated by this tiny sliver of vulnerability

[whirlpool-blogs]

Q: Do you imagine, or live through it in your head, what it will be like when your name is called - regardless of who does it, and when?

Jack: I’m guessing my legs will numb a little bit? I don’t know, I mean, it’ll probably be a little bit of a blur.

[sunlitroom]

Hi! For the ship chart - Gobblepot, Wayleska, BatCat, Nygmakins

Thanks for asking, anon :)

Well, I like all of these :D  But to elaborate.  And by elaborate, I mean - write a massive essay, because I’ve been in lockdown for over a month now.

Gobblepot - The best OTP of all OTPs

I’ve written a ton of meta (how unfashionable of me) and had conversations with very clever people about Gotham’s writing.  It has its flaws - as does everything - but when it does things well, it does them well.  Jim and Oswald are paralleled from beginning to end.  Even when they’re not technically sharing a story - it’s made clear that these people are connected.  Prisoners offered a good example of that, which I recapped here

Jim and Oswald’s connection is made clear right at the beginning - we start off with their story.  Jim’s freshly arrived in town, full of big ideas and hopes.  He has a shiny new job and a beautiful fiance.   Oswald doesn’t seem to have the same external trappings of growth and success - but he’s planted several seeds in the hope they’ll come to fruition later.

It’s interesting to see how reckless and brazen they both are in season one, too.  They both stare down the barrel of a gun at points, and practically swagger up to certain people and dare them to kill them.  They both retain their impulse to thumb their noses at authority, and do downright dangerous things - but they become increasingly less blithe about it over the seasons as their respective trauma accumulates.  There’s a joy in it at the outset, more of a desperate grimness as we go on.

We also get to see their vulnerabilities.  There’s little hints early on that there’s more underneath.  Jim might look like the invulnerable golden boy but - to quote a line from Silence of the Lambs - his face is all scars, if you know how to look.  Look at his immediate bond with the bereaved Bruce, because Jim saw his father die at the same age.  Look at Jim’s reaction when Loeb comments about not following in his father’s footsteps.  Look how quickly his relationship with Barbara falls apart - in fact, just look at it in the first place.  

Oswald’s vulnerabilites are more and less obvious.  He’s the Other to Jim’s all-American hero.  He’s flung about all over the place in season one - tiny-looking in comparison to the likes of Falcone and Maroni.  He’s left with a permanent limp after Fish’s beating.  Less obviously, we see that he’s strongly motivated by his need to make his mother happy, and that the notion of causing her shame hurts him to the point of tears.

All that kind of stuff, all the careful details, built slowly, really make it for me.  They’re built on later - in many ways they’re very different, but in others, very similar.

This difference/similarity plays out in their encounters, too.  They’re oddly fascinated by each other.  Oswald’s attraction is made very apparent from the outset .  Yes - Jim might be another piece on the chessboard (albeit one he won’t sacrifice) - but he blushes and stares and lights up when Jim appears.  Even later, when all the hurts and wrongs between them have mounted up, he still can’t quite resist gazing.

Jim’s a combination of uneasy but fascinated in Oswald’s company.   The early scene in the alley pinpoints it so well - the moment right after this one:

Oswald - who is adept at reading people (in season one, anyway) grins - because Jim is rapt.  He has his whole attention.  To steal a line from Hannibal this time. he watched the red sparks pinwheel deep in his eyes and felt the excitement of a child approaching a distant fair.  Although, in this case - it’s all more illicit and scary.  Jim knows he shouldn’t go to this fair, and this fair is a dangerous place.

And that odd fascination never really goes away.  Even at points when Jim is angered or revolted by Oswald’s actions - he’s never repulsed.  He’s more likely to shake him than turn his back on him.

This dynamic might morph a bit, depending on circumstance - but Jim always stands too close, stares too long, likes to tease, and is quick to head in Oswald’s direction when the chips are down.

A last point. Something else I enjoy is that they know the best and worst of each other, and seem to have an endless capacity for forgiveness.

Wayleska - sort of an OTP?  I do find it a heartbreaker of a ship.  

Pre-gas Jeremiah is so instantly smitten with Bruce.  That first interaction and he’s completely gone.  I’m posting the gifs again because they’re glorious.  I know they’re all different sizes, but meh.  

What makes it all so painful is that you can see - post-gas - this is still there.  He’s still head-over-heels, and there’s slivers of awareness there.  But the gas has twisted everything, and you can see part of him is mortified and pained at how this is all playing out.

Especially here, in these next gifs.  Even the big showy gesture is laced with pain, and afterwards just seals it

Given his secretive and hidden-away past, you could probably hazard a guess that this is the first time Jeremiah has been in love.  On top of that, he seems reserved and restrained by nature.  And here he is - being forced to reveal his feelings like this.  

On saying all that, I loved what I saw in show - but maybe prefer it as a pairing in fics.  Bruce - for me, anyway - doesn’t seem mature enough to deal with the intensity of Jeremiah’s feeling - pre and post-gas.  Maybe when he’s a little older, it’s something he could at least take in and process, but it seems a little one-sided in show just because Bruce doesn’t really seem to recognise what’s happening, let alone parry it.  

The only point where you could argue that he was aware, and that there’s feelings there, I think, is the fact that he’s so angry at Jeremiah.  With Jerome, Bruce almost felt responsible for his actions, and does what he can to mitigate them.  But with Jeremiah, Bruce refuses to even tell him that they have a connection in order to save people’s lives.  His anger and obstinacy feels more visceral and - if I prod it - looks like hurt and betrayal.  Bruce saw Jeremiah, at least, as a friend.  His reaction to the loss of that seems a bit disproportionate - so maybe there are nascent feelings there?

But generally. yes, better in fic where the writer can take more license and time with Bruce.

BatCat - It’s not an OTP - but it’s sweet and I like it?  I’m not so mad keen about how forgetful Alfred and Bruce can sometimes be of Selina in earlier seasons, and sometime tone-deaf at points later - but yes, it’s nice.

Nygmakins - I like this.  It’s maybe not an OTP - but I ship it.  The foundations aren’t quite as extensive as with Gobblepot - but they’re there.  They’re both seemingly sweet-natured, sciencey and fascinated with the darker side of life.  Very early on, we know they have interactions that we don’t see.  Lee apparently allows Ed to use the lab and exam room when he wants, and he dreamily remarks that she smells nice.

Later, we see more similarity as their duality becomes more apparent, and their shared taste for violence, darkness and power.  Lee enjoys the applause of the crowds in the Narrows just as much as Ed enjoys the audience adulation for his ‘gameshow’.  Lee’s revenge on Sofia is as protracted and merciless as Ed’s on Oswald.  

Last up - they both have a desire to be entirely seen, which is something they seem to find in each other.

Thanks for the ask, anon.  I fire the same pairings back at you, if you feel like answering :)

[pax-2735]

GoT Fanfic: This Twisted Sense of Belonging

Summary: After Bran’s revelation, Sansa and Jon speak. Added scene to season 8 episode 4 ‘The Last of the Starks’. 

Also, this is part 2 of the ‘While the Earth Sleeps’ series. You can find part 1 here - https://pax-2735.tumblr.com/post/185566122194/got-fanfic-find-the-strenght-you-need-to-carry

 This Twisted Sense of Belonging

The knock on the door is incredibly soft, a mere grazing of knuckles against the weathered wood. She knows it’s unlikely that he’ll even hear it, that he is most likely asleep given the late hour – and whether or not he is alone is something she refuses to dwell on at the moment – but still she waits. It has taken her this long to gather even this tiny sliver of courage, she won’t back down until she can at least say she tried.

She hears noises coming from inside and draws in a breath as he opens the door. He looks surprised to see her, though she cannot fault him for that, but there is a myriad of emotions lurking in the shadows of his eyes. Anger, hurt, those she can easily understand. There’s a lingering sadness there that can readily be attributed to his impending departure come morning.

Everything else is far too complicated to dwell upon right now, when it’s the middle of the night and she’s standing at the door to his chambers.

“Did I wake you?”

He shakes his head with a sigh and steps to the side in an unspoken invitation. Her steps lead her to the blazing hearth, her mind conjuring up images of another time she when was here with him. The picture of a good, doting sister, even as she knows that’s not the truth.

He closes the door but doesn’t move away from it, his grey eyes following her movements keenly and she wonders if he’s remembering the same thing. He was drunk then, and even though it doesn’t serve as an excuse, it was more than what they have right now. The air between them is becoming charged, as it always does when it’s just them. She considers if that will ever change as everything else seems to have.

“Is everything alright?” His voice sounds tired but his body is taut and filled with tension, his eyes sharp as he stares at her. He’s readying himself for a fight, she realizes.

“Yes, everything… everything is fine.” She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she thought she had abandoned long ago, during the endless days and nights in King’s Landing when compliance and detachment had been her weapons of survival. “I’ve been thinking about what Bran told us. I know I didn’t say anything at the time…” She falters, unsure of what she wants to say, and looks towards him, wanting to see his reaction.

He’s standing perfectly still, as if waiting to see where she’s going with this. His face is perfectly schooled into a mask of indifference and he blinks a few times to hide the emotions in his eyes. He’s getting good at this.

Things aren’t alright between them, they haven’t been ever since he came back from the South with a Targaryen queen at his side. She knows she’s being petty but she misses the way it was before, when it was just them, when in spite of being at odds with one another more often than not, there was never this chasm between them. She misses him, she realizes, and she can’t bear the thought that he’ll leave again with the way things are.

“I know I should have said something. Asked how you felt about all of this.” He narrows his eyes but doesn’t otherwise move. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to tell you that Arya is right. This doesn’t change anything.”

He scoffs, finally moving away from the door. He walks past her, keeping his back turned and she hurries on, desperately trying to make him understand. “It doesn’t Jon. It doesn’t matter, none of it. You’re still one of us, you’re still family. Regardless of who you are by birth, you’ll always be a Stark.”

“I’ve never been a Stark.” He turns abruptly and cuts her off sharply and she shakes at the vehemence in his voice. “Don’t you see? My whole life all I ever wanted was to be a Stark. I wanted to be one of you, to belong.” He stops and takes a shuddering breath, his eyes searching for hers, and she trembles at the pain she sees there.

“You know what’s the last thing Father’s ever said to me, when we parted on the King’s Road?” He looks haunted by the memories, the image of the only father he had ever known. “He promised me that the next time we spoke he’d tell me about my mother.” He runs a shaky hand over his face before turning towards the hearth. “Do you know how many nights I lay awake wondering about her, about where she was and whether or not she missed me? How much time I spent hoping I’d get to meet her someday?”

She knows she’s crying, tears descending upon her cheeks and leaving a salty taste on her lips, but she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. All she cares about right now is him, the lost little boy he once was and the man he is right now, pained and vulnerable. “I’m so sorry Jon.”

He stares at the crackling fire as though the flames beckon to him, calling to the dragon inside. “He should have told me. I mean, I know why he didn’t but I—“

“You had the right to know.” She doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know how to take any of this pain away and make him feel whole again and so she steps forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders. He tenses for a moment but then he turns, wrapping his arms around her and hiding his face in the crook of her neck. It’s reminiscent of their first meeting at Castle Black, when they had found each other again after being alone for so long, but there’s a different kind of desperation to it. She feels his tears on her skin and she’s certain he feels hers as well.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there, hours or mere moments. She only moves after his tears have dried and she feels his arms unwind from around her to settle over the curve of her waist. It feels incredibly intimate but he makes no move to pull away.

“Everything has changed.” He states and again she wants to reassure him that that isn’t the case but one look into his eyes and she knows they are speaking of something else entirely. He lifts up a hand to gently trace the contours of her face. “I’m not your brother.”

He lets his hands drop slightly to settle over her hips and she watches as his eyes flicker to her mouth for a moment. She licks her suddenly dry lips, unconscious of what she’s doing, and watches in fascination as his eyes darken to black pools. She has seen that look on countless other faces, but none of them ever made her respond like this. There’s a familiar coiling in the pit of her stomach, the heat growing and drawing tighter until she feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes move back across her face, his gaze locking with hers.

There’s a question there, one she cannot find the words to answer, so she steps forward, her body molding against his, and her hands move away from his chest and his rapidly beating heart to settle on his neck. Her fingers find purchase in the dark curls there, tugging slightly, and he takes a shuddering breath before dropping his head to hers.

There’s a crackling in the fire and they both startle as a loud screeching sound is heard outside. The dragons have been growing restless ever since the battle against the army of the dead and tonight is no exception, the flapping of giant wings a stark contrast against the otherwise silent night. In the distance, she can hear the remaining Dothraki beginning to cheer at the unconscious display of their queen’s strength and it’s enough to bring her back to her senses.

Whatever unspoken feelings exist between them must remain so. He has made his choice and so must she. She won’t endanger the North for this.

She steps away from him, hoping that this small distance between them will help to clear some of the fog inside her mind. A shuddering breath passes through her lips as she tries to steady herself, watching with hooded eyes as he struggles to do the same. She knows he won’t endanger the North either.

She speaks as softly as she can muster, even if her heart is still racing, and she’s surprised at how steady she sounds. “You are not my brother, no. But you’re still family.” She places her hands on his face and pulls him towards her, kissing his forehead with only a ghost of a touch. “Please be safe in the south. Be happy.” Her voice catches at the last word and she hastily turns away, a flurry of skirts and rustling fabric as she makes her way towards the door.

She almost makes it. Her hand reaches the knob just as she feels more than hears him move and suddenly he’s there behind her, one hand braced against the door, preventing her escape. He doesn’t touch her but it makes little difference. There’s nothing but a tiny sliver of air between them and she can feel the heat of his body against hers, feel his breath as it pushes past his parted lips and caresses her skin.

“You want to know what I felt when I found out the truth?” His voice is low and rough and laced with a tint of anger, spoken close enough to the shell of her ear to make her shudder. “I felt angry. I felt betrayed.” Her head tilts slightly to the side so she can look at him, but his gaze is fixed straight forward. “I felt sadness.” He turns his head to her, finally meeting her eyes. “Most of all, I felt relieved.”

Her heart falters in her chest and she’s sure she stops breathing for a moment. She’s ridiculously aware that she’s glad for the long sleeves of her dress, as he cannot see how her skin raises at that, how her whole body seems to come alive with those words.

She turns slowly, eyes downcast as she struggles to regain control of herself. She can’t help but notice the direwolves stitched upon his clothing and touches them fleetingly, as her eyes find their way up to his face.

He’s staring at her, his gaze unflinching, as if daring her to say something, to deny this, and she can clearly see the storm brewing inside those dark grey pools. She fears it will destroy them both.

She inches forward and watches him close his eyes, his breath faltering as she touches his face before placing a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth. “So did I,” she whispers and his eyes snap open. She can see his surprise at her quiet admission, the hunger and sheer want she is certain are mirrored in her own gaze. It would be so easy to just give in, to loose herself in this thing between them, to let it warm her, warm them, if only for a few hours –

The thought is enough to sober her. Come morning he will leave, following his queen to the south, to fulfill a promise or his destiny, she’s not certain anymore. All she knows is that she will be alone once more, here in these halls where she’s surrounded by people.

She keeps her eyes on his as she forcefully brings reality back into these chambers. “Nothing has changed Jon.” He visibly flinches and she clamps her mouth shut, swallowing the words that are desperately trying to claw their way out.

He steps back from her as though she has hit him, his face betraying his confusion before settling back into the stony expression he’s been wearing more and more, ever since his return from Dragonstone. His arms drop to his side and suddenly she’s no longer caged by them – no longer surrounded by him. She’s free and she makes good use of it, swiftly turning around and stepping out of his chambers, her footsteps echoing across the empty hallways.

She fears for his return to the south, fears for what it will do to him. Starks don’t do so well there. But… perhaps a Targaryen will. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to find comfort in that.

[devilgoat]

The Scorpion

Soo this is my first time actually writing and publishing a fic on here so I hope you all like it and that I did well! I was inspired by some of @xmichaelmyers​‘s headcanons so you should check them out as well! I sorta got carried away with this so its a bit long (about 4.7k or so) but OH WELL. Anyways, hope you all like it!

Michael Myers x Reader, NSFW

There was a chill in the air. The wind rustled the crunchy, dead leaves that had fallen onto the wet sidewalks. Autumn had settled over the small town of Haddonfield. The cold, overcast air had caused the entire neighborhood to fall into silence. Like buried under a thick pile of snow, the world had calmed and quieted itself. No sound could penetrate it. Except for one. His breathing.

It was rhythmic and strong. The deep intake of breaths that slowly let themselves out, currently muffled behind thin, white plastic.

It was somewhere behind you now but you were not sure exactly where. You just knew that it was there, ever-present.

You were on your walk home from visiting a friend’s house. You had stayed longer than you planned to, but your laughter and jokes kept you hooked in his home and time ran laps around you. As soon as you realized how long you had stayed, you excused yourself politely and left. Your pace had quickened as you left his porch and started the short trip back to your home.

The breathing had now turned into panting.

The shift in breathing caused your heart to jump and chills to run through your entire body. You didn’t dare to turn around, but you knew that the breathing was getting closer. You walked a little faster as you turned onto your street. You could see the house in the distance, partially obscured by trees and dying leaves.

There was another slight change in breathing and your upper body tensed up. You had started to breath heavily as well from adrenaline and the amount of control you held towards your legs to make sure you didn’t start sprinting.

Now at the doorstep, you fumbled with your keys as you heard the breathing growing closer, with barely discernible footsteps behind it. Your keys jingled in your hand as you found the correct one and inserted into the front door’s slot. You pushed the door open and stepped past the threshold. The instant sense of security that involved being around familiar surroundings entered your body and your turned your entire body to face the street behind you.

The world fell into silence once more.

The breathing had stopped. As did the footsteps. The hush had fallen once more on your empty street. Whoever, or whatever, was behind you, was nowhere to be seen. You looked up and down the street, but nothing revealed itself to you. You let out the breath you had been holding, and the tension in your shoulders began to relax. You shook your head and closed the door behind you.

With your keys now resting on their appropriate hook, you headed through the living room and into the kitchen.

The back door was open.

Your heart skipped another beat and you hurried to close the door. As it clicked into place, you heard it again.

The goddamn breathing.

You backed up slowly, forcing yourself to take slow breaths. Both your steps and your breathing stopped once you backed into something large. It was warm, but you could’ve sworn nothing was there a minute ago. You carefully turned your head until you were facing the obstacle you had backed into. It was the chest of a person wearing old, slightly tattered dark blue coveralls. The chest was slowly rising and falling to the rhythm of the breathing that was growing louder in your ears. You looked up. Up the strong, sturdy chest. Up towards the small sliver of exposed skin of a neck. Up to a lifeless face. And although it was a face, it was not his own. His face. Him.

Michael.

Underneath the white plastic mask was a man. But inside of that man was nothing at all. Or so people thought. He was a nothingness that killed. An all-consuming void. Senseless and without reason. A void that had killed many and would most likely kill again. The Boogeyman himself. The thing of nightmares that every child of Haddonfield feared and the name they would use to torment one another.

And The Boogeyman was here, in your kitchen. In your tiny little kitchen that you cook breakfast every morning and listen to music when you wash the dishes. He was here, in your sanctum.

But you both knew that he belonged here.

He had been visiting you for quite some time now. You were no longer a child, and thus your belief in the boogeyman had faded away into childish tales and legends. That is, up until a few months ago. You had figured that he followed you home - just like he had on this evening - like some sad, lost puppy. He had been quiet, and you had no idea you had been followed. You went about your regular schedule, cooking, eating, getting ready for bed, and finally drifting off into sleep. And he was watching you the entire time.

You wished you could ask him what he was thinking that one night, but you knew he would never say. You imagined him outside of your house, peering into your window. He would have been cloaked in darkness, or maybe even have become one with it. He watched you in your most vulnerable state. You figured he would’ve been bored, watching you for hours upon hours, but you knew it fascinated him. Michael got to see the most intimate, private part of you. He saw you dance and sing as you washed your dishes. He listened to you laugh at your favorite tv show despite watching it in its entirety several times. He watched you undress.

Michael watched as you tossed and turned in your bed and he waited for you to fall asleep. Once your restlessness had stopped, he made his way around your home to your back door. It didn’t stand a chance against him. He was in your home in seconds. He took his time wandering through your home. He wanted to take in your scent, your essence. There was a strong fascination in the little details of your home that truly made it yours. He traced his fingers over the array of magnets on your fridge. Traveling through your kitchen, he made his way into the living room. You had left your sweater draped over the side of the couch after it had grown too warm for comfort. Michael took it and held it in his hands. He spent his time feeling the fabric underneath his fingertips before he brought it up to the front of his mask and pressed it against the plastic.

After a moment, he placed it back onto the couch and began to make his way toward your room. Leaving the living room, turning left and down the hallway to your sanctum, he stopped at your door. It was slightly ajar, and he was gentle with how he opened it. Despite a few creaks, you didn’t wake up, not until he had positioned himself beside your bed. He watched for who knows how long before you woke up for a moment, just to turn yourself around; when you felt a presence in the room. Your body froze in place, only your eyes darting from side to side as they struggled to get accustomed to the darkness.

The first thing to appear in your vision was the white of his mask. It was facing you, almost floating in the dark above his muted coveralls. Your brain tried to rationalize it all. Sleep paralysis? No, no, that’s not it. A dream? Yeah, that’s it! Just a nightmare from all those stories growing up about The Boogeyman. Michael Myers was a myth! Nothing more. You closed your eyes hard, willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare. But of course you couldn’t. And once you realized this, you allowed the fear to set in.

Michael was here in your home, in your room. It was like something clicked in your head, and you were moving. You scurried up over the other side of your bed and plastered yourself to the wall. Your throat was frozen, refusing to let out a scream even when Michael began to take steps toward you.

Your eyes grew wild with fear, and you began looking for a way out. There were two, in that moment: the door leading to the hallway, and the window. Michael was between you and both of them. He continued his slow pace towards you until he was mere feet away. He loomed over you, and all you could hear besides the pounding in your ears was the sound of his muffled breathing.

Michael was now right in front of you. His head tilted slightly as he watched your entire body shake from terror. His panting grew louder and you knew he was getting some sort of pleasure from this. He reached his hand up, and you were somehow sure there was a knife in it. You flinched and turned away, waiting for the hot burning sensation of the knife bursting through your flesh and into the deep parts of your body.

But it never came. Instead, it was the feeling of large, hesitant fingers stroking the side of your face. You gasped and turned back to Michael. His head was tilting from one side to another in fascination. You heard a small whimper escape from behind his mask so soft that even you could barely hear it. At that moment you knew that if he wanted you dead, you never would have woken up from your sleep that night.

For some reason, Michael was here. For some reason, he chose you. And for some reason, he chose not to kill you. Trained psychiatrists had tried to understand why Michael did the things he did to no avail. So how could a nobody like you even try to understand why he chose you? He would never tell you why or what made you so special. You were sure that you were completely unable to comprehend what was going on in Michael’s mind. Or if there was anything going on in there in the first place. That night, he showed you that he wouldn’t harm you. He pressed himself against you, brought his face close to yours, close enough to see his eyes behind the mask, and he bowed his head. You figured he was afraid of what you saw in those eyes. Michael Myers, afraid? But there was something in his eyes. A strange longing.A pain maybe. The way the dim light bounced off his glaring eyes softened him somewhat.

His breathing had quieted, and after a few moments pressing you against the wall, he stepped back. You didn’t think of running this time. All you could think of was the pain in those hidden eyes. And before you knew it, Michael turned and left the room. You heard the dull slam of the door as he left your room, but you knew he would stay near.

At the moment you were just grateful that you weren’t murdered. But as time went on, Michael began showing up more and more. After you were comfortable enough, you scolded him for always coming into your home without your knowledge and watching you sleep. You demanded that he let you know when he was there or else you would have to tie a bell on him. Michael didn’t say anything, but the next day he knocked on the back door and waited to be invited in. It was obvious that he enjoyed watching you, and while it took some time to grow used to knowing he was always there, you took some strange comfort in it. You were no longer scared of intruders, not after the scariest intruder of them all was usually right outside.

There were times when you had fallen asleep on the couch and woke up in bed, the covers placed over you. There were times you felt nervous being alone at home, but all you had to do was walk out the back door, call for Michael, and wait for him inside.

It always felt strange to see him in your home. At least during the first few minutes. There was an awkwardness to him. His usual fluidity was gone, and what stood in its place was a figure that didn’t know what to do with his hands as he stood in your kitchen. This continued for a while, and you were fine with it. You had a protector now. Someone you knew was willing to do anything for you. And “anything” included a lot for Michael. There were periods of time in which he’d disappear. They always ended with the reported disappearance or murder from someone in town or even a town over. The next night, Michael would visit again. You knew you couldn’t stop him from doing these things, and you were scared to try in the first place. Like the scorpion, it was in his nature to harm.

You were probably the only living being that had spent this much time with Michael since he was institutionalized , but you were no closer than the handful of doctors that tried to understand him. But you accepted it.

As cruel as it was to live with the knowledge of a roaming killer, you had grown accustomed to his presence. It was selfish, you knew that, but you wanted - maybe needed - this protector in your life. You needed Michael, and that grew more apparent as time went on. So you accepted his occasional leaves of absence, knowing that he would come back eventually. Sometimes he would arrive bloodstained and panting, fresh from the kill. You took him into your room and tried to undress him to tend to his wounds, and that was the only time that he didn’t allow your way. He grabbed your wrist and pulled it free from his coverall’s zipper. He grunted harshly, and refused to be seen. With time, his grip softened and he let go of you. He bowed his head: his own way of apologizing, before he pulled himself further onto the bed and laid back.

It was like he was dormant. He didn’t move, he barely breathed, but within a few hours he was sitting up again and moving. You figured he needed to rest in order to heal himself, and that removing his clothing would reveal an undamaged body.

Despite your months knowing each other, you had never seen his body, let alone his face. It was always underneath his mask. That was the one thing you never tried to take from him. You both had an understanding. He was permitted to watch you, and in exchange, he protected you. He made sure that you made it to your every destination safe and sound. You had no idea how he did so, especially in the day, but you could always feel his presence. And you could always hear his breathing.

Michael’s months of tailing and watching slowly brought out a part of him that you did not expect. He had a jealous streak in him. He watched as you talked to others, spent time with them, and had fun that he could not partake in. And while he never interrupted you, he felt the jealousy shake him to his core. He wanted to make sure you were safe, and he had no idea who these people were. He didn’t know their intentions. He didn’t know if you were truly safe. So he would stand and watch, prepared for them to take one wrong move, make one bad touch, and he would be there, choking the life out of them in front of you.

Thankfully, it hadn’t come to that yet.

You knew he would get jealous too, and for the most part you secretly enjoyed it. His jealousy meant more careful attention and a string of days in which he refused to leave your side. However, as time went on, his jealousy was coming to a head.

There were times he would get too close to windows as he watched you at a friend’s house, almost revealing himself to them in order to frighten them away from you. Michael had to be convinced not to kill those that would take you away from him. He would even be tempted to kill the annoying coworkers you occasionally complained about, and although you joked with him that he should make them disappear, you always made it clear to him that it was all fine and no action was necessary.

But he was a creature of jealousy, and you knew that despite telling him that you were only visiting your friend for a short time, he had gotten worried and watched you from afar. And now here in your kitchen, he was panting heavily in anticipation. His whole body seemed to vibrate as his head tilted to one side. You already knew what was coming. In the brief periods of time that Michael did not have you in his sights, he had the fear that you were harmed.

It was still so strange to think that Michael would be afraid of anything, but you knew that he was. Why else would he have these inspections?

These had only started occurring recently, and while slightly annoyed by their occasional bad timing, you enjoyed it all nevertheless. Michael’s hands slowly rose up from his sides and wrapped themselves around your body. With no effort at all, he scooped you up into his arms and carried you into your room. He let you down close to your bed, but you didn’t go to lie on it just yet. Michael could not take his eyes off of you. He took in a large breath, his tense shoulders slowly rising before lowering themselves once more.

A coy smile spread across your lips. While he would never tell you what he was thinking, it was obvious by how his body betrayed him. He took a step closer to you and hooked his thick fingers under the bottom of your shirt before pulling upwards. With your torso bare, Michael began his inspection. He needed to make that you were truly safe at your friends house. And thus he checked for any mark, bruise, or laceration that he did not recognize. He traces his fingers around your body, moving from your neck down to your shoulders, your chest, your stomach, until he dropped down to his knees in front of you.

You shivered at the sight of the figure so large yet vulnerable in front of you, but you didn’t doubt that he still held his domination. His breathing was growing more labored by the moment, and at this angle you couldn’t help but notice the growing shape in the front of his coveralls. You took your quiet pleasure with this, and while you had still never seen Michael naked, your imagination ran wild.

Pleased with the state of the upper half of your body, Michael sought to continue his inspection on the lower half by stripping you of your pants. His fingers fluidly unbuttoned and unzipped the front of them. He tugged them down and left them around your ankles, taking your underwear along with them. Still on his knees in front of you, Michael gently snuck his hands between your thighs and parted your legs a few inches apart.

Michael had done this many times before, and each time you had consented. It was a part of a ritual now, the two of you like this. He was a creature of habit, and observing was what he did best. He looked over every inch of your body with such concentration that you didn’t dare to say a word.

He leaned closer to you and your heat, the evidence of your arousal obviously showing to him. Michael tilted his head slightly as he watched your body shift with his gaze. He stayed and observed for a time before he suddenly brought up his fingers and rubbed them against your crotch, touching every area that he could. His surprisingly cool touch sent shivers through your entire body, and you bit your lip in order to keep your moans stifled. Despite your usually control, your legs trembled underneath you, and Michael had to use his spare hand to keep your legs separated once more.

Not sensing or feeling any unusual fluids or markings, he was somewhat satisfied. But for some reason, his fingers remained where they were. His unyielding gaze had returned, and you could hear his labored breathing begin to hitch in his chest. His fingers continued their exploration, and found their way towards your most sensitive areas. Michael’s fingers grazed just the right spot and despite your restraint, you let out a sharp gasp. Michael jerked his head up and looked at you, stopping all movement of his hands.

You realized he felt like he had done something wrong, so you shook your head and told him it was alright, and that he could continue. Michael’s gaze lingered on your face for only a moment longer before his renewed concentration focused on your arousal. His fingers were probing, rubbing, searching for another magic spot that made you let out your sounds.

You didn’t try to hold back on your moans anymore. You used them as forms of encouragement, hoping that they would clue Michael in on what felt especially good. His meticulous work of exploration came to a head as your sex began to leak. You could have sworn that Michael let out a low growl as his fingers slid across the increasingly wet skin.

Out of nowhere, Michael removes his fingers from your body and stood up to his full, towering height. Now there was no denying it, for the erection under his clothing had grown to its full size, only barely being held back by a thin layer of fabric.

Michael grabbed you by the shoulders and slowly led you backwards onto your bed. Almost tripping over yourself with your pants around your ankles, you managed to land safely on your back on top of your bed, your legs dangling over the side. Michael stood over you, the darkness of his mask hiding any view of his eyes - his lust. When he was sure that you were paying attention to him, your chest rising and falling rapidly from your arousal, he brought up his hand and wagged his index finger.

No peaking. No moving.

This was new. This was different. Michael usually would have finished his inspection there, but it seemed he needed something more. And you were more than happy to give it to him.

Michael went back onto his knees and pulled your pants and underwear past your ankles and tossed them onto the floor. You stared up at the ceiling, knowing precisely what his motions meant.

He delicately pried your legs apart, and you heard the once muffled breathing become exposed to the fresh air. He had partially lifted up his mask. It was just enough to let his mouth and nose come free of the thin, white plastic. You knew that the rest would remain hidden. You didn’t dare look down and break Michael’s trust. So instead you focused on the sound of his breathing. It went ragged when he first pulled the mask upwards, but had now slipped into a rhythmic pattern once more.

A wave of pleasure flowed through your body as his wet tongue sent shockwaves up your groin. Your hands gripped desperately at the sheets underneath you as your moans exploded from your mouth. His tongue twirled and danced on you, sometimes barely touching your skin and other times spreading itself flat and licking upwards. You had to resist the temptation to put your hands on his head, for you were scared of accidentally touching Michael’s face.

Teasing the most sensitive part of you with his fingers, he used his mouth and tongue to draw circles over your entrance. Shaking from the dual stimulation, your moans grew deeper, and longer. Drawn-out cries of desperation were filling the room, and the more that you focused on the fact that prolific serial killer Michael Myers was on his knees pleasuring you, the more intense your pleasure became.

This was the most active his mouth had ever been. His lips were sucking, wrapping themselves around you. They were surprisingly soft and wet, and Michael did not shy away from using them to his advantage. His greedy lips tried to take in as much of you as possible. His tongue was a whole other story. Michael’s tongue was warm and thick. It teased your entrance with quick flicks that turned into long explorations of everything he could touch. His tongue even pressed itself against your entrance, and tried to push itself in as far as it could go.

Your hands were frantically clawing at the sheets now as you felt yourself getting closer and closer to climax. For once, you were the one panting, your tongue practically hanging out of your mouth and moans catapulting out from your throat. Michael’s eager licks grew faster and harder against you as he began to lose control of himself. Another harsh grunt vibrated against you as Michael grabbed you by your hip and pulled you against his face. His hand continued to work you, his thick fingers switching from rubbing to stroking to teasing within seconds.

You could feel yourself coming closer, and before you could, you screamed out Michael’s name. His movements became more frantic. He knew what he was doing. He wanted - needed - to make you cum. He needed to make you his, once and for all. He needed to take you. He needed to soothe the feelings inside of him that drove him to this. Hearing his name screamed aloud in a situation where he was not plunging in his knife but rather his tongue twisted him up inside. Michael did not want to kill you, but instead wanted to give you at least a little death. La petite mort. That would satisfy him.

His hand worked you without any mercy or pleasantries. His sole goal was to make you cum and he was going to make sure that it was all him that did it to you. His tongue and lips continued pressing themselves in and around your entrance to the point that it felt like your entire lower body was vibrating. The hand not working you dug its fingers into your hip, and the short nails cut into your skin and bruised your flesh. His name flowed from your lips like a melody, and you could not stop yourself from saying it over and over again as you came.

Your entire body shuddered and convulsed as you came against Michael’s face, his mouth and hands not daring to stop until it was all out of you. Every extra touch and kiss sent tremors throughout your body until he finally pulled away.

Still staring at the ceiling, you heard the sound of him pulling his mask back over his face, his labored breathing muffled once more.

Michael rose from his knees and stood over your weak, shaking body and cocked his head to one side, observing his handiwork and what he had done to you. After watching for a few moments, he leaned over you and grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you up to sit in bed. You were finally able to see him and his “face” again. You let out a tired smile and let yourself fall forward against his torso. You could feel the hesitation in his body as you brought himself to wrap an arm around you, keeping you close.

You listened to the slow, strong breaths that he took. You brought your hands up to hold him by his waist, trying your best to keep him in place. Your hands searched his hips, his thighs, and finally to what you were looking for.

His erection was as strong as ever under his clothing, and you wanted to return the favor.

((Find the next part under “the scorpion” tag below because tumblr doesn’t like links anymore. Like my work? Then maybe consider buying me a ko-fi! The link is in my bio!))

[lauramkaye]

YES YES YES YES YES THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS.

Like - Kim’s fabled One Cigarette a day. He keeps doing this, despite knowing that it’s bad for him, despite completely acknowledging that it would be easier to just quit altogether. He gives himself this one sliver of vice and he thinks to himself that it is THE HIGHLIGHT OF HIS DAY.

I think this part of Kim’s character is inextricable from his lived experiences with racism - he has spent his life fighting to be recognized as someone who belongs in his own home city. I read him as someone who is like “okay well if I have to be twice as good to get half as far, I suppose it’s time to be SIX TIMES AS GOOD” and devotes himself to carefully parceling out and concealing and controlling every tiny thing that he could be attacked for. His fast car? He needs it for work. His loud nasty music? It’s so he can stay awake on the night shift. His history, his hobbies, everything the slightest bit personal or vulnerable locked down tight where it can’t be used against him, but each lock makes the space where he can be truly himself smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier.

It’s fascinating to me that if you go just by what Kim says, he isn’t anything special as a cop - languishing in juvie for all that time, not “the finest anything,” etc. And yet Harry has *heard* of him (at least if he passes the check) and Jean seems downright star-struck at the thought that *Lieutenant Kitsuragi* would be willing to even CONSIDER a transfer. Not to mention he somehow has been issued this mega-fancy sports car as his work vehicle? It just says to me that Kim is, in his own way, just as unreliable a narrator as Harry is. That he’s convinced himself he has to be this way to get respect, when in reality he *is* respected.

(Side note I have a headcanon that the previous Captain at the 57th held back Kim’s promotion for years out of anti-Seolite and/or anti-gay prejudice and when that person was replaced the new one was like “holy shit why have we been sleeping on promoting this guy? Give him ALL THE MEDALS and a fast car and also he works homicide now.”)

Basically what I’m saying is that neither Kim nor Harry can really thrive on their own, but if you put them together then MAGIC HAPPENS. Harry draws Kim out and Kim keeps Harry grounded, and they both accept and admire each other on this deep and life-affirming level, and it’s BEAUTIFUL.

the thing about kim kitsuragi is that he's just as lost and desperate and unhinged as harry, but they have both "chosen" opposite ways of "coping" with that. whereas harry has relinquished all control over himself and his life completely to the demons that possess him, kim has become the demon possessing himself. he is literally so obsessively controlling and suppressing himself that he's basically always just a second away from completely snapping and he has made that dance on the edge of absolutely losing it his home - he's consciously torturing and punishing himself by keeping himself there, because he's fucking terrified of himself. of his insurmountable desires, the sheer magnitude of his emotions, his longing, his grief, his anger, the things he's capable of - and the things the world is capable of. he has locked all of that away so long ago he doesn't even know how to stop choking on himself anymore, it's become who he is. until harry comes along. and just fucking strips him bare. like you have to understand, harry is the first person in god knows how long to actually see him, despite his truly insane amounts of effort to conceal himself from the world, who sees him for who he truly is and decides he's a fucking miracle and the best thing that ever happened to him exactly because of it. and kim sees harry in return, not immediately, not completely, but once he's caught a glimpse, once he understands, he does not avert his gaze again. they recognise each other as their own. and harry makes him come alive again, awakens parts of him he thought long dead and gone, helps him find some sort of balance between rigorous control and absolute chaos, and kim does the same for harry, the other way around. they help each other meet in the middle, they make each other better, they complement each other like two pieces of the same thing, I don't know how else to say this without resorting to comparing them to fucking ying and yang but like. that's what they are!! they look like opposites until you realise they're just inversions of each other, and both hold within themselves exactly what the other was missing. we're talking textbook soulmate shit here, and the text explicitly supports this reading, it's literally how it introduces him to us, but I've made a whole post about that already. anyway, I could go on and on about this but this is already way too long so. what it comes down to is this: no, kim is not "too good" for harry. on the contrary, they're so exactly right for each other that it's almost ridiculous.

[letterfromtrenwith]

Noble Blood - Ch. 3

George/Elizabeth Vampire AU

Elizabeth considers her place in the world and witnesses a potentially tragic encounter...

~

Elizabeth sat up in her bed and watched dust motes dance in the sliver of bright winter sunlight which pierced through the tiny gap between the drapes, cutting across the room like a golden blade. It was clearly late in the day, judging by the sun’s intensity. That was a shame; if she had awoken earlier she could have ventured out. When the sun was low and milky, before the morning mists had cleared, she could tolerate it, especially with the help of a hat or parasol. Those of her age were not quite so vulnerable. The midday sun in a clear sky was still too much, however.

She clambered out of bed, her slight shiver habitual rather than reactive. It was cold, cold enough even for her to notice. Slowly, she crossed the room, bare feet sinking into the thick rug, until she approached the shaft of sunlight. She had not seen it so bright in quite a while. It was peculiarly mesmerising. She had a memory – not quite even that, a shadow of a memory – of warm, bold sunlight on her face. When or where it had been, she could not exactly recall. So much of everything before…before, was not quite clear, and it was becoming more nebulous every day. Except…

Almost unconsciously, Elizabeth lifted her hand, bringing her fingertips to the light. For a moment, she felt the real heat of it, before she had to snatch her hand away. The pain was perhaps imaginary, but she did not wish to take the risk. She had seen too much. 

“Oh, mistress! I am so sorry!” In her fascination, she had not heard Emma enter. The girl hurried, looking stricken, to pull the drapes tight, cutting off the light altogether. “Forgive me, I did not realise – “

“Do not distress yourself, Emma. There is no harm done.” The loss of the light had broken whatever strange mood had come over her. “How long have I slept?”

“Only a few hours, ma’am. It is just after one o’clock. Do you wish to dress?” 

“I may as well. It will be dark again quite soon. Dark enough, at least.”

“Will you be going out tonight?”

“Yes – yes, I think I will.” She had not taken an evening walk for a few days. The moon was waning, but she did not truly need its illumination. Some drew great strength from the silvery moonlight, but to Elizabeth it was merely enjoyable. There were learned men who said that the light of the moon was the light of the sun reflected. It was a pleasant thought, if true – that she could feel some brighter sunlight still. 

After a brief toilette, Emma helped her into a simple dress, suitable for walking or relaxing at home. Downstairs, she played her harp for a while. The instrument had changed so much over the years, since she had begun to play in her youth. She could still take pleasure in this, at least. Music had been a love of hers forever, something which had held over from the time before. 

“Are you hungry, mistress?” Emma entered with a gentle knock at the parlour door. Once upon a time the house had been full of servants, but as time passed Elizabeth had found that she needed fewer and fewer to meet her meagre wants. She had no personal maids but Emma; there was a cook, although she provided primarily for the other staff, a few groundsmen, the coach-driver and two stable boys. Emma was ladies’ maid, housekeeper and many things in-between. Elizabeth valued her most highly. 

“Not at this moment, Emma.” She found that her appetite had very gradually abated as she aged. 

“Very well, ma’am.” She was about to depart when Elizabeth called her back. 

“Emma…”

“Yes, mistress?”

“Do you – That is, does it…bother you? To serve me? As – as I am?” Not all of the staff knew the truth, but those who lived in the house had to. It was impossible to keep such a thing secret from people who served her so intimately- most of them had served her for years, and their families before them. She did not know quite why she had asked Emma this question – she had never asked it of a servant before. Not that she could recall, at any rate. 

“You are as God made you, ma’am. As am I. It be not my place to judge.” With a quick bob, and a gentle smile, Emma left. 

God did not make me, my dear girl, was the reply Elizabeth never got to make.  

Some light clouds gathered as dusk began to fall, only a few hours after Elizabeth had risen. What a lethargic existence she had! Although was it her condition or her position which dictated it? Noble ladies were not expected to occupy themselves with much of significance, and that notion was not altered even amongst the different members of Cornish society. Nor any other such society Elizabeth had encountered over the years. Indeed, such people tended to be even more indolent than one might expect. It was intolerably dull, and rather contributed to the increasing ennui she had been feeling as time wore on. 

It had apparently been a touch milder today – there was no hint of frost, the ground soft beneath her feet. She picked some holly from a hedgerow, toying with it as she walked. An old wise-woman had told her once that holly offered protection from evil spirits. What evil she needed protection from now she could not really imagine, but the plant had always given her an odd sense of comfort nevertheless. 

She followed the bridle path until it came to the edge of the woods – the bare branches of the trees reached up into the night with long spidery fingers, their silhouettes almost black against the starlight glimmering through the wisps of cloud. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted, and she heard the flutter of its wings as it swooped overhead.

Her keen senses allowed her to fully appreciate the sounds and sensations of the night – the quiet rustle of birds in their nests and nocturnal creatures stirring in their burrows; woodsmoke drifted through the air, and she could even detect the salt of the sea underneath it. 

All the time, however, she was waiting to hear the trot of hooves or the snort of a larger animal – any sign that the person she sought may be approaching. Elizabeth could no longer pretend that she did not wander this same path so often in the hope that she would see George again. Here, outside the confines of society functions, and away from prying eyes, they could speak freely. 

So much had changed over the years, but that had not – the constant, rigid expectations of ‘propriety’, robbing them all of true freedom, even in her particular world. The exact rules had not always been the same, but their effect had. In her experience, at least. How stifled she had felt for so long. 

Suddenly, she was pulled from her reverie by the very sounds she had been seeking – a rider was nearby. There were few who had cause to come this way, especially at night, so there was a good chance it was George. Her anticipation was quickly halted when she picked up other sounds – the footsteps of men, three or four at least. They whispered amongst themselves, too, although even she could not make out all they said. She heard enough, however – “take him”, “snatch”, “cut him”. 

Footpads. They were not common in these parts – local wisdom was that it was best not to linger too long outside at night. Such ideas were born mostly out of suspicion and old wives’ tales, but it did not mean there was no truth to them at all. More than one cut-throat crook had met a sorry end attempting to practice his trade in the district. That is, if they did not disappear altogether.

Elizabeth immediately began to head in the direction of the voices. Even if the rider was not George, she wished to help them. Her heart fluttered –or at least, she imagined that it did – at the thought that it might be him, however. How terrible it would be if something were to happen to him, before she could tell him – 

“Who is there?” It was George. She knew his voice instantly, and picked up her pace. One of the gang said something to him, but she was not really listening now, running in their direction, frantic with her desire to get to him. Even if George carried a pistol, as many gentlemen did, that likely had only one shot. It was insufficient defence against a bloodthirsty gang. 

The moment she had that thought, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot, and the loud whinny of a horse, then shouting and thudding. She came upon a clearing in the woods, and saw almost exactly what she had feared – the scene stark in the moonlight like some dreadful grotesque upon a stage. A dead man lay on the ground – not George, but he was surrounded by the other crooks, who seemed to have pulled him from his horse. She saw him strike out at one, landing a hard blow, before another seized him. George put up an admirable fight, but her eyes caught the silver glint of a blade. 

Elizabeth did something she had not done in a long time, her rage and fear for George’s life overtaking her. She flew at the men, feeling strength coursing through her, registering the split-second of fear on their faces as her widening, splintering shadow fell over them. It all happened very quickly after that, two of them fleeing in terror, haring off into the night. When she came to a standstill, back to herself, the third was on the ground, clutching at his face and neck, whimpering and cursing. But it was not he she was concerned with. George also lay at her feet, except he was not moving. 

She was too late. 

~

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[drinkthehalo]

Supernatural Season 12 - the Mary Winchester storyline

Of all the ridiculous things… I’ve fallen down the Supernatural rabbit hole.

Supernatural is the last fandom I’d have expected to sneak up on me. I stopped watching years ago and had been wishing that someone would put it out of its misery.

But then a few weeks ago, my friend mentioned that Sam and Dean’s mother was on the show as a regular character.  It piqued my curiosity.  A story that’s actually about the Winchester family, not the internal politics of Heaven or whatever random boring nonsense that caused me to stop watching?

So long story short - I was just in Shanghai (for the third time!) and when I wasn’t running around a dark hotel or drinking at a bar, I was waking up at 5am, jetlagged and half drunk, mainlining SPN. (Watching it in bed on my phone! Ha.)

To my complete shock, seasons 11 and 12 are GREAT. It's like the show took stock of everything it was doing wrong, remembered what had once made it awesome, and set about methodically fixing it.

If you are someone who also gave up on the show - watch 11x04 “Baby.” It made me laugh, made me cry, made me literally want to hug my television. It was such a gift to the audience, and a promise to do better. Proof that the show can still be absolutely wonderful when it puts in the effort.

Also, Dean Winchester. He’s one of the best fictional characters I’ve ever seen; he's so fucked up and he's also the most lovable thing ever. His combination of strength, fragility, competence, darkness, sweetness, silliness… His heroism and idealism and fatalism and self-abnegation… His joie de vivre, suicidal impulses, bitterness, weariness, ridiculousness and awkwardness… His badassery and heroism and codependence and tragedy.

Such a complex beautiful mess. Narratively, he is the gift that keeps on giving, the reason the show has lasted twelve years - you can just keep throwing stories at him and you get the most fascinating results.

I will be writing more about SPN. Sorry if you’re just here for the immersive theatre posts!

Here are my thoughts on the Mary Winchester storyline, which I LOVED -

It’s a complex, messy, fascinating story, where nobody is completely right and nobody is completely wrong, and you can sympathize with every character. It brings the show right back to the core of what made it good and interesting.

The three key things I loved about it:

I was pleasantly surprised at how it subverted my expectations

Mary herself was relatable, interesting, complex, and her choices raised intriguing ethical questions

Mary’s presence provided an opportunity to dive into the psychology and issues of Dean (especially) and Sam in a way we haven’t seen before

As soon as I heard that Mary was back, I was simultaneously afraid of the ways it could go wrong, and deeply intrigued by the possibilities it raised.

The most interesting thing the show had going on in its early days was the complexity of the boys’ relationship with their father. The success of Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s career was a tragedy for Supernatural - once he was gone it just never had the same emotional intensity, though they did interesting things with flashbacks and time travel and pseudo-father figures.

But Mary - Mary has that same intense emotional resonance. She was the first character we saw in the Pilot, Dean’s deepest wish (in arguably the best episode of the show, 2x20) and Dean’s Heaven (5x16), the key to Dean’s character.

"I know [my mother] wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave." - Dean from 1x03 - what an amazing through-line to a story still unfolding twelve years later!

But… Supernatural doesn’t have a great track record with female characters. The original sin of the show - the reason I’ve always been a bit ambivalent about loving it so much - is how it portrays women as symbols that matter only in relation to men. The Pilot is egregious. Mary and Jess, in their ridiculous frilly white nightgowns, dying as motivation for the men to embark on their quests. In Supernatural, men have journeys. Men are subjects, with destinies, and “work to do.”  Men are multi-dimensional characters. Women are objects (in the early seasons - it’s gotten way better recently). We barely know Mary and Jess as characters, and don’t need to. Their deaths are not even about them; they’re about what they do to Sam and Dean.

Usually when Mary reappears in the show, it’s as a symbol, the embodiment of the ideal of motherhood. The love, safety, and care that Dean longs for. (Sam, interestingly, does not long for Mary the same way, both because he doesn’t remember her and because he had Dean as his mother figure. I have always adored that parallel, that Dean is like Mary and Sam is like John, which so subverts our expectations of how they present their gender roles, tough guy Dean and sensitive Sam.)

So my fear of season twelve was that we’d still see Mary a symbol. And THANK GOD they were smart enough to completely subvert that expectation, and make the story ABOUT the fact that Mary is an individual human being, not an ideal personification of motherhood.

When we meet this version of Mary, her whole world has been taken from her. Her husband is dead, her small children are lost to her. Her friends are thirty years older, or dead. I love how the show handles Mary’s reaction to the ubiquity of smartphones. It’s not a joke about moms being bad at technology. It’s profoundly disconcerting. It’s sad and strange, especially for a person so smart and competent to suddenly be in a world where she lacks foundational knowledge - it’s almost like everyone else speaks another language.  She doesn’t fit.

So she tries to find her way. She’s a fully-realized person, just as conflicted and complex as Sam and Dean, with her own goals, flaws, fears, vulnerabilities. (And THANK GOD she’s tough, not in need of her childrens’ protection.) 

I imagine myself in her position - with these two well-meaning, overwhelming adult children tracking her every move - and I completely understand her need to break away and carve a space for herself. The pressure and weight of their expectation, on top of everything else she’s going through, would be overwhelming.

As with the best writing in Supernatural, Mary makes choices that are not entirely wrong and not entirely right. Her embrace of the British Men of Letters is driven by guilt that her deal with Azazel destroyed her childrens’ lives, and her own need create a purpose for her life in this strange new world, and a sincere belief that it really will make the world a better place. It’s the same kind of complex psychological motivations that would drive Sam or Dean. (I have a whole other post brewing about that storyline, and about the unique and brilliant way that Supernatural’s handles moral ambiguity.)

Mary’s reaction to her adult children was so unexpected, but so right. One of those character-deepening twists that make perfect sense in retrospect.

Mary struggles with Dean, and connects more with Sam. This is what I mean about Supernatural being great at subverting expectations - because we’ve spent the entire series knowing that Dean is the one most shaped by Mary - the one who remembers her, who dreams of her, who longs for her, who can’t even say her name without flinching. And Sam is the one who doesn’t remember her - who tells Dean in the Pilot “If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like.”

But it makes perfect sense. Sam, without the weight of a lifetime of expectations, treats Mary as an individual and tries to understand her needs. Dean struggles to see beyond what Mary means to him, and what he needs from her. Dean’s love is overwhelming, and suffocating.

There’s this great line in season twelve - I can’t remember where, but it’s when Sam and Dean are talking about the British Men of Letters, not quite agreeing or disagreeing, and Sam says something like “I know you think [whatever]” and Dean interrupts and says “WE think.” (Sorry, I need to rewatch and dig up the quote.) It’s borderline abusive, and it must be exhausting for Sam, to live with someone so overbearing that you’re not even allowed to have a different opinion.

The whole season deals with Dean’s abandonment complex - going right back to the heart of the Pilot, “I can’t do this alone.” Dean is so afraid of being abandoned that he clutches his loved ones way too closely.  We understand and sympathize because we know where it came from -  the death of his mother at four, the neglect from his father, twelve seasons of everyone he loves dying - but that doesn’t mean he would be easy to live with.

The line that kept running through my head when watching Dean this season is from Marilyn Manson - “When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed.”

Mary’s return is an incredible opportunity for character exploration and character growth for Dean. In many ways Dean is emotionally stuck at the age of four, unable to move on from the loss of his mother. He’s finally forced to recognize that his perceptions from that time were a tiny sliver of the truth, a four year old’s limited view.  Maybe these dreams need to be destroyed. You can’t live your entire adult life longing for the cocoon you were in when you were four. (Or, I mean you can, you’d be Dean Winchester, but it’s not healthy.)

Dean needed his mother’s love AS A FOUR YEAR OLD, and it’s devastating that it was ripped away from him, but for his own sanity he needs to move on. I love that Mary flat out tells him that he’s not a child anymore. He needs to hear it.

The other side of the story is Dean’s perspective, which is incredibly sympathetic. Supernatural does a brilliant job telling a complex story where no one is entirely right or wrong. Dean tries so hard. He knows he’s weird and socially awkward. He doesn’t want to scare Mary away. He wants so desperately for their relationship to work. The scenes of him angsting over what to text her are some of my favorite moments ever in the show. It’s so surreal and yet so truthful.

And I have to admit - as much as I loved Mary NOT functioning as stereotypical mother figure - I also LOVED when she finally found out how tragic the boys’ childhood was. It was completely cathartic for me as an audience member. Those boys went through more than any child should have to bear. Dean is so scarred by it, and he’s this amazing person so full of love and compassion and this beautiful vibrant light that has been twisted by these awful experiences he’s been through, and the audience has been watching him suffer for twelve years, longing for the equivalent of his mom to give him a hug.  (Just look at the bazillions of hurt/comfort fanfics.) The emotional payoff of that validation finally happening from his actual mother is enormous. Intense, and it would be indulgent if it wasn’t so EARNED.

I love that in their big conversation at the end of the season, Dean phrases it as all about what SAM went through.  Of course the entire audience is watching that scene going BUT DEAN. It’s Dean that Mary saves. It’s actually all about him, but he’d never say it.  Brilliant writing.

[rongasm]

when stydia is a couple, what do you think Lydia loves most about Stiles and Stiles loves most about Lydia?

I think Lydia most loves the lightness that Stiles brings to her heart and the way he even has the ability to be light in the first place. He’s been through so much shit and somewhere along the way he found his way back to her, so that he could love he with all of himself. Lydia could have so easily gone in a different direction. She could have ended up a rigid socialite trophy wife with a stick up her ass and this secret intelligence that she had thrown away because of survival instincts. She could have ended up in a big, fancy house with a husband who was never home and a thick black credit card. Instead, she’d ended up being Stiles Stilinski’s smart-ass wife. Stiles has all of this joy inside of him that he doesn’t even realize he has, and I think Lydia sees that in him. She sees the parts of him that aren’t damaged and loves the way they make her feel less damaged as well. Stiles being happy with her makes her happy. His affection, love, lightness, care, and faithfulness allow Lydia to sink comfortably into being a person who she wants to be and who makes her happy. So when he acts like an idiot or like a little kid, she’s reminded of the person who could have ended up with a man who only ever cracked a smile when he was seeing through the fakeness of hers. 

And I think that for Stiles, the ironic thing is that the part of Lydia that he loves the most is her brain. (Your mind, it makes me want to know you more, so tell me what we have in store, tell me everything.) The reason why I find it to be ironic is because he didn’t start off feeling that way about her-- he knew she was smart, of course, but he didn’t fall in love with the intricate workings of her brain. He didn’t know her brain, didn’t know just how smart she was, only had snapshots of the way she thinks and feels and calculates. When Stiles was falling in love with Lydia, he fell in love with her tenacity and her appearance and her side-comments and the intelligence that he could see and the tiny sliver of vulnerability that occasionally peeked through before she shoved it back. But then high school rolls around, and with it the supernatural, and suddenly he is constantly being exposed to the brilliance of Lydia Martin-- not only that, he’s watching as she wears it on her sleeve. He’s awed by it. He’s awed by this brain that has it in itself to be so selfish yet also calculates how Scott saves everybody and realizes that that person is who she wants to be. Lydia’s mind, with all its flaws and different facets, fucking fascinates Stiles, and a part of that is because he gets it. As shocking and strange and wonderful and awe-inspiring as Lydia’s brain can be, Stiles also kinda understands it with this intrinsic instinct that only gets stronger as they grow together. So I think the thing he loves most about her is the way she thinks and perceives and the way she can know everything but still be so stuck in her ways. And I think, especially, he’s fascinated by the way Lydia learns to grow and adapt. When they’re together, he gets to watch her learn how to love him-- learn love the first time. She’s been in love before, but this thing they have, it’s everything to Lydia, and both of them know that she doesn’t know how to handle that. So Lydia is navigating intimacy and vulnerability and complete adoration on these bambi-like legs and Stiles is just totally in awe of all the little ways he can see through her and understand... like, wow. This girl is trying for me. This girl loves me enough to try for me. 

Oh my god why am I crying

[mel-loves-all]

A Olicity Historical AU:  Touch can be so much more than just, physical.

A/N: Thank you so much to the incredibly wonderful @quiveringbunny for making this fantastic edit for my story. I love it.

I’m sorry for the delay in getting this chapter posted.  Thank you for being so patient with me.  I hope you enjoy it.  Also, one of my lovely readers correctly pointed out that Felicity should be addressed as Lady and not Miss., my apologies for not catching that.  I’m usually much better at details…I have corrected all previous chapters. 

Previous chapters can be read HERE or Ao3.

~~~~~~~

Chapter 3

Felicity’s body hummed with low key adrenaline as she lay in her sky blue silk draped canopy bed.  Thank goodness William had brought her straight to their London townhouse after she had pled a migraine.  The house was quiet and still, in the early morning hour, unlike her mind.

She had kissed the Earl of Archer.  

What had she done?  How could she face him in a week’s time at Somerset?  Her face flamed with embarrassment and something more…as all the details of their library encounter, every breath, word and touch caused her heart to race and goosebumps to spread across her arms.  

Every breath, word and touch.

With her finger she traced her lower lip and swore she could still feel the contours of his. Masculine softness that had tasted of wine and the forbidden.  

Was this why people risked everything to rendezvous in dark rooms?  She thought of the chiseled moonlit angles of his face, the hardness of his chest against her own and the look of wonderment in his eyes…yes, this was why they risked everything she thought.

~~~~~~

One week later, Somerset.

Oliver pulled on the reins of his horse as the stunning vista of Viscount Smoak’s family home, Somerset, came into view.  The carriage carrying Oliver’s mother also eased to a trot as the rugged landscape greeted them.   To the left, were rolling hills that sloped down toward the ocean and miles of ivory sand and beaches.  To the right, rose the white stone facade of the manor house covered in untamed ivy of autumn reds and jade green leaves.  A peacefulness settled over Oliver as he took in all the wild beauty.   He could picture Lady Felicity walking the grounds with her nose buried in books of adventure and mystery.

Oliver shook his head and his lips tilted into a reluctant smile of bewilderment as the thought of Lady Felicity once again invaded his thoughts.  She had been doing that ever since that night in the library.  He thought he had sufficiently suppressed her as he braced for the difficult days of socializing and visiting ahead, but just as the woman herself; her spirit had captured his interest.

After his return from the war and all the months of seclusion from society and painstaking rebuilding of his wounded soul and tattered body; Oliver had still not been prepared to return to the living.  The horrific memories still came out of the blue and his discomfort at physical contact had deepened his depression and disheartenment.   The quiet pace of his home and the loving support of his mother were a refuge he had grown dependent upon and meeting Lady Felicity had…turned it upside down.

Her touch had not hurt him.  Was it possible that he was not completely broken or beyond repair?  Could he learn to live again?

He did not know, but a beguiling young woman had given him…a sliver of hope.  And it terrified him.  What if it had just been a fluke of the moment?  To have hope squashed and vanquished would be a tragedy he would not come back from.

~~~~~~~

Felicity grew more nervous as soft booted footfalls entered the foyer of her home and came closer and closer to the family room.   She steeled herself for whatever the Earl of Archer would do.  Would he be aloof?  Had she embarrassed him beyond friendship?  

And heaven forbid he thought she had followed him to the library to compromise or force his hand in marriage.  She cringed at the thought of him thinking the worst of her.  

Felicity’s disappointing first season, amongst the gentlemen of the ton, had provided a valuable insight into expectations.  She no longer had any and she was at peace with who she was.  A courtship between her and the Earl had not entered her mind, but a cordial friendship was something Felicity hoped for.  What she knew of his distinguished military service and the lengths he would go to protect his men and his country was to be valued.

And he had not told on her.  His discretion about what they had done in the moonlight was so appreciated and the way he had acted towards her…unbelievably, he had asked her what happened to the hero of the book!  No man, other than her wonderful brother, had ever cared to talk with her about the books and stories that excited her.   His reaction to her presence, her babbling and…her kiss, was so unexpected and…fascinating.  

Oliver walked into the room with his mother, the Countess, at his side.  His tailored riding jacket showed off his tall length and broad shoulders to perfection as William and Katherine welcomed them.  His skin was lightly tanned from his time outdoors and his thick, luxurious hair was windswept.  The short cropped strands lay at an angle that beckoned Felicity’s fingers to run through them.

The fact that he bowed to her brother instead of shaking William’s offered hand and the fact that he had not escorted his mother on his arm was not highly unusual, but it was different.  And it was all forgotten as Oliver turned and spoke to her.

“Lady Felicity, a pleasure.  Your home is beautiful,”  

“Thank you, my lord.  I look forward to showing it to you and your mother,” Felicity replied as the kindness in Oliver’s gaze eased her worries.   He wasn’t angry with her and the day all at once became brighter.  Felicity turned to curtsy before the Countess.

“Please child, no need for such formalities here.  It’s lovely to see you again, Lady Felicity,”

“And you, Countess.”  Felicity replied as Katherine signaled to their butler, George, that they would be taking their guests to their rooms.

“Dinner will be held in two hours.  Countess, may I show you to your room to rest and freshen up and Felicity, would you be kind enough to see the Earl to his?”  

Felicity was caught off guard by Katherine’s request, quickly looking into the twinkling and knowing eyes of her sister-in-law, before she replied, “I would be delighted.  We have you and your mother staying in the North wing.  The view of the ocean from there is exceptional.”

As William escorted Katherine and the Countess towards the staircase, Felicity hesitated.  She waited for Oliver to offer his arm, but at the tightening of his entire body she knew something was wrong.   She then remembered his peculiarly different behavior from earlier and with that insight she gently smiled up at him and said, “If you will just follow me, my Lord,”

Relief and then pain flashed in his eyes.  Felicity would have thought she had imagined it if not for the easing of the tension from his limbs.  He did not wish to touch anyone.  Why?  

“No, I can do this.  Please,” came the whispered request as Oliver held his arm out for her to take.  Felicity was not sure what to do, but his look of determination and…vulnerability had her placing her hand lightly on his jacket sleeve.   She felt a slight tremor under her fingertips before he stepped forward.

They did not speak as she led him up the stone staircase and down the gallery towards the North wing.

~~~~~~~~

His admiration for Lady Felicity grew exponentially at her graceful tact and compassion.  He had not meant for her to see any of his discomfort, but she had been kind, once again, and had not asked questions.  He knew she sensed something was not right with him.  After seeing him at a dreadfully low point in the library and moments ago, his hesitation…she knew. But, she did not seem to care…

Oliver marveled at the pain free weight of her hand on his arm as they walked to his room.  Why was there no pain when she touched him?  Why was she so different?  Her touch brought comfort to him after so long without.  It was the welcome home his fractured soldier’s heart had wished for so many months before.

Even as he understood the need to distance himself emotionally, he craved more tactile sensation…like a man who had lived without sight and awoke to see an amazing sunrise.  

Would it hurt to touch her?  He had to pull back the urge to find out.  He had to center himself.

“Emma, thank you,” Lady Felicity said as she released his arm and addressed the maid who was unpacking his trunks.   The loss of her touch was keenly felt.

“My Lady,” the maid curtsied to them both and placed the last of Oliver’s belongings into the tall wardrobe before discreetly standing out in the hallway to the entrance of the room.

The suite had large windows that allowed the ocean and the spring day sunshine indoors.  Its mint green wallpaper, elegantly carved wooden furniture and silver threaded bedding pleased him as he walked by the adjoining dressing room door and heard a low growl.

Both he and Felicity looked at each in surprise before Felicity rushed into the smaller room and gasped, “Oh Hanna, sweetheart, there you are,”

“Hanna?” Oliver asked, as he followed close behind and spotted, over Felicity’s shoulder, a tiny and very pregnant brown dachshund curled up in the shadowed corner of the dressing room floor.  

Felicity bent down to stroke the dog’s back as she whispered to Oliver, “I’ve been looking for her everywhere.  Hanna had been my mother’s and I am a bit worried about her.  As you can tell she is heavily pregnant and I think she may be preparing to nest.  I am so sorry, I shall move her,”

Oliver slowly kneeled down next to Felicity so as not to scare the mother to be, “No, it is all right.  Leave her be.  After all, this is her home not mine,”  

“Truly?”

“Truly.  We can keep her nesting spot a secret and she shall have her privacy,” Oliver whispered back to Felicity as he grew conscious of the intimacy of the dressing room and the scant inches between the two of them.   Her honeysuckle perfume teased and tantalized his senses and brought back the memories of the library.  

Every breath, word and touch.

Lady Felicity was a beautiful woman and as she smiled through the glass of her spectacles a visceral awareness, he had not felt since before his injuries, licked deliciously across his body.   He watched enthralled as she sucked on her lower lip and nervously bit down on its plumpness.   His intense focus on her drew the prettiest pink blush to the surface of her cheeks and then down the elegant column of her neck.   His gaze followed its path as it spread across the enticing curves of her breasts that lay confined within the square cut of her neckline.

“I didn’t follow you that night.  To the library. Behind the curtain,” her breathy, husky words rushed out.

“You didn’t?”  His eyes slowly traveled back up to her lips.  He was so entranced by her alluring femininity that he had yet to fully comprehend her words.

“No, I needed to see the books,”

“The books?”  Oliver repeated, as what she saying finally penetrated his entirely inappropriate thoughts of her.  Lady Felicity was an innocent and most importantly…Oliver was not the man for her.  She deserved a man who was…whole.  

“I apologize for placing you in such a tenuous position that night.   I had just wanted to see the library. It is renowned,”

Oliver took a deep breath before proceeding to refortify the wall of distance, friendship and decorum between them. “It was rather neatly sorted,” Oliver said teasingly with a forced lightness.

Oliver could see a touch of disappointment and then understanding flare in her gaze. “Yes, alphabetized to perfection,” Felicity replied.

“To perfection….I better get settled in before dinner,”  

“Oh, yes, forgive me,” Felicity replied, petting Hanna’s head once more, before standing up. “You be a good girl and I’ll check on you in the morning,”

“I'll keep an eye on her for you,” Oliver followed Felicity out of the dressing room and kept the door slightly ajar.

~~~~~~~

Hours later, with the sounds of the pounding surf drifting in from the sea, Oliver untied his snowy white cravat from around his neck and then lifted his dress shirt over his head.  Not being able to tolerate someone else’s touch had forced him to learn to live without a valet.  

Dressing oneself had actually helped him form the “armor” he needed to face each day.   Proper grooming, looking normal, was a huge part of the deception he presented to the world.   Little did they know how damaged he still felt.

A movement of white at the corner of his eye made him turn to see on the floor the tail end of his cravat disappearing into the dressing room.  

He took one of the candles off the dresser and held it high as he peered into the smaller room.  Two brown eyes reflected the candlelight from a comfortable pile of clothing that now included tonight’s cravat.   Hanna was indeed nesting and a few choice pieces of Oliver’s wardrobe had been borrowed during dinner.  

“Goodnight, Hanna,” Oliver said gently before turning back to finish preparing for bed.  He hoped for a dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~

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[chorusfm]

It’s hard to overstate just how tumultuous the past decade of Paramore’s career has been. Since before the recording of Brand New Eyes the band has been regularly rocked by near career-ending shifts. While some bands are lucky enough to go through no lineup changes throughout their career, or when lineup changes do happen the splits are often amicable, Paramore has had no such luck. I don’t need to rehash any of the details of this unrest except to say this: While the turmoil would crush almost any other band, the members that have remained, or returned, to Paramore have fought through all adversity to arrive at After Laughter, the crowning achievement of their career so far.

At once a deeply wistful look back at the past decade-plus of the band’s history and a clear eyed assessment of the future, After Laughter is a record about the moments between total heartbreak and absolute elation. These in-between moments allow us to pick up the pieces broken during the former and come down from the euphoric high of the latter, and reassess what our purpose is here on this floating rock. These moments make up the vast totality of our time on Earth, but for some reason they don’t often feel as romantic.

To use one one of the album’s song titles, After Laughter is a record that is “Caught in the Middle” between joyous sounding music and some of the most dark, introspective lyrics that vocalist Hayley Williams has ever written. The aforementioned song, which begins with a bouncy bass line and could easily have been a No Doubt song from the 90s, starts off with Williams baring her soul and her insecurities: “I can’t think of getting old / It only makes me want to die / And I can’t think of who I was / ‘Cause it just makes me want to cry.” It’s these moments that make After Laughter the most honest Paramore record to date.

Nowhere is this seen more than on “Fake Happy,” a song about how we as humans have a tendency to put on a brave face for the people around us. I have thought a lot about this recently, in light of realizing just how dehumanizing social media is. We let the world see into a tiny sliver of our lives, the brightest moments, while blocking out the darkest parts from view. It’s an inherently unhealthy way to live life, a fact that Williams seems to have come to terms with during the writing process of After Laughter. “Fake Happy” is a song about learning to be open and honest about your insecurities and fears (“If I go out tonight, dress up my fears, you think I’ll look alright with these mascara tears.”), displaying them proudly instead of try to hide them (“I’m gonna draw my lipstick wider than my mouth, and if the lights are low they’ll never see me frown.”)

On a record where Paramore wear their Fleetwood Mac influence on their sleeve, “26” is the band’s “Landslide.” There’s the obvious musical comparison in how a simple acoustic ballad swells into a string composition, one that emphasizes the simple timeless tune in a way that feels effortless instead of overpowering. But lyrically, the song is as stirring and contemplative a tune as “Landslide.” Featuring a clever callback to the band’s 2009 single “Brick By Boring Brick,” “26” develops into a song about holding on to dreams even when your surroundings seem bleak. Williams synthesizes all of the wisdom she has learned over the course of recording the album into the song’s bridge: “Reality will break your heart / Survival will not be the hardest part / It’s keeping all your hopes alive / when the rest of you has died / So let it break your heart.” Without doubt, this is After Laughter’s defining moment.

In a stroke of brilliance, the band enlists Aaron Weiss of meWithoutYou to helm the song “No Friends,” which functions as both an “Idle Worship” outro and a standalone song. The song features a number of lyrical references to Paramore’s early material, “another song I wrote that’s too long god knows no one needs (Looking Up) more misguided ghosts / more transparent hands / they drop a nickel in our basket and we’ll do our Riot dance.” Of all the endlessly fascinating things about “No Friends,” one of the most interesting is that it is essentially a meWithoutYou song embedded within the construct of a pop record. The band apparently gave Weiss free reign to create his own lyrics for the track, which have the same dense, anti-chronological storytelling Weiss’s music often displays. Weiss’s vocals also seem intentionally buried in the mix, to have the musical effect of forcing you to “lean in,” listening closely to the track to catch his words and to turn the turn the track up to ear splitting levels and let its trance-like quality wash over you.

I do think in all honesty I could spend days deep-diving into every track, and I think that just speaks to how meticulously crafted this 12-song collection is.

At about the midway point of the album, Paramore comes through with the perfectly timed “Pool,” which sounds like the perfect mid-2000s pop song. I grew up listening to a Christian radio station in central New Jersey, and the first song I can ever remember really falling in love with and calling my favorite song was Stephen Curtis Chapman’s “Dive.” I doubt the connection between the two songs was intentional, but listening to “Pool” reminds me of the feeling of growing up listening to that song and the exhilaration of falling in love with music.

While the throat-shredding vulnerability of “All I Wanted” and the post-rock bombast “Future” are both iconic previous closers, the band throws a complete sonic curveball with After Laughter’s closing track “Tell Me How”. They settle in to the most mellow conclusion of their career. The sparse instrumentation puts the emphasis on Hayley’s frank, personal lyrics. “Of all the weapons you fight with, your silence is the most violent.” It’s a contemplative way to round a record that belies an unsettled nature to Williams’s personal issues. Just as “Fake Happy” evaluates society’s tendency to put on a brave face in public, “Tell Me How” excoriates the idea that you have to have to have a situation figured out before you can write about it.

One of the many things I find most rewarding about Paramore is just how much they seem to be open-eared listeners of music, and that they trust that their fans are too. You can hear that in their praise of Talking Heads or OK Computer, or in their statement that they were trying to rip off Tame Impala when they first starting writing for After Laughter. But most importantly, you can hear it in the music, which pays great respects to the movements of pop music throughout the past few years towards rhythmic percussion, Caribbean/tropical beats, and bombastic, 80s guitar sounds, while still synthesizing in so many of the things that make Paramore who they are.

You can hear echoes of Paramore’s past here in the ever present characteristics of its three members. Hayley’s savant-like ear for melody and bridge-writing talents, Taylor York’s delicate acoustic guitar playing, Zac Farro’s frenetic drumming style. But more importantly, it’s a record rooted in the present. Most remarkably, it’s a record where a cheerleader chant as audacious as “Low Key! No Pressure! Just hang with me and my weather!” can stand alongside a string quartet and a xylophone hook on the same side of one record, with none of the three feeling out of place. It’s just a seamless amalgam of everything there is to love about and in pop music.

I’m sure Paramore is aware that there will always be people clamoring for Riot Pt. 2, and whereas on albums past they might have been more inclined to give it to them, at least for a song or two (See “Part II” from the self-titled), there seems a willful desire to move past that sort of, excuse the reference, rose-colored hindsight. If you forget everything you thought you knew about Paramore and go in with fresh ears, you will be treated with one of the very best pop records of the moment and one of the most impactful listens in recent memory. So put on your best pair of headphones, or take this in your car and drive around, and, to paraphrase the words of “Pool,” dive right back in.

Please consider supporting us so we can keep bringing you stories like this one.

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[cybergladiatorpuppy-blog]

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Take into account obtaining a rain barrel in close proximity to the garden to capture and save rainwater for a nominal affect backyard garden.<br/><br/>Try out and start your gardens as early as feasible and keep them as late as attainable to increase the amount of crops you might be in a position to create.  <a href="http://www.redwoodgardenbridges.com">garden bridges Woodbridge[32]</a> You can use things like cloches, chilly frames, and tunnels to start gardening a thirty day period or much more in progress. You can also use row covers in the tumble to prolong your harvest time.<br/><br/>Generate a hassle-free cleansing station subsequent to your outdoors faucet or yard hose. Accumulate all of your old cleaning soap slivers from about the residence (or merely use a whole bar) and spot in a plastic mesh bag. You can frequently discover these luggage in the make division of your favorite retailer for storing veggies in the refrigerator, or in the laundry department for delicates. Dangle the bag in close proximity to your hose, and the mesh functions as a scrubber as well as made up of the soap for an effortless hand washing station.<br/><br/>If you will not have a person to drinking water your plants although you are out of town, construct a do-it-yourself watering device! Simply make a little hole in the base of a jug, block the gap, and then fill it with drinking water. Place the jug in close proximity to the base of the plant and take away whatsoever is blocking the hole. This will slowly and gradually give your plant the drinking water it needs even though you're away.<br/><br/>It is important that you shield your arms even though you operate in your garden. If you do not use gloves although you work in your property, your hands can suffer from bacterial infections and other contaminants. Make certain that you hold your physique protected by sporting protective clothing and gloves.<br/><br/>Consider a look at planting berry-creating evergreens in your property. The evergreens will incorporate some color to your backyard or property, especially throughout the winter, when other vegetation have died or dropped coloration. Other plants that boast of wintertime berries include: Holly, Snowberry and Winterberry.<br/><br/>Search for specific pesticides as an alternative of employing common but harmful broad-spectrum goods. It truly is correct these pesticides destroy the pests you will not want, but they also lay squander to the advantageous insects that make individuals exact same pests a standard food. Helpful insects are a lot more vulnerable to robust pesticides than the insects you are really trying to get rid of. This will direct you to end up killing off the very good bugs in your garden, leaving the area broad open up for the dangerous types. This can result in you to truly use far more pesticides than you at first essential to overcome the problem.<br/><br/>Evergreens are very best planted at minimum four weeks just before the floor freezes. This will let the tree to create some roots prior to the soil freezes in the late slide. Evergreens do not fall their leaves in the fall, but continue to get rid of moisture, so it is critical to get them in the floor properly before the 1st frost.<br/><br/>Don't forget to mulch before the first freeze. Unfold compost or shredded leaves about the backyard, mulching under shrubs, hedges, roses, and on leading of the crown of any tender perennials. A layer of compost distribute on bare floor will assist to protect any bulbs, corms or plant roots. By springtime, this compost will have been taken into the ground by worms, and your soil will be entire of diet, all set for new planting.<br/><br/>Whether you want to expand your very own meals or herbs, give a habitat for wildlife, or just like to stop and scent the bouquets, nearly anyone can make a backyard garden, even in small spaces. Use the knowledge received from this report to make the most of your house backyard, no matter what variety it may possibly be.