#a-brief-history-of-time

[jemcore]

i would sacrifice myself for you in every timeline

[sapphire-weapon]

so while it is a cool little attention to detail thing that one of leon’s idle (and sometimes running) animations in RE4make is him stretching out the shoulder where he was shot in RE2, it does add an extra layer of fucked up to his character lmao

like. that gunshot wound happened six years ago. if it’s still bothering him, that means that there’s some kind of permanent damage there -- and it’s probably nerve damage. and since it was a government doctor who patched him up in the first place, it’s not like they don’t know that that’s a thing. so the federal government is basically like “hey leon we’re going to send you into the most dangerous combat situations on the planet by yourself. hope your shoulder doesn’t lock up and/or your arm doesn't go numb at the worst possible moment and get you killed. good luck!”

and then you keep thinking about his nerve damage and remember that las plagas specifically attack the body’s nervous system and it’s like lmao oh that’s why leon’s plaga progressed so quickly, and why it was on par with ashley’s despite her having been injected with one days, if not weeks, earlier than he was -- and why he didn’t have to go through any of the additional “rituals” that she did in order for saddler to take over his shit.

it’s like the RE4make devs looked at leon and were like “so how can we make him even more pathetically miserable” and the animator who’d already decided to retroactively break his nose was like “hey i got another idea”

[mumblelard]

a dryer full of damp bedding on an overcast day

yesterday i had a handful of gummi peaches, a bowlful of tater tots, and canful of knockout punch while fallie drew a map of the temple compound with little pieces of found plastic and finn described exploring a storage flat in the foothills filled with cars too far gone to move

last night i dreamt about broken taps, a suitcase full of hidden compartments, a too small room with a too small door and a ragged hole in the corner

today i'm having coffee with someone i haven't spoken to in quite a while, rereading suttree for the first time in too long a while, and cooking hamburgers on potato rolls while listening to too much townes van zandt

and i'm performing the rituals

tomorrow is our monthly lunch with my parents, where i will pretend not to notice my dad is still angry that i contradicted him weeks and weeks ago. topics of conversation will be the salaries of professional athletes, the minutia of my estranged brother's life, and the exact route of their planned drive to the panhandle.

maybe i will ask him to stop texting me bible verses every morning at four a.m. the wall of scripture uninterrupted by context or conversation that he has decided to build between us

instead, maybe i will ask him to text me a funny joke every morning at four a.m. or just a thing that made him smile. maybe i will ask him to tell me he hopes i am well every morning at four a.m. that i have a good day. that i find nourishment in this life. maybe i will ask him to tell me, every morning at four a.m., that he loves me

[sandmoonyelse]

A brief history of Time - series IV

(June photographs of 2019-2022)

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

Returning to Paris, I had to pay. With rage in my heart and often tears in my eyes (the makeup artist Chakatouny lamented each morning my poor appearance, and couldn't make me look any better), I made one film — just one — to guarantee the freedom of a person I loved. I was ugly, terrible; everything in me refused to be. I still remember the look of my [screen] partner Raymond Rouleau (who knew Igor and the causes of my breakdown) studying me and trying in vain to give me a little encouragement!

— Edwige Feuillère reflecting on the making of Mam'zelle Bonaparte (1942) and aiding the escape of her fiancé (named here as Igor) from Nazi-occupied France

(From Les Feux de la mémoire by Edwige Feuillère, 1977. Translated by me. ♡)

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 27 & 28

Feb 27 prompts: market friend photograph Feb 28 prompts: wreck veil wind

On AO3 - 1800-ish words

'Friend', Hob has named him; has so named him for most of their acquaintance, and Dream is pleased to be thought of thus. It means companionship, shared stories, laughter and affectionate insolence, a shoulder to lean on when the weight on his own grows heavy. It means a modern temple in the waking world and a space where he is always welcome. It means someone who will meet him on equal footing, unconcerned with his function or station or what gain can be had of him, who enjoys his company for himself alone.

Still, however. There are times, growing ever more numerous, that Hob will use the word—my friend, we're friends, that's what friends do—and Dream will agree, with a faint smile, while his own mind derides him with sneering sharpness.

Liar. Liar; you are not his friend.

Because, increasingly, he has. Concerns, about his own ability to be a friend to Hob.

A friend would not seek every opportunity to touch Hob's hand, his arm, simply to know the feel of Hob's skin warm beneath his fingers. A friend would not find distraction in the shape of his mouth, the crinkling of his eyes when he laughs, the dark hair visible at the open neck of his shirt. A friend would not observe him with predatory hunger when he walks, when he stretches, when he drinks.

A friend would not. Wonder, what his kiss might taste like, nor what magnificent sight he might make unclothed. A friend would not indulge fantasies, of being tenderly disrobed in turn, held, kissed, gently handled, split upon his cock and lovingly driven to the heights of pleasure—

A friend would not entertain such thoughts again, and again, and again, of a man who has shown no inclination that he would be amenable to them.

But. Perhaps. The fidelity of continuing to wait, when the agreed-upon meeting was missed, the devotion inherent in building the New Inn, in ensuring that Dream would find him again—might these indicate some feeling greater than friendship? The bright enthusiasm with which he greets Dream, the willingness to share so much of his time, the ready comfort when Dream is vexed of some frivolous diplomacy necessitated by his function?

No; surely, such things are simply in the nature of Hob Gadling to provide to his oldest friend, who would be foolish to hope for deeper meaning.

Incessantly he dwells upon these thoughts, day after day after day by the measure of the waking world, and finds his disquietude increasing. The Dreaming, as it does, begins to betray his emotional state; at last he flees to the waking world, where the correlation of himself to his realm is slightly muted and neither his staff nor his creations can skewer him with knowing looks.

It is a grey spring morning, damp and chill with a thrill of freshness and renewal nevertheless in the air.

He has brought himself to the New Inn. Of course.

He lets himself in the back door and up the private stair, as Hob has generously allowed of him, and knocks before entering Hob's flat.

Hob is in the kitchen, phone in hand, dictating his grocery list into it as he takes stock of his cupboards. "Dream!" he greets, and his smile is a spear of sunlight lancing straight through Dream's nonexistent heart.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hob says, opening the refrigerator now and peering within. "Let me finish up my list, then we can head to the supermarket."

He does this always, adapts on an instant's notice when Dream comes to him unannounced, seamlessly integrates Dream into his plans.

Dream is entirely grateful.

It is easy, to slip into the rhythm of Hob's day, Hob's life. They walk together to the grocery store, unbothered by the mild spring wind or the overcast sky, even when it opens in a light sprinkle before they reach their destination. The shopping is accomplished with unhurried efficiency, Hob chattering on non-stop as he navigates the aisles, Dream content to listen and push the trolley. The walk back is much the same, Hob sharing stories of his students now, canvas bags swinging in either hand. Dream carries the rest, smiling faintly at Hob's animated retelling of an attempted classroom prank.

"Let me put this all away and I'll make us some lunch," Hob says when they reach home. Dream has observed enough in this kitchen that he can easily assist with both the putting away and the preparation of food. He is pleased to help despite Hob's assurance that as a guest he need not; there is peace to be had in this domestic routine, comfort in following Hob's cheerful direction.

The fare they make together is remarkably satisfying.

Hob delves into his grading after lunch, reading essays aloud, and Dream offers input and commentary that Hob gladly incorporates with his own. It is time pleasantly spent, hours passing un-noted, wrapped in the warmth of Hob's voice and Hob's function and Hob's presence.

They spend the evening in the pub, 'people-watching', to use Hob's words, a fascination he's developed over his most recent century. He guesses at people's stories as they laugh and smile and talk around him, and while Dream is not inclined to divulge every stranger's every secret in this game, he will occasionally give affirmation if Hob has guessed something correctly.

It is, again, time pleasantly spent, and Dream is loathe to let it end, no matter the duties he must attend to in the Dreaming, no matter that Hob must soon sleep.

"I know you've spent the day here already and you've got plenty to see to waiting for you in your realm, but you're welcome to come back upstairs," Hob offers, when the hour winds toward closing. "Don't want to rush you off, if you like." His head is slightly tilted, one hand absently toying with his earlobe; Dream has observed this unconscious habit in him many times, finds it inordinately charming, and just now it fills him with immeasurable fondness.

That Hob acknowledges his duties, understands that Dream must come and go, offers him the invitation to stay if he so wishes all the same; Dream is touched. Hob respects his function; Hob is nevertheless hopeful that he will yet remain. Hob appreciates time spent with him; Hob enjoys his companionship.

And Dream would not deny himself Hob's wishes, in this. "I would keep your company awhile longer, if I might."

"Of course." Hob's smile is so blindingly warm, so sincere, so pleased; Dream aches to kiss it.

A friend would not.

He follows Hob back upstairs. Hob pours them both wine; they sit; they talk. Dream gazes his fill, enamoured of the spark in Hob's eyes, the fall of his hair, his animated hands, the relaxed and easy lines of his body. These moments are a true joy, a memory that he treasures once they part, a feeling that he cradles close in the cavity of his chest until they meet again. He loves, he knows; but Hob is his friend, and Dream would not see that friendship brought to ruin by his misplaced affections.

The hour has drawn late enough to be early again, and he knows he is keeping Hob from his sleep. Reluctant as he is to go, reluctant as Hob has been to bring their evening to a close, Dream knows it is time. The wine is gone. The conversation has lulled. He stands from the sofa; Hob follows suit.

"I thank you, Hob Gadling, for sharing your day with me. It has been a pleasure."

"Likewise. I'm…I'm glad to have you. Anytime." Hob's hands are stuffed in his pockets as though to keep them contained, prevent their reaching out; he rocks up onto his toes and back, a nervous sort of fidget, endearing. Fondness swells in Dream, spills into his smile most certainly, and Hob smiles back with the same.

Except.

There is an edge of self-recrimination in it, a twist that says careful, and a tilt to his eyebrows as if resigning himself to a want he cannot fulfill. It is a mirror of the things Dream feels in himself, and suddenly, he is re-examining every assumption he has made about their friendship, like twisting a kaleidescope until an entirely new image comes into focus.

"I really enjoyed your company, today," Hob is saying, earnestly casual. "You're welcome whenever you like, you know. Course you know. My home is your home, all that."

Dream's perception shifts, a veil drawn from over his senses, and he sees.

"Your hospitality does you credit," he says, a rote response, because he cannot tear his focus from what is suddenly crystal clear and blazing before him. The dark warmth of Hob's gaze is ripe with longing. The tilt of his brow speaks of quiet hope. The softness around his eyes betrays depthless affection, fondness, love, and the bare parting of his lips begs for reciprocation.

Dream is gazing upon the story-perfect image of a man in love, pining for some hint that it may not be in vain.

"Hob," he breathes, revelation in his voice.

The quiet of the flat thickens, draws taut, waiting.

Hob swallows audibly. His eyes never leave Dream's.

Struck to the core, Dream moves forward. His feelings…need not be his alone, are not his alone. His love need not be held in check, made quiet, kept hidden. Here is Hob before him, hoping, silently asking, and all he need do—

All he need do is reply.

He lifts a hand, touches Hob's face, cradles it reverently as he tilts in.

"Dream—" Hob's voice is hushed, breathless, taut with anticipation and Dream could not hope to stop himself if he tried.

He touches his mouth to Hob's, fits them together, kisses him with careful ardor, and all the wants that clamor and shriek within him are at long last singing in the harmony of fulfillment.

Hob has clasped ahold of his wrist, is hanging on it as though he would fall if he let go, would perish if Dream removed his hand from Hob's face, and Hob is kissing him back softly, slowly, with such thorough heartfelt tenderness that Dream cannot bring himself to end it.

It is a long moment later that he finally manages, however reluctantly. He presses a final parting brush to the fullness of Hob's lower lip, draws back softly, opens eyes he does not recall closing.

He finds his resolve utterly wrecked, then, by the enraptured expression on Hob's face as he blinks out of the kiss, lips still parted, hand still clinging to Dream's at his face. His other hand lights on Dream's waist, holds, twitches as if to draw him closer, and Dream. Would gladly have them closer, as close as possible, as close as Hob would desire.

Hob draws in a shuddering breath, meets Dream's gaze, and every line and curve of his beautiful face is begging Dream to kiss him again.

Dream would like nothing better, than to kiss him again.

And so he does.

[holts-knees]

Realized I forgot to post my trip sketch page from when @swiss-army-fangirl came down in April! Little highlights of our trip < 3

[orcelito]

Guys I've been watching Buzzfeed Unsolved (as you do) and then I saw the thing on Pythian Castle in the recommendations. And I was like "Huh. That's got the same word as the sword I got yesterday."

WELL GUESS WHAT,

It's got the peace lily symbol and everything 😭😭😭😭😭

This is insane. Like I must've watched this episode before, but I have no real memory of it. Yet here I am, finding it again the direct day after I bought a sword from someone in their group hdkshfjd

Crazy coincidence

[heartbreakire]

“You Could Start A Cult” - Niall Horan / “This Is How You Lose the Time War” - Amal El-Mohtar / “A History of My Brief Body” - Belcourt / “For My Lover” - Tracy Chapman / “Wouldn’t Come Back” - Trousdale

[allofthebees]

When I was listening to Kieran's unused dialogue I noticed a lot of aggressive fighting lines and I had joked at the time about how they're so commanding and that since Kieran used to be in the army, what if he was like a drill sergeant or something high ranking at the time and it "didn't work out" bc he didn't like having to be so mean to the recruits but now I'm just like. It's no longer a joke to me I can't see it any other way lol

[thelioncourts]

+

[brain-n-body-in-disarray]

I don't understand how people could think I was normal when I spent a year making research on the life and death of stars back when I joined the astronomy club, while the other kids were making rockets with plastic bottles and I was nonplussed by their activity. Really, that's beyond me.

[lowkeyed1]

Graydon: “Have you ever?”

Kit: “With a man? No. Have you?”

Graydon: “With a man? Uh, yes, technically—oh, you meant a woman, right I—”

Kit: “What, really? Shit. It was Airk, wasn’t it?” inspired by the above exchange in slvershdws' "A Brief History of the Marriage of Kit Tanthalos and Graydon Hastur"

tags & etc below the jump

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Willow (TV 2022) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elora Danan/Graydon Hastur/Airk Tanthalos, Elora Danan/Airk Tanthalos, Elora Danan/Graydon Hastur, Graydon Hastur/Airk Tanthalos Characters: Elora Danan (Willow), Graydon Hastur, Airk Tanthalos Additional Tags: Threesome - F/M/M, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, First Time, Inspired by Fanfiction

[sandmoonyelse]

A brief history of Time (series III)

(photographs from May 2019 to 2022)

[unproduciblesmackdown]

@tinybigfoot no i love information! which is unfortunately often in conflict with "i'm not looking up shit," like might be found on wikis easily lmao, except for when i'm having an "i'm extremely looking up shit" moment. love the drama of the scene having a known time via Newspaper b/c of the accurate contemporaneous headlines rather than being able to simply read the date; didn't know about that event! and this is me just yesterday looking at bits of paper in the backdrop of one of the Introduction comic pages like ooh can i read this (no) imagine it if had Clues (don't think it would & doesn't seem to anyways)

another zany fact to remember that yeah according to those character profiles mitzi Would Have It Be Believed she's at all younger than mordecai, ft. the implication that since yeah he was born in '99 & mitzi Was born in the nineteenth century too, she's either the same age or slightly older. let's go Circa Thirty Characters....which is mostly just mitzi who'd deny as much & mordecai having a couple years to go, fingers crossed. then we leap over to people born in the '80s lol

[currentlyonstandbi]

I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.