#albeit less frequently depending on the season

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

If you already got this from someone and you just haven't answered yet pls ignore, but if no one else asked i want to add klinger+charles for the relationship bingo ask meme

ok I’m getting to this late as FUCK but PLEASE nobody ever hesitate to send me something for an ask game if I get one ask on a topic I will go YIPPEE and if I get 20 asks on the same topic I will go YIIIIIPPPPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Anyhow you're indeed the only one around here who shows outside interest in our rarepair insanity, a boon I will remember as long as I live btw. Mx. Smoking Marlene Dietrich I owe you the WORLD

TRIPLE BINGO because they are EVERYTHING. to me.

It’s funny. This is the one duo where I almost do just want to post the bingo and leave it at that. Part of me wants to tell people about this ship SO bad, to give novel-length explanations and justifications and theses. But the other part of me is like you know what. You either Get It or you don’t.

Anyways there are 10000 things to say about Them but one is: I specifically did not fill in “gay af to have a sworn rival” even though it cost me another bingo because one of the most fascinating things about the interactions between these two is that they actually do not have a mutually adversarial relationship--even though that’s what writers usually do with two characters on diametrically opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. 

I’ve been thinking about this a bit because I’ve seen people say things like, “It’s great what a funny duo they turned into when they started out hating each other, haha.” And I get why one would think like this but IMO it’s actually not the case! Charles acts more familiar with Max over time because he does that with everyone--

(Though he’s racist towards Max throughout, of course. Because Charles’ racism never goes away. You know that right. MASH fandom I am putting my hands on your shoulders and asking: You know that, right? I keep seeing people talk about Charles having a character arc and a redemption arc so I’m just. I’m just making sure.)

--but Max has actually been pretty nice to him right from the start, back when Charles’ relationship with basically every character was antagonistic. As soon as s6e13 he tells Charles how similar they are, how they should work together to try and get away from the war, how they’re “soulmates”. Even after Charles insults him, he straight up says, “I’m on your side, Major”, which I’m pretty sure remains one of the nicest things someone canonically says to Charles, ever. Just one scene, but emblematic of a greater whole, of quite a few future scenes where Max gamely engages with Charles even when it puts him in unpleasant situations.

And of course, the motivation the show usually gives, on those occasions when it thinks about Maxwell’s motivations at all, is a simple throwaway “Well Charles is paying him / giving him some other material benefit, so obviously Klinger will be his kicked dog! You all know how Middle Eastern people are! We are a groundbreakingly progressive show btw.”

But man. Fuck that shit. This is far afield of my original point but the thing is, Max’s interactions with Charles are often the most egregious exempla of every way the later seasons fucked over my girl here. It almost seems useless to try to analyze any of Max’s actions after a certain point from a Watsonian perspective, when the Doylist reading of the show being too racist and stupid to do anything coherent with him is the ultimate explanation, and sometimes the only explanation you can even come up with, because shit just makes NO fucking sense in-universe. 

But unfortunately I’m a stupid cringe ass fanfic writer/reader, and I love this character, and Max already gets so little screentime compared to the main protagonists, and I don’t want to just ignore him because of the decisions of writers who didn’t care about him.

(That’s the entire reason I started shipping this stupid thing in the first place, btw. I just wanted to read some fanfic where Max is the main character and idk if you’ve noticed but if it weren’t for AO3 user stateofintegrity and their ~problematic cringe ship~, the pickings would be pretty fucking slim.)

So I like to pretend there’s a better reason for Maxwell going from “Major Burns I hate you so fucking much I am going to kill us both with this fucking grenade” to the equivalent of a tumblr blog responding to pathetic anon hate with “are we about to have sex”. After all, if you’re going to write Maxwell yourself, get inside his head and all, then you also have to account for why he tolerates all the OTHER characters’ racism towards him in later seasons, too. 

And the messy problematic reasoning I come up with is that Max is at heart the kindest and also most emotionally intelligent character on the show, and even the liberalized version of the 1950s our story is set in is a systemically bigoted universe that is all he’s ever known and experienced, and he’s certain these are good people, really, when it matters. And being emotionally intelligent, and generally intelligent too for that fucking matter, and observant and insightful, he can tell there’s a big difference between Frank and Charles, and perhaps less of a difference, even, between Charles and Hawkeye. Maybe when you watch things from Hawkeye’s POV, the ideological and moral differences between him and Charles are huge, but maybe if you were in Max’s POV instead there wouldn’t be quite as much of a distinction between them. I don’t know! I don’t know. Just some ideas, I don’t know. 

Of course getting into fucking. internalized racism and such is pretty uncomfy and exhausting shit. And that’s not even touching all the gender stuff my girl has going on. You start to see why nobody wants to get into this character’s head much. But I do :3 And I do honestly think sometimes the most effective way to do that is to look at the Messiest Ship In All Of MASH (TM). As I’ve talked about before from the Charles angle, I love this ship precisely because of its Problems, because they’re problems that exist anyways for both characters, and having the two of them interact makes the problems impossible to ignore, so they maybe finally get to be dealt with. I mean, I just don’t think the optimal resolution to Charles and Max’s racism-laden interactions is that Charles goes back home to a big opulent house and Max struggles to save up to buy a used car in After M*A*S*H. That is not super satisfying. to me. 

This post got derailed to hell but I think what I was trying to say is that Max treats Charles SO much better than that bastard man deserves and I would at least like to see something come of it, for the love of--

[endsupes]

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 & 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒

Reaching his middle twenty's to early thirty's, William is conventionally attractive, nothing special. The most noticeable feature he has would be his size - often compared to that of a bodybuilder, though it is more appropriate to compare him to a strongman. The only real differing factor being the broadness of the chest and biceps accompanied by a solid core strength. This result being a combination of military experience and unhealthy coping mechanisms in regards to Rebecca's ‘death’ - becoming obsessive in his workout routine along with the constant working while in the CIA, lack of sleep or decent meals and frequent dehydration along with his height (6'5"). However, gradually reaching early forties, William develops a beard and penchant for smoking that leaves yellow stains between his fingers.

Facially, William has a strong set features; a strong jawline with noticeable cheekbones, his nose slightly long in length, but with small nostrils, slightly small full lips, thick deep set brows, medium pointed ears, narrow eyes, along with deep dark bags beneath his eyes and slight lines of age, and he often sports a scowl, but how intense of one varies. his skin tone is lightly tanned during the events of Season one , however takes on a more pale/grey color when under the effects of the tumorous temp V, and these effects last permanently even after his revival, the former is more common. in general, William is incredibly hairy - having most of it comprised of arm and leg hair. Obviously, facial hair is the most that stands out being that he typically sports a cropped full beard. However - generally the sicker he gets, the less he’s inclined on personal upkeep as he finds it unnecessary or has a lack of interest.

contrary to popular belief though, he’s very on-top of personal hygiene when possible but he takes little consideration into his appearance unless it is absolutely necessary - he changes clothes when needed, but otherwise his routine only consists of showering and cleaning himself, brushing his teeth, filing his nails and trimming his beard. However clean you can realistically get from using dish soap as a body wash. ( the oiled duck do it, so can he ).

after a lifetime of surviving alone, battles in pubs and constantly causing trouble, William's skin is covered in scars - most of them are worn, faded with age or simply healed, and there’s too many to count-- he’s constantly in danger and sometimes sustaining severe injuries. most are from things with edges (rocks, bricks, glass - the environmental hazards of doing what he does, he’s often falling through things, into things, against things, along with various things exploding around him), though he has several from burns and the occasional scar from weaponry/supes. his chest and torso are rife with scars - mainly due to the many stabs and cuts hes received from supes. His legs and arms being fairly unblemished since his jacket/boots takes most of the damage albeit superficially.

the most noticeable scars are as follows:

head/skull: minor cracks/tears along the nose and cheeks either from the military or bar fights.

arms: two shallow holes from handling the vaught infant and suffering minor burns from it's lazer eyes.

eyes: Bloodshot while under the effects of the tumor.

legs:  scarring on knees from repeated scrapes in trying to stop backwards momentum.

other than that, notable features of his appearance are that he tends towards cool but dark colors ( greens, greys, black, silver ).

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒

PTSD associated memories with Rebecca/partial amnesia.

Frequent night terrors/insomnia due to constantly being in danger.

anxiety/depression based on childhood trauma/idea of self inferiority.

Alcohol and tobacco dependency.

Suffers from hallucinations akin to schizophrenia.

Continuous cough that is accompanied by blood. (tumor effects)

unresolved anger issues and risky tendencies.

William suffers bouts of night terrors. Only able to manage 1-2 hours of sleep at a time, conversely, a very light sleeper able to awake at the slightest sound due to living cautiously for the vast majority of his life. along with this, he suffers hallucinations on the occasion which he has trouble differentiating from reality, leading to chronic headaches. Generally, having not been around others especially during the events of when the tumor is growing stronger and relatively self isolating as he attempts to sort out a virus to stop supes despite his waning health and moralistic dilemma concerning Ryan.

[boilerrepairliverpool51541]

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[aromantic-misguide-to-romance]

Yet another Lovestruck shutdown opinion absolutely no one asked for

So. The thing is, Lovestruck basically died and is just only decomposing now.

I don't really want to cover the whole load of crap that came to light with the strike and disillusioned the fandom about the company's practices. It's quite obvious (albeit maybe an unpopular opinion), that if you run a company with your profit depending on quality of your employees' work, it'd be reasonable to consider covering labour costs in your budget and keeping the most essential staff on board. In case of writing stories, that definitely means the creative teams. They need to be given proper conditions to create entertaining and engaging stories.

Now, to the app itself. I was already theorising about the route lenth getting shorter a while ago, which I think was actually a good move. It would allow easier route management and less cut plots in case a route doesn't perform, the LIs also don't compete with each other. And you get better PR for reviving a route for more seasons than cancelling one. Used well, it could be a relatively effective way to manipulate people into thinking that the company listens to their audience. Wasted potential, instead they made players feel ignored/milked.

Unfortunately Voltage failed to understand that a) churning out episodes every day and b) putting more paywalled scenes won't automatically make people pay.

There was a shitload of content to read with the limited resources most players had and we never knew if the paywall was hiding a mediocre scene not worth buying or a crucial bit of information about the LI's backstory, and paywalls were sometimes twice in a one episode. Keeping up with them was impossible and if you couldn't even know if the bought scene will be worth it, what's the point of paying or grinding for it?

If the grind is futile and buying how much you can afford is not enough, and the purchase might turn out underwhelming, then you just stop caring. This couldn't work. (Especially not when they then went after people who reviewed the releases because they were helping others decide if a scene is worth buying. An excellent move, Voltage. That's sarcasm, obviously.)

Another thing is what routes were getting released because it really looks like Voltage USA tried very hard to bankrupt as quickly as possible by providing exactly what people never wanted. The recent series weren't particularly exciting in comparison to quite good releases like QoT or RP.

Let's start with trying to attract a completely new audience with MLM routes. MLM routes were an investment and one that couldn't being immediate profit. No matter if we talk about fujoshi or actual MLM players, no one was going to magically detect a new gay title in a random unadvertised app. It takes time and you need to actually develop enough content for new audiences to frequent your app. As much as I quickly switched to coming back almost only to these routes, investing in a new audience is not a smart move if you don't have any safety net to cover for the initial costs. It seems that Voltage didn't and just dived head first into a huge investment without having any money to cover it.

It definitely could be covered by producing stuff for your usual players. But Voltage had zero interest in that save for milking the few popular routes, mostly WLW. Which shows another problem with maintaining players' interest. The app has neglected het routes that could bring a lot revenue. Instead many were cut short, quietly discontinued and that's not an environment where you'd invest your feelings (and money) into a love interest that might never get more seasons. It was a vicious circle of half-assing the het releases, discouraging the players and then cutting the routes short to start a new one that isn't as profitable as expected, rinse and repeat. Not to mention that recently the app didn't really have much to offer to this audience either - last LI releases weren't particularly extraordinary characters and in my opinion this part of the app was recently very lackluster and boring as if no one really had an idea what to do with and for these characters.

The decline of het routes was obviously a reason for some to celebrate because ewww het routes. Seriously, no matter what you think about it and whether you like it or not, this is a big audience that Lovestruck should have entertained with an interesting choice of characters and routes but likely pushed it away and cut their own revenue instead. Het routes were definitely not among those most successful recently.

Well, and shitty choice of projects. Who wanted remakes of old routes? I bet that no one actually demanded old series getting remakes. It was just a sign that LS simply cannot afford new content. But it could manage the existing series better. Where are routes of the characters that I saw here on Tumblr being popular?

There's also that thing that... you might actually want to keep the same ensemble of characters for most routes instead of introducing an army of randos and then shrug if you don't have any promising character to release next. Advertising the side characters by featuring them in routes could have helped and would save some money because all the basic graphic assets are already there. If you're just making new characters to place them in one route only, no bloody wonder that the the character isn't sought for.

And obviously, Lovestruck never tried to communicate with fans. Not even survey results.

Which is another problem. Running fanart showcase does not change the fact that they ran their internet business in a way that was outdated already 10 years ago. A mobile app and social media aren't just a new one-way TV broadcast. It doesn't even have to be very active and I see that Voltage USA made some clumsy attempts to liven it up, but players need to feel that the company is at least trying to listen. Just having a new episode announcement board isn't exactly enough to create an impression that you care about your fanbase. It's obvious that no company really cares, but being so obvious about not giving a single damn isn't going to sell your app. And harassing people in social media and copyright trolling isn't either. Not to mention that if employees were actually assigned to that task, Voltage literally poured money into something that couldn't bring profit. At cost of actual problems constantly brushed off, like transphobic reviews in the game itself.

TL;DR the way the app was managed sucked so much that it's impressive.

[my-mt-heart]

Title of my Caryl daydream: Bosom Buddies

Set somewhere between season 2/3

The weeks go by like a customer, frequenting their favorite restaurant, but never stopping to make conversation; always ordering the same meager meal of bread and a glass of water before leaving.

For the group, that is the best description of how the weeks have treated them. Not kindly but not unkind, either. Each night, they found some place to hunker down. Each night, they found something to share between themselves, a little food and water. Sometimes the food was stale. But the fidelity of food always being there was like the loyal customer who chose to give business to the same restaurant, over and over.

The day had gone by quietly enough, not many problems thankfully, save for the dozen stray walkers Rick, Glenn, Daryl and Maggie took turns taking down at different intervals in their seemingly aimless journey.

Their loads were lighter now with less people: Dale, Shane, Andrea, Patiricia, Jimmy, Sophia....and yet, the weight of the emptiness seemed heavier. Unbearable even, some days.

Sophia. The first of the group's casualties that set off a slew of bad events it seemed, almost as if they were being punished for not finding the little one. For believing she had truly been lost to the dead. They were right, of course, but the pessimism was worth the consequences of further affliction.

Lori was pregnant, six months probably at this point. That was Hershel's best guess. Carol examined the woman's growing belly and mentally remarked that she thought the old veterinarian turned doctor was right. She was not showing at all when they lost the farm. Had they really been on the run for that long? How could time go by so fast and yet drag all at once?

Lori was probably also the main reason they were currently looking for the best shelter they could find. Something sturdy, so that walkers couldn't invade them; secluded so that a gang like Randall's would never happen upon their walls. Something permanent so that the poor woman would stop having to move as much as she did. As much as she had to. Give birth and raise the child without grappling with the prospect of running. again.

Carol comforted Lori in those months, their friendship still intact, despite her waning marriage to the former cop, Rick Grimes. The tensions between them rode on their heels closer than the walker herd was. The awkwardness and bitterness between Rick and Lori -and Carl- was repressing at best and suffocating at all other times, depending upon how successful of a day they all had in: not being bit, scratched or devoured alive; finding food and succor; and finding warmth, for the blistering cold nights.

Carol could tell that deep down, Lori appreciated Carol's company. Having been too stricken with grief for her rocky relationship with both her husband and son kept her from expressing that to Carol, though. The older woman thought, albeit with some bite, that at least Lori still had her family. Her husband who actually did everything in his power to provide for her and keep her safe, before and after their falling out. She still had her son, alive and healthy -whatever standards of health they were going by these days. Carol, on the other hand, didn't.

So at night, while T-Dog kept watch, the Greenes and Glenn huddled for warmth, the Grimes family doing likewise, though without the fondness of each other's presence, Carol once again found herself alone. They slept upstairs, as it was warmer and safer in case the expectation of the unexpected happened. Walkers never would make a good alarm.

The best mattresses they dragged from the rooms on that floor and brought it to the master bedroom, which was spacious and had an escape route out the window. It was their best bet at survival for the less trained members of their group. There were only three good mattresses, not enough for all of them and the other others, ruined with mildew and bed bugs. Whatever family occupied this space before the turn clearly had an untidy child or adolescent youth combined with negligent parents.

Carol found the clean linens and draped them over Lori and Carl, a stern Rick from his place beside his wife, nodding warily his thanks. She checked on Hershel and Beth to see if they were comfortable and they rewarded her with smiles in the affirmative. She looked to the right of them to see Glenn and Maggie cuddled together, sleepily gazing at one another with smiles on their faces. Carol could not help but to smile at their love. They had the blessing of seeing each other before they gave rest to their eyes.

T-Dog looked at her from his place on the balcony, where he was keeping watch. The kind man offered her his own smile as she handed him hot water to help him stay awake, and warm his insides. She laid a hand on his shoulder, silently communicating her thanks to him for taking watch. He patted her hand with his large one, before turning back to look out into the night. His rifle at the ready. T-Dog was a great feature of their little group-makeshift-family. He was the right blend of kindness and capable. Capable of being whatever their group needed. Never complaining. Kindness he was not afraid to show. For that, Carol couldn't be more grateful for the humanity he gave their group.

She left him at his perch and settled down into her spot on the floor, near enough to everyone to feel their presence, but far enough to reflect how unwanted she felt. She was a burden, she thought. The least she could do was be a caretaker. She failed Sophia in that, but she could still watch over her new family, if she was careful not to make the same mistakes again.

Her body wanted to sleep, but her mind would not console her with rest. Tonight, as with the preceding nights, she was gripped by memories of her dead daughter, taken from her without even a proper goodbye. Nine months of carrying her to term, them fighting together to give birth to her, only for her to end up in the ground, on a stranger's land. The undead sauntering over her grave. Otis and Dale were her daughter's companions in rest, but still, their was something bothering her about that whole prospect. Her thoughts turned shades more dreary and Carol bit her trembling lip to hold back her cries. It must have been futile, because T-Dog looked back at her from his place on the balcony, features etched with concern. Hershel coughed, maybe to give Carol some indication that the rest of the group could hear her. Rick stirred slightly at Carol's sobs.

She was sorry. Really, she was. Her lips made a poor lid for the emotions of grief and sorrow boiling up within her. As she thought those feelings would surely overcome her, she felt something behind her, teasing her with overwhelming warmth. Almost like a Siren, but without the deceit of it being something unreal.

"Hey." The gruff voice resounded behind her, and her spine shivered to life. Though he only said one word, the voice carried the command of Carol turning around. So she did. In the dark, she could see his face. Which meant he could see her tear-stained one even better.

"The hell you doin'?" Came the voice again. Although the words seemed insensitive, the tone was full of moderated concern to Carol's trained ear.

She wiped in vain at her tears, for they just kept coming. She whispered forlornly, "I don't know." His eyes narrowed at that response. How could you not know why you were crying? Carol did know. But she didn't trust herself to explain it without there being some misunderstanding. Daryl was no fool. He understood what people meant with very little words. He understood her better than she had seen anyone understand another. But words were scarce like food, these days and conversations a luxury of the old world. She didn't want to break growing bond in trying to say something that he would take as an insult. Concerning Sophia, Daryl's low self-esteem was easily visible to her.

Daryl's eyes flicked around the room to their group mates, teetering between sleep and awake, depending upon the volume of Carol's sobs.

He huffed in annoyance. Carol looked on in confusion when he lifted his arm, and kept it suspended in mid-air. It looked so peculiar that it got Carol to stop her sobs a moment. She shifted her eyes between him and his raised arm, almost as though she were waiting for a trick to happen -pulling a rabbit out of a hat sort of thing.

Only that didn't happen. Daryl's expression grew a degree more impatient.

"Come on, I ain't got all night." He hissed at her. If his tone was any indication, she guessed he wanted her to do something....but what? It seemed like minutes went by and she still stayed, watching for the punchline.

Only that hadn't happened, either. Rolling his eyes and blowing out a sigh that was full of attitude, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, closing that small distance between them that felt more like a gulf.

Carol gasped, flabbergasted. He rested with one arm bent underneath his head for support, the other relaxed back at his side after he brought Carol over to him. In his bosom, Carol felt like she entered into a different world full of...'okay-ness'. As strange as it sounded, it contrasted with her current mental state enough for her to resume her former sobs. Daryl whispered low, not looking down at her: "Stop cryin' where everyone can see." It did not sound like a threat...more like advice, wrapped in that rough voice of his Carol found soothing.

"Sorry." Came her tearful reply. She really was trying not to cry. But tonight, lack of sleep and grief over her dead produced tears like a chemical reaction. Daryl sighed.

"Not ev'ryone needs to see. Hear." Daryl. Carol smiled into his woodsy-smelling shirt. His kindness was a marvel. Was he offering her a place to shield herself while she cried so no one else had to look or hear? Yes. Yes, he was.

She wanted to thank him. Tell him something good about himself that he seemed blind to. But she knew praise discomfited him the way claustrophobia did for her. Instead, she nestled into him a bit more, noting his slight flinch and rigidness at her growing closeness to his body.

Only her forehead touched his chest, right over his heart. The beat there was powerful enough to send waves of comfort to Carol, loosening the stress in her head. Her incoming headache was gradually retreating.

Her hands curled at her chest. Even though they had no mattress, Carol felt the most comforted in the room by this man, whom it seemed none had spared a second glance all his life. Not until now. Carol was glad Daryl was surrounded by people who did give him more than a glance. These people relied on him. By day, he was a provider and fighter. By night, a therapist, it seemed, to Carol. He was right when he yelled at her not being his problem. And yet...

"I wish you were a teddy bear," came Carol, a vocal fragrance of sadness and amusement. "I'd never sleep without you." She snorted a small giggle when she heard Daryl warning her -not unfriendly- to "Stop."

When the silence stretched on for an hour, and she was sure the rest of their group had fallen back asleep, she mustered up the courage to ask something that made her eyes well back up with tears. She didn't call Daryl's name first, as was the custom. She could feel he was still awake.

"Do you think my little girl is safe?" Daryl stiffened and Carol felt it. "No...no one can hurt my baby, right?"

When Daryl risked a look down, Carol was all eyes and trembling lips at him. One wrong sentiment could break the damn that held back her tears. He was frustrated. What the hell did that question even mean? Walkers couldn't get to her. She wasn't among the living anymore. The bullet Rick administered to her head and her grave they all were witness to was proof of her death. Some sort of deranged Fundamentalist belief Carol was spouting? He wasn't here for it.

"What?" He spat. His tone told them both that whatever Carol's next words, they better have carried with them an explanation.

Carol seemed afraid. Not of him, Daryl noted with cognitive relief, but of maybe voicing what she thought. Any other time he might have been tempted to tell the woman next to him he was going to sleep and leave her with her thoughts, whether she got an answer or not. But Sophia was involved. That cryptically formed question was going to get an answer. Carol huffed, her tears falling.

"My husband is dead." She started. "And my Sophia is, too. He...he can't hurt her, can he? Wherever they are, now. He can't...he can't..." That did it. Well, that and Daryl's subtle but clear look of understanding what she meant sent Carol over the edge in sobs. Tears jumping to their death from her eyes, Carol involuntarily jerked her head into Daryl's chest. There was an ache there and a knot that Daryl knew didn't come from Carol's head thrust into him.

Was that why she had been crying earlier when he found her? What a terrible thought to torture someone with. Carol somehow continued, even though he didn't need for her to.

"He was looking at his own daughter in that way...and I was always there to protect her. But now, I-I...I can't reach her. What if he-" Daryl's insides shriveled in disgust.

"Stop." He halted her. "Damn. Just stop, a'right?" He needed a moment to collect himself. This was too much. He had never even thought of the things currently wracking Carol's head. Guess it was true. A mother never stopped worrying for their children.

Carol was silent at his command, but shaking visibly from her tears and sobs. The night seemed to be still and the silence seemed loud, refusing to move forward until this was settled. Daryl for one never counted himself as one tactful enough to comfort a grieving person, let alone a grieving mother. His experiences were too different. So much for his 'peaceful, uneventful night' Glenn gleefully told them all they would be having earlier that evening. What a load of hogwash. Last time he would let himself listen to that kid. Short round was probably just speaking for himself and the farmer's daughter.

Carol's hiccups made his heart do some weird things he didn't even want to get into. Her damn question disturbed him enough already. Wasn't faith her thing? Why couldn't her religion give her any solace?

"Can't say I know much about the plans of the man upstairs," Daryl began, contemplatively, "But I think he's got it arranged where no one can bother anyone in the afterlife." God wouldn't let incest go on in whatever realm Sophia and that dead bastard were in. He couldn't prove it. But passing from death to misery seemed like a bad joke even the long-suffering God would not approve of. He noticed Carol's breathing hitched with the hope of that possibility. With a light rift to his voice, as close to humor as he could get while still being serious, "If so, I'm sure ole Shane would beat the snot outta him there, too." Carol's head snapped up at that. Her daughter having a protector, even a Shane, would do. As convoluted as the man had become leading to his death, Carol was sure Shane would never condone Ed's wicked pursuits. Slowly, Carol felt the ball of pent up sorrow and anxiety in the pit of her stomach dissolving. Daryl's encouragement continued. "Him and Dale? They'd make sure your little girl would be safe." Carol knew the two men's relationship waxed into more dislike while they lived. But, surprisingly? It gave her great comfort knowing that Shane and Dale would put aside their differences and team up to protect her baby.

The realization of these things reached a crescendo in her and her tears came again. But this time, in happy waves. She visibly let out an exhale of relief. "Thank God." She uttered repeatedly, as though in prayer or meditation "Thank God."

How long had that thought visited her? Daryl didn't know. But he hoped it never haunted the woman next to him, again.

Carol opened her eyes again, finding him looking down at her. There was something both feral and domesticated about that look of his. Neither feature outdid the other just then. But in both, she could glimpse on who this man next to her really and truly was. And maybe she was the only one who had ever known?

"Thank you, Daryl." She smiled, the last of her tears drying up. "I believe you. I believe my baby will finally be safe." She couldn't be safe with Carol, she thought sadly. But those were tears for another night.

It was her choosing to trust him that made him nervous. He had no leadership credentials. No accolades of his greatness that proved why people should follow and trust him. In fact, he was a guy most people didn't trust for one reason or another. Yet Carol trusting him with her look and eyes was reminiscent of an abandoned baby accepting the coos of a homeless stranger from nowhere. Why did she trust him that easily when he couldn't himself?

"Hmph. Jus' go to sleep. 'Nother long day tomorrow and I ain't hauling your tired ass around."

"Mmm," she agreed, resettling herself for sleep, that large knot, now gone. But there was still one more thing Carol wished she could have given her daughter.

After some minutes, Carol tried timidly, "Daryl?" A slight shift was the only response she got but it was his way of telling her he was awake, still.

"If..." She would ask. For her baby, she would. She donned her voice with bravery like an article of clothing. What did she fear, rejection? How frivolous that seemed. She had worse given to her.

"If things had been different, and Sophia was still here..." she trailed but not long. Daryl's breathing rhythm changed. He was definitely awake. And he was definitely listening. "Would you...would you have been her father?"

It felt like the world broke at that moment, cracked like a mirror. What a loaded request. The responsibility of looking after a child was weighty as it was. But what had surprised him most was Carol saying to him "would you" rather than "could you". She thought someone like him had the wherewithal of being a kid's dad. Or at the very least a guardian. This shook Daryl to the center of his being. Was this lady blind of something? Couldn't she see him and know he was no good? He could deduce from the way she asked the question, she never asked anyone else. Not Rick. T-Dog, Hershel. Hell, even Glenn, if only for the fact that he seemed more the fabric for that material Carol was asking.

He didn't know what was wrong with him. That his fingers at his side were twitching with something akin to excitement. His heart sped up to match that confounded twitching. Was he sweating, too? Good Lord.

He knew Carol would wait him out for an answer. Unlike others, she didn't take his silence for anything other than brooding. She was good like that. He knew, also, that she was looking at him. However, he couldn't look back. He felt too vulnerable. So much of him wanted to bolt out the door and into the night and take his chances with the dead, Rick's orders be damned.

But he stayed. Maybe that meant something.

He offered her a stiff, cagey nod. Mainly because if he didn't, he felt his head would bob forever. He wasn't sure Merle would let him call himself a Dixon after that. Without a surname, who could he be a father to?

"Ah!" Came Carol's elated response. Now fresh tears fell, washing away the sad ones that streaked her face minutes before. Her fingers cupped her mouth in delight. Why the hell did that make her so happy?

Now her baby had a father. A real father. One who would have cared for her, physically and emotionally as best they could. No matter what he thought, Carol knew that Daryl surpassed all other candidates. Somehow in Daryl, Carol was able to secure her daughter's future and preserve her memory better than she thought she had in life. And Daryl was the precursor to them both.

"Ain't answering no more nothing for the night." He said, only half serious in his delivery. "Go t' sleep already, or I'm leavin'."

They both knew that was an empty threat and untrue. Despite his comment, Daryl made no motion to close his eyes for sleep. They peered straight ahead into the darkness of the room. Carol looked up at him with admiration for him coating her eyes. By saying 'yes' in his own way to her question/request, Carol knew that Daryl accepted not only her precious Sophia. But her, a battered woman with nothing. Her heart understandably swirled with emotion.

Gingerly, Carol craned her neck up and rested her lips at the groove between Daryl's lower lip and chin. He jerked slightly, as though cold water was thrown on him. His breath caught in his throat. But he dared not move. Carol closed her eyes and let her lips press there, leaving a token of her appreciation for him on that designated spot.

She lingered a moment more before removing her lips from him with an audible smack that Daryl hoped no one else heard. It sounded like a goddamn echo of the obvious action that just transpired.

"Stop fidgetin'" he huffed with annoyance, nestling his cheek onto his arm more. Carol smiled, warmth in her face and in her heart.

"Okay." She agreed to his crabby voice, spitting out that demand with his southern drawl that became more pronounced when he got flustered. "I'm just happy." He uncoiled her heartache and gave her respite from her frightening thoughts. And he was laying next to her, offering his steady warmth.

"Gonna be by yourself, too, if you don't quit your yackin'," Daryl replied, equally irritated with the attention and affection she had just given him. Somehow it had offset the negligence and antipathy he'd been given for most of his sorry life. And he just wasn't ready for it, let alone know what to do with it. He knew the succor he treated Carol with he needed, too. But that didn't mean she could fluster him like a chicken with its feathers ruffled. "See how happy you'll be with your ass half frozen off." He whispered. If he meant it to sound threatening, Carol's giggles didn't register it as such. Daryl frowned. "What?"

Carol paused in her giggling to tell him: "I could face the other way, so my bum gets all this wonderful heat by you instead." She giggled and raised her brows, "Since you're so concerned about my ass."

"Stop." He warned deadpan, ducking his head a little further into his arm. His tone conveyed to her that he meant it.

"One more thing?" She said, sobering up. She wasn't surprised when Daryl let out an exasperated sigh.

"Oh my God lady, you ever stop talkin'?" She didn't answer him. Rather, she pulled herself up from his chest to his, leaving a modest amount of space between their faces for both their sakes. Even with the distance, Daryl's eyes still opened wide at her like he was looking at something from another planet . "Is this okay?" Carol asked. "I wanted to be here with you, not down there." She gestured a little with her head to where she had been at his chest. Now feeling better, she wanted to be his peer in the night. Not a burden he was shielding from the group, putting himself out there by doing so.

Daryl was practically stunned into silence. He could see her whole face, which meant...she could probably see his too. He looked almost shy now, like a child wearing a 'dunce' hat too big for his head. His eyes flickered her face nervously, before looking down finally. His low baritone voice softened a mite.

"Do what you want." He said, full of resignation and uncertainty. Carol's smile, which he sensed rather than saw, let him know she understood.

"Goodnight. Bosom buddy." Daryl didn't respond, if she had been teasing. Deep down, he knew she wasn't. After all, laying heart to heart, weren't they?

Carol's nightly cries ceased after that.

That was my daydream. Let me know if you don't want me to share more. I am always thinking of these two. :)

Hope you don’t mind, but I’m adopting your daydream as my headcanon. This definitely happened before they found the prison. You captured their voices and emotions beautifully. I love it when a writer manages to make my heart physically ache, and boy, was I in pain when Carol asked Daryl to be her dead daughter’s father. Damn. 

Always feel free to share more!

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𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ,     𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ,     𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜   𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜     ( 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝟷𝟺𝟹 )          ❝     how   far   do   you   think   it   is ?     ❞     asked   thorin ,     for   by   now   they   knew   bilbo   had   the   sharpest   eyes   among   them .      ❝      not   at   all   far .     i   shouldn’t   think   above   twelve   yards ,     ❞     said   bilbo .      ❝      twelve   yards !     ❞     exclaimed   thorin .     ❝     i   should   have   thought   it   was   thirty   at   least ,     but   my   eyes   don’t   see   as   they   used   a   hundred   years   ago .     ❞

𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ,     𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ,     𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜   𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜     ( 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝟷𝟺𝟹 )          ❝     [ . . . ]     but   fíli   is   the   youngest   and   still   has   the   best   sight ,     ❞     said   thorin .     ❝     come   here ,     fíli ,     and   see   if   you    can   see   the   boat   mister   baggins   is   talking   about .     ❞

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚊𝚗   𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 )          [ . . . ]     a   young   dwarf   prince   facing   down   the   pale   orc .     his   armor   rent ,     wielding   nothing   but   an   oaken   branch   as   a   shield .     blow   after   blow   the   orc   delivered   upon   this   branch ,     ‘til   one   such   powerful   swing   drove   it   back   into   the   prince’s   head ,     sending   him   down   to   the   ground    . . .

dwarrows ,   with   their   preference   to   remain   underground   in   the   darkness¹   of   their   mountains   where ,     in   such   subterranean   conditions ,     little   light   reaches   the   eye ,     are   more   short - sighted   than   any   other   race   in   middle   earth .     whereas   elves   can   look   across   great   distances ,     dwarrows   can   see   very   fine   details   when   anything   is   brought   close   to   their   eyes ,     an   ability   that   lends   itself   to   the   unmatched   workmanship   that   they   are   able   to   achieve   with   their   craft .     the   short - sightedness   of   dwarrows   does   not   hinder   them   much² ,     and   while   it   becomes   less   easy   to   see   far   away   with   age ,     they   are   otherwise   unaffected   and   unaware   of   any   difficulties .     their   architecture   and   ornamentation ,     comprised   of   straight   lines ,     large ,     prominent   statues ,     stamped   patterns ,     deeply   embedded   runes ,     and   embossed   beads   are   aspects   that   reflect   this   small   lacking   in   their   sight   and   ensure   that   the   dwarrows   do   not   need   perfect   vision   to   navigate   through   their   realm     ( flat   decorations   are   rarely   seen ,     if   made   at   all )     nor   would   they   need   eyesight   by   itself   to   be   able   to   relate   to   their   adornments   that   are   as   physically   representative     ( able   to   be   perceived   through   contact )     ( i.e.   the   rune - stone   received   by   kíli   from   dís   is   meant   to   be   felt   as   much   as   to   be   looked   at )     as   they   are   visually³ .

rare   is   it   that   a   blow   comes   down   hard   enough   to   cause   a   dwarf   any   lasting   harm ,     but   when   fighting   azog   the   defile   during   the   battle   of   azanulbizar     ( 2799   of   the   third   age )     before   the   gates   of   khazad - dûm     ( moria )     ,     a   swing   of   azog’s   spiked   mace   causes   the   oaken   branch   that   thorin   wielded   to   strike   backwards   into   his   head .     he   falls   to   the   ground ,     having   received   a   severe   enough   hit   to   permanently   deteriorate   his   eyesight   further   than   what   is   common   for   a   dwarf .     his   sword   cutting   off   azog’s   arm   instead   of   his   head   is   a   result   of   this ,     because   he   could   no   longer   see   clearly   enough   to   translate   the   abruptly   indistinct   appearance   of   his   foe ,     nor   was   he   able   to   see   azog   carried   into   khazad - dûm     alive .

the   initial   adaptation   was   difficult   the   more   it   deteriorated ,     but   additional   practice   and   training ,     along   with   heightened   hearing     ( he   has   become   particularly   adept   at   hearing   and   recognizing   sounds   and   when   certain   people   are   speaking )     ,     has   him   able   to   participate   in   battle   with   as   much   skill   as   any   other   warrior     ( instead   of   direct   assaults ,     thorin   tends   to   twirl   with   his   weapon   or   use  broad   upward   strokes   as   a   means   to   make   sure   that   he   strikes   his   enemy   and   does   not   fall   short   because   he   could   not   strike   as   precisely )      ( i.e.   this   form   can   be   seen   most   notably   during   the   escape   from   the   goblin   tunnels )⁴     .     his   eyesight   is   not   so   far   gone   that   he   cannot   recognize   shapes   and   surroundings ,     albeit   distorted   or   faint   depending   on   the   distance   between   him   and   what   he   is   looking   at .     around   one   meter     ( sometimes   a   little   farther ,     sometimes   less )     is   as   far   as   he   can   see   without   having   any   problems ,     but   this   depends   on   how   well - rested   he   is ,     and   the   distance   is   oftentimes   less   than   that .     thorin   can   see   up   close   as   crystal - clearly   as   his   fellow   dwarrows .     seasons   passed ,     and   he   adjusted   to   being   able   to   take   in   less   than   others ,     not   thinking   much   on   it   save   for   when   journeying   required   someone   with   sharper   eyes   than   his     ( the   distortion   is   not   so   great   that   he   cannot   commonly   make   these   journeys   by   himself ,     which   he   usually   does )     .     his   instincts   serve   him   well   and   make   up   for   what   he   lacks   in   his   eyesight .     save   for   a   few   strange   instances   that   may   cause   the   dwarrows   that   do   not   know   of   his   disability   to   scratch   their   heads⁵ ,     balin ,     dwalin ,     dís ,     fíli ,     and   kíli   are   aware   and   do   their   best   to   support   him   without   tramping   upon   his   position   as   leader .

amidst   the   mourning   for   the   losses   sustained   during   the   battle   of   azanulbizar ,     which   claimed   the   lives   of   thrór ,     thorin’s   grandfather ,     frerin ,     thorin’s   younger   brother ,     and   resulted   in   the   disappearance   of   thráin ,     thorin’s   father ,     his   eyesight   was   not   forefront   on   his   mind ,     and   was   not   so   for   awhile .     indeed ,     it   took   nearly   a   year   before   he   realized   the   change ,     though   others   around   him ,     namely   his   training   partner ,     dwalin ,     and   vili ,     fíli   and   kíli’s   father ,     noticed   earlier ,     and   kept   a   close   guard   around   thorin .     he   moved   on   without   taking   a   moment   to   grieve   his eyesight ,     working   himself   nearly   to   the   end   of   his   fortitude   to   regain   the   skills   that   had   left   him   in   the   wake   of   this   impairment .     he   neither   cursed   it ,     nor   cared   so   little   about   it   that   it   did   not   make   him   brood ,     nearer   and   nearer   to   thinking   himself   so   much   lesser   than   his   forefathers .     it   was   a   weight   set   atop   so   many   others ,     another   strain   upon   the   dimming   of   his   mind’s   wellbeing ,     but   one   that   he   had   no   choice   but   to   bear ,     even   if   it   snuffed   him   out .

thorin   fumbles   now   and   then ,     frequently   enduring   humbling   mishaps   and   pushing   on   regardless   without   letting   himself   or   the   other   dwarrows   take   much   notice .     he   is   determined   to   still   perform   his   role   to   the   greatest   of   his   abilities ,     and   does   not   slow   simply   because   he   cannot   see   the   path   as   clearly .     he   knows   it   is   there ,     and   that   is   enough .     he   will   make   it   enough .     he   carries   spectacles   in   one   of   his   packs ,     but   only   wears   them   privately .

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒   𝐀𝐑𝐄   𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐃   𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚊𝚗   𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍   𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 )          ONE     he   arrived   late   to   bag   end   because   he   could   not   see   the   mark   that   gandalf   had   left   upon   bilbo   baggins’   door ,     which   resulted   in   him   becoming   rather   off - track .     he   walked   up   and   down   bagshot   row   twice   before ,     on   the   third   attempt ,     he   drew   close   enough   to   see   the   mark .          TWO     instructing   balin   to   lead   the   way   when   they   journeyed   out   of   rivendell   was   partly   because   balin   knew   it ,     and   partly   because   it   was   unfamiliar   enough   that   thorin   did   not   trust   himself   to   lead   the   company   with   his   impairment   and   the   steep   fall   on   one   side⁶ .          THREE     in   the   misty   mountains ,     during   the   battle   of   the   stone   giants ,     thorin’s   eyesight   was   shortened   considerably   with   the   heavy   rain - fall ,     and   he   could   not   see   whether   it   was   fíli   or   kíli   beside   him   when   they   were   separated   from   half   of   the   company .     as   indicated   by   the   film’s   subtitles ,     he   does   accidentally   call   for   kíli ,     mistaking   fíli   for   his   brother .          FOUR     thorin   does   not   realize   that   bilbo   is   not   with   him   when   they   make   it   out   of   the   goblin   tunnels   because   he   simply   could   not   see   well   enough   to   notice   he   was   not   there     ( one   of   two   such   accidental   occurrences ,     and   not   because   he   disvalued   bilbo’s   safety )     .          FIVE     it   cannot   be .     thorin   says   this   in   the   tree   because ,     until   azog   the   defiler   speaks ,     he   cannot   see   that   far   away   to   ascertain   whether   or   not   it   was   truly   him   and   not   a   different   orc .          SIX     azog   the   defiler’s   warg   bringing   thorin   to   the   ground   may   look   like   bad   form   on   thorin’s   part ,     but   when   the   warg   leapt   in   the   air ,     thorin   could   no   longer   tell   for   sure   how   close   it   was   in   front   of   him ,     and   by   the   time   it   was   close   enough   for   him   to   see   it ,     it   was   too   late ,     and   he   had   charged   too near .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢          ONE     the   ending   scene   with   thorin   looking   out   at   erebor   in   the   distance .     he   could   see   enough   to   know   the   shape   of   it   against   the   sky ,     though   tragically   not   as   much   as   the   others   in   the   company .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗   𝚘𝚏   𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚞𝚐 )          ONE     the   hardness   of   the   stone   path   in   mirkwood   aided   thorin   in   being   able   to   lead   the   company   for   most   of   the   way ,     but ,     as   seen   in   the   film ,     there   are   several   instances   that   dwalin   has   to   find   the   path   for   him   if   it   was   coated   with   enough   greenery .          TWO     the   longer   he   remained   in   mirkwood ,     the   more   his   eyesight   slacked   under   its   enchantment ,     til   nearly   all   of   his   surroundings   were   a   blur ,     and   his   abrupt   command   for   the   company   to   follow   him   and   stray   from   the   path   was   because   he   could   not   see   and   felt   cornered   into   an   unwise   and   impulsive   action .          THREE     thorin   does   not   realize   bilbo   is   missing   when   battling   the   spiders   because   he   still   could   not   see   well   enough     ( the   second   occurrence ,     still   as   much   an   accident   as   the   first ,     and   still   not   because   he   disvalued   bilbo’s   safety )     .          FOUR     his   boot   stepping   on   the   cord   tied   to   the   key   before   it   fell   down   the   mountainside   was   completely   unintentional ,     which   is   why   he   gives   bilbo   the   look   he   does   before  he   stoops   to   pick   it   up .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢          ONE     the   white   stag .     archery   is   thorin’s   least   mastered   skill   because   of   his   eyesight ,     but   that   does   not   mean   that   he   does   not   attempt   it   every   now   and   then ,     saving   it   for   when   he   is   certain   he   would   not   accidentally   strike   others .     what   he   sees   may   be   distorted ,     but   having   grown   accustomed   to   it ,     he   is   better   at   discerning    blurry   shapes   and   concluding   where   their   edges   are .          TWO     the   incident   with   the   barrels   had   him   relying   quite   a   lot   on   his   instincts ,     but   was   also   attributed   to   the   culmination   of   his   tireless   training   to   ensure   that   others ,     including   himself ,     would   not   die   because   of   his   eyesight .          THREE     running   from   smaug   in   erebor   and   the   several   rather   treacherous   leaps .     most   of   his   confidant   running   around   can   be   attributed   to   stone   sense     ( explained   in   summary   in   the   footnotes )     ,     and   the   several   leaps   he   makes   were   ones   of   faith   rather   than   knowing   for   certain   something   was   there   to   grab .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎   𝚘𝚏   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎   𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜 )            ONE     he   could   not   see   and   be   sure   that   bard   held   the   arkenstone   until   kíli’s   exclamation ,     when   thorin’s   face   darkens   with   realization   and   his   suspicions   of   the   glowing   colors   that   he   could   distinguish   are   validated .          TWO     the   tragedy   is   that   he   could   not   see   fíli’s   final   moments ,     not   truly .     azog   and   fíli   were   at   such   a   distance   that   while   he   knew   who   was   standing   there   and   what   was   happening ,     the   details ,     such   as   the   last   emotions   on   his   nephew’s   face   before   he   perished ,     were   lost   to   him .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢          ONE     throwing   the   ruby .      it   was   mostly   the   assumption   that   the   shapes   of   either   fíli   or   kíli   would   catch   it   if   he   aimed   it   enough   in   their   direction .     he   has   remarkable   aim   that   he   worked   diligently   on   throughout   the   decades .          TWO     the   warning   shot   let   loose   at   thranduil .     a   miss .     he   had   been   aiming   to   wound   thranduil’s   ride   with   gold - sick   intent .

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 .

¹     dwarrows   can   see   incredibly   well   in   darkness ,     and   despite   his   short - sightedness ,     this   includes   thorin .

²     this   is   because   of   stone - sense ,     something   that   all   dwarrows   have .     stone   sense ,     in   a   summarized   definition ,     is   the   dwarven   ability   to   be   able   to   sense   the   stone   around   them ,     noting   where   it   is   safe   and   where   it   is   not ,     and   using   it   to   make   their   way   through   mountains   both   in   general   and   with   mining .     thorin’s   short - sightedness   is   completely   unnoticeable   to   anyone   watching   him   in   the   mountain   because   of   how   his   stone - sense   guides   him ,     resonating   a   little   more   loudly   than   most   due   to   his   disability .

³     information   was   drawn   in   part   from   this   post .

⁴     in   regards   to   archery ,     thorin   learned   how   to   use   a   bow   during   his   erebor   years   before   his   injury ,     and   while   he   can   only   use   it   to   a   certain   extent   depending   on   the   situation ,     he   is   still   capable   of   shooting   from   one .     that   is   not   to   say   he   is   very   good   at   it ,     however .

⁵     thorin   is   practiced   at   hiding   it ,     and   while   your   character   and   others   may   figure   it   out   eventually ,     it   is   not   outright   apparent   that   he   is   so   very   short - sighted .     your   character   and   others   would   most   likely   not   catch   on   til   they   are   explained   to   by   thorin ,     or   are   in   a   situation   that   reveals   it   because   he   made   a   blunder .     he   will   mostly   ignore   the   question   when   asked .

⁶     this   is   not   to   say   that   he   does   not   lead   the   company   over   treacherous   paths ,     which   he   does ,     only   that   he   merely   hands   over   his   position   in   the   front   when   he   thinks   it   is   necessary     ( and   he   is   not   always   right   about   when   it   is   not )     .

[we-live-in-a--society]

Actiones secundum fidei

Love.

Once described as an act of deceiving, both the subject and its milieu, meant to be perceived as mysterious and romantic, and yet failing in that matter as for an offensively prosaic mechanism – concealing

Veracity,

Evident in the lacking ingenuity.

Much less than one is forced to consider after years of listening to chivalrous tales, sappy stories that shapes the social consciousness, leading one down the path of spiritual famine, down the path of everlasting disappointments that comes with defining oneself through the prism of romance.

Years required to wonder why the essence of life is brewed from failures, soaking up the vitality akin to some grotesque sponge, casted aside in face of pilling suppositions, acquiring a form of some make-believe creation, not to mention downright

Worthless.

All for the delight of crowd – inclination of inanity, complete downfall of logical approach, nourishment for idealistic beliefs.

Yearning that defines their existence.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who divided year into a quartette of seasons, subsequent in a continuous cycle – birth, bloom, ataraxia, and anesthesia – over and over, frequently associated with life, where each is bound to resemble another stage. Parallel? No, considering the former is ceaseless, eternal, while the latter – dainty, delicate, threatened to be crushed by the maladroit fingers, and so sent away with a one-way ticket clutched in its helpless hand.

There is something beautiful about fleetingness, the fact that each existence is approaching the inevitable end, day by day, hours upon hours of constant exploration – potentials that beg to be discovered, along with the range of possibilities and ephemeral images. In other words – the definition of summer, vacation before the freshman year of college, still idealized and so coexisting in twain of realms, drowning in the transitional serenity granted by the Mediterranean villa along with its elderly owner – both guarantees of two-months peace, preparation for the long, and approximately bumpy, way ahead. As for an ultimate stress reliever, designed to mitigate all discomfort – a matter of deception, phantom delusions that define her existence, built upon idealistic visions of both parents – a plan crafter for years ahead.

Named after the Lady with the Lamp, she was expected to evolve as the most sublime creature, world’s caretaker acquiring a form of a doctor or some other lawyer, evoking the need of youthful rebellion, first and presumably last attempt, although she would like to believe elsewise. It has been a fairly simple act, an act of poor ambitions and ever poorer potentiality, a meek gone mutinous – such an obsolete behavior, a reason to be derided.

Simply because her rebellion is a history of art course. Not medicine, not law but a subject from the bygone era, at least according to her father’s words, a subject of little importance in shaping up today’s world, a subject she could study on her own at any given time, in any given place. An assumption that even if logical, omits one distinctive aspect – stasis that bestows one with an opportunity to ponder upon which life path to choose, and furthermore explore the newfound possibility in hopes it might lead to a positive denouement after all – an action downright irrational if valued by the stern man, which is considered less than unimportant in the alternative dimension that is her aunt’s villa.

Downright wonderful.

Nevertheless, there is some eternal truth to it – ‘nothing lasts forever’, as some may put it, a maxim to indicate the ever-present fear – a factor that defines our existence.

The stasis.

Always trapped in between the stages where the former is well-accustomed-with, while the latter is simply a matter of personal perception, deceivable mind-prompting, uncertain of what lays ahead, left out for assumptions to feats upon. Ergo, in order to interrupt the favorable pass, a pair of scissors must step in, then cut through the continuous stagnation – a period beyond unaltered – with no more no less than an unfortunate turnabout.

A car engine slicing through the evening lull, cut short with a twist in the ignition, alerting her elderly relative, and so prompting to greet the visitor by the door who, even if scheduled, evokes some odd kind of agitation within the timid woman, enhanced by the fact that he will be living here for an unspecified amount of time. Vaguely aware why, she has spent a fair share of hours to ponder upon that aspect, confronted by a mere information that he is a genealogist of some sort, hired to reconstruct the ancestral correlations within the family, since aunt is claiming that her life is coming to an end, which indicates the indispensable clarification of all heritage matters.

And so, obliged to meet the basic social standards, she rises from more than convenient position on the mattress, and follows a path leading to the main entrance, less than keen on facing the visitor. Having overheard the various conversations about him, certain image is already branded underneath her skull, afraid of both the alteration and the approval that comes as an inherent part of visual validation, now that she is just mere steps from the final clarification.

(Time to face the music.)

First she catches a glimpse of hair – chestnut and flowing as he nods – a silhouette clad in flax shirt, shaking her aunt’s hand who, much to the woman’s misfortune, notices her as soon as she reaches the doorway, quick to formulate a request.

“Come here, darling, don’t be shy,” she motions the dainty girl with flick of her wrist, to which she complies, joining the pair on the ground floor. “So this young lady is my niece, Florence.”

“Harrison,” he holds up his hand for a shake – a nonverbal request to return the gesture, and so she follows, grasping it with the inborne gentleness – a brisk greeting, soon to depart as he backs away, albeit to leave a reverberating tingle on the way – a physical brand, capacity considered as more than plain unsettling.

“I’m sure you must be tired, Mr.-”

“It’s Harrison,” he interrupts almost at the spot, never the one to feel comfortable with being called by the full name – too professional, restricted, and so feigned.

“I don’t think it’ll be appropriate to-”

“Oh no, it’ll be more convenient this way, trust me,” he reassures with a polite smile lacing his lips, brisk to top it up with an inviting gesture – a nonverbal affirmation.

“If you insist…” she chuckles, shaking her head in amused disbelief, always the one to admire the younger generation for its carefree approach towards life, the quality she is someway keen on acquiring herself. “Oh, and before I forget, I’ve allowed myself to prepare you a bed in the west part of mansion, if that’s acceptable for you.”

“Yeah, totally acceptable, thank you,” he nods for a change, glancing at the navy blue car parked on the cobblestone driveway. “But I think I’d prefer to go for a drive tonight before I’ll be good to work.”

“Um, if that’s what you’d like…” she shrugs, visibly caught off guard by the alternative solution. “You know where to go?”

“Any recommendations for me?”

“Florence?” A query thrown towards the niece, a name reverberating in the air, enough to advert her attention to the conversation – a spectacle, as if designed especially for the dreamy woman.

“Um, I’m sorry what?” She frowns, glancing at her aunt as if in search for any support after the abrupt collision with reality.

“Any recommendations for our guest?” The elderly woman reiterates, patient as always, and much to the teen’s relief. “Since obviously, you spend more time outside than I do.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Oh, come on,” she hurries the pondering girl – an attempt of ignition, activation, and so further encouragement. “You could’ve accompany our guest, huh? Show him where to go?”

“Um, okay… I think I could’ve do that,” Florence agrees, glancing at the taller genealogist on her left, who responds with a brisk smile as if to demonstrate the acceptance of such turn of events.

“Bon voyage then,” she reciprocates with a twin gesture, crossing her arms on the chest. “But be back soon, since I doubt your parents would be pleased if they found out you’re tarrying around God knows where after dusk.”

“Sure, aunt,” having kissed her on the cheek, she is good to walk away, and so quick to join Harrison by the car, where she settles inside, right on the passenger seat.

The ignition itself requires nothing but a deft flick of his wrist – an indication of a long-term driver, soon to wrap both hands around the steering wheel, then drive through the ornamental gate and down the gravely road. Due to the open window, the wind is bound to mess with the chestnut hair as it glides through the side bangs obscuring his forehead just to further ruin the uneven parting in the middle, not that such contrast will be any drastic if juxtaposed with the prior appearance. Furthermore, it allows her to distinguish a twain of tiny hoops adorning his ear, encrusted with gold, shining on the tanned canvas of his skin, such a beautiful detail, a detail that has the girl pinching her own lobe, even if unconsciously.

“Where to?” A sudden slice through the evening silence, an exclamation that causes her to flinch in surprise, rapidly enough for the man to notice, which has him snorting for a change, much to her embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” she counters with a mere headshake, intent to brush the excess hair falling onto her face – stew-betrayer maybe? “Depends on what you wanna see.”

“Which depends on what you wanna show me,” he throws Florence a fleeting smile as one of his hands abandons the steering wheel on behalf of being stuck out of the window – a manner that unnerves her more than it is presumably healthy to.

“Um, let me think…” she draws on the syllable, fiddling with the sound as she ponders upon the most suitable proposition. “Is the town okay?”

“I think there’s only one way to tell for sure,” he chuckles – a heartwarming note that somehow settles her jerky attitude, even if partially. “Left or right?”

“Left,” she clarifies, leaning back on the car seat – a subconscious response to the affirmative manner he has displayed – eyelids fluttering as her nostrils flare to accommodate the leather scent.

“And the right?” A query punctuated by the upward tilt of his chin, indicating the established direction. “Where does it lead to?”

“Lake,” she bothers with yet another moderate reply, linking her fingers on the lap, as if to relieve the tension.

“Ever swum in there?” He nags further, silently hoping she will be able to determine what the water has to offer.

“No,” she contradicts, gaze glued to the field sprawling past the window, anything but to look him directly in the eye, “didn’t have the right person to swim with… I suppose.”

“Oh?” He cocks a teasing eyebrow at her, voice laced with a hint of inquiry.

“Huh?” She reciprocates with a correlating frown, visibly confused before the realization is casted upon her – shameful in its foolish nature, almost mortifying… Jesus. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- it’s not like that, really, it’s not-”

“Hey,” he interrupts, gaze now focused solely on the young woman – calm façade that somehow smooths her jerky reaction, “it’s okay, I get it. No need to belabor the topic.”

“Okay,” she nods, hesitant at first as in an attempt to conceal the wave of discomfiture, afterwards intent to progress with an alternative subject, thus finds herself asking. “Did they hurt?”

“Did what hurt?” He frowns, once again adverting his eyes from the road – a manner she begins to consider more and more distressing as a parallel to its piling occurrences.

“The earrings,” she clarifies almost at the spot, despite the perturbation caused by his driving habits.

“You think about getting one, or what?”

“No,” she counters, nails scratching at her earlobe. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Honestly, I was too stoned to remember,” he chuckles – a nostalgic laughter, each and every time perceived as charming by the young woman, oddly challenging to describe.

“Oh, okay…” she responds with a suchlike manner, carefree and endearing when less restrained. “So you were a hippie?”

“A hippie? No…” he denies, lacing it all up with a self-indicating headshake. “I think I was just a little bit of everything, which I believe is basically what college is all about.”

What college is all about…

Now that is interesting.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who divided twenty four hours into a twain of opposites – day and night – smoothing out the sharp edges with transitionary phases – dusk and dawn – together a quartette as a short-term response to the yearly cycle of seasons. Being a person of homely preferences (at least in accordance to her individual perspective), more specifically dictated by the inborne tendency to search for balance, for dreamy aesthetics and gentle experiences, leads each and every aspect to a single conclusion – her fondness towards the sunsets. Night, in turn, has always filled the young woman with some odd kind of perturbation, evoked by the gloominess that swallows acres of land, and so deprives her from the comfort of perceiving world with less disquietude.

At times such as now, when she is forced to go downstairs in search for a merest glass of water, feet aching from the cold floor – such a ridiculous contrast to the warm Italian air surrounding the thirsty visitor – which, paired with the restlessness acquired while wandering in the darkness, has the woman nearly jumping out of her skin when she catches a glimpse of an unspecified silhouette from the corner of her eye. The revelation that prompts her to advert the gaze in said direction, where she is greeted with a sight of their guest chugging down what must be a glass of milk – a personification of all her childhood traumas.

“Christ,” she inhales, having omitted the fact that she was holding her breath the whole time, “you freaked me out.”

“Oh, did I?” He retorts, still sipping on his drink, as he leans backwards on the kitchen counter, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, hair tousled from sleep – details that begin to flood her perception.

“Is that milk?” She ascertains, eyes adverting to the object held in his right hand.

“More or less,” he shrugs, focusing on the whitish liquor in his glass as a parallel to her interest.

“Huh?”

“Wanna try it?” He suggests, tilting the container in her direction, smirking at the disguised grimace manifesting itself on the feminine face, all to his amusement.

“Definitely not,” she refuses, accompanied by a surprisingly feisty headshake. “Plain milk is weird enough to drink, not to mention your unspecified creations… ‘cause that’s some kind of a mix, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is,” he mimics the prior manner with some inborne carelessness that she finds oddly appealing, soon to step out of the kitchen, having decided that the topic is belabored.

Left alone now, she grabs a glass from the cupboard, quick to fill it with the tap water that she is obliged to down either in the gloomy area here, perchance upstairs, or in the living space occupied by the genealogist – both unnerving in their own nature. Aware of her limited tolerance when it comes to such circumstances, she is bound to opt for the latter, viewing the former as quite a jumpy denouement – not what she is striving for by any means – and so intent to join him there in a few hurried steps.

Already comfortable on the old-fashioned sofa, he throws her a fleeting glance as she settles down on the opposite armchair, crossing her legs on the expensive padding. While his mind is swimming, drifting beyond parallel realities, he is simply sitting on the plush cushions, yet to acknowledge the fact that his alias is transferring into a liquor depraver held in his hand, acquiring a mentality of a White Russian, whatever that mentality is. Well, certainly not what has him clutching at the more realistic dimension, where he is beginning to think that the whole glass might have been a mistake, not one of the disastrous consequences but still, enough to set it aside on the coffee table with a soft clink – an indication of a bygone phase.

“I’m off, so if you wanna finish, go ahead,” he proposes, inviting her with a subtle gesture, once again to lay back on the furniture as he awaits her response.

“What is it?”

“White Russian,” he clarifies, albeit bound to continue when faced with her confused expression. “Milk, vodka, and coffee liquor.”

“I don’t think I’m into that then,” she chuckles, shaking her head to emphasize the refusal.

“Then what are you into?” He teases, to which she responds with a bashful blush, not that it surprises him much, now that he is beginning to learn all her instinctive reactions.

“I don’t know, many things, I guess… it’s tough to specify…” she hesitates, as if intent to pick a suitable expression, “art for instance… I do like art, but I guess so do others so…”

“Well, your aunt told me you’re planning to study history of art,” he states, having dragged it out of the depths of his memory – a fleeting intercalation in between the working periods, spent in the company of the elderly woman. “Something beyond interests has led you there?”

“Well,” she shrugs, nails scratching at her cheek, gaze once again focused on the almost empty glass settled on the coffee table. “I guess I’m intent to find my own way, not the established lawyer path… a lawyer who is some other doctor, I don’t know… I hope you know where I’m coming from.”

“I think so, since well, I’ve been ‘round the block a couple of times,” he smiles, raking his fingers through the blowzy hair, as if only to tousle it even further, “which allows me to see how important it is to lead your life according to your own standards, for the benefit of your own vision.”

“Well, I know…” she sighs, weak and resigned, “but sometimes it’s quite difficult to synchronize all aspects and satisfy the meaningful people.”

“Meaningful?” He frowns, as if displeased with her answer, and yet able to gain a nod of confirmation from the blonde. “You think your ‘meaningful people’ should force you to succumb to their will?”

“You put it as if it was the simplest action to take,” she mimics his manner – an indication of disbelief – caught off guard by the stern comment. “But it’s not, and maybe it’s a mistake to see world in such colors, but I believe other people’s opinion matter. Tell me, what would I become if it wasn’t for them?”

“I can’t tell for sure,” he shrugs, having opted for an evasive answer, not intent to fall into any one of her dependent traps, “but I’ve always thought going my own way is far more satisfying… satisfying but harder, yes, although it’s not that important, quite simple actually, ‘cause all it takes is courage, courage to break the unspoken rule.”

“What kind of rule?”

“To be unhappy,” he clarifies – one of his lifelong maxims, “which I believe is connected with the fact that sometimes in order to please others, you decide to lead your life in accordance to their expectations. And it’s the beginning of the end.”

“Why?” She nags further, intent to share a seat on his personal train of thoughts. “Because you feel trapped?”

“That as well,” he agrees, albeit yet to complete her conclusion that appears to have omitted the very essence of his ponderations, “but what’s more important, you lose the sense of who you are, of what you want and aim for, which is not worth it, at least in my opinion.”

“Maybe it’s just… maybe I don’t have that courage,” she ponders, gaze fixated on a tiny spot marking the hardwood floor. “Maybe I’m afraid that if I pull another stunt like that, everyone will leave me.”

“Then fucking let them,” he shrugs, in the end opting for chugging down the remains of his drink, abandoned on the coffee table up to now. “Like why would they leave you anyway? For picking a different college, or what?”

“Okay fine,” she agrees after a few longer moments, glancing at his profile, as if in a passing. “It might be as illogical for you as it is for me sometimes, but when faced with the choice, I’ll fall into that trap once again.”

“And you’ll allow it?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, a hint of what must be a smile playing upon his lips. “Tell me, were the consequences even that disastrous?”

“Um, I mean- I don’t know,” she replies, having projected her father’s disapproved expression on the blank canvas – a mirror image branded within her mind – along with the frown marring the smooth forehead of the mother. “My parents were just displeased, I guess.”

“What else?”

“Um, nothing,” she shrugs – a careless gesture, designed to conceal the lifelong hesitancy to agree with his insights – no more no less than a mere bunch of words uttered by an almost stranger, a pseudo form of attitude-alteration.

“Well, if that’s all they had, then there’s no logical reason to be afraid of their reaction,” he concludes, leaning back on sofa – an evidence of his contentment.

“Maybe you’re right…” she sighs, brisk to wrap up their agreement with a smile, genuine even if fleeting, “and um, sorry for forcing you to listen to all of that.”

“Forcing?” He laughs at the odd apology, doubting she will ever cease to surprise him, with all the bashful encounters in mind. “I could’ve left any time. I don’t think you could actually force me to do anything.”

“Yeah,” she mimics his manner – a pearly chuckle reverberating in the nighttime lull, “I don’t think I can actually force anyone to do anything, since that requires some kind of a... I don’t know… charisma?”

“A charisma you don’t possess, is that it?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, voice laced with a hint of teasing amusement.

“Not at all,” she counters, accompanied by an oddly expressive headshake, “it’s just…I don’t consider my charisma as outstanding in any way.”

“Why?”

“Simply because I’ve met people more gifted in that field,” she explains, tucking one of her feet beneath the opposite thigh, quick to pull the oversized tee down as it has ridden up a little in process.

“I think it’s natural,” he remarks, forehead marred with a frown of disbelief, obliged to state the obvious. “You lead in one, lack in the other, so comparing yourself to others is neither sensible, nor self-developing.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, intent to aim for a more diplomatic overlap – remedy for any bitter aftertaste.

“Maybe,” he hums, mimicking the prior comment, eyes falling shut, as his head leans back, having discerned that the conversation is over.

Or is it?

Either way, a part of her, the one that appears to be more sexually aware, considers it as an unrepeatable chance to satiate the leftover curiosity, lurking in the shadows for the past two weeks, and thus drink in the details that managed to evade her perceptivity on the number of prior occasions. Furthermore, the quaintest factor is the transition in her perception, correlating with the fact that sex has never been neither the main object of focus, nor the aim of her dreamy tendencies to commit all the overdramatic affections to paper. Oddly so, she is far from writing about the genealogist, or rather has been since the day of his arrival, instead decided to focus on the present aspects of his company – a tendency to be extended, now that the circumstances seem more favorable.

Facing up to the fact, she did fell for one or two boys in the past – affections not meant to be interpreted in terms of a further-developing relationship, since in accordance to what she remembers, excluding that single by-definition exception, they remained purely platonic. Thus it is safe to say that the situation she finds herself in, is a far more complicated one, extending beyond her experience in any form of social correlation – a subject of peculiar nature that she is intent to explore one way or another.

Therefore, she allows her gaze to trace a path down the exposed neck, and further to the firm planes of his chest, partly obscured by the crossed forearms. Despite the inborn flexibility with the verbal components of the language, she is caught in a genuine struggle to transfer the unspecified notions into one word – the most sublime message, crafted only to define him as a person in the eyes of all single-minded creatures.

As if it was necessary.

“You know, instead of staring at me like that, you can actually come and sit here,” he states all of sudden – a blunt comment reverberating in the air – causing the woman to choke on her own spit, caught hand in a cookie jar.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, gaze adverting to the side, voice laced with a distinctive hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to stare, really.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m quite flattered actually,” he chuckles – throaty and masculine – as his eyes fall open, allowing the hazel to interfere with green.

A transition to some distant part of his conscience, firmly indicating that he is not supposed to fuel anything that has been blossoming inside the teenager the moment their hands linked in a greeting mannerism. And yet, he opts for ignoring the unspoken rule, and thus has invited her to join him on the sofa – a proposal of pending nature, now that she appears to be tethering on the cusp between a twain of options. While his eyes remained glued to her figure, conspicuously fragile in structure, he cannot help but dwell upon whether she will come out as more earnest than evasive, hooked on progress thus threatened with possible misjudgments, albeit well-aware, even if only in the back of his mind, about the probable consequences of passing such threshold.

Nevertheless, he cannot fight the smug smirk that decorates his face the moment she caves in, and finally takes a sit beside him, eyes glued to her lap, swept away with a wave of insecurity. A part of him finds it endearing – the way she moves, graceful akin to a swan, pensive akin to Juliet – while the corresponding one – an aspect of carnal instinct – perceives the inborne innocence as an ultimate obstacle, bound to assume she will retreat as soon as the situation heats up.

Ergo, he opts against any rapid action, instead shifts to the side, with the very intention to face the female, outstretching an arm in her direction – an offer she gladly accepts, slipping a dainty hand into his, soon to be enveloped with the pleasant amount of warmth. The comforting notion prompts her to satiate the newfound curiosity and thus trace the pattern of his skin, quick to discern a protuberant line marring the flesh on the side part – presumably a scar, an imperfection that evokes the inherent query concerning its origin, a pursuit interrupted by a foreseen alternative.

“What was the furthest you’ve ever gone with someone?”

“A kiss,” she admits, shivering as he teases the inside of her wrist with the other hand, stroking the part of skin that she has never considered erogenous until now – a discovery so peculiar that she almost counters its veracity.

“Mm-hm,” he hums as his grip switches to the one of different pursuit, encircling her wrist and tugging suggestively – a nonverbal indication of an action that he is intent to take, albeit still in capacity of eliciting a choked gasp from the female, immediate to brace her weight on his shoulders. “And what else?”

“Nothing, it’s like- well, that’s all, I think,” she lets out a nervous laugh, stumbling over the words when distracted by a seemingly heavy weight of his hand placed atop the hip, earlier a whisper tickling the exposed flesh of her neck.

“Okay,” he chuckles – smoky and alluring, intent to lighten up the mood, now that she is twitching in his grasp, tensed with the nervous anticipation. “So tell me what you want to do for a change.”

“I don’t know, really,” she cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, unable to bare the intensity of his, and yet, he is brisk to grasp her by the chin, locking them together once again, as a part of him loathes the fact that she appears to be looking everywhere but his eyes.

“You don’t know, huh?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, smirking at the reddish hint of blush decorating her cheeks, which in turn gets Florence to wonder whether he finds her reactions that amusing, or simply ego-stroking. “Well, that’s a pity, ‘cause I don’t know what I want to do either.”

“Okay, fine,” she gives up, having decided to shove all her insecurities aside, or at least pretend that it lays within her capacity, which leads up to a surprisingly concrete response. “I want to… um… to kiss then.”

As if her wish was his command, he leans in, brushing her lips with some quaint delicacy that she struggles to associate with his manners, since he has never struck her as an exceptionally gentle person. What must have omitted her perceptivity though, is his virtual motivation – an intent to decipher how likely it is that she will shy away, and thus when the action is returned, he allows himself to tilt her head to the side, deepening the caress. Moreover, a change that appears as somehow aggressive in the eyes of an inexperienced woman, still not certain whether she enjoys the ravenous way he seems to be devouring her lips with, and yet willing to kiss him back, curious about the possible progress.

Nevertheless, some sizable section of her consciousness has devoted so deeply into the act that she fails to notice the subtle alteration – the hand that was previously cradling the side of her face, slides underneath the cotton tee, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman, swallowed by his mouth, paralleled with the time his tongue slips inside her mouth – an action that has her tensing in his arms almost at the spot. Or a response of short-lived nature, where she is shaken out of the caught-off-guard state in almost no time, finally flowed with an idea of what to do with her hands, dismissing the awkward clutching of his shoulders, thus immediate to lay them atop his chest instead.

What is least expected though must to be the fact that he seems intent to mirror said concept, with his fingers stroking her flank, inching closer and closer to the breast area, and yet, before he completes the route, an instinctual thirst for air forces Florence to break the kiss, exposing his disheveled appearance to her eyes, with dilated pupils and shallow pants, palpable on the skin of her cheek. Even though she has been granted with a fair share of opportunities to see him in a less tidy state, the encounter is perceived as a separate one, because of the virtual nature of his perturbation – a dainty female settled on his lap, a female with enough confidence to break the silence.

“That was really nice, thank you,” she smiles, even further at the confused expression blossoming atop his features, albeit quick to fade away, replaced by a signature teasing smirk, now that the disappointment has been replaced with a transitional emotion.

“My pleasure,” he reciprocates, both hands back at her hips now, tilting his chin up towards the entrance as he speaks. “Didn’t your aunt mention she gets up at dawn?”

“Yeah, I think she- oh,” Florence chuckles, following his gaze sideways to the terrace, confronted with the sight of an early morning light seeping through the thin voile curtains, basking the living room in its fresh glow. “I must be going then, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he pats her thigh, indicating that she is, indeed, supposed to rise from the oh-so-convenient position, to which she succumbs, quick to stand up and flash him one last smile, before she retreats towards the corridor – a rush up the stairs, halted only by the smooth baritone uttering her name once more in the almost expired nighttime lull.

“Florence?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell your aunt about this.”

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who valued his own comfort over the nature’s one, having decided that his excuses are enough to justify the implementation of a fresh solution – the electric light, considered beyond functional, albeit cycle-disrupting as it violates the ancient ratio. When it comes to her personal opinion, she finds a distinctive solitude in the way it navigates through the darkness, mesmerized by the variety of illuminations, even though a fair share of bulbs appear to be lacking in the value possessed by their candle-like grandparents – a sort of romantic glow, soft and peaceful as it brightens up the garden area, along with the eight-seat table.

Unfortunately, she is not alone this time, granted with the opportunity to soak up the sustained quietude, but in a company of a few people, not by any means an unusual occurrence, since her aunt tends to invite the neighbors for dinner. What seems to bothering her though is the fact that Harrison has joined them as well, accompanied by one of the younger women – a daughter of an academic professor who is currently chatting with her relative.

Circumstances that drive her back in time to that idiotic incident, along with its consequences extending up until now, or more specifically the fact that he has been acting as if nothing happened, as if they remained solely on the chatting terms. After a while she has begun to think that it was a mistake in the first place not to tell her aunt about the aforementioned situation, especially now, when the genealogist appears to be flirting with the female seated on his right.

(Or maybe you’re just paranoid.)

(Yeah, if I’m ‘just’ paranoid, then they’re ‘just’ talking.)

Crossing her arms over the chest, she keeps on glancing over at the pair – a display of temporary obsession, with the strings of jealousy laced in its being – now that she is getting triggered by the smoothness of their conversation. A part of her feels betrayed by the act, abandoned by the table, hung in between a twain of dimensions: retired professors and their descendants, lacking in the profitable capacity to navigate her way through the topics and simply join the conversation. Instead, she opts for poking the cooling pasta with a silver fork, excluding a few occasional bites here and there, as her eyes remain glued to the villa’s entrance for a change, anticipating the time it will be appropriate to retreat into the room and sleep off the bitter aftertaste that comes with rejection.

Linear

Subsequent

Damnation.

“Rosaline?” A name uttered in the nighttime lull, piquing her aunt’s interest enough to advert the attention from the current conversation, and thus lift her eyes to the genealogist’s face. “I’ve promised Linda to drive her to town, so we must be going now, you know... but thank you for the dinner anyway.”

(Oh, so her name is Linda. How delightful.)

“Oh, it’s fine,” she smiles, kind as always. “Have a safe trip then.”

“Thank you again,” he addresses her one last time, before his attention switches to Florence, with his arm following the alteration, outstretched in an inviting gesture. “Wanna go with us?”

(No, piss off.)

“I’m not sure,” she hesitates, ever the diplomat of refusal, glancing at him from the seating position by the table. “It’s just- I don’t wanna disturb you or something.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Rosaline smiles, this time to encourage her, motioning towards the pair with a flick of her wrist. “I think you’ll have much more fun with Linda and Harrison than with a bunch of retirees.”

“Okay, fine,” she sighs, as if utterly resigned because of the concept, attempting to convince herself that it is not so unpleasant after all. “I’ll go.”

“Cool, c’mon then,” he motions her to get up, to which she succumbs, rising from the elegant chair, and following their steps towards the car with a quick, “goodnight,” thrown over her shoulder.

Nonetheless, the moment Florence reaches his navy car parked by the curb, she is surprised by the fact that Linda has settled on the back, as if to indicate her desired place, and thus she agrees on the established terms, soon to rest on the front, and with a flick of ignition, they drive down the gravely road, further through the gate, and the adjoining street. A part of infrastructure that Florence has always considered as picturesque, possessing some sort of a romantic glow, and the unparalleled vibe of a nighttime drive, with the endless route of possibilities sprawling in front of their eyes, now glued to the anthropocentric wonder.

Which is beautiful.

Which is fleeting.

Which is eternal.

Or which has her wishing the scale would tilt towards the latter.

At least until Linda’s interruption.

“Thanks again for driving me to Matteo.”

“Sure, no problem,” he shrugs, glancing at the woman in the rear-view mirror, before his eyes advert to the road once again.

“Who’s Matteo?” She finds herself asking, faced twisted in a frown of confusion, when confronted with the possible explanation.

“My boyfriend.”

(Oh.)

(So it turns out you were just paranoid.)

(Or were you?)

Almost deep enough in her thoughts to miss the following query. “And you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Um, I…” she hesitates, glancing over at Harrison in search for at least some partial support, although he appears to be ignoring her, with eyes glued to the road.

“Sorry if it was too personal,” she flashes her an apologetic smile through the rear-view mirror, barely acknowledged as an existent component.

“It’s okay,” she shrugs in response, gaze adverting to the passing trees outside the glass pane. “I don’t even have one, so…”

“Well, that was awkward,” Linda giggles, which in turn paints her as derisive in the blonde’s eyes, and thus retreats any will to continue the conversation.

“Pointing it out doesn’t make it less awkward,” the driver joins in, a voice that slices through the sweetened stasis, attracting the attention of both females in the car.

“Yeah, sure,” this time she huffs, offended and thus done with the whole concept of talking down to both of them, even the man who gave her such a congenial impression in the first place – calm and easy-going, with an interesting smile, and perceptive hazel irises.

Ergo, the rest of the drive is spent in partial silence, excluding the monotonous hum of engine and the whistling wind that envelopes the metallic frame – a set of circumstances considered rather unimportant, since they are relatively quick to reach the town. A place that imposes Linda to speak again, albeit solely to guide Harrison to the desired tenement, where she gets off the car, and with a quick, “goodbye,” thrown over her shoulder – an expression of concealed bitterness – she leaves them alone once again, and thus clears out the atmosphere as she appears to have taken some immerse emotional luggage with her, or tension that seemed to be enveloping the vehicle on the course of their trip.

“Wanna stay here and maybe go for a walk, or I don’t know… do whatever we find suitable?” He proposes, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at the female, with a ghost of an ephemeral smile playing upon his lips.

“Okay, why not,” she agrees, flashing him a mirroring expression, before she steps off the car, in accordance to the nonverbal gesture of the man who is soon to join her on the cobbled street. “Where are we going by the way?”

“The square maybe, ‘cause I want a drink,” he gestures towards the illuminated area, garnished with a bunch of outdoor tables, or a source of the resonating variety of conversation, “but then, we can just… I don’t know… wander around to see if something else piques our interest.”

“Okay,” she agrees, soon to follow him on the way to the bar, where he only purchases a bottle of wine – ‘specialità regionali’ – at least in accordance to the salesman’s words, although she suspects it might be a subject of little matter for Harrison, as he only throws him a polite smile, along with some cash placed on the counter, soon to retreat afterwards.

Back on the square again, they navigate their way through the maze of narrow streets, up to the point where they come across a relatively empty one, with a bunch of chairs pushed up to the brick wall. A resting spot that he considers suitable enough to flop down and uncork the bottle with some kind of a multi-tool, fished out from his pocket, soon to take an initial gulp of the reddish liquid.

“Isn’t it some kind of a heresy?” She frowns, gesturing towards the glass, currently held in a single hand and cradled upon his lap. “To drink it straight from the bottle?”

“Is there anyone stopping me?” He retorts, smiling as she shakes her head ‘no’. “Then I don’t care.”

“Seems like you don’t care about a lot of things,” she remarks, glancing at the man who is currently taking a few relatively huge gulps of wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing in time with each sip.

“’Cause I think it’s a fucking waste of time…” he replies after a short interval, required to finish the portion of drink, eyes now focused on the bottle’s label, “of time, and I don’t know… spirit maybe.”

“I’ve always wanted that capacity to just… you know… don’t care,” she admits, cracking her knuckles on the lap, as she stares at the opposite building, wondering about the current activities of its dwellers, even if only for a split second. “I mean it’s kind of complicated, ‘cause sometimes I really don’t care about things that others might consider important, decent grades for instance. And then when something pops out, something quite… um… significant, at least for me, all they say is: ‘take it easy, it’s not a big deal’, while for me it is a big deal.”

“I think it’s quite natural people tend to misunderstand others, since they rely on their own perspective,” he interrupts the explanation with yet another sip of alcohol, soon to cradle the bottle upon his lap once again. “And also, if you combine it with the reluctance to introspect the motivations of others, they’ll never come closer to the actual state of affairs, so it’s just… well, futile.”

“Okay, thanks,” she throws him a fleeting smile – a sympathetic gesture that prompts him to return it in a resembling manner.

“But these are just words, you know,” he continues – a matter of prevention. “In order to actually make it work you gotta experience it yourself.”

“Maybe you’re right…”

An agreement ensued by a relatively comfortable kind of silence, or an opportunity for the genealogist to retreat into his personal land of thoughts, where he is granted with an opportunity to ponder upon one distinctive subject that has been bothering him for these few days ensuing their short-lived moment of intimacy. What initiated as a rather innocent whim was never expected to blossom into a craving of entirely different nature – a carnal one – calling back to the manner his eyes were lingering on her figure merely two weeks ago.

Another important aspect – a conclusion from what he suspects might be a high school period – is that such form of interest cannot be a conscious decision, and thus he has never felt shameful due to developing any kind of affection towards a person, maybe because of the atheistic beliefs or the general reluctance towards the concept of strict morality. He has always considered it inhumane – a characteristic of incorporeal beings who must have forgotten what it is like to inhabit a body – or unrealistic – a form of spiritual disguise, meant to conceal all flaws from the eyes of others, fool them up to the point where they perceive one as an idealistic entity – incomprehensible mentor, he who leads them towards the land of redeemed.

Utopia.

A place that does not exist.

At least for any corporeal human, and he who is one, will gladly choose an alternative path.

“I was wondering...”

(Sure you were.)

“Maybe you want some?” He gestures towards the bottle held in his right hand. “I don’t think it’ll be sane to finish the whole one by myself.”

“And why is that?” She cocks an eyebrow at him, lips laced in an anticipatory smile.

“’Cause I’m driving.”

“Um, okay,” she chuckles, someway bound to accept the offer, “so I think I do want some then,” and thus takes a few sips of liquor, then hands the bottle back to its owner. For a little while they just switch in such manner, until half of its contents are emptied, albeit any alternation in the sobriety omits her recognition, considering the consumption has been rather meager, with him drinking a substantial amount.

As her mind switches from the nonsensible metaphor applying to the wine that is supposed to run through her bloodstream, overheard months ago during a spring break party, she cannot help but wonder about his prior conversation with Linda, once again invaded by a preposterous amount of jealousy. A feeling someway associated with the color green, venomous neon hue, as if due to variety of virulent substances required to manufacture one, seeping through the pores, thus bound to infect an organism, or rather its intellectual capacities.

Or a stimulus that prompts her to voice the following query.

“What were you talking about back home?” She blurts out – an exclamation ensued by a mental scold, yet way past the point of retreating in such circumstances. “With Linda, I mean.”

“About marihuana and college… in that order, I think,” he hesitates, drawing the sentences a little, as he attempts to recall the prior conversation. “Then some of her issues that weren’t very important to be honest… Something about that Matteo-guy, I think… Why are you asking?”

“I’m just… curious, you know.”

(Curious? Or jealous?)

A thought that laces his lips in a barely noticeable smirk – a gateway to the newfound opportunity, focused on the selfish aspects of his whims that correlate with the concept of perfectionism in any form, not only its pathological version. Even though he is well aware of his lifelong pursuit towards the aspects considered as natural, thus far from nonpareil, he would never suspect it to extend in the direction of an active attitude – a desire to mar, to drag the compass’ sharp end down the freshly bought blackboard just to watch people grimace at the sound.

Aversion or the commonplace odium – an aftermath of idealistically strict morality, or a paradox in its most sublime form – what is expected to define one as a human leads to an entirely different outcome – bringing up a society that loathes the scum. Furthermore, less and less people appear to aim for more organic behavior, only conventions, forced etiquettes, acquired to sketch the most sublime form of a humane being – an exemplary man with an exemplary wife and a group of children playing at their feet, exemplarily of course.

Fatiguing to the bone.

Perfection.

Merely a phantasy of civilization.

Model disguise of a modern man.

Missing out the nature’s intent.

Perfection or omission?

Futile to eradicate.

“C’mere,” he proposes, completely out of the blue, motioning her with a flick of his wrist, having settled the bottle aside on the cobbled pavement. Confronted with yet another offer that evening, she hesitates, glancing left, then right, despite the sensory awareness that their dead end is surely deprived of any company, excluding the possible voyeurs hiding behind the curtains. Come to think of it, the idea itself might be, indeed, a bit childish, since in such case the sensibility is rather dubious, and thus she chooses to terminate the state of shameful indecision, evident in the immediate rise from her chair in order to take a seat on his lap, sideways, supported by a pair of pleasantly warm hands: one gripping her thigh, while the other winds around the back.

(Fuck…)

“But we ain’t gonna…?” She asks – a query outlined by the distinctive hint of embarrassment.

“What? Fuck?” He chuckles, cocking a taunting eyebrow at Florence, taking special pleasure in the way her cheeks flash red. “Depends if you want to.”

“I’m not… I, um, I don’t,” she chuckles, stumbling over the words, although not repulsed, only caught off guard by the concept itself, accompanied by a jerking movement, as he nuzzles the blonde hair, mouth merely an inch away from her ear.

“That’s a shame then,” he purrs, smirking as another tremor runs down her spine. “Has anyone ever told you to try and seize the opportunity?”

“Um, actually… you might be the first one,” she flashes him a knowing smile, more and more relaxed as his fingers begin to draw calming circles over her rounded hip. “How do you feel about that?”

(Balance out facts and falsities.)

“Depends on what you’re referring to,” he retorts – a comment left hanging in the recurrent silence, having painted her cheeks with the reddish blush once again, albeit this time she is the one who gets their eyes to meet, even if only for a split second. Despite such fleeting expanse, she notices something distinctive, something that causes her thighs to clench on instinct – lascivious glint, inseparable from the pitch pools of black – the pupils, now dilated in an almost animalistic manner. A ravenous look that has the female squirming on his lap, unintentionally attempting to relieve the tension, until he taps her hip – a nonverbal signification to halt – which in turn captures her attention.

Clueless about what is bound to happen, she almost squeals when he leans in to brush her lips, intent to maneuver the dainty figure with a self-indicating tug, to which she complies, straddling his thighs as the kiss deepens. An initiation almost parallel to the one from a few days ago, if not for the fact that his actions seem to have gained an alternative pace, evident in a pair of hands slipping underneath her blouse: one settling on the waist, while the other snakes up her stomach, soon to rest upon the plump globe.

For a brief moment, a part of him expects her to jerk away from his grip in some nervous reflex, but nothing like this happens, and instead she only shivers, stomach tensing as his fingers skate over the fabric cup. Even though he suspects it might be more convenient to simply ask in order to clarify the issue, he opts for the nonverbal option, intent to focus on the bodily responses, thus relies on her assertiveness to halt him if required.

What surprises him though is the fact that the touch itself, no matter how subdued, appears to have evoked something within the woman – carnal instincts that prompt her to wrap the arms around his neck and rock a little into his body. Pleased with the progressing inflorescence, he responds with a more prominent gesture, hand slipping underneath the bra cup, which elicits a surprised gasp from Florence, and thus causes him to smirk against her now swollen lips. Not intent to overwhelm the woman, he opts for a milder pace, exploring the breast why tentative touches that get him to question the self-control aspect, now that she is pressing closer to his frame, weight braced on his chest as her free hand cradles the side of his face, stubbly in texture.

Nevertheless, it is safe to assume that the situation is bound to act to the detriment of all the reasonable prompts, signalizing him to postpone the event, at least until he drives them somewhere more… private? Or simply convenient, since the former is not an issue for him, although he has never identified as a person with exhibitionistic tendencies, considering his little concern for any possible audience, as the object of main focus is undoubtedly his partner – a woman of little tolerance of the voyeuristic factor.

Therefore, he departs from her lips, almost groaning at the whine of protest she utters, even if relatively quiet, as he leans towards her ear, obliged to adjourn the encounter with a common, yet disappointing, phrase – a performance in two acts.

“Wanna go further?”

“Maybe… but, um… not here,” she replies, voice laced with a hint of hesitation, guiding him to the final conclusion that the former assumptions were correct, furthermore prompting to voice yet another proposition.

“Well,” he chuckles, intentionally distracting himself with fixing the collar of her blouse, fingers smoothing out the material, “that I’ve had already figured out, but… how about we return to the car and drive away somewhere more… um… more…”

“Private?” She prompts, glancing at his hand on her cleavage, now covered with goosebumps.

“If that’s what you want,” he shrugs, dropping it to the side – a nonverbal indication for the woman to rise from her prior seat, furthermore accompany him on their way back to the vehicle.

Even though the pair remains silent throughout the walk, it is neither to be classified as sullen, nor awkward, rather pensive, as they dive deep within their thoughts, and while he is wondering about how to handle her inexperience, she dwells upon a concept of partially different nature.

When it comes to Harrison, or rather his genuine motives, she is bound to label them as someway enigmatic, of dubious intents, as a distinctive part of her displays an attitude that might be parallel to fear, or stress maybe, a sort of ambivalently nervous excitement, or a matter of insatiate curiosity. To explore but to evade – an ever present paradox, accompanying the process of exiting one’s comfort zone, bound to resolve into each and every shade dividing spectacular success from a dreadful disaster.

Nevertheless, she is willing to pursue with the former, resolute as never before in her life, maybe excluding the college situation, encouraged by the unignorable titillation oscillating around the factor of grey morality. A term she has encountered somewhere throughout her bookish escapades, and ever since considered as partially dangerous due to the lack of behavioral prediction, rules that determine one’s judgment. Despite the relative whiteness of her principles, she feels some odd kind of attraction towards him as a man of fluent, organic acts, neither identified with the villain, nor hero archetype, intent to explore the poorly investigated concept.

Or maybe the virtual issue is linked with the fact that he cares so little about the conventions, dedicated to lead his life the way he pleases – a characteristic admired by the woman, an alteration from her usual approach. Furthermore, he appears to be a little more… experienced, assuming it is a suitable expression, although she is unable to determine his real age, since he has a relatively youthful face – especially after shaving – a feature emphasized by the longish hair and light hazel eyes, warm in tone, or the subtle jewelry and the flax shirts that he seems to be so fond of – a compound of multiple factors. While a part of her wants to clarify the aforementioned doubt, she assumes it is better not to, leaving the case unresolved for the benefit of ravenous assumptions – a feast of uncertainty – hopefully meant for future discoveries, even though she does not find that knowledge essential, only a matter of curiosity.

A new road.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who valued the nature’s comfort over his own one – as for the yin of enlightened yang – having agreed to lead his life in accordance to the conditions dictated by pristine substance. Ergo, the electric system has been abandoned on the moon’s benefit – a guide to navigate one’s route through the darkness – or the stars that shine with inborn light, seeping through the leafy copula above the vehicle, as it illuminates their future way.

A transition to one peculiar notion that she is invaded by in such occasions, which might be considered as a form of paradox itself – a contrast for her prior statement concerning the so-called romantic glow of garden lightbulbs. Nevertheless, she perceives such organicism as an embodiment of any lacking artificialness, as well as an opportunity for the pristine forces to regain the desolate terrain.

The most picturesque spectacle.

Imperfection-defining.

Thus unflawed – an obsolete paradox.

Insatiate curiosity of their final destination – a relatively mysterious outcome for the young woman – that bestows her with an internal obligation to break the silence, directed by the instinctual intents, by the desire for denouement, as she is practically itching with the need to utter the final query. Therefore, she is finds herself complying to the subconscious request, voice oddly unfitting when compared to its usual tune, as if unable to be distinguished even by her very own ears.

“Harrison?”

“Huh?”

“I think this one is private enough,” she states, twitching on the seat once his eyes settle on her body, and his gaze follows its path further down, leaving a wave of tremors on the way, which evokes an oddly potent desire to reach out and touch him. A craving that extends beyond her comprehension, that prompts Florence to extend an arm, merely a breath away from leaning across the gear shift in order to fulfil the whim – a pursuit that he is quick to halt by pushing the car door open, intent to switch places in search for a more beneficial position.

“What are you-”

“Backseat,” he replies, leaning forward on the frame, as he carries on with the explanation. “It’ll be more convenient this way, trust me.”

“Okay...” she agrees, voice once again laced with a hint of hesitation – a signature manner that she appears to have grown accustomed with throughout the years, beyond the privilege of being omitted, especially when caught in a situation of such kind.

A situation when she is obliged to follow him there, not in accordance to an external pressure but personal eagerness, shivering once he steadies her with a single hand wrapped around the arm, tugging the woman closer, until her legs graze his, and with a soft gasp uttered in the confined space, he modifies their position, now hovering above the partner. However, instead of kissing her as per usual, he halts, settled between her legs, in order to get rid of his shirt with some distinctive nonchalance that she finds a bit unnerving, considering the contrasting nature of her attitude.

Despite the fact that it is, by any means, not her first time to see him topless, since the summer weather appears to be relatively unforgiving on this latitude, she perceives the given situation as entirely different, viewed through the prism of possible motives and intents. Impure as some would dare to assume – a term she distances from more and more as a parallel to the life length, carrying an alteration in the woman’s perception of her own persona, more specifically the query concerning which factors determine one’s value.

The quantity of sexual encounters?

Absurd.

Although the fact that it indeed does matter to some people, makes her feel a little… restrained by the conventions (akin to the college situation), or judged through the prism of poorly constructed morals. Patriarchal archaisms that have been influencing people’s perception for hundreds of years, generations upon generations adding the fuel to the ever-burning fire, pouring their harmful beliefs into the minds of their children.

Anticipating alteration.

Continuous cycle of conceptual conversion.

Everlasting?

Alas unachievable.

“God, I feel ridiculous,” she chuckles, awkwardly in her mind’s eyes, eliciting a huskier laugh from her partner. “It’s like… I heard so many facts, or myths maybe, about sex, and now…I just… I don’t know…”

“Changed your mind about this?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her – a matter of verification – sitting back to rest beside the curled legs of his lover. “Tell me.”

“No, no, I’m just… stressed, that’s all,” she admits, flashing him a telltale smile, as if to ascertain he gets the message, albeit quick to rectify, “but I want this, really.”

“In here?”

“In here,” she confirms with a single nod, hoisting up to a sitting position as well, intent to scoot closer to the man who is quick to reach out for her, hands clutching the rim of her blouse – a nonverbal exposé of his inclination. Despite the bashful attitude, she allows him to act upon that, raising her arms to facilitate the removal, greeted by the sight of his smirking face within a blink of an eye, gaze fixated on her newly revealed form. Unable to bare the intensity, she wraps her arms around the bra-clad chest, earning a disapproved tut from him, caught off guard when his hands grasp the dainty wrists, and tug them to his chest – an odd gesture, someway associated with intimacy, romantism-indicating, and by any means not corresponding with the chilled persona of the man beside, coexisting in her consciousness.

At least until the following comment is verbalized.

“C’mon, I’m not here to judge you, or anything,” he frowns, stroking the tendons with his thumbs – a gentle caress that turns out as influential enough to elicit a subtle shiver from the female. “It’s just… well, sex.”

(Just sex?)

(Ugh, sure.)

Unable to come up with a more suitable verbalization, she opts for a simple hum in response, attempting to alter the main subject of focus, and thus rests her hands on his shoulders, radiating with pleasant warmth. In order to test the waters, she runs her fingers over the protruding clavicle, tickling the flesh with the gentle, or maybe restrained, touch, tracing a tingling line to his face. Much to her relief, the reaction comes out as rather positive – a mirroring gesture of his own, albeit concentrated around her ribcage – a nonverbal message that he is intent to speed up the process.

Considered as opportunistically patient, he feels someway obliged to ensure the possibility of exploration at any given pace, but at the same time struggles to maintain the composure with her figure pressing closer to his body. Circumstances that call back to the ambivalent nature of their relationship, embodied by the current settlement with Florence perched atop his lap, and while a part of him relishes in such notion, the other one – both carnal – is craving to accelerate the process.

Said factors, combined with her obvious lack of initiator’s qualities, prompt him to reach back to the clasp of her bra and unfasten it with a deft flick of his wrist, which elicits a surprised gasp from the female, the one that is quick to be swallowed by a kiss, messier than usual, as he feels her nipples brush his chest – a subtle stroke that sends a jolt straight to his core. Much to his relief, she appears to be chasing something too – a denouement, a term of bookish nature, albeit descriptive enough to verbalize the attitude, fitting to the sort of romantic vibe she has been giving him since their hands linked for the very first time.

Nonetheless, intent to regain the essential control over the situation, he is bound to flip them over once again, supporting her weight with a single hand sprawled on her back, along with the ardent trace left behind as he chooses to settle it on the car seat, propping his body on both arms to prevent from crashing the dainty female. Now that they are lying down, he feels restricted by the lack of space, obviously mistaken about the size of his vehicle, muttering a curse, as his foot collides with the door.

“Okay, fine, let’s just switch to that fucking grass.”

“Sure,” she agrees, intent to remind him that it was her idea in the first place, although is quick to opt out of it, and instead flashes Harrison an encouraging smile, left to watch him struggling to open the door. It is sort of funny, with all the uttered curses, as he attempts to emerge from the confined space – a sight that carries a positive impact as it wipes away certain image from her consciousness – him as an absolute Sex God, and her as a bashful ingénue, awkward and inexperienced when it comes to the physical matter.

Also, she finds the grass aspect interesting – a link with nature that she has always been searching for in life, a call-back to her uncle anecdotes oscillating around the college days, along with the hippie period that she adores so much – honeyed tale of a bygone phase that corresponds with yet another ponderation.

If she was to associate herself with a decade, she would definitely opt for the sixties – a period she has gotten to taste but not relish – marked by the civil movement towards more humane qualities and the ensuing reunification with nature, or an idealized image that has been branded in her consciousness as a direct result of all those lucrative stories. Even though she is yet to be purified by such form of awareness, drowning deep in the idealistic realm, there are times when her hand someway grazes the surface – a fleeting touch, more like a suggestion than a stroke.

Which corresponds with the manner he brushes her arm with, having spread a dark blanket on the grass – a nonverbal invitation to lay down with him, to which she complies, allowing him to recreate the prior position. Circumstances that force her to look Harrison in the eye, now that he is hovering above her again, glazed with emotion that she cannot quite comprehend, pristine and potent, thus someway hypnotizing as it attracts her attention, infectious and intoxicating.

Drunk.

Appropriate synopsis for the notion consuming his mind, occurring as he stares at the woman below, clad in a simple white bralette – an embodiment of purity, thus a call-back to the prior concepts oscillating around the idealistic aspect, a scrape over the perfectionistic surface. Desire that finally prompts him to pursue with the fascination, and thus bow down to tease the sun-kissed skin of her cleavage with his lips, ensued by the tongue that draws a heated trace up to her mouth, where he nips at the plump flesh, eliciting a breathy gasp from the female.

An interesting sensation to say the least, bound to leave the tender flesh tingling afterwards – parallel to the multitude of needles grazing the surface – resonating through the body and causing Florence to squeeze her thighs together – an alteration that fails to evade his perceptibility. Therefore, his movements come to a halt, gaze drifting back to the flushed blonde, as her own escapes to the side – a self-preservation attempt, crafted on the go as a form of feigned unawareness, but still a hint that he is able to decipher, and thus opts for drifting with the flow by lying a single hand on the inner part of her legs – a silent prompt to pry them apart.

Somehow, the self-indicating manner catches her speechless, and thus for a brief moment she only stares at him, thigh muscles twitching once or twice, before she regains the capacity to formulate any response, and parts her legs a little – a nonverbal consent. Nearly an expert in this field, he takes it as an invitation, granting him with an opportunity to unbutton the high waisted shorts, then pull them down with a bit of help from the female as she lifts her hips and kicks the clothing the rest of the way.

Having propped herself up on the elbows, she flashes him an inquisitive look, goosebumps trailing down the exposed parts of her flesh in anticipation for what is about to follow, curious when it comes to his intents. Nonetheless, with her mind fogged by the carnal cravings, the waiting process seems to be extending towards some incomprehensible time units that paint her skin red with arousal, revealing the very essence of physical urges, as if their presence was not manifested before. Furthermore, the heated blush crawling up her neck elicits a husky chuckle from the male – a mannerism that only enhances the inborne response, much to his amusement – which actually prompts him to break the peaceful silence, despite the fact he prefers to talk less during sex, thus focus on the variety of other stimuluses.

“Want me to touch you?” He asks, fingers brushing the edge of her underwear in a self-indicating manner, dipping underneath the waistband just to tease the sensitive skin there.

“Mm-hm,” she hums in response, attempting to take steadier inhales as her insides are twisting with nervousness, partly intent to press her legs together, as she is dying to mitigate the dull throb between them.

And yet, when prompted by the soothing circles drawn on her hip, she opts for right the opposite, providing him with the essential space – a bone thrown at the dog as well as a bait taken by the man, who is actually yearning to get rid of the triggering remains of her clothing. Therefore, he drags the underwear down the slim legs, with the upper garment soon following – action preluded by a little help from the woman, back arching from the ground in process – a sight that tilts the corners of his lips in a smug smirk, that gets him to twitch in the confinement of his pants, and almost yank the jeans down his legs in search for a certain kind of relief, even if only for a brief moment.

What actually follows though is the slope in the woman’s direction, brushing her lips once again, before his hand skims down the chest, teasing the protruding nipples as he follows, up to the point where it settles on the crease between her legs.

“Mm… fuck,” he groans as a twain of fingers trace the wettish slit, introduced with quite significant, albeit not soaking, amount of slickness – a gesture that elicits a breathy gasp from the female, caught off guard by the newfound pleasure. The sensation interesting to say the least, an alteration from the softer pads of her own fingers gliding through the folds as a parallel to the current setting. A part of her is yearning for that – the discovery that comes with adding yet another person to the mix, a person that she has bestowed with unprecedented affection, in other words an addiction to the sexual aspect, or rather its determinant. Furthermore, he has managed to stir something within her – an itch existing throughout the lifetime, lurking unacknowledged in the depths of her soul, which might as well be an exaggeration, nonetheless for the benefit of visualizing her condition.

What else appears as self-descriptive though is the subtle tingling in between her legs, ensued by a wave of heat spreading through her body – a factor that causes the female to rock into his hand, prompted by the instinctual stimulus, kissing her temple from the inside. As if having sensed that, he leans down to brush her lips, gleaming with a thin layer of saliva from the constant manner of swiping her tongue over it – a subtle caress that is bound to evolve into a full-blown French, as his body is gradually beginning to spin out of control, invaded by the constant reminders of his physical state – a craving beyond mental consciousness. Or a whim that induces Harrison to rearrange the hold, and thus he is quick to slide the middle finger inside – an action that elicits a helpless squeal from the female, caught off guard by the offbeat stretch, stinging ache blossoming in between her legs.

Although her very first reaction, purely instinctual, is to cut the insertion short with an evasive drag of her hips, she is quick to discover that the notion might appear as someway pleasant, especially when the movement is initiated – a single digit brushing repeatedly against a spongy tissue inside, an element of dubious existence up until now. Therefore, she cannot help but gasp softly, wriggling her hips in an attempt to alleviate the newfound tension, rocking a little against the heel of his palm – extra friction added to the mix.

A sensation that gets her to utter a breathy, “Harrison…” as an indirect plead for more, slicing through the warm evening air, a whimper that sends a shiver down his spine, or a delightful contrast from the heated temperature. He hums something in response, an indistinct verbalization, nudging her nose by accident, as he leans in to brush the subtly parted lips, having sensed that the frequent kisses carry some positive influence over Florence – a will to unravel both in physical and mental realm.

As a matter of fact, there is a distinctive aspect to it all, an exploration that he has been aiming towards, intent to discover what else the world has to offer – a challenge to verify adaptational fluency, to enrich his collection of experiences, thus understand the variety of contrasting viewpoints, which is also one of the reasons justifying his pick. As a realistically thinking man, he is almost convinced that whatever connection they have, the relationship is still bound to resolve in a terminative way, considering her college entry and his professional obligations.

A twain of souls linked for a split of eternity, if he was to mimic his ex’s speech manners.

Such a misplaced composition.

Which might as well be perceived as a matter of distraction from the carnal fixation consuming his mind, a will to rock into her body, to engulf in the variety of sensations as he is straining the now compact space within his pants. An indication that his patience is indeed running thin, and thus a reason for the development towards far more onerous depths, effort-consuming when faced with the requirement to drag the activity, someway obliged to ensure she will not opt for granting him with the oh-so-desirable case of blue balls, when confronted with the denouement creeping closer and closer as a parallel to the amount of wetness leaking onto his palm.

(Fuck.)

“Fuck,” he groans into her neck, muscles straining with exertion from holding his body up in the same position for a little longer than usual, and thus he is bound to lean back a little, intent to switch their position.

Halting point.

A transition that elicits an outraged whine from the woman, a statement of discontent as well as a plead to pursue further with whatever conception he has in mind – a reminiscence of his college encounters when he would be guaranteed with an opportunity to explore the newfound dimension. And even though in the following years, the circumstances have someway switched, considering he has reached the place of terminal responsibilities, the place where he is obliged to grant them with essential comfort, where each contract of commission parallels with yet another teenage daughter, or some other niece, falling for him, which might as well make him a philander, but at this point he doubts whether he actually cares.

The circumstances that get him to wonder about the adulthood’s distinctive aspects, one of them being a tendency to belittle the subjects of once significant importance, now reduced to the mere windblow, turning the biographical pages, easy to be rearranged back in their prior order.

So why bother with the complicated vision, relationship conspectus, why opt out of the fleetingness, the pleasure of experiencing one unique moment carved from eternity’s timeline, of discovering that one very specific person, carrying on with the conversation until the viewpoints collide in one spot – the final comprehension.

Or a prompt to pursue with the hinted amount of time in mind.

And thus, he catches her off guard with an sudden tug upright, palms resting on his shoulders in search for balance, as he pulls the woman on his lap, sliding the hand back in between her legs, although this time he doubles the amount of fingers, stretching the constricted muscles a little. An action ensued by yet another breathy whimper from the woman, twitching as if to accommodate the girth, monstrous in comparison to her own digit, albeit someway pleasant as she rocks into his palm, rubbing the clit against the very hill of it.

“Fuck, that’s it, that’s it, good girl,” he mutters into her hair, teasing the earlobe with his lips, nearly as greedy for the denouement as the woman in his arms, who is currently clutching at the biceps, flexing due to extra pressure. “C’mon, Florence.”

A voicing that elicits a breathy moan from the female, thighs trembling as she struggles to comprehend the odd sensation blossoming in the pit of her stomach, an emphasis of pleasure, climbing higher and higher with each curling movement. Somehow, a part of her is dying to fall, to discover the joy of floating in the air, even if only for a split second, tingling as he explores the swollen folds, begging him with the rhythmical sways of her hips, with the cat-like arch of her back, and the desperate, “Harrison,” thrown in his direction.

“Mm-hm, that’s it,” he hums, warm breath tickling her forehead, lips brushing the flesh there as he speaks. “Just relax and let it happen.”

Which is exactly what she does, squeezing the pair of fingers, as if intent to pull them even further inside, balancing on the cusp in between the twain of states – desperation and delight – even if only for a brief moment – a transitional phase that ensures the satisfaction. With the last brush against her walls, the now unbearable coil snaps, leaving a wave of continuous tremors racing through her body, bound to spread all the way to the tingling nipples that he decides to pinch with the free hand, seemingly out of context, but pointedly enough to elicit a choked gasp from the woman.

And what a sight she is now, arched in his direction, with head thrown back, exposing the smooth column of her neck, or a place that he would love to mark, blemish with the purple bruise – a whim ensued by a sharp bite into the tender flesh, or an action bound to draw a surprised squeal from the female. Confronted with such notion, she cannot help but tilt her head to the side, granting him with more access, an opportunity chosen to be ignored, as he seems intent to leave a certain aftertaste – quite distinctive hunger variant, personal and thus only to be satiated by an equally specific person.

As if on the contrary, he pulls out the digits that have been nested inside the whole time, which allowed him to experience the rhythmical pulsing of her walls – an instinctual response to the brief moment of pleasure. Left empty once again, she utters a discontented moan, squeezing around physical nothing, parallel to the pair of hands clutching at his shoulders – a nonverbal indication of what she is expecting from him – and when her hips tilt towards his, probably with no peculiar ambition in mind, he almost snaps, ready to pin the woman to the blanket in one swift movement.

A matter of increasing frustrations, inborne fixations that have been defining his existence for all these years, driving him towards the ostensibly final attitude, where he has begun to perceive certain aspects as an organic part of human existence. Take for instance the sexuality, associated with a whole scale ranging from pridefulness to abashment, considered through the liberal and conservative prisms. And since his mindset is undoubtedly associated with the former, he often struggles to comprehend the reluctancy of certain people, along with their regard for outside opinions, their concern about self-image portraited in front of the eyes of others.

There are times when it gets him to wonder how stressful lives they are obliged to lead, restricted by the set of personal norms, how pathetic it must be to look at oneself in the mirror, valuating the possible judgments of society, how they abandon the quality of existence in the physical realm. Ergo, if he is to gift Florence with anything, it will most certainly be the respect for her own desires, the volition to explore the sexuality, or the preservation from all the embarrassment-related constructs, instead of any stable relationship.

(Tragic?)

(Well, not really.)

Therefore, he opts for granting her with an actual choice when it comes to the pace, thus ensure it will leave a pleasant memory, since all first times are bound to create an ever present impact on the whole field, determine the future attitude towards certain aspects. Even though she appears as willing to give him the reins, hiding her face in the crook of his neck, warm breaths palpable on the tender flesh there, ready to submit, dance to his tune, fulfill almost every of his whims, he chooses to interfere with said tendency, as mentioned.

Cradling the side of her face with his clean hand, he lifts the chin up to his level, hazel crossing with green once again that night, pupils blown wide with lust, neck painted with a reddish hue, as they gaze into each other’s eyes. Unable to bear the intensity, she attempts to evade the contact, but he holds it steady, skimming the side of her neck with the fingertips, causing the woman to lean further into his touch.

“You can do whatever you want,” he proposes – a simplification of the prior contemplations – to which she responds with a confused expression, thrown off-kilter by the fluent range of perspectives sprawling in front of her – a paradox of variable selection that actually disturbs the decision process. “I’m all yours for now.”

“Wh-what?” She stutters, frowning as for the evident lack of comprehension, determined by the privilege of open interpretation – a realm for blossoming doubts.

“Just do whatever feels good for you, and we’ll be good to go,” he reiterates, hands skimming down her sides only to settle on the waist – a nonverbal indication that she is allowed to touch him as well, an action of rather sparse occurrence, when caught off guard by the skillful caress centered around her persona. The movement itself allows her to feel the wettish trace left by the twain of digits that have been inside her merely moments prior, an indication of blatant primality, weaseling its way through the partial patience, thus manifesting itself through his actions, the trembling of his fingers atop her skin.

A physical evidence of the payment that comes with attraction towards such women – some peculiar form of torture, mainly regarding the carnal aspect, bodily frustrations ensuing the conditional patience – burdensome obligation. Caught in the circumstances where he is forced to succumb, considering the second option appears beyond unacceptable – a slave of their innocence, their inborne bashfulness, their reluctance of further pursuit. Them who lay their initial experience, affection maybe, in the hands of the man who is never to return the emotional aspect with equal commitment, bound to move on after the job is finalized – a lifelong cycle that he has chosen to participate in.

“Wanna touch me or not?” He rasps, voice an octave lower as he tethers on the cusp of impatience, frustrated to the point where he is ready to pin her to the ground, then fuck until she will lose the capacity to formulate any coherent sentence.

“Yes, yes, I… um… I’m sorry,” she stutters, shaking her head a little to wake up from the odd trance that she has been floating in for the past few minutes, required to comprehend the post-orgasmic circumstances, or rather the genealogist’s proposition – a matter of speechless contemplation.

“Christ, don’t apologize, just get on with it,” he huffs – an evidence of calmness deficits, not so intricate to surmise, considering the ragging hard-on inside his jeans. “It’s, well, just sex, no great philosophy behind it.”

“Um, okay,” she chuckles nervously, hands sliding down his shoulders to the chest area, ready to dive in the exploration process, thus verify what is awaiting her just around the corner, to experience the pain-sprinkled pleasure that she has heard so much about.

The postponement anticipating finalization.

Ironically though, there is yet another aspect to it all – an intuitive prompt of relatively disturbing nature, built upon the ‘just-sex’ statements, a doubt oscillating between a twain of scenarios. What if she is only a vent for his carnal phantasies, what if the crucial decision has already been made, what if their ways are bound to part in the aftermath, ensued by a mystical promise of a comeback on some unspecified day – an infantile belief of an equally ingenuous lass. But still, with the rhythmical throbbing between her legs, the sex-related denouement is inevitable – a form of bodily slavery that defines her terminal choice.

Ergo, ensued by the last peck – a fleeting brush against his lips – she gets off the prior spot on his lap, lying back on the blanket once again, quick to cross her legs in an instinctual attempt to cover the vulva, disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. From where Florence is propped on the elbows, she can see his shoulders jerking with each uneven breath, hands reaching down to unbuckle the leather belt, partially betraying his titillation. Lust-driven man, who is now obliged to stand up if intent to remove the last pair of barriers, both the pants and the underwear in one motion, somehow steady in spite of the conspicuous excitement, revealing the throbbing hard-on – a sight that gets her to question the stretching capacities of her own body.

Whilst such doubts are indeed someway illogical, they still invade her mindset, crawling in between the variety of sore stories either told by one of her friends, or overheard in the high school locker-room, unsettling especially when paired with the sight of penis in person, or a man who settles down beside her legs, lying his hands on the knees, intent to spread them apart. A shift to which she responds with a tensed twitch of her muscles, shutting the eyes tightly in time with yet another jerky inhale – a poor calming construct, awaiting its sensible substitute from Harrison.

A comforting speech accompanied by a heavy sigh – a display of impatience – further ensued by an actual verbalization, a compound of words that she has been dying to hear – a matter of illusionary comfort?

(Christ, no.)

“Hey, look at me,” he prompts, hands sliding up her thighs to massage the rigid flesh, eliciting a soft moan from the woman as they creep a little higher, applying the telltale pressure atop their inner parts. “It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“Really?” She frowns, spreading her legs a bit, at least enough to invite him in between them, twitching when his palms rest on the hips, the front of his thighs brushing against the back of hers.

“Well yes… unless you get tensed, obviously,” he chuckles, intent to relieve the hassle in the first place, although in the end the sound comes as more husky than lighthearted, arousal evident in the smoky tone.

“Well, I am tensed,” she mimics his manner, at least attempts to, considering the amount of stress currently consuming her mind.

(God, why couldn’t anyone tell me it’d be this hard?)

“Yeah, I suppose you are,” he agrees, muttering the words under his breath as he leans down to her, hand finding its way back in between her legs, intent to ensure she will be ready for their crucial denouement tonight. Sliding a pair of fingers inside, he elicits a breathy gasp from the partner, drawing them apart in order to scissor her open, as his thumb presses to the clit, stroking the nub in time with each thrust.

And fuck, does it send her flying…

Up to the altitude where she is struggling to comprehend the nature of her current situation, where her eyelids are falling shut, and her head is spinning, body arching towards him, hips rocking in a dreamy, moderate manner, craving more of his touch. As if on the contrary, he removes the fingers, in other words deprives the greedy woman from the subtle caress that she has been drinking in for the past few minutes, quick to rearrange the grip in order to pull her a little closer, thus find a convenient position to finally meet both of their needs.

Caught in such feverish state of mind, neither of them bother to take care of any form of protection, dying to cut straight to the point, to end the decadent suffering – a pursuit consuming his perception. Having smeared the remains of her wetness on his member, he is ready to line with her entrance, slip in between the parted folds, warm, luscious, and inviting, pulsing as he draws a one-way path down. With a final glance thrown in her direction, pupils dilated almost to the point where they swallow the hazel irises, he slides in – a gradual movement that still elicits an broken moan from the woman as well as a frustrated groan from him, engulfed by the heated cocoon, fluttering around his shape.

And fuck, does it send him flying…

“Mm… fuck…” he curses under his breath after a particularly tight contraction – an inborne response to the alien intrusion. “Tell me when you’ll want me to move.”

In the first place, she only hums in response, wrapping her arms around his frame, nails scratching the nape of his neck, hips wriggling to test the newfound position, voice a little breathy as she chooses to speak up after a brief interval, required to collect the final thought.

“I’m okay, really,” she ensures, fingers now playing with the shorter hairs at the back of his head, as she meets his gaze, obscured by a thin curtain of lust. “It wasn’t that painful.”

“Told you so,” he remarks with a brief eyeroll, but in the end throws her a fleeting smirk – a gesture that sweeps her with some odd wave of reassurance, a wave that prompts her to wrap the legs around his waist, lifting up a little higher to test the waters, which in the end earns a murmured praise from the genealogist. “Mm-hm, just like that… such a good girl…”

A broken sentence that nearly gets her to moan out loud, insides twitching around his member, which elicits a subdued hiss from the man, ensued by something else, an expression of entirely different nature – a smirk playing upon his lips, evoked by a newfound realization.

“Aren’t you a dirty little girl…”

“I’m not- I… no!” She denies, as if utterly outraged.

“No?” He banters, cocking an eyebrow at the abashed woman, before he sweeps his tongue up her cleavage, feeling the walls flutter around him, as if only to affirm the ever-present surmise. “And what about now?”

“I’m…” she hesitates, someway frustrated by the continuous stillness, perception centered around the pulsing shape inside her, begging to rock into it. “God, just get on with it, please.”

A plead that gets him to chuckle in response – a throaty noise that sends a shiver down her spine, thick with arousal – as if only to vex her even further, to watch her unravel in the emotional way – a spectacle of personal nature.

Therefore, he is determined to pursuit with said conception, withdrawing a little just to push back in once again – an action that elicits a breathy whine from her as well as a relieved sigh from him that is quick to transfer into a hiss, with her nails biting into his flesh, caught in the newfound sensation. Somehow pleasurable, there is no need to deny it, albeit alien at the same time, alternative in comparison with the one delivered by his fingers, now clasped around her thigh and the waist, keeping the woman in place for future reference.

Or maybe more flowing than forthcoming, with the gradual build-up of rhythm, hips rocking in repetitive motions, which forces a high-pitched squeal from her throat, as he nudges a peculiar spot inside, previously grazed by his fingers, no emphasis, or regularity, but now… that is a whole different story. The sensation seems to pierce through the slight discomfort that comes with the stretch, mingle in between the incessant discomfort, thus alleviate the unpleasant notion on the benefit of something that actually resembles the whole fuss about sex. Even though it is by any means queer, there is still a part of her that craves the constant stimulation, consumed by the thirst for whatever he is willing to deliver on the course of their developing act – a passive observer.

And she is dying to change that.

Therefore, with the following inhale, she tugs him down to her level, joining their lips in a caress that might as well be considered a kiss, if not for the fact that they are rather breathing into each other’s mouths, moving without any actual concept, noses bumping as he seeks for dominance, primal in its vicious nature, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip hard enough to draw a pained squeal from the woman. Even though the man is quick to soothe the sharp sting with his tongue, he bites back hers when she tries to seize the opportunity and dive in for the French manner, as if intent to pursue only on his very own conditions – a turnabout that she is less than satisfied with.

“Don’t tease me like that, please,” she complains, thrown off guard by the wicked smirk playing upon his lips, eyes glinting with some lascivious intent – a nourishment for all the ambivalent attitudes, distinctive when it comes to the odd man in front of her.

“Tease you?” He baits, halting the movements once he begins to speak, which elicits a displeased moan from the woman, hips lifting up as an innate reaction to the sudden stillness. “Like what exactly?”

“God, you’re so-”

“So… what?”

“So fru- ah-” he interrupts her answer with a particularly sharp thrust, tearing yet another moan from the woman, as if only to rile her up even further, “so frustrating.”

“Oh, thank you,” he retorts, lips still laced with the same teasing smirk that infuriates her more than anything else at the moment. “But I’ve been told that before.”

“Oh really?” A sarcastic query that only prompts him to elongate the exasperating experience. “I wouldn’t have told.”

“I bet you wouldn’t,” he teases, a response adorned with a brief chuckle.

“Okay, but move now, please,” she reiterates, gradually growing more and more impatient with the lack of friction.

“Now?” He mimics, a taunting manner that enhances the irritation, solely on purpose. “And what about you?”

“I don’t… what- ah-”

Seemingly out of nowhere, he is to interrupt her with yet another movement – an alteration from their usual position – flipping them over so that she is lying on the top instead, calves pressing to his thighs, as if in search for some illusionary balance. Confused with the sudden turn of events, she is only able to stare at him, loosening the hold around his shoulders, swept with the realization that the current settling is indeed quite steady, deprived of any excess swaying.

At least until he decides to disturb the physical stability with one of his random statements.

“I want you to ride me.”

A proposition pulled out of blue.

“You want me to do what?” She asks, forehead marked by an almost signature frown, visibly caught off guard.

“To ride me,” he repeats, hands swiping up and down her back in repetitive strokes – a gesture of calming nature, easy to succeed in that realm – a matter of questionable benefit. “C’mon Florence, I’ll guide you.”

“Okay, but, um… I don’t know if I’ll manage, really,” she hesitates, cheeks tinted with a hint of blush, someway embarrassed about the concept that he will watch her like this – a perspective leaving nothing to imagination. “It’s kind of like… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Just grind your hips,” he instructs, hands sliding down to rest there as an embodiment of the aforementioned guidance. “The rest comes naturally, trust me.”

“Um… okay,” she nods, having decided to meet his needs in the end, even if they require stepping out of the comfort zone – a lifelong pursuit. “I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” he mutters against her lips, catching the bottom one for a brief kiss, adorned with a subtle smirk as a reaction for the breathy gasp slipping past her lips – a manifest of the inborne bashfulness. “Lift up.”

With a movement that someway betrays the subsiding hindrance, she complies, rising up to a seated position with both palms pressed to his chest, surprised when he follows her path, wrapping one arm around the waist, while using the other to support his weight from behind, anticipating the performance. Or an act that she is willing to deliver, and thus shifts her hips for the very first time in such settling, immediate to realize how much she has been longing for that form of friction – a discovery more than perceptible in the way she is squirming atop his lap, squealing once her clit rubs against his pubic bone.

“Oh God,” she moans, swept away with the gradually intensifying sensation, a blinding contrast to the previous lack of stimulation, building up more and more with each grind, now that she has found the most convenient position.

“Feels good, huh?” He rasps after a few longer moments, hand rising up to her chest, since the languid pace that she has chosen requires no support from the back, intent to speed up the process with the repetitive pulsing of her inner muscles – a threat of premature ending – at the same time dying to witness her orgasm once again tonight.

Captivating.

Raw when led by the instinctual prompts.

Ravishing with all the insecurities casted aside.

Candied treat that lures him to take a bite.

A whim manifesting itself in the way he cradles her breast, weighing the flesh in his hand, before he teases the protruding bud, drawing a relieved sigh from the woman, thirsty for more stimulation, a quality evident in the deep-rooted moan, uttered mere seconds later. A noise that he has never heard from Florence, and thus a response that causes him to twitch inside her, all of sudden craving to alter their position, to create the opportunity that will allow him to gain more control over the situation.

(Or to fuck her exactly as I please.)

“C’mon, Florence,” he encourages instead, hissing once she clenched around him, still struggling to control that part of her anatomy, caught in the most peculiar state – delight foreshadowing the denouement.

Having opted out of a verbal answer this time, she covers his lips with hers, suppressing the occasional noises coming from her throat, tongue flicking over his in some frenzied state of bliss, body arching towards him in search for more contact – a factor that she is craving more than anything right now. Which might as well be a lie, considering the greedy grinds of her hips, pushing the woman closer and closer to the second finish tonight, blossoming in the pit of her stomach, spreading akin to a summertime conflagration, consuming acres of land on the course of its existence.

And she would be damned if she was not craving to burn.

To be swept with a wave of tingling delight, squeezing him tighter than ever, which nearly gets him to burst, crying out when her clit bumps with his pubic bone, entirely too sensitive for such form of stimulation, swimming on the wave that has crashed to the shore. Therefore, deprived of the essential ability to comprehend what is happening around her, she utters a whine of protest as soon as he flips them around, intent to pull out before he loses the composure, which he succeeds in seconds later, leaving her pulsing around nothing, eyelids closed to shield herself from the outside world, still lost in some parallel realm. Settled in such position, she misses the sight of him delivering his member the last few strokes – a fast-pace show, with the very intention to follow her path sooner than later – an objective that has been blossoming inside his mind on the course of their developing encounter.

Spasming with the waves of aftershocks, he someway finds his place beside her, laying down on the blanket with a single arm draped over his face, breathing in heavily as he waits for the heartbeat to return back to normal. With his eyes closed, he fails to notice her reaching for his hand, until the first brush of her fingers is tangible atop his flesh, slipping them in between his, pleased with the lack of protest, although somehow disappointed that he does not return the subtle squeeze that she delivers.

Therefore, obliged by the odd need to break the silence, she utters one last statement – a ‘thank you’ adorned in the hopeful plead, eyes glued to his profile as she begins to speak.

“Harrison?”

“Huh?”

“We could do that again some time if you’d want to.”

(Oh Florence, what a silly little girl you are…)

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who chose to believe, to believe in the aspects of great absurdity, of blind faith, of continuous equivocation – a wayfarer of the traitorous path, surprised by each arising chagrin. In her case the distress is caused by the end of one phase, a transition from the carefree summer to sinister college period, faced with the fretfulness that comes with each change, with each lonely challenge on the walk of life. A defiance that she has forced herself to pursue with, well aware that any sudden alteration will look ridiculous in the eyes of her parents, caught in the ever-present doubt concerning the coping part.

(Liar.)

(…)

(Such a pathetic little liar. Like how can’t you even admit it to yourself?)

(Christ, I’m sorry, okay? Chill out, not everyone is as perfect as you are.)

(There you go, good girl…)

(Ugh, fuck off.)

(Mm… sassy, that’s more I like it.)

(I said-)

“Florence?” A voice that slices through the duel of thoughts, someway attracting her attention, thus pulling the woman out of the contemplational depth, not that she is entirely pleased with such turnabout. “I’d like you to say goodbye to our guest.”

“Sure aunt, I’m coming,” she sighs, reluctant to rise from her seat on the garden bench, surrounded by the cooling summer air – a sign of the approaching evening, presumably the worst of them all.

No more no less than a path to the main entrance, feet padding against the tiles, head bowed low as if it would spare the unpleasant image of him surrounded by the luggage, ready for the departure. Even clad in the same flax shirt from their first encounter (she can tell by the faded stain on his sleeve), he is to greet her with a polite smile, so cold and alien at the same time, as if they barely knew each other.

God, how she hates him right now…

“Give me a hand with the papers?” He asks, gesturing towards the set of tubes supported by his suitcase, a help that she is certain holds no purpose, other than sharing some information with the woman – a communique that is bound to exacerbate her state.

“Fine,” she agrees either way, since it would be ridiculous to refuse him now – a childish behavior that she wishes she will not personify in his memories.

Therefore, intent to get it done as soon as possible, she is quick to reach for the papers, ready to toss them on the backseat – a place that she used to be so fond of in the past, but now… God, she wishes she had the ability to forget that summer, atrocious in its allurement, and thus someway forced to interrupt the track of thoughts, to break the bitter silence.

“We’ve never swum in that lake.”

(Really? That’s the best you can come up with now? Christ.)

“Well,” he chuckles – a teasing tone that unnerves her more than anything, that gets her to regret even initiating that topic in the first place. “I think we had better things to do.”

(God, what was I even thinking?)

“Yeah, maybe we had,” she sighs, almost sobbing out loud when she turns around to face him, already leaning on the driver’s door, mere minutes from the departure.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he flashes her an apologetic smile – a sight that finally manages to break the illusionary composure, forcing a broken sob from her constricted throat. “C’mere.”

Or a prompt that requires no reiteration, calling her to jump straight into his arms, to feel his warmth surround her for that one last time, to engulf in his scent – a calming composition of some woody fragrances that she has adored ever since.

Why does it all have to taste do bitter now?

“Florence?”

“Y-yes?” She sobs, having sensed that any form of hindrance is useless in such state, thus allows the tears to flow freely as she glances at him with these wide, green eyes, chin wobbling in anticipation for what is bound to be his final goodbye.

“Good luck with the college,” he mutters against her hair, lips brushing the top of the head – an action that elicits yet another chocked noise from her throat. “And… give me a call sometimes.”

Having grasped her by the hand, he slips a tiny card in the half-clutched fist – a movement that remains almost unnoticed, with her lost in the process of pondering whether she should kiss him or not. Which in the end turns out as a decision that is apparently not hers to make, as he is quicker to act upon the instinct, and thus lean in to cover her lips with his – their personal farewell, dulcet and dreamy, a brief interval carved from the eternity’s timeline.

Or a prelude to the final disconnection, to the moment when he is obliged to slip from the embrace, leaving her cold and empty on the cobbled path, as he gets in the car, ready to twist the key in ignition, allowing her to witness the terminal drive down to the road – a sight that has Florence covering her mouth, intent to suppress the repetitive sobs that are to consume the woman again once he has chosen to abandon her in front of the mansion – a cycle of continuous nature, deprived of the putative final.

Such a dramatic tendency.

Or a perspective that somehow gets her to wonder what a pity it is that they have never swum in that lake.

“Fat chances we’ll ever be.”

 Created: 03/09/21 Completed: 06/13/21 Edited: 06/18/21

[meta-shadowsong]

Quick response to Mandalorian season finale

Behind a cut because, well.

Okay, yes, I am in this show for Dadalorian and Found Family etc. But I am at least as invested in the plotline this season about various factions of Mandalorians and their, for lack of a better word, sectarian disputes. Which frequently result in barfights. Because Mandalorians.

(AKA that scene where they picked up Bo and her minion was. A Delight.)

(Also, I love my girl Bo-Katan. Even if she’s very much a blunt instrument/not a politician going at this in all the wrong ways and was Very Rude to Boba but tbh I wasn’t 100% sure she was going to show up in this episode and I would’ve been Sad if we hadn’t gotten to see them meet. Either here or next season.)

(Still Sad at the lack of Sabine, though :( )

Leaving aside anything re: Gina Caranno (because that has been discussed by people much smarter and better-informed than myself), I’m kind of thrilled that the strike team was Almost Entirely Ladies.

(On that note. Uh. Does anyone else kinda. That little “Anyone else, we can take” smirk. And I just. Uh. Bo/Fennec, anyone??????)

(I kind of already ship Bo with Ventress tbh but a) multishipping ftw and b) threesome??????)

(Hi I’m shallow sometimes lol)

Anyway moving on.

Also the sound/almost-music when the Cylons Dark Troopers were activating was Excellent I approve.

And that Visual of the one trooper Din set on fire. ...honestly that whole hallway fight sequence was pretty Brilliant.

And the sort of...almost casual layer of the scene in the elevator. Even if these women haven’t worked together before, just that, “sure you don’t need any help with that?” “I got it. Excuse me.”

And that whole thing where Gideon was trying to Manipulate Din and he was like “...dude, I legit just care about the kid. I’ll fight for/with Bo-Katan because she’s pretty badass and I Might As Well plus she gets me what I want but I don’t...actually...Care about her Greater Cause?”

(Side note, I’ve spent a lot of time writing Bo-Katan/figuring out how her head works and literally all she cares about is Mandalore and its survival. It’s why she broke away from her sister in the first place, and has informed every single thing she’s done since. A lot of why she makes the specific choices she does goes back to the Mandalorian Civil War and her experiences there--especially since all the evidence indicates she was not with Satine and Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon. The way that separation and their different experiences of that conflict probably contributed to the eventual destruction of what seems likely to have been a Very Close Relationship before that is fascinating to me. And the subject of a fic I’ve been working on off and on for a couple years now, lol.)

(...anyway, where I was going with this was--I mean, yes, Gideon knows everything in terms of facts, but he doesn’t always interpret them correctly. IMO, Bo-Katan’s desire to rule Mandalore is less about power (for herself) than it is about Mandalore. Especially given some of what she says to Sabine in Rebels--if there was someone else she genuinely trusted to take the throne and rule her world, she’d be willing to cede her claim and be one of their generals. Especially since she’s very much not a political animal. She’s an excellent war leader, but not so much in terms of actual Governance.)

(insert long ramble about the Parallels between her and Anakin, which I touched on in one of my fanfics, lol; and will probably do more with in my BB project which involves the two of them and Padme as the main characters)

(And, yeah, she does want to fight Din for the right, but if she thought Din would be a good Duke/King of Mandalore, I think she would seriously considering swearing allegiance to him? Again, witness how she handled things with Sabine. Also she would probs prefer to avoid a third (fourth?) civil war in her lifetime. But, I mean. I love Din but he is. He is not a Leader. Not like her people need.)

(And I think the way things played out with Sabine affects her decisions here, too--she did accept the Darksaber as a gift/tribute then, but proceeded to lose it. Maybe she does need to fight for it the way Maul and Viszla did (presumably; we don’t know how he got the Darksaber; it may be something he inherited/have been held by House Viszla for a while, even if they never used it to dethrone the Kryzes until now).)

(But, then again, I mean, this has been her life for at least a decade, so...well, maybe she wouldn’t quite step aside. Even if an Absolutely Perfect candidate came along. But WRT Din specifically--given who he is and what he’s capable of, while she absolutely wants him in her camp (and on a personal level isn’t super thrilled about having to fight him like this; she seems to genuinely like this kid), my guess is she doesn’t want him ruling. Not without some more actual leadership training/experience. Because, well, he’s been either a follower or a loner in everything we’ve seen him in, and given Bo’s opinion of (possibly experience with?) the Watch/the group who raised him, and the fact that he’s consistently shown himself to have super-narrow priorities and not really caring about much outside of them...yeah, she probs has some Concerns.)

(Plus, he clearly doesn’t want it. And you have to Want It on some level in order to be an effective ruler--that Wanting can be from genuine altruism/wanting to make the world better, like we see with Bail and Padme; it can be from single-minded determination to Make Things Right, like Satine and I would argue Bo-Katan (Leia falls into either the first or second category, depending on the point in her storyline); and it can come from a desire for personal power and advancement (as we see with Pre Viszla and, of course, Skeev Palpatine himself; to be fair, rulers in this third category tend to be bad in other ways lol). But someone who genuinely doesn’t want power generally kind of Sucks when they’re unexpectedly handed it. Which I could cite several IRL historical examples of. And, I mean, obviously, this isn’t the only factor in play for what makes a good ruler/leader (see above re: Palps and Pre Viszla), but it is a factor.)

(Also, to clarify: none of these are bad qualities/traits, necessarily? Like, traits are good or bad depending on whatever context a person/character finds themself in. And in Din’s current context, with his current life and mission--even in situations where he has to coordinate with other groups in the service of a larger goal--these are excellent traits to have. But for someone who’s responsible for an entire nation? Not so much.)

(One could argue that Bo has some Issues there, too, albeit different ones, which is why I think she might be willing to step aside and cede her claim to a Genuinely Good/Better Alternative, if she found one. She’s a war-leader, not a ruler, and the two jobs require overlapping but different skillsets.)

(..........honestly? I don’t think the show would go there, but I think the two of them as a team/partnership ruling Mandalore would actually be really effective? Either on an equal footing or with one as the Official Ruler and the other as a second-in-command/right-hand. She has the leadership expertise and the actual will and drive to pull this off, and he has the diplomatic skill, as we see with the Tusken Raiders, among others.)

(Not a romantic partnership, lol, that would be Weird, but a political and probably eventually platonically affectionate one. Especially with how Mandalore feels about family of choice/adoption, and the fact that they’re both kind of alone now (whatever happened to Korkie, anyway??) even if no formal adoption is likely in their case...)

(Anyway. Uh. Long tangent aside...)

(also if there’s anyone who didn’t see Gideon trying to decapitate Din when his back was turned...IDEK what you were expecting. Like. I am All About guys like Pellaeon in the Imperial ranks, and the fact that there might be a few people who would make that offer/deal and be on the level. To say nothing of my best beloved Alexsandr Kallus. But. Uh. Gideon is. Not one of them.)

(Also, I thought it was a Nice Touch when the spear started turning red--because, no, the Darksaber can’t cut pure beskar. But it does generate heat, as we’ve seen in, say, TPM. And beskar does melt.)

Also, called it on tossing the Cylons Dark Troopers out the airlock Not Working in the long term.

While it’s not Cool or Flashy like a bomb or slicing, the Cylons Dark Troopers pounding the doors down with their goddamn fists was Cool and Terrifying in all the best ways.

Side note--I think even if I hadn’t been spoiled (forgot to mute the spoiler channels on the SW Discords I’m on before going to bed, and checked on autopilot), X-wing + Grogu perking up would’ve probably clued me in and I would’ve been SHRIEKING. I was still vibrating super hard even though I knew who was coming, but it probably would’ve been slightly more XD

(and then a moment of HAHA GIDEON KNOWS WHAT’S COMING)

(and so does my girl Bo)

(and then the green ‘saber and the glove and other costume details and IF YA DIDN’T SCREAM BEFORE YOU SURE ARE NOW!!!!)

(Kind of cool that they waited until the last minute before showing his actual face though)

NO MY GIRL BO-KATAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(IF YOU DIE WHO WILL GET DRUNK AND SWAP WAR STORIES AND MAYBE HAVE VICTORY SEX WITH FENNEC)

(shut up i’m shallow)

(also I love her she’s legit one of my favorite characters in this series I don’t want her to die DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD:)

OH GOOD SHE GOT UP

(yeah that was my actual real-time reaction to her getting shot lol)

“Talent without training is nothing.” ::insert Obvious/Tired joke about Luke having all of three months’ training At Best::

(also, I mentioned this in my last quick reaction, as well as elsewhere, but I’m...still kind of uncomfortable with the continuing implication that the Jedi path is the only option other than Darkness. Not because it’s a bad one, either in the PT-era or with Luke’s reconstruction. But the idea that the only way to achieve the mindset/emotional stability/whatever needed to wield the Force without Falling is through adapting the Jedi philosophy sits wrong with me. especially the implication that you can only do so from an early age/in isolation from other influences or bonds; which is a word I’m using very specifically because there’s a difference between Attachment as defined by the Jedi and interpersonal bonds which they clearly have and I don’t want this to get derailed by that particular Discourse(tm) That doesn’t even super hold up on Earth, with a single species, let alone in a galaxy with trillions of beings of multiple different species. Basically, people and the galaxy--and by extension the Force, which is in part created/influenced by living beings--are way too complicated for there to be only one right answer.)

(Also, it...doesn’t really hold up with the core message of Star Wars, which is about Choice? If the only way you can be a Good Force Adept is by meeting this extremely narrow set of criteria, most of which are outside your possible control......but I should probably save this for a separate post, lol.)

(The point is, I mentioned earlier in the post how much I’m LOVING the throughline in this season about different factions/sects among Mandalorians, and I think it would be Great if we got more of that with Jedi/Light adepts.)

(Anyway. Uh. Back to the episode...)

That FACE MOMENT had me legit crying omg

ARTOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!@@21!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

omg had they MET

I...don’t know what I was expecting from the credits but Welp. I wonder who the body double was...

(And before you ask, I didn’t really get the Uncanny Valley effect from Rogue One, not even Tarkin, so.....yeah, I guess I don’t always pick up on that, or it hits me from weird directions, lol. Because I sometimes get that from the Rebels animation, especially in stills/gifsets, because everyone’s faces are all so Smooth...)

.........Jabba’s palace, okay.

.......Bib Fortuna, Okay.

(those fingernails, however, are Not Okay)

YAY RESCUE THE GIRL.

Good on you, Boba, just shooting him in the face instead of letting him posture!

although why you want to rule Tatooine is...okay then.

LOL at Fennec perching on the arm of the chair, sipping her booze all casual-like.

Right! So that was an Experience! Overall, I liked it. Looking forward to how Din and Bo handle things moving forward, in particular! Because, like I said, I’m in this series for Dadalorian (so IDK how I’ll feel with it no longer being the Core Story since Grogu left with Luke) and in this season for the Mandalorian factions/sects and how they interact.

I’m also not sure how I feel about three interconnected series leading up to a Major Finale Event? Disney’s Star Wars has not had a super great track record with giving all the information needed to follow things in the core product (see: the ST worldbuilding lol, and also some of the cameos/appearances in this season, even), so I’m Skeptical of how well they’ll do explaining what is Necessary in each of the three series, in case someone only watches one or two.

What were your thoughts?

[pynkhues]

I feel like if they don't bring the viewers Brio kiss/sex scene(s) this season, this will be our last season. It's sad to see but the majority of the casual viewers are watching 'cause of Brio.

Hmm, I feel like that’s a pretty unfair statement, anon. 

Unless you have an in to the backend data of the show – which I certainly know I don’t, haha – at the end of the day, none of us know what the casual viewers are there for.

Maybe you have anecdotal evidence, or are thinking in the context of the fandom, or how people respond on social media, but frankly, that’s not a good indication of anything beyond the ways that you personally engage with the show. 

That’s not a criticism, of course! I’m the same after all – the ways that I engage with the show certainly lean into the shippier elements of it all – but I actually can anecdotally say as well that I got both my mum and my aunt hooked on the show, and both of them are firmly on the Beth x Herself train and think Rio shouldn’t be anything more than the s2 fling, and I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who agree with them, particularly women in their demographic who would likely make up a lot of the audience who were watching it live on NBC in America. 

Fandom

Fandom and shipping, to be frank, is actually not a clear indication of a broader audience either, and on top of that, just because people are vocal supporters and make fanworks of a ship, doesn’t mean that that ship is the only reason they watch the show. I mean, I can only speak for myself in this particular instance, but I feel like I’m pretty active in the Beth x Rio ship – I run this blog, I’ve written an absurd amount of fic, I’ve answered literally thousands of asks about them as characters and as a ‘ship at this point – and if Manny was to leave the show, I’d be really bummed, but I wouldn’t stop watching it. 

Even the people who do say they’ll stop watching usually don’t. I could give you a list of fans on tumblr who said they were done with the show after 2.13, but showed up to watch 3.01 live (again, not a criticism), so there’s that to take into account too. 

Social media

I don’t disagree that if you look at the show’s social media, it does push Beth and Rio (I mean, that’s become even more apparent with the script-to-screen videos), and that they do generally pander to that part of the fanbase, which makes sense, because that’s who’s most vocal on social media.

That said, as somebody who’s worked pretty extensively in social media for organisations before (albeit, usually in the non-profit sector), social media is not a good indication at all of an audience, and frequently has a really low coversion rate as to engagement with an actual product (which, at the end of the day, a show is). Like - extremely low. 

As in under 3% low. 

So think of it this way – all those commenters on Instagram and Twitter begging for Brio? They form a microcosm on paper in terms of the broader marketing of the show.  

All of that means to focus alone on those users misses a huge, huge part of the show’s audience – particularly those casual viewers who you’ve used as an example here – and to ignore that audience does a disservice not just to those viewers, but to the show itself and the characters whose arcs are perhaps more appealing to casual viewers (Ruby’s in particular springs to mind). 

The Good Girls social media accounts are close to four years old now too, y’know? Which means they know who their core audience is on these specific platforms (i.e. Instagram, Twitter and YouTube), so they’ll contine to cultivate and feed them by giving them what they want, and leave the other audiences to the other arms of marketing. There’s a reason there was a particular focus in s3 on morning shows after all, which taps into a broader audience like, well, my mum and my aunt, neither of whom are on Twitter or Instagram. 

A quick note on Brio intimacy in s4

This is just an aside, but look, I think we’ve got to prepare ourselves for less physical intimacy and not more in s4 given the pandemic. The safety restrictions are going to have a huge impact on what, when and how they shoot the season, and who knows what that looks like yet. 

Jenna and Bill actually talked about it a bit in the interview they did with Duke University with Retta and Liz Katz (Head of Scripted at NBC) and while it sounds like they’re trying to ensure it won’t affect what happens with the main cast, they did say there would likely be less locations outside of the studio used, less extras and guest actors, and a lot more contained stories overall. 

These limitations could end up working in the show’s favour (I think the show is often at it’s best when it’s pretty contained), but it could also prove hindering and difficult, depending on what happens. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. 

[atrayo]

Jewels of Truth Statements and Favorite Quotes of the Month of November

Hello All,

I hope those of you in the States had a safe and pleasant Thanksgiving Holiday. I haven't posted so much due to some holiday blues. This is the 1st holiday season I'm spending alone. Otherwise, my mother which I'm a caregiver from a distance for the past 9 months. She will be shortly transferred to a long-term skilled nursing facility (SNF) versus her current memory care assisted living facility. (ALF). Due to her deteriorating health conditions overall, thus the holiday blues in part.

Aside from this human drama, I'm still channeling the angels just not as frequently as before. It's always been in cycles of periods of heavy-duty inspirational automatic writing and then periods I enter the doldrums over these 25+ years. Perhaps it's their way to keep me frosty without burning me out throughout the year.

Today's trio of angelic channeled "Jewels of Truth" statements are on the topics of Worship, Humanity Creates God Fulfills, and Divination & Magicks. I've always have channeled as a universal all-inclusive compassionate faith perspective. As if God has no favorite form of spiritual tradition or religion since it is all him in various flavors. Thus I can easily touch briefly on a statement that has Christianity, Hinduism, and Paganism all in one like a melting pot of the glorified heavens eternal.

May you find today's statements intriguing even though they may challenge you spiritually. Which is a good thing for it expands your inventory of possibilities of the Great Mystery of God in earnest. Amen.

Worship:

2989) To the heart that believes and dares to know in impossible realities through God(dess). You shall never be truly alone in the starry heavens of your galaxy and beyond into your cosmos. You are an intrepid knower on the soul level of what is miraculous is very much real to the divine essence of the Creator.

Theology or not, dogma and rhetoric can not withstand the pure heart of an earnest worshipper of the Constant Soul of God(dess). To draw conclusions that sit beyond the safe parameters of the known. No matter if clergy can quantify it or not by cultural faiths and norms. Yours is the conviction of things hoped for but rarely acknowledged as seen and much less heard as common or otherwise as to the wider scope of the metaphysical endless realities.

Here stands the giant of audacity and the trivial fool not willing to take a positive stand with realized merit in action and internal poise of character. Only the driven with an Imagined knowing can seize the powerful and the sacrosanct to behold the Mysticism of an Almighty Living God. Amen.  ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Humanity Creates, God Fulfills:

2985) To the seeker who realizes many absurd things of his/her own native humanistic reality as skewed. Must acknowledge the differences that exist as a spectrum of potentialities some of which come into unbalanced fruition.

The Divine spiritual and religious traditions globally has been an attempt by humanity to transcend its mundane limitations. Now the Science experiment has replaced the ideations of the gods as angels and/or a Creator spiritually as God in part. It is merely one philosophical doctrine replacing another by evolutionary tendencies that are wholly natural by the arc of the eons of mortal existence.

The Universe is both seeped in the Divine regardless of Xyz of a particular faith tradition. It is also godless without spirituality as each entity as a childlike creation of a cryptic Maker has the liberty to choose within this Great Mystery. To this effect, the point of origin of existence is a paradox of godly/angelic design. It is subjective and objective simultaneously of your very mundane human finite lifetimes.

Each of you are vehicles as projections of the Infinite nature of the Universe extraordinarily so. This Universe is God-centric and it is not. The Universe of immense populated souls times infinite comprehension is just another stratum of higher echelon interpretation of the one Supreme Soul of God(dess). This Universe physical or otherwise metaphysical is just another incarnation of a spirit entity as a child of God. Much like your planet of the earth is Mother Earth as a spiritual sister to the singular Soul of God(dess). Which all life shares as its own rightful incarnation at a greater scale of life is Mother Earth and Father Sky than one mortal lifetime as people are predisposed as lifeforms to date. The Universe is only a subset of the Created children of a Majestic Deity which includes the astral multi-verse of the afterlife. (ie the heavens, limbos, and despicable hells)

Every philosophy dependent on like-kind is an expression trying to grapple with the meaning and function of existence at large. Humanity upon antiquity and before recorded history has always aimed its divinity to the stars of the cosmos. This is aside from the animism of the spiritual glory of the gods as angels found upon the myriad creatures of this earth. With limitless abandon of the afterlife has humanity with Imagination projected its Will of Mankind outwards.

In so far of this projection of the human condition wrapped around the enigma of the divine auspices of the soul of Life itself. Humanity created in its own flawed Image and Likeness to this very era. Be it philosophies as religions, spiritual traditions, the branches of the sciences, and so forth. It is natural and a noble enterprise for any semi-sentient species to attempt in order to embark on realizing its very limitless nature of God in them collectively.

Humanity upon antiquity created Pantheons of lesser deities not unlike the traditions of the human saints as patrons. Where every patron under the proverbial sky is a governor of a certain aspect of your reality in earnest. Be it of the human condition and/or of meteorological wonders and other meta forms of existence as its very misunderstood conundrums. Some succeed in piercing the veils of the astral metaverse of the spiritual continuum of what you term as the supernatural afterlife.

Meaning the afterlife is the angelic playground of the gods and goddesses as the lesser deities of all combined macro-mythologies across all realities simultaneously extraordinaire. Some worshippers of the angels (ie lesser deities) of now mostly dead religions as schools of thought that later became philosophical doctrines of various orders of a similar kind. Whereas the instance of the School of Diana (Artemis) as the ancient Greco-roman goddess. Is an angelic presence of the heavenly Olympus as the astral Kingdom of God in a metaverse all of its own divine nature.

You see where the children of God worship anything whatsoever as real or unreal all that raw spiritual power dynamo of the Soul of God for centuries has to go somewhere. Thus it becomes enchanted by magical or otherwise divine means under the Will of God mysterious as it stands. All myths and Legends are treated as reality upon the spiritual afterlife regardless if it was real or not on Earth and beyond. Anything that a semi-sentient species like humanity upon the cosmos worship through the Meta-Supreme Almighty Soul of God(dess). Becomes christened as a divine keepsake eternal entity given a spirit body as a zeitgeist of its era or society of its subsequent civilization(s) that birthed it philosophically.

Moreover, anything with sufficient reverence as adorations by humanity en masse. Becomes deified by the Will of God(dess) as the Great Mystery Loves to Create Wonders through its Children Forever as Divine Immaculate Law. A perpetual grandiose cause and effect conundrum on a scale that dwarfs comprehension. Of our combined spiritual understandings as mortals having a finite existence as people much less realized as eternal souls.

This is truly a thing of beauty as an unintended consequence of spirituality with timeless repercussions. God enchants through all of its/his/her Infinite Children as spiritual bodies in motion in any reality whatsoever that it is pleased. Humanity is no exception to this rule of cosmic divinity. So the angelic goddess entity of "Artemis/Diana" is man-made fictitious lore of a now-dead religious theological Hellenistic period of humanity. Albeit paradoxically she was born with her twin brother Helios/Apollo god of an angel by the metaphysics explained above. She isn't immortal stalking the earth as the huntress. She is a christened angel a lesser deity as a spirit body created by humanity's ancient greek soulful devotions worshipped spiritually speaking. Over two thousand years plus of worship and a spirit is born upon the astral realms of humanity.

It doesn't end there...Every Spirit Body given life as an angel as holy and unholy that was/is/will be worshipped by humanity across the centuries well into the eons. Is adopted by a like-kind Oversoul real angelic deity of a higher divine reality or echelon of spiritual significance with equal or near-equal similar attributes. So an Oversoul angelic meta-presence wears the humanity created spirit entity like a mask or costume akin to cosplay on a cosmic scale of the afterlife. So the spirit created by humanity as Artemis worshipped for two eons at least is worn like a mask or costume by a legitimate angel of the Lord God as an intercessor with similar like-kind inferences of divine forms. Living out sincerely its own mythology created by humanity as theological at its own discretion as it is required for eternity.

So when certain humans worship deeply in the astral afterlife an angelic vessel spirit body deity is created. Some religions as priestly classes bend the fabric of metaphysical reality to even create philosophies of High Magicks. To interact with said lesser deities (ie Artemis and Apollo) including systems of divination as Oracle spiritual traditions. Much like Michael Angelos's depiction as a ceiling mural of the Sistine Chapel of Man attempting to touch God finger to finger.

Humanity is a carnal rebirth or echo of the vast litany of angelic spiritual species of various stages of soulful eternal evolution. It is the Constant Will of a Living Creator God(dess) to create, recreate as sustaining, to destroy, and so forth in its Supreme Perfect Angelic Image and Likeness Forever. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Divination & Magicks:

2984) Every form of simplistic to complicated ritualized and technical form of Divination system on Earth. Has its own corresponding High Magicks associated with it. With numerous expressions of energetic spiritual clearings/purifications of space with evocations and Invocations at large. Besides any other accompanying blessings and healings at least in the framework of the heavenly beneficent realms of grace.

This is to showcase to you "Ivan the Atrayo" what you deemed as an entry-level Intuitive holy gift of God. Is far wider and farther than meets the typical eyes, hearts, and minds of a genuine seeker of the divine. To name any form of divination from Viking Runes or your choice of a type of Astrology (ie Western, Indigenous American (ie Mayan, etc...), Vedic, Chinese, and even Babylonian). All these mentioned and countless more in the dozens from the Tarot to Lenormands to regular playing deck of cards and so forth. These can have a generic or a very specific corresponding School of Magicks associated with it as extensions to forms of Oracle Mysticism.

You see that Caribbean Hoo Doo as the folk magicks of VooDoo as a pagan spiritual tradition. Having its onset from the Haitian African Diaspora due to the Colonial Era slave trade of Europe and of the Americans. Had richly held Nigerian Yoruba influences very strongly set when encountered by the Caucasians religion of Christianity where it syncretized itself. So the Catholic Saints such as Mother Mary Queen of Angels and/or Saint Barbara for instance. Were blended together to make a cross-pollinated thing of beauty to such common folk of the Caribbean.

It is no different how the Ancient Greco religion influenced the Ancient Romans and yet again the Cult of Christianity upon Antiquity became the State Religion of the Romans. There are countless instances historically of other forms of spiritually fueled diviners creating and adopting magical interpretations of the divine given their epoch in time. Everything upon Creation is a constant melting pot of creativity for all perceived endless spiritual realities.

For all mortal kind and the heavenly afterlife with the angels as the lesser deities as corresponding anchors to the magicks in question. The global ancestors borrowed from other cultures they encountered as foreigners across routes of mass commerce and by subjugation through warfare. As the world evolved societies have come and gone as territories have become certain empires influenced the ages spiritually.

It is with this plethora of souls that opportunities present themselves time and again. For systems of divinations and subsequent magickal orders are latched onto the angels and lesser deities. To perform and safeguard our better lives as the practitioner sees fit by either faith or secular whims. The Will of God is all-inclusive for it is only the selfish petty whims of humanity that seek to control and centralize what is otherwise abundant not only on Earth but in the Cosmos.

No matter religion or spiritual persuasion no one is turned away that seeks greater spiritual union with the divine by whichever means makes the most sense to them. Thus the Oracle Spiritual Arts and the Magical Branches as Meta-Sciences as your Divine Inheritance of God(dess) have appeal globally no matter the epoch one is located therein. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

You have power over your mind-not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength. ---Marcus Aurelius.

When you feel yourself breaking down, may you break open instead. May every experience in life be a door that opens your heart, expands your understanding, and leads you to freedom. ---Elizabeth Lesser.

Ride the winds of change, unafraid. ---Larry Ward.

Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. ---Hebrews 11:1.

My religion is nature. That's what arouses those feelings of wonder and mysticism and gratitude in me. ---Oliver Sacks.

When we are fully alert in spirit, mind, and body, we are more than we imagine and can accomplish more than we suppose. ---Barbara Holmes.

We should appreciate the beauty in the diversity. It would be a boring world, if every flower were the same shape, color, and size. ---Muhammad Ali.

If you want to have a full and happy life, in good times and in bad, you have to get used to the idea that facing misfortune squarely is better than trying to escape from it. ---Norman Fischer.

Ivan "Atrayo" Pozo-Illas, has devoted 25 years of his life to the pursuit of clairvoyant Inspired automatic writing channeling the Angelic host. Ivan is the author of the spiritual wisdom series of "Jewels of Truth" consisting of 3 volumes published to date. He also channels conceptual designs that are multi-faceted for the next society to come that are solutions based as a form of dharmic service. Numerous examples of his work are available at "Atrayo's Oracle" blog site of 15 years plus online. Your welcome to visit his website "Jewelsoftruth.us" for further information or to contact Atrayo directly.  

[rctribvtn]

Have you ever noticed that ( JASON TODD ) from the ( DC UNIVERSE ) looks a lot like ( CURRAN WALTERS )? But ( HE ) also go/goes by ( RED HOOD ). Having the ability to/of ( EXPERT MARKSMAN/TACTICIAN, SKILLED MARTIAL ARTIST & HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT,  ENHANCED WEAPONS TECH, AND ENHANCED STRENGTH / SPEED / DURABILITY DUE TO LAZARUS PIT EXPOSURE. )  sure makes them a force to be reckoned with. Rumour has it they are ( 21 ) and is working as ( MORALLY GREY VIGILANTE ). 

𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌.

willis  and  catherine  todd  didn’t  have  the  perfect  marriage.  in  fact,  it  was  barely  a  happy  one.  willis  would  later  serve  time  in  prison,  a  career  criminal  by  day  and  a  shitty  husband  by  night,  and  when  his  time  was  up  ?  he’d  leave  his  family  behind.  their  only  child,  jason,  was  forced  to  raise  himself  as  his  mother  turned  to  drugs.  petty  crime  was  how  he  kept  a  roof  over  their  heads,  and  food  in  their  bellies.  there  was  no  one  to  look  after  him  so  he  looked  after  himself.  after  his  mother  died  of  an  accidental  overdose,  he  avoided  the  eyes  of  the  system  and  continued  a  life  of  petty  crime,  of  ripping  parts  off  cars  to  sell  for  cash,  and  did  so  until  he  was  caught  trying  to  jack  the  tires  off  the  bat-mobile.  he’d  managed  to  get  one  taken  off  but  got  caught  going  in  for  the  other  three.  

a  brief  stint  in  boarding  school,  which  failed  epically,  led  to  him  eventually  being  brought  on  as  the  new  robin.  batman  figured  channelling  his  anger  into  catching  criminals  might  prevent  him  from  becoming  one.  jason,  however,  was  a  problem.  he  didn’t  listen,  was  incredibly  impulsive,  and  was  more  violent  than  he  needed  to  be.  he  was  frequently  breaking  batman’s  cardinal  rules,  even  going  so  far  as  to  presumably  murdering  someone.  this  was  the  #1  rule.  bad  jason.   all  the  same,  bruce  kept  trying  to  beat  positive  ideologies  into  him.  he  tried  to  teach  him  right  from  wrong,  allow  him  to  see  things  from  a  less  grey  perspective,  but  growing  up  on  the  streets  had  already  twisted  his  sense  of  right  and  wrong.   it  was  too  late.

𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖇𝖑𝖊.

from  there,  most  of  what  happens  to  jason  in  titans  is  canon  for  him.  he’s  robin,  albeit  an  impulsive  one,  and  ends  up  joining  up  with  dick  and  the  titans  to  get  some  space.  shortly  after  where  the  show  ends  in  season  two,  when  jason’s  peaced  out  to  go  out  on  his  own,  he  finds  out  that  his  biological  mother  wasn’t  the  woman  who  gave  birth  to  him.  after  tracking  her  down,  he  finds  out  that  she  was  being  blackmailed  by  the  joker  to  lure  him  into  a  trap.  the  who’s  and  why’s  aren’t  important  but  in  the  end,  she  turns  him  over  to  the  joker  where  he’s  beaten  bloody  and  left  to  die  with  a  bomb  counting  down.   batman  doesn’t  make  it  in  time  and  he  dies.    or  does  he?

turns  out,  he  wasn’t  dead.  for  argument’s  sake,  given  that  bruce  isn’t  a  dumbie,  i’ll  say  maybe  joker  dosed  him  with  a  paralytic  or  something.  it  stopped  his  heart  long  enough  to  pass  for  him  being  dead.   so  when  he  claws  his  way  out  of  the  grave  shortly  after,  injured  beyond  comprehension  with  no  sense  of  himself,  it’s  simply  sheer  luck  that  sees  someone  find  him.  a  doctor  named  august  takes  him  in  and  nurses  him  back  to  health  as  best  he  can.  yet  over  the  months  that  his  body  recovers,  his  mind  never  does.   he  has  no  recollection  of  who  he  is,  or  where  he  belongs,  so  when  a  petty  criminal  recognizes  him  and  tips  off  talia  al-ghul,  he  sees  no  reason  to  be  distrustful  of  her  when  she  comes  for  him.   she  uses  the  lazarus  pit  to  heal  his  body  and  his  memory,  twisting  his  beliefs  and  convincing  him  that  bruce  didn’t  properly  avenge  his  death.   that  his  death  meant  nothing.   that  he  was  nothing.  

𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖘 𝖓𝖊𝖝𝖙?

after  determining  that  batman  showed  no  remorse  for  sparing  the  joker’s  life,  jason  decided  to  take  matters  into  his  own  hands.   he  attacked  the  joker,  beating  him  in  a  similar  fashion  to  how  he’d  been  beaten,  and  took  the  red  hood  from  him.   he  took  on  the  mantle  for  himself,  inserting  himself  into  gotham’s  criminal  underground.  as  the  red  hood,  he  assumes  control  over  several  gangs  in  gotham  and  starts  a  one-man  war  against  the  black  mask.  overall,  his  goal  is  to  cleanse  the  city  of  its  corruption,  such  as  drug  dealing  and  gang  violence.  he  also  aims  to  kill  the  joker  but  hey,  who  doesn’t.

presently,  jason’s  moving  on  up  in  the  world  to  new  york.  he  still  has  his  roots  in  gotham,  keeping  an  eye  on  the  criminal  populace  and  busting  in  when  need  be,  but  with  the  people  he  used  to  know  and  care  about  in  the  city  ...  he’s  on  high  alert,  slinking  in  the  shadows.  watching.  waiting.   he  intends  on  making  his  presence  known  at  some  point,  wants  to  know  why  the  people  that  claimed  to  care  about  him  did  nothing  to  avenge  his  death,  but  there’s  something  holding  him  back.   maybe  he’s  afraid  of  the  truth,  or  maybe  he’s  afraid  of  feeling  something  other  than  the  rage  that’s  been  poisoning  him  

tldr:  jason’s  a  loud-mouth,  impulsive,  kind  of  a  dick,  former  vigilante ( robin )  turned  anti-hero  (  red  hood  ).  he  died  roughly  two  years  ago  and  is  back  now,  but  the  only  people  that  likely  know  are  august  and  talia.  

𝖆𝖇𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖘.

there’s  a  lot  of  abilities  listed  on  the  wiki,  but  i’ll  give  you  a  few  as  examples.  the  rest  can  be  found  here  if  you’re  curious!

lazarus-enhanced  capabilities:   he  no  longer  ages,  or  if  he  does  it’s  at  a  degraded  rate,  and  he  regenerates  from  injuries  at  a  fast  rate.  his  strength,  speed,  stamina,  agility,  reflexes,  metabolism,  etc,  have  also  been  enhanced.  

peak  human  conditioning:  between  talia  and  bruce,  he’s  had  extreme  physical  training  and  meditation  techniques  drilled  into  his  head.  he’s  also  proficient  in  martial  arts  and  is  a  master  marksman.  

he’s  multilingual,  a  skilled  swordsman,  expert  acrobat,  blah,  blah,  blah.  basically  the  batfam  are  crazy  talented  and  geniuses.  

with  his  red  hood  costume,  i’m  going  with  version  3  babey.  the  brown  biker  jacket,  form  fitting  black  costume  underneath  with  the  red  bat  signal  on  the  chest.  everything’s  breathable  and  probably  made  of  something  similar  to  kevlar  even  if  he  is  almost  impossible  to  kill  at  this  point.  he  still  wears  the  red  helmet,  as  he’s  been  keeping  his  return  a  semi-secret  from  the  important  people  in  his  life.   his  weapons  of  choice  vary  but  are  normally  jericho  941′s,  shurikens,  a  flame  dagger.  depends  on  how  spicy  he’s  feeling  that  day.  

[serkthbhihanikemle-blog]

Sex and Age - Secrets of Sexual Health and Happiness

These days individuals lead a functioning lifestyle even at the older age, they travel and keep on doing what used to bring them pleasure at a more youthful age, including sex. Love vanquishes all ages and close connection is a legitimate continuation to sentimental infatuation.

Men and women similarly need to keep having full worth relationships at any age. Healthy sexual life well influences all parts of life including physical shape and confidence. Despite the fact that TV and movies tirelessly convince us that sex is something just teenagers and youths engage in, to say the least, it doesn't speak to the truth. The requirement for sex doesn't disappear with age. It is difficult to grow out of the requirement for adoration, enthusiastic closeness and closeness. Most of individuals have sexual dreams even at 80 and 90 years old.

For sure, sex when you are 80 differs from sex when you are 20, however it doesn't imply that sexual life at a more established age can't bring fulfillment and pleasure. Understanding the progressions that happen in your body or in your partner's body with age will assist you with getting ready for some conceivable sexual issues.

To start with, there are the natural age changes. As we as a whole know, our creature ages and our body wears out, and these natural age changes may impact our sexual life. Also, albeit regularly we are talking about physical changes, we ought not dismiss the mental changes too.

How about we talk about the physical changes first. Testosterone controls the sexual fascination in the two men and women. The assemblages of most maturing men and women produce the vital measure of testosterone to continue their enthusiasm for sex. Also, in spite of the fact that with age a portion of the parts of sex that we have become used to become difficult, these progressions are an extraordinary improvement to evaluate new positions and techniques.

The physical changes in a lady's body that occur with age are predominantly identified with menopause and the bringing down of the hormone estrogen's level. With age the creation of the vaginal ointment when sexually aroused takes additional time. The vagina loses its strength and flexibility. The entirety of this makes the sexual intercourse less wonderful or even excruciating. Moreover, women may feel a consuming sensation during sex or create seeping after the sexual intercourse is over. To invigorate the natural creation of the vaginal grease, it is important to engage in the foreplay. Another answer for this issue is utilizing a water based ointment (for instance K-Y jam), utilizing a cream containing estrogen or experiencing an estrogen-supplanting therapy. Standard sex keeps up the ordinary creation of the vaginal grease and the versatility of the vagina. Long forbearance can cause the vagina to lose its flexibility therefore it will require some investment to extend it for the penis. You ought to examine this issue with your partner and request that he move gradually so as to decrease your excruciating sensations.

Presently how about we proceed onward to mental changes. Keeping up the capacity to engage in sexual exercises at an old age depends on your body as well as on your cognizance. If you are embarrassed about your sexual needs, uneasiness and stress can adversely influence the capacity to encounter sexual excitement. The age related changes in your appearance may impact your enthusiastic transparency and capacity to go into a personal connection. The more wrinkles and silver hairs you notice, the lower your confidence becomes. You feel ugly. The negative mental self view stifles the sexual drive since you feel contemptible of sexual consideration from your partner and don't confide in him/her.

Stress and nervousness because of sexual conduct and possible disappointments in bed may incite sexual shortcoming (feebleness) in men and coldness in women. Try not to surge things and you might have the option to maintain a strategic distance from the passionate weight.

Talk about this irritated point with your partner; enlighten them concerning your feelings and stresses. Their help will assist you with recapturing trust in yourself.

So how would you be able to improve your sexual life with age? A ton of old individuals consider their cozy life more full than the one they used to have when they were more youthful. They are persuaded that with age sex just becomes better comparatively to great wine. So as to improve your sexual life you have to talk about any issues or dreams you may have all the more frequently and acquaint changes with your sexual collection.

You ought to extend your view on sex. Sex isn't only various physical activities so as to accomplish pleasure. Sex doesn't boil down to sexual intercourse. With age numerous individuals begin to welcome the correspondence when sex, which makes the closeness itself way more splendid. Petting and contacting may become an incredible option in contrast to sexual intercourse, even the least complex grasp may cause an orgasm. Think about sensual massage, masturbation or oral sex.

Discuss more with your partner. Nothing draws you as close as correspondence. Talk about the progressions that you are proceeding with your partner so as to see how you can dispose of any inconveniences and make sex far and away superior. Maybe, the arrangement will be another position or another sort of sexual correspondence, for instance massage. Get some information about his/her needs and dreams and consider how you can fulfill them. The conversation of sex itself is very stirring and can become an astounding foreplay.

Acquaint changes with your sexual daily practice. Straightforward changes can improve your private life. Move sex to when you feel the most flood of vitality. Have a go at engaging in sexual relations in the morning when you are brimming with quality following a decent night rest as opposed to delaying it until the day's end when you are depleted and depleted. Since you will require more opportunity to get aroused, put in a safe spot more opportunity for planning of the sentimental environment, for instance a sentimental supper, a gathering for simply you two or moving. Evaluate the new sex positions, don't simply adhere to the" evangelist" one. Search for the position that will be agreeable both for you and your partner.

Control your desires. If you didn't engage in sexual relations regularly when you were youthful don't hope to become a sex machine at a more seasoned age. Maybe, when you were youthful the statement of closeness for you was something different, for example, an intriguing talk and correspondence. If that is the situation, at that point a similar request of things will stay as you get more seasoned. Couples that used to love to engage in sexual relations when they were more youthful are probably not going to quit enjoying having intercourse as they get more established.

Deal with yourself. Healthy eating and ordinary physical exercise will help keep up you fit as a fiddle. This thus will help keep up your availability for sex at any age. Keep to a decent eating routine wealthy in foods grown from the ground. Exercise at any rate for 30 minutes per day each day of the week. Drink less liquor, it brings down both male and female sexual intensity. Medications, for instance weed and cocaine, additionally contrarily influence your sexual capacity.

If you don't have a sexual partner, this doesn't imply that you should abandon sex altogether. The greater part of older individuals over 65 years old in the US are single. It is as yet conceivable to discover new love at this age or basically set out on a sentimental experience which will prompt bed. Women live longer than men therefore there are progressively single women and finding a partner at an older age isn't unreasonably simple. Attempt to go to spots and occasions where you can meet individuals of your age. It is never past the point where it is possible to begin a relationship.

At the point when you do begin new sexual relationships remember about safe sex. A great deal of more seasoned individuals disregard it because they are certain that they are not at risk for getting tainted with a STD including AIDS. Despite this conclusion, AIDS isn't the malady of the youngsters. Among the individuals who experience the ill effects of AIDS in the US over 10% of individuals are over 50. Each individual taking part in sexual exercises, paying little mind to their age, can get contaminated with a STD. Either don't change your partner or practice safe sex with a condom. Examine the chance of AIDS tests with your partner. More established individuals once in a while experience such assessments.

Lastly talk to you specialist. Regularly older individuals feel embarrassed to examine sex with their primary care physician. However, such correspondence can assist you with bettering comprehend the age changes of your body and psyche just as their impact of your sexual action.

[downspiral]

* / post canon — legacies verse!

set after season 8 and on into the legacies timeline, with differences depending on whether or not stefan died. ultimately, damon returns home, ready to annoy everyone all over again, albeit slightly less than he used to. regardless of the version, damon is still a vampire; stefan used vervain to incapacitate him, not the cure. details below the cut, or at my verses page! 

( please note that i haven’t seen legacies or the originals yet, so events of those shows haven’t been factored in beyond the basic premises — i’m not familiar with all the characters, so these verses are not fully realised until i’ve worked my way through all the lore. please be patient with me! )

* / FOR THE LOVE OF A MAN.  /  stefan alive

after all that took place there, stefan and damon are undecided on whether or not to stay in mystic falls; when caroline and alaric tell them of their idea for a school, they agree to gift the house to them, and decide to move on from their history there.

damon ultimately takes the opportunity to get away for a while, having accepted both himself and his brother as they are, and wanders, accompanying bonnie on her travels now and then (to keep her out of trouble, he says, we don't want you having to saw your own arm off because you climbed mt everest alone.) when he isn't with her, he drifts — sometimes with stefan, sometimes alone, re-visiting old cities, old haunts, and making amends where he can ( though not so much that you'd confuse him with a guy who can't have fun anymore. )  mystic falls is still comfortable and familiar to him, however, and he returns every so often, to have a drink with caroline (she's no liz, but she'll do) or just to check alaric hasn't burned the place down. as his visits get more frequent, he impulse buys himself a little apartment overlooking the town square to use as a placeholder, and at some point, he forgets to leave.

* /  FOR THE LOSS OF A MAN.  /   stefan dead

after stefan's death, damon found himself unable to return to the salvatore boarding house and all the emotions it brought; afraid that his grief would make him flip his switch, and not wanting to cause more harm when he had only just managed to atone for everything he'd done to his friends, he gave the house to caroline and alaric — do whatever you want with it, he instructed, make it unrecognisable — and left town shortly after (though unlike the last time he was grieving someone he loved, he remembered to say goodbye.)

before he left mystic falls for what he assumed would be a long time, though, he asked bonnie for one last favour before he left ( bon-bon, i swear, i'll never ask you for anything again, not even a starbucks mocha on my 200th birthday ) — to find a way to prevent him from entering mystic falls, just in case, until they both deemed him no longer a risk. the only living soul who had familiarity with a spell that encased an entire town was kai, ensuing a trip to his prison world to investigate their options. ( more detailed verse on this pending. )

whatever the outcome, damon and bonnie discovered a loophole that didn't require any spell, as it happened — just paperwork. through some light 'persuasion' of various government officials and local landowners, damon and bonnie managed to essentially make the entire town of mystic falls a 'residence', with their trusted friends as the owners. thus, damon could only step foot in mystic falls again once he'd been invited in by someone who knew him well enough to know if it was safe to.

now knowing his friends were safe from him and all the possibilities of his mental state, damon travelled alone, generally in isolated places; cabins in alaska, mountainous regions of europe, and at one point a highly irradiated location in russia, where no humans were allowed to step foot. ( for the ones stupid enough to, he had the added stefan-approved atonement bonus of compelling them not to risk their lives for thrills any more. though perhaps he didn't word it as politely. )

as the years passed, damon came to terms with the loss of his brother; gradually he began to meet with his old friends here and there (though never within mystic falls), testing the waters, seeing how his emotions fared. eventually, the wound healed, and damon — with permission from his more level-headed friends — allowed himself to come home. ready to go back to being a general nuisance to everyone, he bought a small apartment near the town square to call his new home, since he'd hate to end up the live-in janitor who scares the supernatural kids. ( though more often than not he sleeps on alaric's couch — you steal my home, i'll steal yours, ric. )  he lives in mystic falls again as a trusted member of caroline’s inner circle, and possibly helps chaperone a field trip or two, if he’s feeling nice. any more than that and someone’s gonna owe him a drink.

[maddmuses]

John Lawrence

Age: 17-50s (Verse-Dependent)

Aliases: Johnny Lawrence

Date of Birth: August 20th, 1967

Appearance Johnny is a blonde man of above-average height (6'0” in adulthood) of wiry build. His features are masculine and defined, complimenting his physicality, giving him the appearance of a dangerous opponent to others. In his youth there was often a spark of energy in his eyes, a fire that came naturally to Johnny's spirit as a fighter, often accompanied by a confident smirk. While this energy became less present as he grew older, it was still there nonetheless during the right moments.

As he grew older, Johnny naturally put on weight, and his features took on some roundness and softening as he fellt out of shape, though the returned exercise of training again would take some of this away, but the fact of the matter is that Johnny has gotten older, and that changes you.

During his adolescence Johnny often wore fashionable clothes, particularly band shirts and bright leather jackets, accompanied with a headband that his girlfriend Ali gifted him for their anniversary. During training, Lawrence would also usually wear a white gi and belt of an appropriate color to his rank in Cobra Kai at the time, eventually becoming a black belt by fifteen. During tournaments, Johnny would wear a sleeveless tournament gi composed of the cobra kai colors, not eschewing his trademark headband that he wore at all times, even after he and Ali had broken up.

During adulthood Johnny tends to dress less nicely, often wearing t-shirts, particularly those of his favorite bands, and jeans. He is rarely seen wearing a suit, or anything of the like, unless the occasion demands it. Until he established his dojo, Johnny rarely wore his headband, only doing so during training even after this, as it served as little better than a bittersweet reminder of his loss to Daniel in both love and martial arts.

Personality A warrior and a wild soul, Johnny was once distant and meek, often remaining introverted and enforcing this separation from the rest of the world by listening to his Walkman, rather than engaging with others. Once he joined Cobra Kai, Kreese fostered the spirit in Johnny, allowing him to become confident and social, making friends through the dojo, becoming popular at school. However, as the lessons of Kreese's Cobra Kai took root in Lawrence's psyche, he would become aggressive, to the point of harassing new student LaRusso following a brief physical altercation during the summer of Johnny's senior high school year.

Despite this, he still had the ability to be soft-spoken and kind when he wanted to, having been an otherwise loving boyfriend to Eli, faulting primarily in his habit of partying with his friends, forgetting her birthday over the Summer. During this time he was still adamant in his desire to rekindle their relationship, if a bit over-forwards, which worked against him when competing against the newer, less-blatantly aggressive, LaRusso. Even when speaking to Eli's parents at the country club, Johnny was able to conduct himself with enough cordiality to seem a well-mannered suitor.

As Johnny and Daniel's rivalry wore on it would become evident that Kreese's teachings had poisoned his mind, making him blatantly violent and hostile towards Daniel, coupled with the other boy's taunting once it had been established that students of the dojo weren't to lay a finger on him. This would come to a head when Johnny, albeit with some reluctance, was still able to use underhanded tactics in a tournament match to take advantage of an opponent's injury, that was similarly taken through cheating that was ordered by Kreese. It was in this moment that Johnny had begun to second-guess his teacher, and was able to let go of his sadness and anger at losing, for the moment, to be a good sportsman and congratulate Daniel.

During adulthood Johnny's spirit has become tempered by years of live knocking him down, unable to hold a job, divorced, and estranged from his son, Johnny was largely going through the motions, only able to show his former fierceness when antagonized sufficiently. Due to Daniel's success in business, to the point of using the loss that Lawrence suffered as a gimmick for his marketing, Johnny was forced to constantly relive his loss at the '85 All-Valley, making him grow bitter and resentful of his former rival, though he was still initially able to show enough politeness to not completely put off Daniel to his presence, as they had mutually been able to do before. Johnny feels that he had been cheated by the illegal contact of Daniel's final kick, and that somehow if he'd won the All-Valley, his life may have taken a different turn.

This attitude resulted in Johnny largely remaining stuck in the 80s, as it were, not upgrading any of his technology, purchasing a new car, or keeping up with any trends or current events outside of his own decade, often regarding anything new with various degrees of disdain on-sight. While training his students, Johnny would become less reluctant to use technology, though he would still display a great degree of inproficiency when attempting to use computers, smartphones, and the like. However, he would still determine that technology was convenient enough, if somewhat confusing to a man in his early 50s, taking a hard regression against it when Miguel was hospitalized, and Cobra Kai stolen from him by Kreese.

Once he took on Miguel as a student, Johnny's attitude would still remain coarse, but he would slowly accept that people who were cool and badass may not need Cobra Kai as much as the “geeks” and “losers” that he so frequently mocked and berated. Indeed, he lacked some self-awareness in this regard, as Johnny had almost no friends before Cobra Kai, and seemed to have a superficial group of acquaintances during his youth, as he insisted that he would still “hook up with babes”. But it was through this change, whether knowing or not, that Lawrence would become a teacher to downtrodden young people of all kind, teaching them the same confidence and warrior spirit that improved his life during his own teenage years. However, while intending to withhold the components of Cobra Kai that were toxic, it had seemed that Lawrence attempted to do so too late, with his students taking on that same poison from Johnny and Kreese that had once made him a bully. Even Miguel, the Cobra Kai seemed second-least effected by the bad parts of Cobra Kai, initiated a drag-out brawl with Robby Keene that took actually winning the fight for Miguel to show the mercy that Johnny had spent the entire Summer trying to instill into his student.

Biography [Summary of Karate Kid and Johnny's appearances in Cobra Kai appear here]

Johnny's Karate The style of karate that Johnny Lawrence employs actually resembles Tang Soo Do more closely than any traditional style of karate, largely due to the americanized idea that any hand-to-hand martial art that wasn't some form of wrestling or boxing was “karate”. However, components of Johnny's form are also fairly similar to sport's karate, able to make contact and land efficiently, taking points and downing opponents, though Johnny employs techniques frequently that allow him to knock down and injure his foes, rather than stopping at contact.

A self-stylized offensive specialist, Johnny's style of teaching is reflected in this, even to the degree that when teaching his student, Miguel, about defense, he doubled-down on teaching even greater offensive technique. As long as Johnny is able to keep his foe on their heels through continued pressure and rapid combos, he is able to keep control of the fight, not allowing an opponent to keep things on their terms, even when successfully defending against him.

Despite his highly-offensive style, Johnny is able to execute a strong defense and block enemy attacks, as well as launch counters, as one might argue that his style is primarily counter-oriented, striking like a cobra, before an opponent can complete their less efficient attack. Interception, rather than full-countering. This becomes more evident as his skills improve into adulthood, barfights teaching him to fight against multiple opponents at the same time, having to rely more and more on this method of interception in order to knock an opponent's attacks wide through anticipation and attack.

By adulthood, Johnny's karate skills have advanced to such a degree that he can defeat John Kreese one-on-one, only having the fight result in a draw as he chose to take mercy on Kreese, allowing him to turn the tables after the fight had initially been resolved. This feat was only every achieved by one other character in the series, Mr. Miyagi, who defeated Kreese in both single combat, and in a one-on-three situation.

In terms of real-life martial arts rank, Johnny would be considered a 6th dan, with the ability to become a 7th dan, likely over the course of the subsequent seasons of Cobra Kai. In his original appearance in Karate Kid, he was a 2nd dan, potentially with the ability of a 3rd dan.

[worltahecte1978-blog]

Medicare for All? For More? Here’s How Medicare Works

Medicare, the government medical coverage program for individuals who are 65 or more seasoned, has progressed toward becoming something of a panacea in the Democratic presidential race.

Some applicants, including Senators Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, need to offer it to everybody and even extend its advantages. Others, similar to previous Representative Beto O’Rourke, need to give it consequently to individuals who don␙t have other medical coverage. Many, including previous Vice President Joseph R. Biden, need to give individuals the privilege to become tied up with a Medicare-like general health care coverage program.

Whatever their positions, Medicare is the thing that a large portion of the competitors are holding up as a model for all inclusive inclusion, an objective they all grasp.

Medicare is prominent among its 60 million recipients, yet the program likewise has impediments, and it is positively not вђњfree.вђќ Co-installments can be high for certain individuals, particularly for long haul hospitalization and a few meds. Some Democratic proposition, including those from Mr. Sanders and Ms. Warren, would change that by dispensing with premiums and deductibles, and pay for the program rather with higher assessments.

As extension of Medicare turns into a battle season energizing cry, we investigated what itвђ™s like to be on Medicare now.

Here are a few responses to essential questions.

What precisely does Medicare spread? Are the advantages great?

The advantages are complete, however not thorough. Medicare partitions benefits into classes. One, Part A, covers inpatient care at clinics and вђ" with certain cutoff points вђ" talented nursing offices, where individuals frequently go to recoup from damage or disease. It additionally covers hospice care and, in certain conditions, home social insurance. Another class, Part B, covers physical checkups, outpatient strategies and tests, some psychological well-being administrations, just as wheelchairs, walkers and other hardware. Professionally prescribed medications are secured under Part D. Part C is a secretly run overseen care choice called Medicare Advantage.

What doesnвђ™t Medicare cover?

Medicare doesn't cover glasses, fundamental eye tests, portable amplifiers and most dental consideration вђ" disappointing oversights for some recipients, who are at an age when they are bound to require these administrations. It likewise wonвђ™t pay for consideration got outside the United States.

But by a wide margin the most costly thing Medicare doesnвђ™t pay for is long haul care in nursing homes, helped living offices or at home. A few people purchase long haul care protection, or spend down their advantages for meet all requirements for Medicaid, which covers nursing home consideration. A private room in a nursing home cost a normal of $100,375 a year ago, as per Genworth, a monetary company.

How much does it cost?

Part An ordinarily has no month to month premiums (like Social Security, itвђ™s financed by finance assesses all specialists pay), however it has a deductible of $1,364 per вђњepisode of illness,вђќ in addition to a fixed sum вђ" as high as $682 per day вђ" in the event that you go through over 60 days in the emergency clinic.

For Part B вђ" doctorвђ™s visits and outpatient care вђ" premiums depend on pay. The standard premium this year is $135.50 per month, yet money related assistance is accessible for individuals with low livelihoods who donвђ™t meet all requirements for Medicaid, the administration wellbeing program for poor people, which covers pretty much everything.

Richer Medicare recipients вђ" people with yearly salaries over $500,000 вђ" pay $460.50 per month. Premiums are regularly deducted from peopleвђ™s Social Security checks. Part B likewise has a deductible of $185 per year, and co-installments of 20 percent after you come to your deductible.

Many individuals purchase supplemental “Medigap” protection to cover Medicare␙s out-of-pocket costs.

Unlike Affordable Care Act plans, Medicare has no top on out-of-pocket spending, so the expense can climb very high for wiped out individuals. An examination by the unprejudiced Kaiser Family Foundation found that Medicare enrollees in reasonable or weakness spent a normal of $6,128 in 2013, or 47 percent of normal Social Security income.

Prescription medication expenses can likewise be high in Medicare, and they speak to one of the most perplexing, confounding pieces of the program. Medicare Part D plans are controlled by private back up plans, and the premiums cost $40 every month all things considered for the current year, as indicated by Kaiser. There are likewise yearly deductibles before inclusion kicks in вђ" they are topped at $415 this year вђ" in addition to co-installments and coinsurance. In any case, if your pay is low enough, you may fit the bill for additional assistance paying for medications, and at times, owe no premiums or out-of-pocket costs.

Then, there is the feared вђњdoughnut holeвђќ вђ" a hole wherein the Medicare medication plans donвђ™t pay for patientsвђ™ prescriptions after they have spent a specific sum вђ" this year, $3,820. By then, enrollees need to pay 25 percent of the expense of brand-name drugs, and 37 percent of the expense of conventional medications, until their aggregate out-of-pocket spending has come to $5,100. When they hit that, they fit the bill for вђњcatastrophic coverage,вђќ and just pay a little co-installment for secured drugs for the remainder of the year.

Kaiser as of late found that one million Medicare recipients had out-of-pocket spending over the calamitous limit in 2017, averaging $3,214.

What is Medicare Advantage?

Medicare Advantage is an inexorably prominent option in contrast to conventional Medicare. Bit of leeway plans are offered by private safety net providers that have contracts with Medicare. These plans have no different advantages as customary Medicare, and regularly progressively, for example, dental consideration or gym enrollments. Co-pays and deductibles shift contingent upon the arrangement. In contrast to customary Medicare, all Medicare Advantage plans have limits вђ" $6,700 this year much of the time вђ" on out-of-pocket spending.

Medicare pays Advantage designs a fixed month to month aggregate for every recipient, while in conventional Medicare, suppliers are paid for each assistance dependent on a yearly charge plan. Subsequently, Advantage plans will in general use apparatuses like pre-approval prerequisites and severe supplier systems to control costs.

Those limitations can be a side road to individuals with a ton of restorative needs. A few information proposes individuals with Medicare Advantage will in general be more beneficial yet less affluent than those with conventional Medicare. One thing is sure: the private plans are developing in prevalence. Around 33% of Medicare beneficiaries, or 22 million individuals, presently have them, up from 6,000,000 in 2005.

Can individuals pick any specialist they need?

This depends generally on whether they have conventional Medicare or a Medicare Advantage plan. Customary Medicare enables recipients to look for consideration from any specialist or emergency clinic in the United States that acknowledges it, and doesn't expect referrals to pros or earlier approval for administrations.

But Medicare Advantage designs commonly have exacting systems of medicinal suppliers that recipients need to utilize except if they are happy to pay more. Some Advantage plans may cover care outside the system, as per the Center for Medicare Advocacy, yet the out-of-pocket expenses are commonly higher than for in-arrange care. Favorable position plans do cover crisis care outside their system вђ" on the off chance that you are voyaging locally, for instance вђ" yet nothing else.

Does each specialist and emergency clinic acknowledge Medicare?

No, however generally do. As indicated by the government Centers for Medicare and Medicaid, 2,752 specialists and different suppliers quit Medicare in 2018 вђ" a moment number considering there are more than one million rehearsing specialists alone. Specialists are the greatest classification of specialists who quit, as per Kaiser.

A little portion of specialists who acknowledge Medicare are called вђњnonparticipating providers,вђќ meaning they can charge Medicare patients higher expenses, up to a specific farthest point. The patients are in charge of paying everything past what Medicare pays вђ" a training called balance billing.

It is much progressively uncommon for an emergency clinic not to acknowledge Medicare, albeit some private mental or other claim to fame clinics that take into account the well off may not.

Can you request a choice if Medicare will not cover a help?

Yes, albeit few individuals make this stride, at any rate as per a report a year ago by the overseer general at the Department of Health and Human Services. The report found that recipients and suppliers advanced in excess of 863,000 dissents from 2014 through 2016 вђ" just around 1 percent of the complete number of disavowals during that period. Be that as it may, their prosperity rate was high: About 70 percent of the interests were completely fruitful at the main level (there are five potential levels to continue speaking to), as per the report. Most were from suppliers with respect to installments that had been denied, not patients in regards to administrations that had been denied.

Reed Abelson contributed reporting.