#the script direction for that line is '(tiny)'

[hephaestuscrew]

When Minkowski hugs Eiffel in Ep31 Sécurité, she just grabs hold of him without making a sound, and the listener only knows about the hug because of the "oof" noise Eiffel makes in reacting to having "the wind knocked straight out of him", and the script directions say that Minkowski has "tears silently streaming down her face", and Eiffel is the one who directly acknowledges the hug verbally ("Don't apologise for hugging"). If all we had was Minkowski's side of the interaction, we probably wouldn't know that they hugged. 

When Eiffel hugs Minkowski in Ep54 The Watchtower, he first tells her "C'mere, give us a hug!", and he makes a happy sound of effort as he squeezes her, and Minkowski - under the influence of Pryce's restraining bolt - doesn't seem to have any reaction at all, which Eiffel doesn't appear to notice. Once again, if all we had was Minkowski's side of the interaction, we wouldn't know that they hugged. 

The question of 'in what ways is the hug made audible?' feels much more significant in audio than it would in any another medium, and I do think it reflects something about these characters and their willingness to be open with their affection. Minkowski "grabs him and hugs him" hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but she does so silently. In a somewhat similar but also very different moment of reunion, Eiffel "embraces her" and he's not quiet as he does it. There's something about how Communications Officer Eiffel is always the one who verbalises their physical affection, whether or not he's the one who initiated the hug. The closest Minkowski gets to verbally acknowledging a hug is through an apology; Eiffel is the one who makes the hugs real for the listener.

[silkpagess]

Every Summertime - Part I

Summary: Fresh off a breakout role, Y/N is cast in the year’s most anticipated romcom. She’s ready for the spotlight—until she finds out her on-screen love interest is Harry Styles, and the lines between fiction and reality start to blur.

Part II

Content Warning: none :)

Word Count: 4,311

This is a 5 part story that I've started writing last year and finally had the courage to post lol, I hope you guys like it 🤍

The kitchen smelled faintly of orange peel and clean linen. Y/N stood barefoot by the sink, towel-drying her favorite mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle that she always used anyway—when her phone rang.

She nearly didn’t answer. It was past noon, and she’d promised herself a day off: no emails, no self-tapes, no endless doom-scroll through industry chatter. But then she saw the caller ID: Miriam Klein – Agent.

She grabbed it immediately.

“Hey,” she said, balancing the mug on the drying rack. “What’s up?”

“I hope you’re sitting,” Miriam said, too calm in that way she only got when something big was about to land.

“Not yet,” Y/N replied, already walking to the kitchen table.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re being asked to read for Every Summertime.”

Y/N sat down hard. Her heart did the exact thing it always did when something she’d dared to want actually started to happen.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m very serious,” Miriam said. “It’s happening. Big studio, full greenlight, same producers from Before the Fall. Sadie Bloom’s doing the script.”

Y/N blinked. “As in Sadie Bloom, the Sadie Bloom?”

“Yes. She adapted the novel herself. It’s been buzzing for months. Everyone’s been asking who’s playing Ivy. They’ve done weeks of auditions already, but apparently they’ve been holding off on final callbacks because the director wanted to take a look at a few new names. You’re one of them.”

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table. She’d read the book a year ago, cover to cover in two days, sobbing over the last few chapters and immediately texting Mara to do the same. It was that kind of story—summer and heartbreak, family and longing, slow-burn romance and two people who find each other just as their lives are unraveling in opposite directions.

She had loved Ivy. Had quietly imagined playing her, though she never said it out loud. The role was delicate. Not easy. The kind of part that asked for both lightness and real emotional weight. She hadn’t seen a female lead written like that in a long time.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, finally.

“No catch,” Miriam said. “Just that the room is tight. They’re only seeing three people, total. You’re one of them.”

Y/N’s chest felt tight in the best possible way.

Then Miriam added, as an afterthought, “Oh, and Harry Styles is already attached. He auditioned a few weeks ago and got cast as Theo.”

She blinked again. “Wait—he auditioned?”

“Yep. Just like everyone else. He read three times. Apparently, he worked his ass off for it.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N said. “I mean, I figured it’d be someone big, but I didn’t think…”

“I know,” Miriam said, “but I don’t want that to throw you. You’ve got just as much shot at this. They asked you. That means something.”

Y/N nodded, even though Miriam couldn’t see her. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Send me everything.”

She spent the next two hours reading the sides, walking through the scenes quietly in her living room, letting the language settle into her skin. Ivy was just as rich and warm on the page as she was in the book—witty and careful and emotionally bruised but still hopeful. She understood her immediately. Not just as a character, but as a person.

By the time Mara and Gia showed up at her apartment uninvited—with iced matchas and a chaotic playlist of "songs you can fake-date to"—Y/N had already color-coded the script, flagged three emotional beats she wanted to dig deeper into, and made a Pinterest mood board for Ivy’s wardrobe.

“You’re disgusting,” Mara said, watching her set up a ring light for practice. “You just got the call and you’re already in prep mode.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/N said, breathless, holding the script to her chest. “It’s Every Summertime. It’s Ivy. And they asked for me. They didn’t even make me chase it.”

Gia threw herself on the couch. “Wait, and Harry Styles is Theo? Like, officially?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point.”

“That is absolutely the point,” Gia muttered.

Mara leaned forward. “Do you think he’s going to remember your name? Or like… do that thing where he knows way too much about your performance in something you did three years ago?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I don’t care if he remembers me,” she said, and she meant it. “I just want to walk into that room and be Ivy. That’s the only thing I care about.”

And she meant it. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. And if there was even a small chance that this role—the one everyone in the industry was quietly circling—could be hers, she was going to show up ready.

No matter who else was in the room.

The studio was quiet in that specific, clinical way only casting buildings managed to be—sterile, over-air-conditioned, and filled with soft voices and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat in a hallway.

Y/N arrived fifteen minutes early.

She always did, not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because she hated walking into a room while her heart was still racing. She liked having a moment to breathe, to ground herself, to flip through her pages one last time and pretend that this was all normal—that she wasn’t sitting in a casting office about to read for the role every young actress in the industry was dreaming about.

She kept her headphones in while she signed in at the front desk, though no music was playing. Sometimes she liked the illusion of noise, the space it gave her from being approached or spoken to. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, clean and simple. She wore a soft cream knit top tucked into well-tailored navy trousers—comfortable, but confident. She hadn’t overthought the outfit. She’d learned the hard way not to try and look like the character. The work had to speak louder than the styling.

She sat down in the holding area, a sleek gray couch pushed against a glass wall. There were no other actresses waiting outside. That meant they were being seen one by one. Intimate. Focused. Possibly recorded.

Her heart thudded softly against her ribs.

She reread the scene again, even though she didn’t need to. The one where Ivy and Theo were walking through a parking lot at night after an argument they didn’t totally finish. It was quiet and tentative and messy—full of unfinished thoughts and sideways glances, two people trying not to say the thing they were thinking. The kind of dialogue that lived in pauses, in breath, in what wasn’t said.

She loved it.

“Y/N?” a woman called gently, peeking her head out from a side door.

She stood quickly, smoothing her pants as she walked.

The room was bright and white and warmer than she expected. A camera on a tripod faced the taped floor marks, and a few people sat behind a folding table covered in notebooks, iced coffees, and half-eaten snacks. The director—Elaine Kim, a sharp, perceptive woman Y/N had read about in interviews—looked up from her notes and smiled.

“Hi, Y/N,” she said, warm but professional. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks for having me,” she replied, stepping into the light and placing her water bottle gently on the ground beside the mark.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles sat on the folding chair just behind Elaine. He was relaxed in that effortlessly casual way some people managed to be—wearing dark jeans, a light blue sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair a little messy like he hadn’t tried to fix it before walking in. He was holding a copy of the sides in one hand, a pen tucked behind his ear.

He looked up when she walked in.

And smiled.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t flirty. It was quiet. Just… acknowledgment. Recognition. Maybe even a little curiosity.

She gave a small nod back—professional, polite, but not overly familiar.

Elaine gestured to the center mark. “So this is the parking lot scene. Let’s start from the top and just run through it once. No pressure. We’ll play with it after.”

Y/N nodded and shifted into place.

Harry stood, moving to his own mark opposite her, flipping his page to the correct scene. Up close, he looked exactly like you’d expect him to—but also not. Less glossy. More present. There was something focused in his expression. Something serious.

They locked eyes for the first line.

And something clicked.

It wasn’t fireworks or electricity—not yet—but it was ease. He listened, which was rare in reads like this. He responded, didn’t just deliver lines. He watched her mouth when she spoke. He took a second before replying. His body language changed with hers. And when she shifted her tone halfway through a sentence, he adjusted like he’d already lived in this character for months.

When the scene ended, there was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

Elaine leaned back. “That was great,” she said. “We’re gonna try a version where you lean into the frustration a little more, Y/N—like Ivy’s holding in a thousand things she doesn’t want to say. Can you try that?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N replied, already feeling her body recalibrate.

Harry stayed quiet, letting her take the lead.

They read again. Then again. They tried new beats, changed pacing, added a half-second pause in the middle of a breath and watched the tension stretch out like taffy between them.

It was the most fun she’d had in weeks.

When they wrapped, Elaine stood and clapped her hands once. “That’s great, guys. Thank you so much.”

Harry turned to her and gave a small, genuine nod.

“You were really good,” he said simply, in a soft voice that made her want to double-check if she’d imagined it.

“Thanks,” she replied. “You too.”

They exchanged one more look. Just a moment of eye contact. No lingering. No flirtation. Just… mutual awareness. Two people who understood what this scene could be. Who knew that if they ended up doing this together, it would work.

It wasn’t chemistry in the cliché way.

It was trust.

And that, she knew, mattered more than anything else.

The moment she stepped outside the studio building, the sun hit her straight in the face. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been inside until the daylight made her squint.

She didn’t rush home right away.

Instead, she walked three blocks up and sat on a quiet bench tucked next to a tiny bakery she used to visit when she was still auditioning for short films and background roles. It felt like a good place to land for a second. Familiar. Neutral.

She took out her phone and opened the Notes app—not to write anything in particular, just to look busy, to give her hands something to do while her body caught up with what had just happened.

The read had gone well. She knew that. Not in the arrogant, self-congratulatory way. But in the honest, I-was-present-and-I-did-the-work way. She had hit the beats she wanted. Had felt the tension she built in the back of her throat as Ivy. Had watched Harry adjust and lean into the shifts in energy, the kind of give-and-take that felt real.

She hadn’t felt that kind of scene partner chemistry in a long time. Not the fake “oh my god we just clicked” type people always said in interviews, but the real kind—the kind that made you breathe differently when the camera was rolling.

Still, callbacks were a strange kind of limbo. You left everything in the room and walked out with your hands empty, unsure if what you gave was the version they wanted.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Mara.

MARA:

Did it happen?? Did you cry? Did he cry?

She smiled but didn’t reply yet.

She wasn’t ready to open the door to speculation and “what ifs.” Not yet. Not when her heart was still beating in callback rhythm, not regular rhythm.

Instead, she ordered an iced tea, sat with her thoughts, and let herself do the hardest part of the job: wait.

Two days passed. Then four.

By the fifth, she had convinced herself she didn’t get it.

It was ridiculous—how the brain worked. She could feel confident one minute, and then in the next, be absolutely sure she’d imagined the connection, that the casting team had probably already offered it to someone else. Someone with a bigger name. A better following. A longer résumé.

She went about her days normally—pilates, meal prep, overdue errands—but there was a thin string of tension running through everything she did. An invisible thread tied to her phone, which she kept just slightly too close. Just in case.

Mara and Gia didn’t help.

GIA:

I keep checking Deadline for a casting announcement like I work there. Do you think you’d know before they publish?

MARA:

Should I casually follow the director on Instagram or is that too obvious?

Y/N replied only with a gif of someone staring out a rainy window.

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. She just didn’t want to break the spell.

The call came on a Friday afternoon.

She was folding a blanket over the back of the couch when her phone rang—and this time, unlike before, her stomach dropped the second she saw Miriam’s name. Her breath caught in her chest.

She answered slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Miriam said, a smile already in her voice. “You ready?”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You got it.”

It took a full second for the words to land.

“What?”

“You. Got. It. Ivy Carter is yours.”

Y/N stood still in her living room, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket.

“You’re serious?” she whispered, barely able to say it.

“I’m serious. They just called. Elaine said—and I quote—‘She is Ivy.’ You nailed it, Y/N. It’s yours.”

She sat down, knees folding underneath her like they couldn’t hold her up anymore.

A full breath left her chest. A real one. The kind that only comes when something you’ve wanted quietly, patiently, for longer than you let yourself admit… actually becomes real.

“Oh my god,” she said softly, tears springing to her eyes before she could stop them. “Oh my god.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Miriam said. “Start wrapping your head around it. You leave for pre-production in two weeks.”

Y/N laughed through the tears. “You’re really just gonna say that like it’s nothing.”

“I’m saying it like it’s everything.”

She hung up and sat for a long moment, letting her body catch up to the news. Letting the weight of it settle gently, instead of crashing.

She didn’t need to scream. Or jump. Or call everyone she knew.

She just needed to sit there, quietly, hand over her heart, and smile like she hadn’t in a long time.

Because she had done it.

Not because someone asked for her. Not because of luck. Not because she was “someone’s pick.”

Because she earned it.

She didn’t text them. She could’ve—God knows they’d been obsessively waiting for an update—but this felt bigger than a three-line message or a gif. This deserved real faces. Real reactions. Real yelling.

So she told them to come over.

No context. Just “Please come by tonight, I made dinner. And wear something cute.” Which, in their language, was code for something is up and we’re not taking it lightly.

By seven o’clock, her tiny apartment smelled like garlic and lemon and the fresh rosemary she’d tucked into the sauce just because she could. She wasn’t a show-off cook, but she liked the rhythm of it. Stirring, chopping, laying the table—things that made her feel grounded when everything else was floating.

She’d even lit candles. Mara was going to be suspicious the second she walked in.

When the buzzer went off, her stomach jumped. Nerves, again. Not the kind from auditions, but the kind you get when something good has happened and you finally get to say it out loud.

She opened the door before they even knocked.

Mara walked in first, hair piled up in a claw clip, carrying a bag of chips and a bottle of prosecco. Gia followed, dramatically overdressed in a vintage floral maxi dress with a belt that jingled when she walked.

“Okay,” Mara said, eyes scanning the apartment. “What is this vibe?”

“Why are there candles?” Gia added, narrowing her eyes. “Are we mourning something? Are we casting a spell?”

Y/N grinned. “Sit down.”

Mara raised an eyebrow but dropped onto the couch without another word. Gia flopped down beside her, kicking off her boots and reaching for the chips before the bag was even open.

Y/N took a deep breath.

Then she grabbed the script off the counter, walked over, and dropped it gently on the coffee table in front of them. No words. Just the bold-font title staring back at them:

Every Summertime

FINAL SHOOTING DRAFT

CONFIDENTIAL

There was a pause.

Mara leaned forward slowly. “No. Way.”

Gia blinked. “You got it?”

Y/N nodded, and just like that, the room exploded.

Mara let out a shriek so loud she startled herself. Gia screamed into one of Y/N’s throw pillows. Someone knocked over the chips. Y/N just stood there, laughing and trying not to cry again while her two best friends lost their collective minds.

“YOU’RE IVY?!” Mara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“You’re fake-dating Harry Styles in a movie based on that book?” Gia yelled right behind her. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me emotionally?”

“I can’t believe it,” Y/N said, the words still tasting new. “They called this afternoon. It’s mine.”

Mara paced a circle around the living room like she needed to walk off the adrenaline. “I’m so proud I think I’m going to vomit. This is not a joke. I might actually cry.”

Gia was already pouring prosecco into mismatched glasses. “To Ivy Carter! To our girl! To the woman who is going to be impossible to sit next to in a movie theater because I will be whispering ‘that’s my best friend’ the whole time.”

Y/N finally sat down between them, letting their joy fold over her like a blanket. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her stomach still fluttered every time she pictured that moment on the phone—You got it.

“Did he say anything to you?” Mara asked suddenly, already fishing for gossip.

“About me getting the part?”

“No, about like… your aura or whatever. Your essence. Did he cry when he looked into your eyes?”

Y/N laughed. “We just read the scene. Nothing dramatic. He was focused.” 

Gia sipped her drink. “So you’re telling me he wasn’t completely in love with you already?”

“I’m telling you he was doing his job. And so was I.”

“Boring,” Mara muttered. “But fine. We’ll allow it. For now.”

Y/N rested her head on Gia’s shoulder, letting the room go quiet for a moment. She watched the candle flicker on the coffee table. The script sat between them, the pages fanned slightly from being flipped through too many times already.

This was real.

No more waiting. No more wondering. She was Ivy. She was going to spend the summer fake-dating a man half the world was obsessed with while bringing to life a character she’d secretly been carrying in her chest for months.

And she got to share that moment—with them.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly serious. “For making this feel… big. It’s easy to pretend it’s not. To try and act like it’s just another job. But it’s not. It means something.”

Gia reached out and gently clinked her glass against hers.

“We know it means something,” she said. “We’ve always known.”

The building didn’t look like much from the outside—just another converted studio space in the middle of a quiet block in West Hollywood. The kind of place you’d walk past without thinking twice unless you were part of it. Inside, though, it was buzzing. Quietly. Like a hum under the surface.

Y/N was greeted by a production assistant with a headset and an iced coffee in one hand, who led her down a hallway lined with framed posters from past films and into a bright, high-ceilinged room that smelled faintly like paper, Sharpie ink, and someone’s very expensive cologne.

The long table was already half-filled when she walked in.

Labeled name cards sat in front of every chair. A stack of fresh scripts lay at each place setting. Crew members milled around the edges—producers, assistants, someone from hair and makeup who gave Y/N a small, polite wave as she walked past.

It was her first table read for a major studio project. And even though she had already been cast—contracts signed, emails exchanged, fittings scheduled—it didn’t quite feel real until now.

She spotted her name about halfway down on the left side. Y/N Y/L/N — Ivy Carter. Seeing it printed, so simply, gave her a little jolt in the chest. She ran her hand over the card before sitting down.

She glanced to her right—and there he was.

Harry Styles, sitting just one seat away, wearing a soft gray hoodie and black trousers, flipping through the top pages of the script like he hadn’t already read it a dozen times. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked relaxed but alert—attentive in that calm, still way he had in the callback room.

He looked over when she sat and gave her a warm smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too. Congratulations, by the way.”

She blinked, a little caught off guard. “For what?”

“For getting the part,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I heard they saw a lot of people. Said you were the easiest decision they made.”

It was such a quiet, sincere compliment that it took her a second to respond.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back. “That means a lot.”

Before she could say more, the room began to settle. Elaine, the director, took her spot at the head of the table and greeted everyone, her voice calm and no-nonsense, but not cold.

“Thanks for being here,” she said. “This is going to be a long day, but a good one. We’ll read straight through, pause halfway for a break, and then meet the department heads after. But for now, let’s just live in the story.”

A few people clapped quietly, and then the rustling of scripts filled the air as everyone turned to page one.

The table read began.

The first scene was a quick one—an establishing moment in Ivy’s flower shop, full of overlapping dialogue and neighborhood energy. Y/N found her rhythm quickly, her voice soft at first but steady. It was strange, hearing the lines spoken aloud by real people instead of looping them over and over in her head. They lived differently in the air.

Then came the first scene with Theo.

It was early in the script—scene eight—a chaotic rental pickup gone wrong. Ivy arriving to find out the place she thought she’d have to herself for the summer had been double-booked by a tired, borderline-annoyed journalist who couldn’t believe she still arranged flowers for a living.

Y/N delivered her first line.

Harry replied in character, voice a little lower, a little dryer than his usual one. It was subtle. American, but not distractingly so. Wry, but not smug. He nailed the tone. The sarcasm. The guarded frustration. He even underplayed the joke in a way that made it land harder.

Their back-and-forth built naturally. A little sharper than in the callback room. Quicker. Like two people who had known each other long enough to know exactly how to get under the other’s skin.

By page twenty-four, someone at the far end of the table laughed out loud during a bickering scene.

By page thirty, they were all leaning in a little closer.

They broke for coffee halfway through.

Y/N stood in the corner of the room, quietly sipping a too-hot green tea and listening to the murmur of conversations happening around her—crew members catching up, producers on quick phone calls, someone from casting laughing softly near the door. She felt out of place for exactly forty seconds before Harry walked over.

“How’s it feeling so far?” he asked, nodding toward the table.

“Honestly?” she said. “Like I’m still dreaming it a little.”

He smiled at that. “I know what you mean.”

There was a pause.

“You’re really good,” he said. “You’ve got this way of landing emotion without forcing it. It makes the scenes feel… like real moments. Not written ones.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Was that feedback or a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Both, I think.”

She laughed, and he smiled wider.

The second half of the read went even smoother. Their final scene of the day—the one where Ivy and Theo slow dance under string lights in the middle of an accidental town party—ended with a pause so soft, no one moved for a second afterward. Not even Elaine.

When she finally looked up from her script, the director just gave her a small, meaningful nod.

The whole room felt different after that.

She didn’t say anything on the way out. Didn’t want to break the stillness. But as she stepped into the hallway, script tucked under her arm and nerves finally quieted, Harry caught up with her and said simply:

“See you on set.”

And she believed it. Not just that she’d see him—but that this story, this world, this version of herself she was stepping into… it was real now.

And it was only just beginning.

[tinytalkingtina]

Hook, Line, & Sinker

Rated T | 1.3k words | Ao3 link

Part 2 of this waterpark 90's AU that fulfills the "Atlantis" Mermay Bingo fill for @stmonstercalendar

Buckingham Fic | [Steddie Fic]

Tags: pre-Steddie, College/90's/no UD AU, Amusement parks, Tourguide/Pirate Eddie, Merman Steve, Chrissy & Eddie friendship, Queer Eddie and Steve, Confident Steve, Eddie has a crush on Steve, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, no one except Chrissy is safe from silly themed outfits in this AU

Author's notes and bingo card are under the cut!

Eddie ushered his latest tour group out of the building that housed the sharks, blinking as they went from semi-darkness into the bright July sun. If he was walking just a teeny tiny bit faster than the recommended speed, no one here was going to tell. It was time for his favorite part of the day and this fanny-packed crowd was not going to make him late.

“Okay ladies and gents, boys and girls! Today, you’ve met playful penguins, daring dolphins, and even spoooooky sharks! But now, you’re about to see something you’ve never laid eyes on before. Yes, including you Dustin. Nope, really, I promise!” Eddie kept his customer service smile on as he stared daggers at this group’s resident smarty pants and his encyclopedic knowledge of marine life. Stupid kid kept trying to upstage him.

“These fantastic creatures were once thought to be only legends and fairy tale myths. But one day, the fearsome pirate Blackbeard discovered a hidden cove in the Caribbean where these mysterious creatures still lived in the ruins of the fabled sunken city of Atlantis. He told them all about his hometown of Sand Beach, in the wonderful land of Pennsylvania. These creatures were wowed and amazed by his stories. They begged Blackbeard to bring them back with him so they could live in Pennsylvania too. And so, even today, Sand Beach is home to its very own pod of mermaids!”

As he said his last sentence, Eddie threw open the doors to the arena that housed the mermaid show, finally breaking out into a real smile.

Sure, his “tour guide” pirate outfit, with its goofy fake beard and hook hand was humiliating and made up of the most suffocating fabrics known to man. The script he followed five times a day was full of cheesy jokes and terrible puns. And his groups were made up of the dumbest people alive. Honestly it was a miracle half of them pointed their polaroids in the right direction.

But it wasn’t all bad. Instead of getting dirty looks from families, his tattoos helped sell the whole pirate schtick better. Hell, he was even allowed to wear his rings and bandana! Plus he had free admission to the penguin feeding by bringing his groups along (as Chrissy often reminded him with her sad puppy dog pout).

And of course, he got a front row seat to the mermaid spectacular five times a day.

In the privacy of his own mind, Eddie could admit that his employers had gotten one thing in this horrible shrine to capitalism right.

The arena was still impressive to look at, even after hundreds of tours. It spanned two stories: one above the water, and one below. Panes of glass set into the bottom layer allowed visitors to see the whole pool, no matter where the actor swam to. The fluorescent rocks and corals dotted throughout drew the eye, and more than once, Eddie had dreamt how good a dip into those blue-green waters would feel after walking around the park’s paths all day.

Just as he managed to get his group seated, tinny speakers stuttered to life and began to play a jaunty naval-themed tune: It was time for the show to begin. Eddie’s heart beat faster in anticipation of seeing him again.

One by one, the mermaids appeared, decked out in bright colorful tails and waterproof makeup to match. Each one was “more lovely than the last!” as the announcer proclaimed. Except that wasn’t true. Because Mermaid #5, with his fire engine-red tail, was the only one Eddie had eyes for.

As he swam around, Mermaid #5’s blonde-highlighted hair swirled in the current. It made the perfect halo for his beautiful face, with it’s strong nose, sparkling eyes, and infectiously warm smile. From his vantage point in the arena, Eddie could just make out moles dotted all over his mermaid’s body. And, oh , what a body! Mermaid #5 wasn’t jacked up with bulging muscles like Schwarzeneggger. No, he was all lean lines from swimming strapped into a tail all day. He even had visible abs from some angles, like when he was picking up and tossing another mermaid to fly and flip in the air. Eddie swallowed a sigh. Surely, Mermaid #5 had to be the prettiest boy in the world.

And the prettiest boy in the world would never know how smitten he was. Eddie was too much of a coward to even ask around for the guy’s name, much less strike up a conversation. Sure, the sparkling stud Mermaid #5 wore in his ear was promising, but the guy had to already be taken by someone (that hypothetical lucky bastard).

Which meant he’d have to be content with pining from afar and bemoaning his fate to Chrissy evening after evening. Not that she was any help, egging on his hopeless crush and laughing at how he tripped over himself to hide whenever he spotted anyone with frosted tips coming his way.

The music got faster and faster as the climax to the show approached. Swimming in sync now, the mermaids performed their final tricks then finished in a photogenic pose on the rocks. As he normally did, Eddie’s kept his gaze firmly on Mermaid #5’s biceps holding himself up. Except this time, Mermaid #5 caught him staring. Pushing back his hair with one hand like an adonis emerging from the sea, the guy gave him a little wave with the other, waggling his fingers around like an absolute dork. Eddie didn’t spontaneously combust in response, but it was a close thing.

He tried to wave back, but his rings of course took that moment to get caught in his hair. After disentangling himself, he dared to take another peek at the pretty guy. Darn it, even Mermaid #5’s laughter was attractive: With his head thrown back all of his neck moles were on full biteable display.

And now Eddie had even less of a chance with him than before. Red-faced, he turned around and focused on ushering his group out. At least Dustin’s indignant rant about how mermaids couldn’t possibly be real was something Eddie could handle. The righteous fury of a smart ten year old was so much easier than whatever cycle of pathetic gay longing he was trapped in.

For the rest of his tours that day Eddie knew he was off his A-game. Not that the tourists could tell, but he’d gotten a concerned look or three from the zookeepers and character actors.

He didn’t relax until the park finally said goodbye to its last straggler and the gates officially closed that night. Distracted as he was tearing off the itchy beard and trying to get out of his sweat-soaked pirate’s coat with one hand, he nearly misse d the note falling out of his locker.

Without any suspicion, Eddie picked it up from where it had fluttered to the floor. Maybe Chrissy needed him to pick up dinner tonight instead, or she’d been asked out on a date by a townie. At least one of them deserved to have some fun this summer. But once he opened the note he nearly dropped it in shock:

Dear Pirate,

I’ve seen you staring at every show, it’s cute. If you want to stop pining from the stands, this merman would be happy to be a part of your world. Call me if you want to find out what my thighs look like, because I want to know what’s underneath that beard.

-Steve

At the bottom of the note was a scribbled phone number, holy shit .

Eddie rushed out of the park that night with a manic grin. He had a date to set up and a merman to woo.

Many thanks to @firefly-graphics for the divider!

Author's notes

-This park is an unholy combination of a bunch of different parks, but takes place near where Hershey's amusement park in Hershey PA is. Sand Beach is the name of a town next to Hershey

-Yes, Steve will cringe when he looks at old photos of himself with frosted tips twenty years from now. Eddie will still privately think it was hot

-Weeki Wachee Springs State Park has had a mermaid show since 1947, and this is what I partially based Pirate World's stadium on. I just took some liberties with the amount of athletics expected of the mermaid actors in this AU!

[vigilskeep]

hi harker :) your post about the M!American VA for the Inquisitor being underrated & F!British VA being your least favorite had me wondering:

what are your opinions about the deliveries of all 4 VAs? as in, do you think there's some specific areas where each shines and/or falls flat in? or specific character archetypes they play well? (no worries if you don't really have an opinion on this tho ^^)

small disclaimer that i haven’t played the whole game with the majority of these so i am totally open to discussion from those who have

female british VA is my least favourite. like i say she does better in plot moments and i quite like the venom she puts into it when she’s angry but i can’t get over how really gratingly bland she sounds in casual conversation/when asking questions. she did not bring the effort for that and it’s so much of the game that i can’t let it slide. good for upper class characters who are a bit stiff and maybe a little socially inept. though actually, fun to play with f!cadash and probably also f!adaar (haven’t tried it) just because the voice itself by nature puts a different spin on those less traditional backgrounds for it

male british VA is okay! another posh one. he always sounds a little wry and amused, which comes off kind of emotionally disengaged. which is good in light scenes and for a certain type of character, but when the feelings should actually hit and he should get angry or upset, a lot of the time i don’t think it quite connects

american female VA is... also okay. i really like the basic sound of the voice and i think it’s very versatile in terms of character type. i also don’t think it had any super amazing moments that stuck in my memory to come to mind. kind of the opposite of the british female VA’s strengths and weaknesses i guess? but can i say i really dislike the assumption in some fan spaces that this voice is only usable for dwarves and qunari as if the actress isn’t literally a human woman like 😭 so weird. i loved her as my lavellan. to me, generally suits a more cool and experienced character

american male VA is easily the best experience i’ve had so far. listening to him do casual conversations is like... wow he is truly the only one of these four who showed up to work every day and actually performed rather than simply reading the lines off the script lmao. he comes off a little more gruff/aggressive overall imo. i do find his deep voice weird coming out of a tiny elven frame if you’re going for a lavellan but it’s not that strange. i still can’t fucking believe he’s zevran

overall i do not think the voice acting is that good in inquisition and i don’t think it’s the fault of the voice actors. from the way lines are often slightly misread compared to what it feels like the line’s intent must have been, or are sometimes just tonally bizarre for the scene, i get the impression the cast had very little direction and were left to do a lot of guesswork on their own

[no-name-publishing]

Interim (and company) by starkraving

After what has literally been a year and a month, I can call this project finished. The highs and lows of American football. You understand. Very grateful to the author for having written it and letting me bind them a copy! More photos and process pics under the cut.

The bookcloth material is faux suede, and the title decoration is cut from a glossy transparent HTV. The effect is completely swoon worthy, and exactly as I'd imagined it. That said I had a difficult time conceptualizing a design for the case at all; my only working idea was the endband, ribbon bookmark, and head and tail decoration. For 6 months everything I was coming up with for the cover was clashing very hard against these elements. So instead I took steps backwards, and thought how I could make something simple still visually interesting. I decided the difference in physical texture and appearance between the faux suede cloth and a glossy transparent HTV could be just what I was looking for, and I think it worked incredibly well.

The endband is done with adapted renaissance endbands in opposing directions, with a simple wrap of red thread in the center. I don't think peek-a-boo is the right phrase but nonetheless. The head and tail are painted with spray paint, in a gradient pattern that fades as it nears the foredge. The light blue accent lines are also spray paint, applied with a stencil I drew and made myself.

Typesetting shots. I use Word to typeset, and everything is designed and arranged within the program. Body font is Cochineal, the decorative title font is Caesar, as well as Sheikah and Hylian script.

The tiny books are simple, using elements from the main bind to tie them together. These are the spin-off short stories starkraving recently released as part of the Interim series. A testament to exactly how long this bind took me to complete, otherwise I would have included these in the main book. Oh well, it means I got to make tiny books.

Little video showing off the pieces. Particularly proud of the title page.

Process shots starting at my early test run of the my endband idea, to spraying the head and tail. Sewing the primary endband, and the completed bands on both books.

Very pleased altogether with how this came out. Also pleased to have it out of my WIP pile where I can take it off the shelf and fondle it whenever I want.

[sharpiestools]

Reader x Riccardo Calafiori - Series Masterlist

Chapter Twelve - Notting Hill

The sky was still silver when she woke—quiet, still, wrapped in the comfort of soft linens and the far-off hum of a city that hadn't fully woken up yet. She rolled onto her side, checked the time—5:02—and smiled to herself. Still early enough to pretend the day didn’t quite exist yet.

Her feet hit the floor with purpose. Bare, she walked across the cool wooden floors of her brother’s flat, loose cotton pants swinging low on her hips, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. She made her way to the bathroom first, tying her hair back into a slick, sharp bun with practiced ease, before turning on the warm water and lining up her skincare products on the marble counter like tiny soldiers.

She’s already showered and dressed by the time the sunlight pours through the living room windows. A script sits on the table, her laptop open beside it, half a scene highlighted in yellow. Coffee in hand, she reads through a monologue again, making quiet mental notes. It’s a new project—just a few weeks in—but it feels good to be working again.

Her brother walks in mid-yawn. — You’ve been up long?

— Couple of hours, — she says, flipping a page. — Trying to get through this scene before I leave.

He gestures to the table with his mug. — What’s this one about?

— A woman having a breakdown in a luxury hotel.

He grins. — So… you?

She gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender, grinning. — What’s on the agenda today? Taking over the fashion world one heel at a time?

— Writing first, — she said. — Then a meeting at Vogue, and a fitting for Cannes next month.

He nodded, impressed. — Do you sleep? Like—actually sleep? Or is that just a myth created by your PR team?

— I sleep. You snore. Want to keep going?

He laughed. — Nope, I’m good. You want toast?

— Already on it.

He dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head as he walked by, reaching into the cabinet for coffee. — You’re killing it, you know.

The hallway was quiet, washed in soft morning light streaming through the high windows. She stepped out of the apartment with a purposeful stride, the door clicking shut behind her. Her outfit was sharp yet effortless—fitted straight leg jeans, a oversized trench, and a buttoned black cardigan. Her slicked-back bun was precise, earrings catching just enough light, and her makeup was clean, finished, and meant to last. No trace of sleep lingered on her skin; her morning routine had taken care of that.

Just as she reached the elevator, the familiar ding sounded—and when the doors opened, Riccardo was already inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair still slightly damp from his shower, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

— Good morning, — she greeted, stepping in beside him with a half-smile, subtly pleased to see him.

He did a quick, amused once-over. — You’re very… awake.

She raised an eyebrow. — And you’re very damp.

— I was going to say you look scary-efficient.

— That’s because I am, — she replied with a soft click of her heel on the elevator floor. — Meeting at noon. Writing before. Fitting after. You?

— Training, gym, ice bath.

— Chic.

The elevator stopped at the ground floor. She didn’t move yet.

— You’re heading out to write?

She nodded. — Library nearby. Too many distractions at home.

He gave her a small, knowing smile. — You don’t strike me as someone who lets anything distract her.

— Depends on the distraction.

The pause hung for just a second, charged but easy. Then she walked out, and he followed.

At the entrance, she pulled on her sunglasses. He held the door open without comment, just a look that lingered as she passed.

— See you later? — he asked.

— Maybe, — she replied, lips curving at the corners. — If you stretch properly.

And with that, they slipped into the city in opposite directions—both with full days ahead, but with the soft buzz of the other still present in their orbit.

She worked with her signature intensity, going through emails first—quick replies, the occasional soft-but-firm decline, and a couple of forwarded press releases she might use later. Once the admin was out of the way, she opened a draft for her newsletter: a half-finished essay on the intersection of football and fashion, the perfect storm of two of her great obsessions. Words poured easily when she found her rhythm. When she needed a break, she switched to her notebook, letting herself scribble more abstract, less edited thoughts. A few lines of prose. Maybe poetry. Nothing meant for anyone else.

By 11:30, she was in the car to a sleek office in Mayfair, a headquarter dressed in beige tones and silent urgency. The meeting at noon was with the editorial team of a major brand she was about to guest-creative direct for a campaign. Half journalism, half trend forecasting, all her. She navigated it with ease: graceful, opinionated, firm where she had to be. She left the meeting at 13:50, satisfied, already thinking ahead to her fitting later that afternoon.

And somewhere between the lobby and the car, she checked her phone—and found a message from Riccardo, simple and unbothered:

"I’m guessing your schedule’s packed, but I’ve got a feeling you’ll make time for me."

A smile tugged at her lips before she even finished reading it. She leaned her head back against the seat, just for a second, letting the warmth of the message settle in. It was the kind of text that made you feel seen—teasing, but somehow thoughtful. Like he wasn’t just flirting, but paying attention.

She started typing.

"Cocky. But not entirely wrong."

She hesitated, watching the little dot blink in the corner of the screen like a blinking cursor in a half-written memory. Then added another line.

"On my way to a fitting in Notting Hill now. Let me get through tulle and strategic pins and I’ll be human again."

A pause.

"But I’ll be free around 4. Don’t let that go to your head."

She hit send as the car turned down a narrow street, her own reflection flashing briefly in the window. Notting Hill’s charm slowly unfolding outside, painted townhouses, leafy sidewalks, cafés where time always seemed to slow down.

Her phone buzzed again before she could even toss it back on the seat.

"Notting Hill, 4-ish, tulle-survivor edition. Got it. You’ll be glad you made time for me, promise."

Short. Teasing. But there was something else threaded into the edges of it—like he was genuinely looking forward to seeing her, even if he was playing it cool. She didn’t let herself smile too much. But she also didn’t stop herself from rereading the text.

Whenshe arrived, the car had to double park on a quiet side street. The fitting was in one of those discreet studios above a concept boutique—barely marked, the kind of place where fashion insiders slipped in unnoticed and came out transformed.

Upstairs, the atelier space was minimalist but buzzing—racks of garments, mood boards pinned up like collages of dreams, the faint scent of fabric steam and espresso hanging in the air. The stylist had already pulled the pieces she needed to try on: sculptural, rich in texture, with unexpected details—perfect for Cannes, even more perfect on her.

By the time the fitting was over, she had tried around 20 dresses, agreed on shoe changes, and scheduled a round of photos for next week. Efficient. Controlled. Unbothered. She was already slipping back into her coat when the assistant offered to have her driver pull around.

— No need, — she said lightly, already texting Riccardo.

"Free as promised. And looking slightly fabulous. Where should we meet?"

The sun had dipped just enough to cast that warm, honey-gold light over Notting Hill, tinting the white townhouses and iron balconies in something almost cinematic. She didn’t head straight toward their meeting spot. Not yet.

Instead, she took a small detour down one of the quieter streets—past a corner flower stand, where peonies and eucalyptus spilled over wooden crates. Her steps were unhurried, her posture still sharp from the fitting, coat thrown over her arm, phone in hand but ignored for once.

There was something indulgent about being alone in a beautiful place, dressed like that, knowing exactly where she was headed next.

She glanced at her reflection in a shop window—sleek bun still perfect, skin luminous but no longer glowing from effort. Just composed. Cool. Exactly how she liked to feel.

And then she heard it—his voice.

— Might be the first time I’ve ever seen you walk slowly.

She turned with a raised brow, and there he was—leaning against a street lamp like he hadn’t just rushed over, like he hadn’t scanned the street three times before spotting her.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked those last few steps toward him.

— I walk slowly when I’m in a good mood — she said, eyes glinting.

He straightened with a lazy grin. — So I guess I’ve got that going for me.

— Don’t get ahead of yourself — she replied, but she was already smiling.

He fell into step beside her, easy and familiar, as they started walking—no rush, no clear destination yet.

They wandered with no particular direction, just the kind of meandering that only made sense when you had time and someone you didn’t mind wasting it with. Notting Hill around them buzzed in that soft early-evening way—couples outside cafés, kids with gelato, an old man arguing passionately with his dog.

— So, —she started, glancing sideways at him as he kept his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, — What’s this ‘feeling’ you had that I’d make time for you?

He tilted his head like he was genuinely considering it. — Call it intuition.

She scoffed lightly. — Call it arrogance.

— Same thing, sometimes.

That made her laugh—low and sudden, the kind of sound that made Riccardo turn his head to really look at her, like he wanted to pocket it for later.

They reached a small courtyard tucked just off the main road—one of those hidden corners with bistro lights strung across the top and mismatched chairs that somehow made the place feel lived in. It wasn’t crowded, just a few people scattered around, half of them lost in books or daydreams.

— I like this place — she said, slowing.

— Never been here, — he admitted. — But I figured you’d like it.

That earned him a slow blink and a smile she didn’t try to hide. — You’re a fast learner.

— I’m Italian, — he shrugged. — We know how to read the signs.

They settled into a table in the corner, sunlight catching on the rim of her sunglasses as she pulled them off and rested her arms on the table. He sat across from her, one leg stretched out, already comfortable.

She ordered tea. He got a cortado. For a while, they didn’t talk about anything big—just the charm of West London, the odd things they’d noticed in British culture, how neither of them could understand why the sockets were so massive.

But slowly, the conversation shifted again.

— You know, I didn’t think you’d actually text, — she said at one point, swirling her spoon around the edges of her teacup.

He looked up. — Why not?

— You seemed… I don’t know. Like someone who gets distracted easily.

He leaned forward just slightly. — I don’t get distracted. I get curious. There’s a difference.

She tilted her head. — And you’re curious about me?

— I already told you. I’m trying to figure out how someone like you exists.

That made her pause. Not flustered, not surprised. Just momentarily quiet—eyes on him like she was recalibrating what kind of game they were playing.

Eventually, she leaned back, smiling.

— Keep talking like that and I might start making time for you again.

He raised his cortado like a toast. — I’m counting on it.

They stayed at the table long enough for the light to shift. She watched it change on the walls around them, turning everything gold. Riccardo didn’t seem in a rush either. He drummed his fingers idly on the table, watching her more than anything else.

Eventually, she pushed her empty cup aside. — Wanna keep walking?

He stood without answering—just nodded like he already knew the answer would be yes. They stepped back into the street, the city mellow and glowing, and started walking without much purpose again, letting their shoes choose the direction.

— Feels like a movie, — she said suddenly, looking around as they passed a bookshop with a blue facade.

He glanced at her. — You’d know better than me.

— Notting Hill, — she clarified, slowing her pace. — The movie.

His face lit up with recognition. — Ah… the travel bookshop. Hugh Grant, right?

She smiled, a little proud. — Exactly. I watched it so many times growing up, I can quote whole scenes.

Riccardo slid his hands into his pockets, amused. — You want me to act one out with you? I’ll be Hugh.

She laughed. — You? You’re way too tall. Hugh Grant was all floppy charm and quiet disaster energy.

— I could be charming and disastrous.

— Disastrously charming, maybe.

They walked past the row of pastel townhouses, light catching on the glossy doors. He let the silence stretch again—an easy one, not awkward. She noticed how he wasn’t afraid of it, how he didn’t fill it with noise the way a lot of people did around her. There was a steadiness in him. It made her want to talk more.

— Do you think about home? — she asked after a beat. — Italy, I mean. Ever get homesick?

He shrugged. — Sometimes. My sister sends me ridiculous voice notes just to mess with me. And I miss the food, obviously. My grandma’s lasagna could solve world problems.

She smiled, nodding. — I miss home all the time, but it’s weird. I miss moments, smells. Not just places.

He looked at her carefully, like he was memorizing it. “You’re really poetic.”

She shrugged with a soft laugh and they walked in rhythm again. Not in sync on purpose—but they moved well beside each other, like two people who didn’t need to adjust their pace too much to keep up.

They passed a mural of swirling pinks and blues and paused. She snapped a photo of it with her phone, angling it just right, then caught Riccardo watching her.

— What?

— Nothing, — he said, almost sheepish. — You just look… really good when you’re in your own world. You’re always seeing something no one else does — he said, not really thinking about it, just letting the thought slip out.

She glanced over at him, half a smile tugging at her lips. — That’s how I feel about acting, actually. Like, I get to collect things—tiny details—and turn them into someone else. It’s weird, but comforting.

He nodded, as if understanding. — I guess football’s like that too, sometimes. You notice things—the rhythm of a player’s step, how fast they breathe—and you know what they’ll do before they do it.

— That’s beautiful — she said, surprised by how easily the admiration slipped into her voice.

He looked down, briefly flustered. — I mean, it’s just... instincts. Patterns.

— No, it’s more than that. It’s like... choreography with instinct. Trusting your body to say what words can’t.

Their eyes met again, and the world softened around them. For a second, they just looked at each other. Not flirtatious—something else entirely. Like they were both trying to figure out what the hell was happening between them and if it was too soon to admit it out loud.

— Do you want to keep walking? — she asked, voice softer now.

— I’d follow you anywhere — he said simply.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and her cheeks warmed with something she couldn’t quite shake. They strolled slowly, not in any rush to get anywhere in particular, half-lost in conversation, half-lost in the way the city looked.

Riccardo was beside her, talking about the time he tried to cook carbonara in England and ended up starting a smoke alarm. She laughed—warm and unguarded—and then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, her fingers brushed against his. Once, twice.

And then they simply intertwined.

It wasn’t a decision, exactly. She didn’t look at him, didn’t announce it. Just reached for his hand mid-laugh, and kept walking. As if it had always been there, this touch. As if her hand had always known where to go.

Riccardo glanced down briefly, the barest smile tugging at his lips. He gave her hand the lightest squeeze. No teasing. No commentary. Just the quiet thrill of something falling into place. The kind of moment you don’t point out because pointing it out might break the spell.

So they kept walking—her hand in his, steps slow and aimless through Notting Hill’s quieter corners. A rhythm found, not created. Her head tilted toward him every now and then, his thumb brushing circles along her knuckles like a thought he couldn’t shake.

The ride back to the building was quiet in the best way—Notting Hill still clinging to them like the last notes of a favorite song. Riccardo drove with one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other on his thigh, his thumb occasionally tapping to the rhythm of the mellow playlist humming through the car speakers. She sat beside him, head slightly tilted toward the window, skin glowing under the light, a soft smile tugging at her lips for no reason other than how nice it all felt.

They didn’t rush once they arrived. The underground garage welcomed them with a low hum, the car gliding smoothly into its spot. When they stepped out, she adjusted the strap of her bag, her heels clicking lightly against the polished concrete. Side by side, they crossed the lobby—his hand brushing briefly against her lower back out of habit, not intention. Neither commented on it. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was full of everything unsaid, everything understood.

The elevator ride was brief. It always was. When they reached her brother’s floor, she turned to him with a small smile, already reaching for her keys.

— Thanks for today — she said, her voice low and warm.

He met her gaze, one side of his mouth pulling into the kind of smile that made her feel seen. — We should get lost together more often.

She smirked, rolling her eyes softly as she stepped out. He chuckled as the doors began to close. She caught his eyes just before they disappeared behind the metal. There was something about the look they shared in that second—playful, charged, familiar. Like they both knew this wasn’t fading anytime soon.

Inside the apartment, she was greeted by the comforting smell of brewed tea and something vaguely cinnamon-scented. Her brother was sprawled on the couch with his laptop and a bowl of cereal that looked like it’d been forgotten halfway through.

— You’re back, — he said without looking up. — Who did you flirt into submission this time?

She dropped her bag by the side table, kicking off her shoes—not because she was tired of them, but because home had that effect on her.

— No one worth bragging about, — she said, grabbing a cup and pouring herself tea like she owned the place—which, technically, she almost did by now.

—Liar, — he said, glancing at her. — That’s your ‘I’m trying not to be obvious’ face. I know that face.

She snorted. — I don’t have that face.

— You absolutely do, — he said, grinning. — And you only wear it when there’s a cute boy involved.

She didn’t reply right away—just sipped her tea and leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes thoughtful.

— You like him, don’t you?

She looked at her brother and, for once, didn’t deflect. — Yeah. I think I do.

He raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. — Well damn. London’s getting interesting.

They ended up ordering Thai from their favorite place down the street—a comforting habit she’d fallen back into every time she came to stay with him. The kind of routine that made her feel anchored, even if her life was anything but routine.

They ate while watching something dumb and easy—an old episode of MasterChef Australia, mostly for the dramatic narration and the wildly passionate amateur cooks. Her brother occasionally paused to mock the contestants, and she kept giving commentary like she was judging a film. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt like breathing again.

At one point, he looked over at her, catching the small smile she didn’t even realize she was wearing.

— So, when are you gonna bring the Italian up here for dinner?

She gave him a withering look, then reached for a spring roll. — Oh my god, calm down. We’ve been on, like, two dates.

— I didn’t say marry him, I said feed him. Huge difference.

She laughed, her head falling back against the couch. — You’re the worst.

— I’m the best, — he said smugly, stretching out his legs and stealing the last dumpling. — You just don’t wanna admit I’m right.

She nudged him with her foot. — I don’t even know what this is yet.

— Whatever it is, — he said, more sincerely now, — you seem happy.

She didn’t respond right away, but her expression softened. — Yeah — she said quietly. — I think I am.

[slimybeth69]

Director Dave

The Prompt : Dave York directs a community theatre production of 'A Christmas Carol'.

Summary: Dave uses some interesting directing techniques to make sure that this years production of the community center play "A Christmas Carol" is the best show your small town has ever seen.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Corny smut. Fingering. Teasing. Weird dirty talk.

It was time to audition for the annual Christmas play.  

This year it’s A Christmas Carol. 

You’re shocked to see Dave York sitting beside Sister Margaret and Sister Mary who are the ones who direct and produce the play every year. 

Erika grips your wrist tightly when she sees him. "Ohhh... here's your chance to get him to notice you."

Dave catches your eye and you think you see him smirk. You tell yourself you didn’t, that you had just imagined it. 

Erika auditions. 

Then you. 

Then thirty other people from the town audition for all their parts. 

Almost everyone will get a part, and if they don’t…they’ll work on the set as stagehands and still be included because no one gets left out in your happy town. 

The next day, the parts are posted in the glass encased bulletin-board outside the community center. Everyone is gathered around it when you and Erika walk up together after your shift at the vet's office ends. 

You got the part as the Spirit of Christmas’ Past. 

Erika is the… director's assistant. The position directly below Dave and she feels bad immediately because she knows you have a little crush on him since the turkey raffle.

You try to not be jealous and feel like maybe he wanted to get closer to Erika and not you!

Whatever!

You don’t care. You’re not even worried about it, there are other guys in this town who already give you attention willingly and you can just get it from them. 

Even though you’ve gotten it from the only ones worth getting it from. A couple times. 

And you’re bored. 

Thinkin’ about getting it from some of those guys who aren’t so worthy at this point. 

“I. Do. Not. Toler-ate. Mistakes!” He claps his hands to punctuate the end of each word. “I eliminate them,” he barks at you and tosses his script into the air. 

He’s actually kind of a dick. You’re glad that Erika get’s to deal with him and his attitude more than you do. But…you did just mess up on purpose to get a rise out of him. 

Because it’s fun.

You stare at him, with your upper lip curled in slight distaste, “What’re you gonna do? Kick me out? I’m the only one who knows the lines and the show is in two–” 

Dave laughs loudly and points his finger at you, “If you call those sad words that just fell out of your mouth ‘the lines’ then yeah, you're just fuc— flipping amazing!” He stops himself when he notices the young child actor playing Tiny-Tim. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry— is a special critic from the big ole city coming to do a review or something?” You mock your own little country twang like he does whenever you do something he deems incorrect. 

Dave blinks at you for a moment, “If a critic was coming down here…from the ‘big old city’, I wouldn’t have cast you as the SCP, Doll. Sit down and just learn those hard lines for Dave, okay?” He smirks like he is very satisfied with what has just transpired between the two of you.

You chuckle to yourself and set the script down on the floor gently and neatly. “You know what… cast someone else then.” You smirk at him and turn on your heel, heading back towards the room where your coat is. 

“Wait, wait, wait–”

“No. You’re an asshole. You think you can just come in here and what, elbow the Sisters out of the way to yell at us? Make us look stupid and feel even worse about ourselves?” You scoff and pull away when he tries to grab your upper arm, but he beats you and wraps his thick, strong fingers around the entirety of your bicep and tricep. 

Dave gives you the softest eyes you’ve ever seen him give anyone, and then he sighs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles so quietly you barely hear him. 

“What was that?” 

Dave groans loudly and rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry.” His tone tells you that he didn’t want to say that to you, especially not here in front of everyone watching. 

You scan his face and take in his features… he’s handsome. Sonofabitch. So handsome and now that he’s not being a dick, he’s even more good looking. 

“Seriously? I just said it…don’t make me say it again.” Dave growls at you, “Do you want to be in the play or not? Let me know right now,”

You lean in and ghost your fingers along the inside of his wrist, “You can figure out a better way to apologize to me later.” You whisper into his ear so only you and him can hear. 

Dave pulls back and blinks at you, his eyes drifting over your features but he stays composed and turns his back to you. 

“Alright, let's try this again and see if we can all suck just a little bit less this time?” 

You roll your eyes and take your place. 

“Ebenezer…” You exclaim in your most ghostly voice. 

You put on your coat and get ready to walk the mile back to your apartment. 

It’s so cold out and the snow is swirling, so you put your hood up and your hands in your pockets to begin your trudging. 

Erika normally walks home, but she stayed to help Dave clean up after rehearsal— which really means suck his dick, which is fine!

It’s really fine. You’re not jealous that she gets to spend all that time with Dave because he’s an asshole. You don’t need to get involved with someone like him anyway!

The uncomfortable flutter in your stomach when you think about what they could be doing in the empty community center makes you feel like you could throw up. 

You’re halfway home and lost in thought when a voice calls out your name. You spin around and Dave is sitting behind the wheel, his window is down and he’s smiling at you. 

“Hey…” you smile back at him. 

He unlocks the car and reaches over to open the passenger door. “It’s cold. I’ll give you a ride home.” 

You don’t even have to think about it, you jump in the cab of his pickup truck. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how cold it was gonna be tonight,” your teeth chatter as you say it, and you put your seat-belt on. 

“Well consider this my apology for being an asshole earlier,” he smirks, and his tone is genuine. 

You feel a sudden warmth that has nothing to do with the truck's heater. Dave's smirk is disarming, and you find yourself relaxing in the passenger seat.

"I dunno if I accept your apology," you say, your voice softer than you intended, looking over at him through your lashes.

Dave chuckles, a deep, rich sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "You serious?" he says, his eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to the road. “What do you need from me, huh? A fruitcake, sweetheart?”

You bite your lip, the way he speaks makes your stomach flutter. The tension in the truck is palpable, and you're vaguely aware of the fact that there isn’t a center console or anything in this truck. Just a middle seat and nothing else. You’re the closest you’ve ever been to him.

"Well," you start, "you could actually start by telling me why you're such a dick during rehearsals."

He's snorts quietly— just a small exhale through his nose, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "I want this show to be good," he finally says. "A Christmas Carol is my— I don’t know. I’ve always loved it. I used to watch it every year with my mom and dad…before I got too cool for all that shit.”

“Awwww, isn’t that real sweet,” you’re smirking at his innocent confession and gazing at every handsome feature. “The town plays are never good. They’re fun and silly because we don’t take them too seriously.””

Dave sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe. But I... I want it to be good." He glances at you, his eyes spirited. "I need to prove something."

You gasp now. "Prove what? To who? Not us, hopefully?”

He doesn't answer right away, and you think he might not respond at all. But then he speaks, his voice low. “To myself. I don’t do anything half-assed. It’s gonna be the best show this town has ever put on, you’ll see.”

You're about to tell him no one really cares about how good the play is, just that you have fun when you realize you're approaching your apartment.

“This is me,” you say, suddenly reluctant to leave the warmth of the truck and his company.

Dave pulls up to the curb and puts the truck in park.

Dave nods, then turns to face you fully. ‘Listen, about earlier... I am sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.”

You meet his gaze, feeling a flutter in your stomach. "I guess it’s okay." You pause, then add with a smirk, "But you’re still not forgiven…"

He laughs, and you're struck by how it transforms his face, softening his features. "I'll try to be… less intense from now on."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, York," you tease, your hand on the door handle.

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. There is tension in the air but you’re not sure what kind. Then, slowly, Dave reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“Wanna know something?” He whispers.

You nod and almost whimper when he trails the tips of his fingers down your cheek. “Y-yeah.”

“I wanted you to be Spirit of Christmas Past before you even auditioned,” he murmurs and you think he might be leaning into kiss you but your brain is so fogged that you’re not sure.

Your heart races as Dave leans in closer. His breath, warm and minty, fans across your face. You're frozen, caught between lust and disbelief. Is this really happening?

"Why?" you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible.

Dave’s hand cups your cheek and his thumb gently traces your lower lip, “Look’it you…”

The kiss starts off soft and almost hesitant at first, but it quickly deepens into something more intense and passionate as you respond with matching fervor.

Your hands find their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands as you pull him even closer, craving more of his touch. The heat of his mouth melds with yours as his tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking permission to explore further. When you grant it with a breathy sigh, he groans softly against you.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilts your head just so. The angle allows him to delve deeper, his tongue licking at yours sends tingles racing across your skin.

You moan quietly into his open mouth, the seductive slide of his mouth on yours, his hands mapping every curve. He kisses you until you're breathless and giddy, kissed-stupid and trembling. By the time he finally pulls back to suck air into his lungs, you're flushed and clinging to him like he's the only thing in the world keeping you from floating away.

Your lips feel delightfully bruised, your pulse a frantic flutter. You lick your lips, chasing his taste, already aching for more, more of Dave York.

He rests his forehead against yours as he struggles to catch his breath, his eyes dark and blown black with lust.

“Do you wanna come inside?”

Dave chuckles softly and shakes his head no.

You frown in disappointment and try to pull away, “Oh…”

Dave keeps his hand firmly planted on the back of your neck and holds you close to him. There is no center console in this old pick up to keep you two apart. “Shut up, you know I wanna come inside,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Oh my god,” you sigh almost silently, blushing in embarrassment as he inches himself closer to you and you’re leaning back, almost trying to lay down so he can crawl on top of you if he wanted.

You’d let him.

“Gonna be saying that a lot more if you can get a standing ovation in two weeks.”

Your head snaps back and hits the window so hard that your skull almost shatters the glass. “Sonofabitch— what the fuck does that mean!?” You exclaim in pain and frustration. “A standing ovation?”

“What do you think I mean?” He’s not even the slightest bit concerned that you might have a concussion. He’s still just as close as he was before, but now his hand is on the back of your head, shielding you from the hard glass.

You glare at him but the liquid heat has moved further down, between your legs. “How the hell am I supposed to know? These are the most words we’ve spoken to each other since we started rehearsal!”

“And you would have let me…come inside?” He’s smirking when he says it and you want to kick him right in the chest.

“Fuck you— I’m an adult lady who can do whatever the hell she wants,” you state assertively. “And if you’re going to make me feel bad for doing that, then you don’t get to come inside anymore.”

How dare he?!

Dave’s smirk softens, but he keeps his body close to yours, “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. Not at all,” he shakes his head and nips at your lower lip.

Despite everything he just said, you’re still scooting your hips down the length of the bench. “Then what are you trying to do?” You murmur the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he tilts his head to the other side.

“Motivate you,” he whispers and his other hand starts to snake up your thigh. “Is it safe for me to make the assumption that you want me to do this?”

His unfasten the button on your jeans before you even realize what he meant. You nod eagerly as his fingers trace the elastic of your panties.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this since day one,” he mutters against your ear, his fingers dipping into your panties, searching you out. Your moan is muffled by his lips, and as he finds the center of your heat, you arch up into his touch.

“Oh my god,” you murmur as he slowly and lightly begins to circle your aching clit.

“We’re gonna run through your lines— see how well you really know them,” he presses his lips to your chin as he speaks to you in almost just breaths. “I’m Scrooge. Who and what are you?”

You sigh softly as he presses the bridge of his nose to your chin and tilts your head up, opening you up to him so he can move open mouthed kisses down your neck.

“I am the Spirit of Christmas P-Past,” you nod gently, closing your eyes as his adds pressure to his still achingly slow movements.

“Good job, sugarplum.” His praise makes you clench around nothing as he continues his teasing with his fingers. “Poor boy… I wish…but it’s too late now.”

As you open your mouth to happily deliver your line, Dave increases his speed and his teeth graze the sensitive skin on the column of your throat. “Wh— shit. What…um… What, Ebenezer? What is t-tooooo late?”You have to bite back a real moan as Dave slips his fingers down to your entrance as coats them in your slick.

“Fuck,” he growls into the crook of your neck. “Uhh… Nothing,” Dave murmurs, bringing his slick fingers up to circle your clit again, making you whimper. “Keep going, sugarplum. Show me you know your lines.”

You struggle to remember the next part in your hazy state. “It… it’s not too late,” you manage to say. “I’ve come to show you your past, Ebenezer. Your mistakes, your regrets…” You trail off into a moan as Dave’s fingers speed up.

“That’s it,” he praises, his voice husky. “You’re doing so fuckin’ good.” He bites down on your neck gently, speaking against your skin, “What’s my next line?”

“Y-You say…” You have to pause and catch your breath. “I have no regrets. My life made me who I am.”

Dave bites down harder, his teeth leaving indents on your soft flesh before pulling away. “You’re such a good girl.” He’s tracing light circles on your sensitive bud to keep you on edge. “And how do you respond to stubborn old Scrooge?”

“I-I say, ‘Then I’ll m-make you see,’” You gasp, arching your hips into his touch. “‘I’ll sh-show you the shadows of your past… the’— fuck, oh my god, shit. Sorry. “- the choices that haunt you still.” You spit the words out quickly as he pushes your panties to the side and sinks one long, thick finger into your dripping entrance.

“Have to work on your delivery a little, but you’ve got the lines down great,” he taunts you.

You cry out, hands fisting into his hair as he pumps his finger slowly, curling it up to hit that spot inside you. “Dave, please…”

“Please what, baby girl,” He adds a second finger, stretching you even more. “Tell me what you want.”

“M-Make me come,” you plead shamelessly. You’re too far gone to care now. “I need it— need to come I’ll be s-so good. I swear.”

Dave captures your lips in a kiss, all tongue and teeth as his fingers piston faster. He swallows your increasingly desperate moans, angling his hand so his thumb can rub firm circles on your clit.

“Come on,” he urges against your mouth. “Show me how bad you need it. How bad do you want to impress Dave?”

His dark words are your undoing. With a sharp cry, you shatter, clenching hard around his fingers as pleasure tears through you.

Dave works you through it, “She’s so fucking messy,” he looks down at his fingers pumping into you, glistening in your cum, he’s drawing out your high until you collapse bonelessly against the seat.

He gentles his touch, easing you down, and presses soft kisses to your face as you struggle to catch your breath. When you finally open your eyes, he's watching you with a heated, almost awed expression.

"Goddamn," he says roughly. "You are something." He brings his fingers, slick with your release, to his mouth and licks them clean. His eyes flutter shut and he groans at the taste of you.

The sight makes you throb. “You sure you don’t want to come upstairs into my apartment,” you specify this time.

“Told you, that’ll be your reward for doing a good job.” His tone conveys a seriousness that you hadn’t really picked up on the last time.

“Bribing me into not fucking up your very important small town play?” You’re teasing him and he smirks.

“You can think of these as private lessons if it makes you feel better,” he winks at you.

You stare at him, the idea of more private lessons with Dave is undeniably thrilling. “So what, I only get rewarded if I get a standing ovation?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow. “Seems a bit unfair. It’s a tough crowd.”

Dave chuckles, the sound is low and smooth. He leans in close again, his breath hot against your ear. "If you do... I'll make it worth your while."

A shiver runs through you at his words, desire pooling low in your belly. The prospect of Dave's attention, of more than just his hands on you, is hard to resist. “Alright, York. But don’t think this means you can yell at me during rehearsal. You still have to be nicer— to everyone.”

The next few weeks pass in a blur of line readings, blocking, and stolen moments with Dave. True to his word, he’s nicer, less harsh with everyone at rehearsals. But after everyone else leaves...that's when the real fun begins.

Sometimes it's hurried encounters in the darkened wings of the stage, his hand up your shirt, teasing your breasts with his rough fingers. Other times, he bends you over his makeshift desk in the director's office, taking you hard and fast with his fingers until you're spent. He takes a perverse pleasure in working you up, bringing you to the brink again and again, only to deny you release until he deems you've earned it.

It’s maddening. It’s thrilling and honestly the most fun you’ve had in years.

It’s Christmas Eve and the whole town has gathered for the big performance. The community center is packed and buzzing with excitement. You peek out from behind the curtain, your stomach fluttering with nerves.

In the front row, you spot your parents and Erika, who gives you an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

The curtain rises and the play begins. As you step out on stage, the bright lights momentarily blind you. But then muscle memory takes over and you lose yourself in the story, in your role as the Spirit of Christmas Past.

The audience is hanging on your every word. You can feel Dave's eyes on you from the wings, feel his pride and something else, something heated, as you command the stage. By the time the final scene ends and you take your bow, the crowd leaps to their feet in a standing ovation.

Backstage, the cast is buzzing with elation and adrenaline. Erika rushes over to hug you, gushing about how amazing you were. But your eyes seek out Dave. He's standing off to the side, a small, satisfied smile playing at his lips as he watches you.

Afterward, at the cast party, Dave pulls you aside, his eyes dark. “Told you,” he murmurs into your ear after brushing the hair away from it.

You grin up at him excitedly, “Guess I earned my reward then, huh?”

These last two weeks have been a desperate tease of what is inside Dave York’s pants.

His eyes darken with promise. “Oh, you have no idea. Wait till I get you alone... My place. One hour.”

An hour later, you're standing outside Dave's door, your heart pounding as you knock. He opens it immediately, as if he's been waiting for you.

"Tis the fuckin' season, sugarplum... Get in here.”

here ya go @beefrobeefcal

this is a pile of burning, holiday garbage, so enjoy it

as always thanks @saradika-graphics for the graphics

[magentagalaxies]

Kids in the Archive: Episode 10

welcome back to kids in the archive! to celebrate my college graduation + KITA's 10th installment + finally honor the request i received from @oliviaskithworld multiple months ago (thank you for your patience!) today i'm going to be showcasing the classic s1e3 sketch "Citizen Kane"

even if there are other sketches that i would choose as my personal favorite, i respect "citizen kane" so much as a feat of comedic timing. the premise and dialogue are funny enough, but what puts them over the top is the perfect rhythm kevin and dave establish - fast-paced dialogue that's occasionally repetitive in its text but each repetition leads to escalation in the performance.

Citizen Kane: June 3rd 1989

I actually have two copies of the script for Citizen Kane: both dated 06/03/89, and nearly identical, to each other and to the version of the sketch that aired. There really aren't many differences to point out: some sentences are shorter or longer for the purpose of timing, and there is one specific line missing from the "white" pages that's present in the "pink" pages

i assume the version i have may not be a first draft - this was likely a scene performed at the rivoli for years before making it to the screen. or perhaps this scene was mostly created via improv, so the first time on paper was less an act of creation and more documenting what already existed. the only "big" changes are removing a section of brief physical comedy before picking up the newspaper (which was not being held by another customer).

honestly, as much as i wish i could've honored this request in a timely manner, the wait has allowed this episode to be so much better. this could have been it. i would have had to stretch these tiny differences into 3 bullet points because i just couldn't show you how the sketch evolved. except, as i write this on december 21st 2024, now i can. but we have to push a bit further...

Citizen Kane: ~2002

the kids in the hall tour-film "tour of duty" was unavailable to stream for most of this year before finally being reuploaded by a fan in november. i've previously put out a full essay with general thoughts on tour of duty, but let's examine the show's version of citizen kane.

tour of duty's "citizen kane" barely changes, especially compared to some of the other sketches in this show. sure, the words don't always line up exactly and the rhythm is a bit slower (a product of enunciating for a large theater vs recording a sketch for television), but most changes are physical. in the original sketch, a fake-arm was made for dave foley for the purposes of stabbing his hand. in this one, a prop-knife was used for the effect, freeing up both hands for motioning. most notably, this version ends with dave falling out of his chair and flipping 360 degrees before landing on the floor.

immediately following the sketch is a transitional scene with bruce and mark, where they essentially replicate the "citizen kane" bit of forgetting a name and refusing to admit you're wrong, only this time they're trying to remember the name of the sketch they just watched. it's cute.

Citizen Kane: November 25th 2024

so that's all well and good, but still not a lot of differences to parse through. what would it take for them to take citizen kane in a completely different direction?

well, what if 22 years later the kids in the hall reunited to put on a show in support of paul bellini's medical expenses, but dave foley wasn't able to attend due to pneumonia and the other kids barely had time to rehearse?

a high-quality version of the full show will be available in the new year, but recently i found a fan's uploads of a few iconic sketches from the november 2024 show, including the perfect finale to my citizen kane post, because oh boy did they go off-script. for starters, the original "citizen kane" as uploaded onto youtube is 4 minutes and 16 seconds. the "tour of duty" version (not counting bruce and mark's tag) is just under 6 minutes long. the november 2024 version is NEARLY TEN MINUTES LONG

and uniquely i am actually in a position to explain how these changes happened: scott was chosen to take over dave's part in the sketch the day of the show. they added mark walking on as "constable bobby" as a way to acknowledge dave's absence (and i was actually riffing with mark, kevin, and scott when they decided the character's name. in rehearsal, mark improvised a bit about his character going undercover as a teenager). but scott responding to kevin's "was it citizen kane?" with "yes"? bruce walking on as another officer? kevin kissing scott's forehead when scott apologized for forgetting his line? that was all truly improvised, and i was standing backstage watching it happen.

prior to the show, citizen kane was one of the sketches scott was the most nervous about since it's actually quite difficult to memorize: so much of the comedy relies on repetition and timing. i've probably watched the sketch more times in the past year than he has and even i wouldn't get it word-for-word. but once you're out there onstage, you can't beat yourself up over forgetting a line. you make that part of the gag, and suddenly the sketch becomes citizen kane on top of citizen kane: a sketch about someone forgetting something and ignoring their friend's corrections becomes about scott forgetting his lines and ignoring kevin's corrections.

there's no way the kids in the hall could've replicated everything about citizen kane on the evening of november 25th 2024: the sketch was at least 35 years old, it was being performed with minimal sets and costumes in a 1500-seat theater, and the person whose comedic voice it most represented wasn't around. but in my opinion, citizen kane 2.0 reflects exactly what a live version of a pre-existing kids in the hall sketch should be: using the well-known framework as a basis for improv while still being grounded to the important beats. this attitude carried over into the night's other sketches, even ones which didn't feature dave at all like "salty ham." it gives fans new and old something new to appreciate, and allows the KITH to focus on making each other laugh. after scott got off the stage, he wasn't upset for flubbing citizen kane. he was smiling ear-to-ear, whispering to me "i forgot how fun this was". i would take this over "tour of duty" any day

or maybe i'm just saying that because i now own 2024 citizen kane's prop-knife

oh, and don't think i've forgotten the one line that changed between my two scripts, both dated 06/03/89.

"that's a hayley mills vehicle, that's not even close"

and because of scott's role in the 2024 show, i now know that's the one line HE contributed, leading me to believe the "white" pages were just kevin and dave's writing, and the "pink" pages were after the input of the other KITH on the same day.

god, i love how things become full-circle.

...

PREVIOUS KIDS IN THE ARCHIVE EPISODES:

Episode 1 - armada finale ("do we make it?") Episode 2 - fran & gordon: the vacation Episode 3 - comfortable Episode 4 - cathy & kathi: is he? Episode 5 - danny husk: kidnapped! Episode 6 - trappers Episode 7 - sizzlers & the bank Episode 8 - darcy & francesca Episode 9 - show within a show

thanks for reading!

[likehoneyandsilk]

I Wanna Be Yours

Hi everyone! This is a draft I have been playing around with. As per my last post, I am trying out something new. This would be a short multipart piece of writing, however, it is not my usual style. That being said, I wanted to get across some content for feedback and opinions! This may flourish or very well end up back in my drafts. Regardless, it is worth a share! Thank you!

P.S. To get a vibe for what this will be think of "Strangers" by Kenya Grace!

. . .

Any lucid person would tell Savina she was being played by the strings. Like a puppet, twisted, and turned in all directives at the hands of her puppeteer. Filled with life at his convenience. But together, they satisfied each other's desires, the appetite for comfort and comradery. Together, they kindled fires so passionate and uncontainable. What was malignant was also nourishing.

And when he held Savina, she melted like snow underneath a scorching hot sun. Sensed herself wilt into fragments as he pressed his lips to hers, so soft at times and others so intense she believed the butterflies in her stomach would burst. When he replenished her air with his laughter, Savina spiraled into a cordial and pleasant world. And when he pressed into her, yearned every inch of her golden skin, and looked into her doe eyes, she swore she saw glimpses of heaven across his ocean blues.

It all began three months ago when she had caught his eye at a charity affair hosted by the Bengals. Savina was the creative lead for the organization of the event, representing her company with exhibited ease and tranquility, but inside she rippled with anxiety. For the next year, her company was to manage all charitable events held by the Cincinnati Bengals. The pressure to be successful and receive a well-deserved promotion hung above Savina's head like a grey cloud, lingering to storm down on her. She counted down the minutes till she could flee, take refuge in her tiny apartment, and adequately breathe.

One could never see the battles Savina played in her head. Because on the outside, to the dashingly bestowed bachelor in all of Cincinnati, Joe Burrow watched this woman with pure attentiveness, averting his lingering gaze as he worked the bravery to approach her. She dazzled in a black ankle-length dress, hugging her hips just enough and falling effortlessly around her lower limbs. Her breasts were round and full, graced with the black fabric, but not enough to hide the last few lines of an unintelligible script in a tiny black font that peaked from underneath. The straps resting on her shoulder were barely an inch thick. Leaning against a pillar, cradling a half-empty glass of sparkling water, Joe observed the astonishing stranger's doe brown eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes moving around the room.

And suddenly he felt time freeze. His breath hitched in his throat. He was speechless. A haste washed over Joe, the need to speak to the woman before him, to fill her attention with his existence only. Yet, before he could put one foot in front of the other, her cheeks burned red and she turned away, that long jet-black curled hair bouncing with every step she took.

Savina's hands trembled with nerves. Her body felt heavy, her senses foggy when she found his eyes on her. There was a limit to the extent of their paths crossing. Too much was on the line. The peak of her career lay in this event, and had she been seen locking eyes and trading longing glances at the untouchable man, she could have kissed all her dreams and aspirations away. Joe Burrow meant trouble, despite whatever miracle had sparked his attention in her, she had far too much to lose.

Mortified at how far her thoughts permitted her to proceed, how silly it seemed that she was convinced he had taken a liking to her, Savina set aside her drink and busied herself with the event. Presenting herself as efficient and professional, she lingered around the peripheral vision of her boss, who she doubted would even recognize her hard work as he was now numerous margaritas into the night. But to dismiss the urge she felt to meet the lingering gaze of the quarterback as he discreetly watched her move about the room, she occupied her time with the event.

Just before midnight, the bar made the last call. Savina watched as the few remaining guests made their way for whatever they could get their hands on. Thoroughly sober, yet she felt like she was hungover. She had found solitude in a corner of the event space, far from the bright lights and embellishments. She sat atop an unused speaker, leaning her head back against the wall. It was no lie that she had sought out Joe in the crowd. He was impossible to forget. All eyes seemed to fall on him. 6'4", athletic physique, and despite sporting a black suit like many of the men in attendance, he appeared to stand out the most. He smiled guilelessly, baby blue eyes sparkling underneath the lights. Every few seconds when he appeared overwhelmed, he ran a hand through his hair, emerging ever so effortlessly unshakable.

The lights of the bar had fallen dim. The music ceased playing and Savina watched her boss stumble up the steps of the stage, thanking everyone for attending. She stood up, tidying her dress, as she made her way to join the crowd. Engrossed in her boss's horrid speech, she awaited her name to leave his lips, to acknowledge that she had done well, at least some ounce of credit into organizing this event. Unbeknownst to her, she stood next to Joe, hardly reaching his Adam's apple even in her heels. Joe's heart beat profusely in his chest as he watched her through his peripherals.

Up close, despite not being in clear view, she was sensational. The blush embellishing the apples of her cheeks had faded, the rose pink hue now a reminder of the night. Her lustrous lips curled up in a smile and soon fell into a straight line, the glimmer in her eyes abruptly fading as the chocolate brown darkened into charcoal. Forcing his peaked interest away from her, Joe watched the intemperate man before them, dawdle down the steps. A muffled applause fell through the room, and Joe felt a shift in the air when he turned to his side.

The nameless stranger hung her head low. Her hands clutched the silk fabric of her dress. Her hair fell around her, and then behind her as she straightened herself. As if slipping back into reality, she turned her head, tilting it upward to finally allow her eyes to meet his. Her features displayed scraps of dissatisfaction and regret. Joe wondered if he could wish away all her pain. He opened his mouth to speak as bodies moved around them, and all at once he could tell she felt suffocated. Her eyes screamed, and her frame became timid as the crowd moved around her. The lights above them began to dim, and she occurred to freeze.

His mouth went dry. His vision was hazy. He reached out a hand, despite the voices in his head pleading him to stop.

He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. Savina felt as if she might faint, from his proximity integrated with the irritation she felt towards her boss. All those weeks of hard work faded with the lights as the event closed. But Joe was saying something, and she flinched the slightest when his hand rested on the small of her back. She eased against him, preserving her energy and tuning out all noise to clear her head.

"I know a place you can get some air."

She filled his nostrils with a floral scent, so rich and exquisite. He smelled masculine. Like bergamot and applewood. Together they seemed to harmonize so well.

Savina gulped, nodding her head, and missed the feeling as his hand parted from her body all too quickly. She followed his large and tall frame through the crowd. He steered her towards coat check. As if playing coy all too well he remained a few steps away, fiddling with his phone. He nodded reassuringly as she met his eyes from the line.

Every muscle in her body tensed. Every inch of skin tingled.

Her mouth was parched as she fiddled through her purse for the coat check slip. Offering it to the attendant she watched them vanish into a room full of racks. Savina inhaled a large breath, holding in the air before releasing it.

Get it together Savina. She watched Joe scan the room, his demeanor impatient. He knew he was crossing a line. But so was she.

Joe backed away gradually, eyes scattering around the emptying room before forcing open a door that read "NO ENTRY UNLESS AUTHORIZED" with his back. Savina fell behind, as she scurried after him, flailing her coat around her. As she approached the door, she seemed to recall the reluctance to engage with this man in the earlier hours. All that still stood profound. She promised herself not to pivot from her goal.

Joe was not visible on the flight of steps that led to another door when Savina stopped to breathe in the solitude of the poorly lit room. It smelled of floor cleaner, remains of pine and citrus evident in the air. The voices faded completely, and Savina listened to the footsteps on the other side buffer with each passing second. Either she turns back now and forgets all this happened, or she takes a gamble on her screaming heart.

The air was crisp. Bitterly cold. Joe stood against the concrete balcony. Below him, vehicles passed by as specks of light, faster and faster. It was early October, yet the city had nestled into an early Winter coldness. The sky was clear above him. A few scattered stars sparkled, adorning the full moon that seemed within reach this high up. Dispersed cigarette butts littered the ground. Two empty lawn chairs sat underneath a lone umbrella perched within a discarded glass patio table.

Joe feigned composure. His hands rested in his pockets. His nose was slightly red from the cold. With his head bowed, he shifted his gaze between the door behind him and the scene below him. After what felt like a century, the door screeched open, closing behind her with such a loud bang it felt as if it vibrated through the ground.

Slowly, Savina made her way to him. Her heels clicked against the concrete. The bare skin of her legs became scattered with goosebumps. Her lungs felt fully expanded despite the iciness that settled around her. It felt good to catch a breath of true air. Joe turned, catching his eyes with her once again. An invisible string between them pulled them close. Savina found herself situated next to him, her gaze now shifted to the passing city beneath them. She could feel his eyes on her, and she wondered if he could hear how loudly her heart banged against her chest, or how red her cheeks had become.

Willing herself to speak, Savina sighed. But before she could spill out a single phrase, Joe spoke.

"I’m Joe." He offered her his hand, suggesting a handshake.

"Savina." Her voice came out quiet. She carefully positioned her hand in his grasp, and he held it so gently, and when they parted, she felt every electric speck flutter through her as his skin brushed against hers.

"How do you feel now Savina?" Gosh, how her name sounded out of his mouth. Joe's voice was both manly and soft. His eyes conveyed concern and prominent interest. He seemed the least bit flustered, but his calm and cool composure kept Savina grounded and at the same time craving him in all aspects. Savina smiled, slowly curling her lips into a smile.

"A lot better. The best I've felt all night." Joe watched her teeth graze her bottom lip. He stood straighter. A boyish smirk washed over his lips. A cold breeze passed between them. "I take it that asshole was your boss?" Taken aback by his word choice Savina could not help but laugh. She felt unrestrained. Her body was both filled with energy and glow. Joe watched the woman before him unfold. Her laughter was music to his ears.

"That would be true." Savine sighed, leaning against the balcony. A newfound surge of confidence reigned over her, that dark storm cloud above her head slowly evaporating.

"I was the organizational lead for this event. I work for Commons Corporate. This was my big break to show him what I've got, and to be frank, I think he won't remember a single thing."

Savina nodded disapprovingly as she confirmed her thoughts, pulling her hair behind her ears. Her eyes fell to the ground. Her confidence began to quiver, the recognition she would be frowned upon for engaging with a player beyond professionalism.

But she was lonesome. She craved camaraderie and consolation. She desired all the urges a young woman who found refuge in her apartment did.

"I think the event was amazing. And I can't stand men who can't give credit to women when it's due." Joe inched closer, pulling Savina's attention from the ground back to him. His body emitted heat. Savina was convinced underneath the layers, his body was warm and tender.

"Thanks." The whispered word barely leaving her mouth was audible. Their eyes fell from the others to their lips, the energy around them begging them to do something.

"Savina?'

"Mhmm?"

Savina stepped closer. Joe's arm wrapped around her frame, underneath her coat. Savina shuddered.

"Is this okay?"

Savina nodded, cradling her head against his hand as he rested it against her cheek. "And this?"

Savina nodded again, stepping even closer till her body pressed against his.

"Savina, can I kiss you?"

Joe's blue eyes merged a shade darker. His frame towered over hers, in a way that was protective yet flushed her body with deep desire. He tilted her head towards him even more. "You tell me to stop and I will."

Please don't stop.

"I want you to kiss me."

And with that, his lips were on hers. Every ounce of desperation filled Savina as his lips moved against her. He was delicate, holding her as if she were a feather, and kissing her so gingerly. Joe tuned her, her core pressed against his and she gasped, a rush of blood surging to her cheeks. His arms netled her against him, her own wrapped around his neck. She leaned back as he inclined into her, never once breaking their kiss, as her head dipped above the city below them.

"Savina, god damn it," Joe muttered against her lips, lifting her off her feet as he situated her on the edge of the balcony.

"Joe!" Savina gripped Joe's arms, eyes frantic as she forced herself not to look down.

"Easy, easy." He cooed, instantly calming her nerves as he pulled her off, twisting her body so that he leaned against the balcony now. "I wouldn't let you fall."

Joe Burrow was a stranger. A well-known man in the city, but truly and logically a stranger. Yet Savina trusted him blindly, a flutter of her heart telling her she was safe.

Savina was flush against his chest, her lips inches from his.

He held her so close. How could one feel so at ease when you just met them?

"What are you thinking about?" Joe watched Savina's brown eyes darken, a sudden plead of desire clouding over any logical thought. He'd be a fool to say he didn't present her with the same.

"We shouldn't be doing this." Her hand wrapped around his. She pulled away from him, tugging him with her. She walked backward, pulling him with her.

"We shouldn't." They stopped at the closed door, possibly the barrier to their separate ways. Savina's back pressed against the door, her hand still within Joe's own. Joe held the latch in his free hand, hindering the door from opening.

What they felt was electric. What they desired lay in the other.

What they needed was each other.

. . .

Friendly reminder to let me know what you think! Opinions/constructive criticism welcomed, my interactive options on my page are open! Thank you again loves!

[lauralearns]

Notes on ひらがな 📚✨️

Disclaimer: I haven't been posting a lot lately (life's been hectic) so I decided to start sharing some of my notes. These were taken a while back, based on Tae Kim's grammar guide.

Japanese consists of two phonetic scripts (Hiragana and Katakana, referred to as kana), with a little less than 50 characters each. Today we'll study Hiragana!

Hiragana (ひらがな) is used for a couple of reasons:

• Grammatical purposes;

• Words with really difficult/rare Kanji;

• Colloquial expressions;

• Onomatopoeias;

• Or by beginner students and children, in place of unfamiliar Kanji;

Every character in Hiragana corresponds to a [vowel] or [consonant + vowel] syllable sound, with the exception of [ん].

When practicing by hand, it's extremely important to remember that stroke order and the direction of strokes matter a lot! You don’t want to end up with the writing skills of a clumsy toddler.

(the chart bellow has hiragana and katakana btw, the hiragana characters are on the left side)

source: r/japaneseresources on reddit

Thought learning all the characters was hard enough? Fear not, there's additional sounds for you to learn.

📚 The Muddied Sounds 📚

There are five more consonant sounds that are written by affixing two tiny lines (dakuten) or a tiny circle (handakuten) to a character. This creates a less clipped version of the consonants, as you can see bellow:

source: japanistry.com

📚 The Small [や], [ゆ] and [よ] 📚

We can combine a consonant with a / ya / yu / yo sound by attaching a small [や], [ゆ] or [よ] to the /i/ vowel character of each consonant.

source: guidetojapanese.org

📚 The Small [つ] 📚

A small [つ] is inserted between characters to carry the consonant sound of the second character to the end of the first.

Note that when you encounter a small [つ] between characters, there's almost always a clipping sound to the pronounciation! You gotta make sure to clip the right consonant (the consonant of the second character).

Example: ざっし (zas-shi / magazine)

📚 The Long Vowel Sound 📚

You can extend the vowel sound of a character by adding [あ], [い] or [う] to them. See the chart bellow:

source: guidetojapanese.org

Example: to create a extended vowel sound from [か], we add a [あ] to create [かあ].

Remember to actually hold your vowels long enough, or you'll end up saying stuff like [ここ - here] instead of [こうこう - highschool].

Lastly, there are a few exceptions where and /e/ vowel is extended by adding [え] or and /o/ vowel is extended by adding [お], but those are few and far between, so pay attention but don't worry too much about it.

Example: おねえさん (older sister)

See you next time! 💌

[bikenesmith]

ive noticed some engagement on some of my monkees (shit)posts from way back in 2012/2013 — my 14/15 year old self. which is endearing, bc im aware the monkees fandom is still going, and is perhaps even more active than it was in my day. this did remind me of a @fansplaining article by allegra rosenberg / @areyougonnabe that i finally got around to reading earlier this week, the beatles live!

(i have no idea how long some of you have been here, so to recap i was fully obsessed with classic rock bands and 1960s/70s pop culture from like, 12 to 15 years old. profound impact on me in many ways, still love 60s/70s music, culture and history. also lmfao at my fandom of the last near-decade being sparked by a film set in the 60s. the several page video essay script about x-men first class' anachronistic 1960s fashion, which is sooo close to actually being filmed, will likely be the ultimate culmination of it all) the beatles were my first music fandom — while i still have feelings for the monkees [obviously, considering my ~12 year attachment to this url across nearly all of my social media] it is the beatles that i still have brain worms for. a tiny, isolated worm, but one nonetheless. so this article, i had to read.)

i was really taken by this section on the anachronistic modernizing of beatles fandom activities.

It takes a certain stripe of fannish brain to obsess over music from a bygone age instead of modern artists—taking something as broadly popular as classic rock and treating it with all the intimate, loving attention that other fans devote to a sci-fi television show, a fantasy book series, or a cult video game. These fans are cultural archaeologists, working with the materials of the past to create the passion of the present. The phenomenon is not limited to the Beatles. On TikTok, fans place meme tweets on pictures of the Stones and Bob Dylan; celebrate Freddie Mercury’s style; and make Monkees fancams. But the Beatles fandom is still top dog, with a kind of default dominance it retains from the dawn of Beatlemania. On Tumblr, you can find gifsets of Beatles movies, fanart, and the occasional Yoko Ono stan post, side by side with more typically Tumblr-esque wackiness along the lines of Paul McCartney posts tagged “#my twink wife”, “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” memes, and toxic yaoi polls.

it made me think about how this phenomenon — the blending of modern fan practices and modern pop culture (fancams, memes, insaneposting, etc) with classic rock fandom is not new (not that allegra insinuates it is — i am speaking generally), but is something that has been around for a while, and is something i participated in quite heavily when it came to monkees fandom. whether it was

editing a music video to the tune of marina + the diamonds

making art of mike nesmith as a genderbent marina + the diamonds analog

not to mention the entirety of the who (slight flashing tw)

creating mockups of a classic rock-themed homestuck/OFF/undertale/earthbound analog:

classic rock icons using homestuck icons as a base

blending classic rock into my ~aesthetic~ blog theme sensibilities:

this video where i did nothing but put the beginning of baby got back over a scene from the first episode of the monkees and the music lined up almost frighteningly well

or creating emo notepad screenshot aesthetic posts with quotes from head (1968)....

i was very invested in engineering (or maybe just yearning for + acting out desires?) a form of classic rock fandom that was "hip" to the modern fandoms i was aware of. this was likely inspired by the fact that monkees fandom at the time skewed older.

i cannot for the life of me find these accounts or screenshots of them, but i think the ultimate expression of this was a collection of twitter accounts i made as mockups of twitter stan accounts, modeled directly off of one direction accounts at the time. complete with icons that were cut-outs of musicians overlayed onto aesthetic background, and descriptions that noted how many times the musicians had interacted with them.

importantly, i could not have sustained this if not for the close friends i had at the time that were around my age and were on my wavelength, that supported it, commiserated with me, made lots — especially on the homestuck parts. even if it was a small thing, in a small fandom, it was a communal effort

idk. its interesting to see that these dreams of mine have now come to fruition.

abrupt stop, no conclusion bc this is just a post not an essay (a comment directed at my autistic ocd self). may be interesting to some of the nouveau classic rock fandom.

[personwithatophat]

Correction Theory

i have met my quota of at least ~ 1 ~ interested party

so lets talk about the hair thing.

Correction Theory is the idea that showfall controls their cast not just in showy ways with flashing lights and wires but also in subtle ways that the actors (mostly ranboo) try to tell us about. when studying this theory and incorporating the hundreds of tiny potential cues I implore you to read this and then rewatch even the first 20 minutes of genloss TSE with this new perspective. Even if you don't believe me, its very interesting to notice. anyway I noticed this a bit ago but nearly every time that ranboo goes to do something that progresses the plot, it is followed or proceeded by him wiping his hair out of his eyes. ok? so what? its a tick it was a live show he was nervous? just stick wth me Showfall media's main goal is to have this show go smoothly, to keep the script breaks scripted and to keep the actors where they're supposed to be. due to the promotional material we know that the initial TSE live stream wasn't the first replay of the show so they've already gone through the process of things to adjust by the time were seeing it for the first time. Notably, headaches. the control items that showfall uses on the cast gives them headaches. ranboo shows us this a few times when he comments on his head hurting in TSE, as well as any time he wakes up in the show he tries to clutch his forehead. but he doesnt. its stopped halfway like he forgets that he has a headache and he instead runs his hand through his hair in replacement. now we have a base to work off. that when he touches his head its a potential headache indicator. a headache indicator that flares up specifically when showfall gives a command or correction to their protagonist. so

with this base in mind, as a sane and logical conclusion, i noted every time this happens to try and line it up with whats happening on screen. and 8/10 times it works. Corrections. small insignificant things that showfall wants to control so that the show goes smoothly but isn't worth drawing attention to it with blinking lights or plot. normally proceeded or followed by a headache indicator. - when chat chooses where ranboo should go - when ranboo looks into the camera and instantly looks away - if showfall feeds ranboo lines "I guess I better find these keys" - before or after every action during evil snag fight - when directed to/not to touch something (ep 2 detonator, ep 1 bolt cutters) these are only a few examples of when the action can align to certain commands and corrections relating to the show each correction is small enough that attention isn't drawn to it, but its also giving him a headache and its why we see him brush his hair out of his face instead of clutch his forehead. if ranboo were to act in distress or pain during the show when its uncalled for it takes away from the immersion or the script. pain isnt permitted. instead its redirected.

the theory sounds insane in shorthand but I do genuinely believe it, and you can immagine the written commands or corrections if you watch close enough. please ask me if you need clarification or more proof, I will happily provide. :) -Tophat

[hot-on-my-watch]

Final Script- BBC Sherlock S4-

The Lying Detective

For a bit of recap and a few things we might have missed I recommend this vid:

And onto the script!

As I suspected, there were FAR fewer differences between the script on the BBC website and the broadcast episode than with The Six Thatchers, which had many! I do think there may have been a later 'Amends' script for TST and the Beeb uploaded the wrong one, but hey, I'll never know.

Anyway, what follows are a few minor changes I did spot, interspersed with my favorite bits of stage direction.

Fake Faith's Hair

The 'Faith Smith' that comes to Baker Street is described as having both jet black hair and her roots grown out- it seems at some point they were considering Eurus appearing with her 'natural' hair colour here but looking as 'Faith' as if she's dyed it. I mean Eurus' looks completely too, but I've headcanoned about that elsewhere! So perhaps that was a discrepancy left from an earlier vision. That or someone had to fill in Steven Moffat on the workings of dye.

It's Mrs Hudson's Episode!

There are too many amazing lines of hers to quote here, but I also enjoy these notes.

"Sherlock Vision"

Mildly amusing.

Childhood Flashback

As with TST, they were intending to go further with this sooner. Notice also that Sherlock 'freaking out' has been condensed from two incidents to one.

Another interesting line here that I think got cut:

And...

I think my tiny attention span and poorly ME/CFS addled brain failed up pick up on the cut to the aquarium until now.

"We just carpet the wall.."

I enjoy the 'it'll be easy I promise!' vibes of the description of Sherlock blurring locations and dimensions on his return to the flat. Tumblr won't let me upload more images though.

"Once More..."

Something that surprised me about the script is that it has much of Sherlock's Henry V 'Once more unto the breach dear friends' speech delivered off-camera, showing Mrs Hudson nervously moving to investigate in the hallway and Wiggins dashing out, building for longer to the reveal of Sherlock reciting and gesticulating wildly with a gun.

One can only imagine that the decision was (correctly) made not to waste even a few seconds of Benedict Cumberbatch having the time of his theatre nerd life!

Missing Scene

We eventually get to the deleted part that sent me down my script-study rabbithole: John's failed attempt at drink driving. I too was horrified when I first read these lines, having always had the abject disgust at the very notion of drink-driving that many millenials do and that older generations often lack.

Not that I approve of John's extramarital text flirtation, of spectacularly dumping his best friend and violent attack of the same!

John really is out of control and as always, he appears somewhat normal next to Sherlock. John's quiet breakdown involves whiskey at home, chronic insomnia and just about managing to hide his hallucinations from his therapist; Sherlock's much louder one involves wild eyes, track marks, an elderly landlady in a sports car, a helicopter chase and an ambulance. But as always, while Sherlock is by far the most unpredictable and flamboyant, John is just as dangerous if not more so.

I feel that this scene was cut because it really wasn't needed, and it doesn't make massive sense for Sherlock to have been sneaking around successfully watching over John when he was meant to be "off his tits" anyway.

Smith's Mobile Phone

There's then a minor point in the script about Sherlock having deduced Smith's phone password/code and another reference to something being hidden "in plain sight". It seems that it was actually the "Serial number" on the back of the phone. I don't think we lose anything from this seeing as 'plain sight' comes up a lot and it's been long established that Sherlock can crack most passwords with ease.

Smith as a Mirror for John

I have seen Smith described as a John mirror before, particularly in the shot where they stand opposite each other across the slab. And while that shot IS compelling and lord knows their hair styles are the same, I did wonder if it was just a case of them both having the same stylist- Mary's do has the same kind of vibe about it after all. However, on this rewatch I finally got it: neither is the man with morals beyond reproach that he is often seen as, both carry darkness and at least one secret, and both have killed without remorse. The irony of Smith- clearly delighted- saying "no violence please" as John takes out all his fury on the frail, felled Sherlock is appropriately sickening.

The Stolen Scalpel

The script in the mortuary scene describes close ups on the tray of tools when Culverton Smith would've had a chance to swipe a scalpel, and him standing with his hands behind his back as if he has, giving the impression that Sherlock was reasonable to think he had done that- when in reality of course it was Sherlock who had grabbed it. In the episode Smith does stand right by the tools and technicaly could've pocketed one or something but shows his hands very demonstrably after that, making Sherlock's accusation seem to appear from nowhere. I'm not sure if this will have been cut down because of the blocking and camera stuff not quite having worked, but making Sherlock look even more unhinged doesn't hurt. If he can hallucinate Smith taking the scalpel, Smith laughing non-stop, then has he hallucinated Faith?

'The Scene'- Yes That One :-(

I was intrigued to see the stage directions for 'the scene' i.e. John's rather extreme violence against Sherlock, and indeed the script describes him as having completely lost control in a fury that's upsetting and disturbing to see.

Without any intention of trying to justify John's behaviour (though he clearly was Not Fucking Okay), I have mentally disputed the idea that John "put him in the hospital" before. Sadly I did once see a loved one take a beating at least as bad as that and the police barely even check them over, let alone have them taken to the hospital. But enough of my trauma...

In the script Nurse Cornish says that Sherlock will "probably need" the walking stick, and that has been cut from the final product- as have a lot of unimportant lines, to be fair. Though we can assume John, being a doctor, reasonably thought he might benefit from it, perhaps having cracked a rib or too.

It was only on my latest rewatch that I realised "Mary" isn't in this scene at all. And last time we saw her, she was asking if John still missed her- presumably now that's back out on a case with Sherlock. In fact since Sherlock arrived to get John, Mary's ghostly prescence has been less and less. Here in the mortuary, John's mind is completely occupied with the drama of it all, never projecting her.

I'm not sure what I think of this, especially because there can only be so many things shown at once, but back in The Empty Hearse it was Mary constantly trying to calm John and push him.to reunite with his old friend. Here hallucinated Mary encourages John to tell the truth to his therapist and sticks up for Sherlock at every turn. Is this the nadir of what John and Sherlock could become "without (her)", as Mary intimates in the "I miss you" video next episode? Sadly it seems so.

"Isn't That Right, Mary?"

On to a much more pleasant scene: drinking tea in Baker street. The script mentions here that it be blocked and shot as if John is talking to theoretical Mary instead of a hallucinated/visualised Mary that's actually there. Sherlock doesn't say "isn't that right Mary?" after "I'm Sherlock Holmes, I wear the damn hat." A nice addition I think. I'm not dure it would really have worked without John speaking to a specific Mary there and then without Sherlock deducing otherwise.

"Unless she calls."

Finally, in the following scene between Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, the gender of the PM has been changed. The script calls "him" an "idiot", where the finished episode merely implies that "she" is a nuisance of some kind. Another minor change is that Mycroft is more indecisive about taking Lady Smallwood's card-in the script he is seen nearly taking the card at least twice. Her seeming to be hitting on him threw me a little the first time as I read Mycroft as openly gay, but hey, that's just me. I hope they became besties at the very least!

If you made it this far, thankyou for tolerating my ramblings and proving to myself again that yes, the changes made from the shooting script were improvements. You're welcome Moftiss.

[tummyyummies]

Deadpool and Wolverine: The Short and Sweet Edition(Never Before Seen, Director's Cut)/Alternate Storyline

Rated PG-16 for some language, mild sensuality, funny violence and other things

+ Chapter One +

*The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and The News starts playing in the club, Wade comes in through a portal through the ceiling and screams, he lands on a table randomly and falls off it, lands in the lap of a random guy*

Wade: Oopsie, ooh you look strong!

big bouncer type guy that Wade landed on: *growls* get the fuck off me Fairy!!

*Tiny Logan notices the commotion*

Wade: Ow! You're hurting me!! let go of my arm!!

Tiny Logan: *raises his voice so everyone can hear him, especially the bouncer* hey asshole! that's enough! *jumps off the chair and goes up to Wade and the asshole bouncer* we got a problem here Bub?

big bouncer: oh are you a Fairy too Munchkin?

Logan: I sure am Bub, now take your hand off the little Princess and take your stupid ass out of here, I'm asking nicely

Bouncer: *lets go of Wade's arm, Wade smacks the guy a few times* stop fucking hitting me Fairy!!

*the asshole bouncer tries to punch Wade, Tiny Logan tackles the bouncer and puts him in a headlock, claws out*

Logan: get out or I'm calling the cops Bub

Bouncer: let go of me Munchkin!

Logan: get the fuck out of here *lets go of the bouncer and pushes him*

*the bouncer mumbles under his breath and leaves, a few people inside of the club applaud Logan for what he did, Wade slowly looks at us/into the camera*

Wade: did you guys see that? Glenn Danzig stood up for me

*Tiny Logan stares at Wade, he's been staring at him ever since Wade's been staring at us/the audience, Wade slowly moves his head to look back at Tiny Logan, they're both staring at each other for almost a minute*

Wade: hey Honey Badger, that was very Patrick Swayze of you

Tiny Logan: *laughs, crosses his arms, stares at Wade, checking him out* you like to make trouble often, Spiderman?

Wade: *giggles, boops Logan's nose* It's Deadpool Handsome

Tiny Logan: what kind of name is Deadpool Handsome?

Wade: no silly! Dead-pool, Dead-pool!!

Tiny Logan: you still look like Spiderman though

Wade: that's besides the point, anyway, Logan! I'm gonna need you to come with me

Logan: who's asking Handsome? Nick Fury put you up to this?

Wade: actually no, I just came to try out the alternate script, you know, the PG-16 script alternate movie? the one that's written and directed by my friend Jimmy?

Logan: I'm sorry Bub I'm not following

Wade: forget about it Sugar Pie Honey Bunch, it's not important right meow

Logan: did you say Meow? *mews*

Wade: *gasps* TIGER!!!

Logan: I'm a Tiger all right

Wade: Yummy

Logan: so, you need me to come with you Bub? what are we gonna do? bust into Cyberdyne Systems and try to get a hold of Skynet before it goes rogue and turns on all Humans?

Wade: *gasps* you're a nerd!!

Logan: of course I am Bub *looks at us/into the camera* aren't we all?

Wade: hey! you broke the fourth wall Tiny Logan!!

Logan: only for a minute, but for the rest of the movie I'm gonna act like I didn't just do that

Wade: ahh, I see, so what rules are we going by here in this universe?

Logan: well, for one thing, if you see a plothole, it's not a plothole, it's the just the story pulling itself together

Wade: ahh, nice, so we like, exist in the Smallville Universe?

Logan: no, it's better here, much more advanced, you know, smart and cute, none of the writing sucks, it's all good here, happy ending, healthy relationships, interesting and fun story lines, to sum it up, written by people with souls

Wade: awesome, I love those universes

Logan: same *puts his hand out to Wade* Agent Logan Howlett, I'm here on behalf of Shield, on the weekdays I'm undercover as a bouncer for this club

Wade: but today's Sunday

Logan: there's that plothole *smiles* doesn't matter, we work through it

Wade: it's Sunday and it's 6:30 in the evening

Logan: mm hmm

Wade: what day would it usually be right now?

Logan: usually Tuesday or Wednesday, I'm not in charge of these things, Nick Fury is

Wade: Nick's in charge of this timeline?

Logan: sometimes, but 90 percent of the time the writers are in charge

Wade: oh that's right, my friend Jimmy and Shawn both share equal parts of this script

Logan: *jumps onto Wade, his arms and legs wrapped around him* we should get out of here Handsome

Wade: oh shit Baby

Logan: *giggles*

Wade: I thought I always made the first move

Logan: I haven't been intimate with a guy for while, so I might be a little rusty, but I can't help but feel something, when it comes to you

Wade: it's our boners poking each other

Logan: *giggles* you make me laugh Handsome

Wade: so, uh, you wanna get out of here Sugar?

Logan: yes, we need to go see Nick Fury

Wade: why?

Logan: because I'm undercover and I need to clock out, oh and one important thing Angel Baby, just because we got a Flirting Game going on, it doesn't mean I'm easy, you want this Kitty to take it all off? I want you to work for it baby *kisses Wade's cheek* do you want what I want Handsome?

Wade: oh honey, honey, I do, I do!!

Logan: *hops off of Wade, grabs Wade's hand* I'm not into flings Bubble Head, I want the real thing

Wade: so you're like that old Pepsi commercial, "it's the real thing"? well that's just Groovy Baby

Logan: oh Behave *kisses Wade's paw*

Wade: aww! that was an Austin Powers reference

Logan: yeah I Love that movie

Wade: what about the sequels?

Logan: what sequels?

*a loud crash/explosion in the club, people screaming, the Green Goblin shows up on his glider*

Green Goblin: *cackling*

Logan: the fuck is that thing?

Wade: that's Willem Dafoe!

*Green Goblin flies around on his glider and gets shot down by a bazooka, Dolph Lundgren's Punisher shows up, Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson starts playing*

Wade: *gasps* I just came right now

Dolph Lundgren Frank: Agent Frank Castle, Nick Fury sent me

Wade: *looks at us, the audience* I'm loving this universe so far

*to be continued *

[memedical-attention]

I’ve been thinking about this for a little while — something I’d want to do if I had the time and money would be to design a Motorola 68000-powered tiny (10” or smaller) laptop. Modern CMOS 68K implementations are very power-efficient and decently well-suited to handheld and portable devices (see: TI-92 series), and if combined with a crisp, modern monochrome OLED display, could get you days of continuous usage without needing a recharge! Add a few megabytes of RAM, some peripherals (IDE/CF controller, ISA or S-100 slots, DMA controller, SPI bus, RS-232 port, SD or CF slot, PS/2 port for a mouse, text mode + hires monochrome video card, etc…), and you have a nice, flexible system that can be rarely charged, doesn’t require ventilation, and can be just thick enough to fit the widest port or slot on it.

The main issue would be software support: nearly all existing operating systems that ran on a 68K were either intended for very specific hardware (Classic Mac OS, AmigaOS) or required more than a flat 68000 (NetBSD, Linux, or any other UNIX requiring MMU paging). So, it would probably end up being a custom DOS with some multitasking and priv level capability, or perhaps CP/M-68K (but I don’t know how much software was ever written for that — also, it provides a “bare minimum” hardware abstraction of a text-mode console and disk drive). A custom DOS, with a nice, standard C library capable of running compiled software, would probably be the way to go.

The software question perhaps raises another, harder question: What would I use this for? Programming? Then I’d want a text editor, maybe vi(m) or something like that. OK. Vim just needs termcap/(n)curses or whatever to draw the text, and not much else. That’s doable! You’d just need to provide text-mode VT100 emulation and termcap/curses should “just work” without too much issue. I like writing C, so I’d need a compiler. Now, I’m assuming this simplistic operating system would be entirely written in a combination of assembly language (to talk to hardware and handle specific tasks such as switching processes and privilege management and whatnot) and C (to handle most of the logic and ABI). I could probably cross-compile GCC and be good to go, aside from handling library paths and executable formats that don’t comply with POSIX (I have no intention of making yet another UNIX-like system). Hopefully, most other command-line software (that I actually use) will follow suit without too much trouble. I don’t know how much work it is to get Python or Lua to a new platform (though NetBSD on the 68K already supports both), but Python (or Lua) support would bring a lot of flexibility to the platform. Despite me being a Python hater, I must admit it’s quite an attractive addition.

What about graphics? All the software I’ve mentioned so far is text-mode only, yet historical 68K-based systems like the Mac and Amiga had beautiful graphics! Implementing X11 would be a massive pain in the ass, considering how much it relies on UNIXy features like sockets (not to mention the memory usage), and I really don’t want Wayland to have anything to do with this. I guess I’d have to roll my own graphics stack and window manager to support a WIMP interface. I could copy Apple’s homework there: they also made a monochrome graphics interface for a M68K configured with a handful of MiB of RAM. I could probably get a simple compositing window manager (perhaps make it tiling for a modern vibe ;3). Overall, outside of very simple and custom applications, functionality with real software would be problematic. Is that a big problem? Maybe I want an underpowered notebook I can put ideas and simple scripts down on, then flesh them out more fully later on. An operating system allowing more direct access to the hardware, plus direct framebuffer access, could yield some pretty cool graphing/basic design utility.

I’d need a way to communicate with the outside world. An RS-232 UART interface, similar to the HP-48 calculator (or the TI-92’s GraphLink, only less proprietary) would help for providing a remote machine language monitor in the early stages, and a real link to a more powerful (and networked) machine later on. I think real networking would defeat the purpose of the machine — to provide a way to remove yourself from modern technology and hardware, while retaining portability, reliability, and efficiency of modern semiconductor manufacturing techniques. Giving it a CF or SD slot could provide a nice way to move files around between it and a computer, maybe providing software patches. A floppy drive would be amazing: it would provide a way to store code and text, and would be just about the right storage size for what I want to do. Unfortunately, there’s not really a good way to maintain the size of the laptop while sticking a 3.5” (or worse, 5.25”) floppy drive in the middle of it. To my knowledge, 3.5” floppy drives never got thin enough to properly fit with all the other expansion slots, socketed components, and user-modifiable parts I’d want. A completely solid-state design would likely be the best option.

Anyway, uhh… I hope this made some semblance of sense and I don’t sound insane for going on a rant about building a modern computer with a 1979 CPU.

[everrsilly]

Please please please give me your Patches headcanons I beg I wanna hear more of your thoughts ab him

HIII TYSM i have SO many i’m glad you asked :DDD the hyperfixation makes me insane. get ready for Much text

big stuff:

- first off all of his “stand still and get stabbed” persona was def a front not indicative of his actual personality and was fully based off of his bitterness towards other people. lots of lines in his purrgatory pa2 scene back this up (“cutting bad dogs into tiny pieces”, “getting rid of the toxic people in your life”, etc.) a lot of his violence seems to be just be directed at the people who hurt him which due to his jadedness extends to everyone, as olive points out (“but i didn’t hurt you!”) with patches rebutting along the lines of “that’s what they all say but i know you’re lying”. it probably also doubled as a way to keep people who he saw as a danger to himself away from him: if he appeared to pose as more of a threat, they wouldn’t dare to hurt him in the first place.

- that being said, he definitely regretted killing angel and losing him “for good”. i can imagine a LOT of internal guilt stemming from this because this was the one person who he thought would stick around. like in his head this was the one thing he could keep for himself, the one really good thing he had outside of the bullying and the home situation and the circumstances out of his control. and then he ruined it all on his own, with the very coping mechanism intended to get Bad people Out of his life, and in his attempt to un-ruin it he ruined it more. he briefly equated angel with everyone else that he felt was against him when his heart was broken, and then he killed him. he then proceeded to attempt to mask his way out of it and also mask his way out of feelings in general (critical fail!)

- i also headcanon patches as arospec, specifically greyromantic (in this case being infrequent romantic attraction). which makes things worse intentionally by making angel patches’ first and only crush and worsening the impact of the breakup lolll. he fell HARD. ive also seen greyromantic people have worries about passing a romantic partner by because that might be the last time they fall in love for a long time and in my head that also plays a role. like his thought process is “how long will it be before i get to feel this way again? too long”

- in conclusion i think also that patches has nightmares about the way things could have gone if he had killed everyone. and i also think the ghost of angel (not real, but appearing similarly to pa1) haunts him in those nightmares which leads to him not sleeping very well post canon. manifestations of inner guilt

- he’s still drawn to angel a bit and pines after the way things were for sure, and he talks with angel casually the same way they talk at the end of pa3, but he doesn’t like touching angel or angel touching him even by accident. i have angel hcs too but the way i see it is like. in the end they’ll never be romantically affiliated but they’re still drawn to each other sort of like soulmates but. not really? in my head their relationship is so interesting and so complicated, chews on them like a rubber ball

- he would oscillate a little bit in his postcanon relationship with olive as well. sort of falling between pulling away and pulling them too close? patterns he forced himself to learn vs patterns he fell into with angel. olive would reassure him because i’m certain he’s not used to someone who has seen all the worst parts of him and still refuses to leave

- i think also that patches would be a very protective person in any situation where olive (especially) was in danger. kind of flipping the killer script but he is Very intent on not losing anything else in his life. he would also do this for other people especially if olive asked him (which they would) but it comes from a very specific place with olive. and maybe angel? complicated yet again

- repairs his relationship with luna postcanon for sure. they become more like real co-leaders and patches genuinely starts helping instead of trying to undermine luna. her conversations on the topic of patches show that she wanted to see the good in him the whole time and i think that is so sweet

- i believe in unexpected friendship in brownie. i know brownie was his biggest hater but i think genuinely over time it would become sort of a back and forth series of jabs friendship and i would be here for it !!

- not directly related to patches but in my head he, angel, coco and olive bury angel’s extra removed eye from patches’ locker in angel’s empty grave in front of their house. full circle type beat, kind of as a memory of what happened. laying it to rest and turning over a new leaf

and some smaller stuff:

- i think he totally continues to pick up snakes and small animals and carry them around to scare people. especially angel since we know for a fact that angel hates snakes

- good cook or baker perhaps? this is just based off of him carrying everyone in home ec but since everyone loved his cakes i’m going with it

- absolutely abysmal at sports. cannot play sports for the life of him. and once in a while he whips out a stunning play or a home run and then he goes back to sucking at sports. i think it would be funny

- definitely makes fun of angel and brownie’s ages. oh i see the preteen- i mean the freshman has an opinion. scathing remark from the preteen right here

- i do like patches and whisk together eventually. boyfailures for sure. on whisk’s end i think it makes good drama but i also think they could vibe with each other easily. emphasis on EVENTUALLY because patches would Not want a relationship for a while post canon (nor imo would he really have the opportunity to develop another crush for awhile after canon! since. greyromantic. thats my aroness talking though i fear)

ANYWAYS this is SUCH a long answer with MANY paragraphs you really can tell he’s my favorite character but !!!! hope you enjoyed this yap session i’m frankly mental about this game :))