#elliptical sentences

[catandgirlcomic]

Cat and Girl's Gym for Serious People

[abibliophobiaa]

Beyond - s.h. x f!reader

Chapter Six: Would I Lie to You, Baby?

special thank you to @myosotisa and @loveshotzz for the beta read and also @myosotisa for helping me with a special scene that takes place in this chapter!!

warnings: minor injury; mentions of alcohol; unwanted advances/flirting/touching - R receiving end; and a whole lot of fluffy modern day!rich!fake-husband!steve x afab!reader. (9.3k words)

masterlist

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 What’s that saying? 

Woman down. 

Abort mission. 

Houston, we have a problem. And boy do you have one. 

The day starts like any other, only because of the rainy weather that has plagued the city since September bled into October, you’ve been forced to take your morning walk indoors. And it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve used the personal gym in your home either. In fact, by now you’ve used it countless times. 

No. Instead, it’s the image that greets you upon entering that is a definitive ‘first time’ for you. Because there’s no forgetting the sight of your husband, bare chested, catching his breath as he rests on a bench. His hair is hidden beneath a baseball cap, a water bottle between his plush lips that manages to spill onto his chest with the intensity he’s chugging it. 

Oh, and his face? He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and Steve Harrington with a growing mustache and beard should be illegal. 

Jail time and a permanent sentence if you have any say in the matter. 

The reason why? 

Riling up his fake wife into a tizzy.  

The optic is…not helping your present situation. The dawning realization that seems intent on reminding you every single day that you’re attracted to your husband. Emotionally, physically—the whole of it. It’s infuriating, daunting and downright terrifying. But he can’t know that—can never know that, because of the deal. 

The deal. The arrangement. The rules. 

But lately, you want to throw them all out and burn that ridiculous contract he had you sign seemingly so long ago now. 

Suddenly, you’re hyper aware of the fact you’re staring, watching as his brows draw high on his forehead. With a swallow, you turn your head away, hating how your damn cheeks start to warm under his scrutiny. 

He’s probably loving it, too. Loving the way you shift on the spot, unsure of what to do beneath his stare, hugging yourself tight. 

Basing it on the smug grin that curls his lips alone, you know he has to be. 

“Figured I’d get in a workout because Charlie is napping,” you explain, stepping further into the room, stopping in front of the endless rows of dumbbells your husband keeps on a rack against the far wall of the room with wall to wall mirrors reflecting your nervous image back at you. “And also because it’s raining, I couldn’t go outside.”

“Uh huh.” He takes a final gulp of his water and places it down onto the floor beside him, about to start more bicep curls when he catches your image in the mirror. “Looking for something?” 

Maybe it’s your inability to figure out what weight dumbbells you should start with. Maybe it’s because you’re already forgetting the layout of the TikTok workout you watched earlier that evening you intended to try. Maybe it’s the fact you know you want to start lifting weights, if only to help with your running and dog walking business (some of those bigger dogs get a little rowdy). Maybe it’s the fact you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. As a result of all of that, your teeth pinch against your bottom lip, skin taut between, meeting his stare in the mirror.  

“I’ll probably just hop on the treadmill. Go for a walk,” you decide, cowering away from his curious stare to rush to the farther corner of the room where the cardio equipment is. 

The present set up has a treadmill, elliptical, stairmaster, and spin bike. More than you’ll ever need, but you’ll never complain because one of the perks now in being married to Steve is that you were able to cancel your own membership and save a little extra cash every month. Hopping on, you tap on the large screen panel to set your leisurely walking pace, pop a pair of headphones in your ears, and drown out the sounds in the room. 

The plan works. 

For all of five minutes. 

Because you’re minding your own business, bobbing along to “Bad Girls” by M.I.A. as you strut across your runway slash treadmill belt, when Steve decides to lift his weights once more. Uses his knees to help prop them up, going right into a set of overhead dumbbell presses. 

And damn it, if the sight of him when you walked in hadn’t sent you into orbit, this certainly does. 

From where you’re standing you can see his back. The constellation of moles you never really paid much attention to, but now want to mark the path of with your fingers. Want to trace them like the stars in the night sky. With every overhead arch, his sinewy back ripples, muscles in his arms straining, veins sparking to life beneath his skin. You can see the lines of his abdomen, the sweat pooling across ridges, clinging to those perfectly sculpted divots. Can see the way his chest jumps with each movement, making your thighs clench. 

Only—one's thighs shouldn’t clench on the treadmill. 

Except yours do. 

And promptly send you crashing onto the belt, skin ripping from your kneecap in one rapid swipe. 

A giant, gaping black hole in the floor would be a good escape right now. That or a meteor falling from the sky, with its target directed at your head. Anything to rid yourself of the mortification of your current dose of reality. 

Steve’s already dropping the dumbbells by the time you fall onto your rear, nearly crashing into the glass window in the process, your trembling hands clutching your scraped up knee. 

It burns. A white hot heat that has your eyes prickling, embarrassment burning like a heated iron in your chest. And to make matters worse, Steve utters out a soft “baby” as he drops down in front of you, and that might as well signify the end of all life function. Because not only have you fallen off a treadmill ogling your increasingly “not-so-fake-husband,” but now he is calling you “baby” on top of it all.  

“Baby, let me see,” you realize he’s saying as you come crashing back to reality, the hazel of his eyes growing darker as he crawls closer on the floor, trying to inspect your knee. With a reluctant sigh, your hands fall away, revealing the freshly torn skin. “That’s a mean looking burn. Come on, let's put something on that.”

“I’m fine right here,” you argue, back pressing against the mirrored wall.

“Why?” 

His brows lift high on his forehead, left hand curling over the unbroken skin of your left knee. You can see he’s wearing a black silicone wedding band today, not his usual wedding ring, and yet you don’t miss that simple gesture. Always wearing that symbol of your union, while your own are presently sitting high enough in a ring holder so Charlie won’t be able to mistake them for very expensive doggy chew toys.  

“It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.” 

“It’s a little burn, and then you’ll feel better,” he promises, giving your knee a little squeeze. “I’ll be so gentle.” 

“Steve.”

“Honey.”

“Well when you say it like that,” you say, snorting. 

He takes it as joking. Head shaking as you curl your hand around his and allow him to help lift you off the floor, body nearly careening into his at the force of it. But there’s a sincerity behind the joke; the way your heart thumps a little faster every time he utters his affections like that; every time he graces you with a token of his appreciation, or the lingering sweetness of a fond title when no one is around to hear it. Those little moments that are completely yours for the taking, hidden away from those who would watch your marriage under a microscope—those you continue to act in front of to keep up your facade.  

There’s an expectation, though you’re uncertain where it derives from, that he’ll take you to your bathroom, connected to your bedroom. It’s closest to the gym, as it is. But when you pass your doorway and end up in front of his bedroom, drawing the excited gaze of your puppy lazing on Steve’s bed, you find yourself freezing. Pausing in the entryway as you take in his room. Like your living room when you first moved in, it’s minimalistic. Huge, with a california king bed in the middle. But it’s limited in decor. White walls, black furniture and bedding, with a few pictures strewn about his walls. 

This is where he sleeps every night. Where he slips away to when you bid one another goodbye. Briefly, you wonder if he sleeps on his side, or maybe his back. Wonder if he slings a forearm over his eyes or tucks the back of his hand beneath his cheek to draw comfort. Or if he sleeps with the comforter pulled all the way up over his shoulders, or if he prefers them slung low around his hips. All things you shouldn’t be thinking about; especially not now, not as he tugs you along behind him into the adjoining master bathroom, telling Charlie to ‘sit’ in the doorway. 

The puppy drops down onto his haunches, and then lower still, onto his little elbows as Steve gestures for you to hop up onto the sink counter. Palms curl around the edge as he starts to rummage about in his medicine cabinet, finding the topical ointment he’d been looking for. He hadn’t been lying about being gentle. He’s all gentle brushes of a clean warm washcloth damp with water. He then lets the wound air dry as he stands in the cradle of your thighs, looking down at your face.   

“What were you doing for this to happen?” he asks, opening a large band aid to cover the surface of your knee and gliding a small helping of the antibacterial cream there. 

“Just…tripped.” 

“Just a little spill?” 

At your rapid nod, he presses the edge of the band aid down and glides the rest over the surface area of the burn. There’s a bit of a sting, but it settles into a dull ache. His touch lingers. A slow, delicate sweep over the top of your thigh that draws your gaze to his point of contact. It has you wishing nothing more than to lock your ankles around his narrow waist, tug him near, and drag his mouth down against yours. 

Only you don’t. 

Because they’re all fantasies. All fantasies struck up by close proximity to the man. A normal reaction after living with a man like Steve and playing house for four months now. 

Right…?

“You didn’t happen to be distracted or anything?” your husband queries, giving you another one of those swipes of his thumb over your bare thigh. 

Dangerous. 

He’s verging on dangerous territory. 

“My music was pretty loud.” 

He barks out a laugh. “Was it?” 

“Uh huh.” Another swipe. Is it getting hot in this damn bathroom? Must be an October heat wave. “What’s the damage, Dr. Harrington? Will I make it?”

“Might lose the knee,” he says gravely, bowing his head in faux sympathy.

A little gasp spills from your lips, hand curling over your heart dramatically. “The knee?” 

Charlie jumps to attention at that, rushing over to bump Steve’s thigh with the tip of his nose. You lean down a bit to pet him, and holy mother of god he’s still half naked, you remind yourself as your face comes a little too close to Steve’s hip, eyes stuttering on those moles that litter his abdomen. 

And then he’s flexing. 

Fucking flexing, because you’ve been caught. He knows it, too. Lips curling upward slowly in that self-satisfied grin of his that makes your stomach swoop low. 

Woman down. 

Dead on arrival. 

The jig is up. 

I can fix this, you think, clearing your throat. “Actually, if you must know…I wanted to learn how to lift weights. I figured it would come in handy with the dogs. Charlie, too. He’s a little reckless on our walks still.”

Steve listens, patting Charlie on the head for emphasis as you lean back against the bathroom mirror, your knees still on either side of your husband’s hips. 

“And you,” you explain, waving a hand in the air, very noncommittal, and hopefully lackadaisical because you’re still trying to play it cool and all of that, “seem to have a wonderful form.”

“You mean wonderful form.” 

Record scratch. Steve’s finger’s pause in their dastardly trail, your eyes darting up to his. Dark. They’re so damn dark, and you swallow the thickness forming like a knot in your throat. 

Mortification rising, cheeks burning, you amend, “That’s what I said.”

“It's not,” he muses, “but if you say so.” 

Another swipe along your injured knee, while Charlie rests his snout on your other. Both your guys, all together in one room. It would make for a cute family moment were it not for the way your husband’s mouth twitches higher, enjoying your turmoil a little too much for your liking. 

“Remember we’re married. We live in the same home. I can still kill you in your sleep.” It’s a deadpan. But your facade breaks a moment later, a giggle rising up despite your threat.  

He leans in closer, and you briefly wonder if this is the first time you’ve noticed those little green flecks he has in his eyes thanks to broad daylight filtering in through the window. When you’re out to dinner for social functions, it’s usually in those dark, dimly lit rooms where you pretend to be absolutely smitten with the man. 

But after that kiss on your cheek after getting Charlie, there’s been a shift. Additional touches, sitting closer on the couch—under the guise of sharing the puppy, naturally—a brush of shoulders as you pass in the hall. The whisper of a kiss against your temple when you fall asleep on the couch watching your shows (or at least when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep). 

Changing. 

Things are changing with the seasons and each day a new layer is added into the reasons why remaining married to Steve Harrington for the next nearly two and a half years might be the most difficult challenge you’ve faced yet. 

Because the only casualty at the end of this…is your heart. 

You’ve never forgotten that, no matter how blurry the lines seem as of late. 

He whispers, “Remember the wife is always the first suspect.” 

His hand finally moves away, and you loathe that you miss it as soon as he does. Charlie scampers into the doorway as Steve helps you down off the counter, gritting your teeth against the flare of pain in your burnt kneecap. You walk down the hall together, saying nothing, basking in the comfortable silence as you enter the kitchen, pulling bottles of water free for both Steve and yourself. He accepts it gratefully, chugging half before leaning his elbows onto the kitchen island. 

“I could show you,” he says, smiling softly at your arching brows. “How to train. I could teach you.”

“Like…workout together?”

His head dips, fingers coming up to remove the hat from his head. And maybe your heart does a somersault when he shakes his hair out, now grown out quite a bit. 

“If you want to,” he says, rubbing his left palm over his stubbly cheek. 

And you do. So you agree to his suggestion and find yourself standing at a squat rack the next morning, thanks to yet another rainy day in the city. 

Steve’s foregone his shirt again. 

A fact you find equal parts exhilarating and infuriating. 

Him with his low hung gym shorts, highlighting the lines of his abdomen, the line of hair your eyes hitch on dipping below the waistband. 

Charlie sits in the distance, a happily distracted bystander to his parents trying to figure out what the hell they’ve gotten themselves into, thanks to the doggy bone Steve brought home for him the prior evening. 

“We’ll start with just the bar.” At the hesitance in which you approach, eyeing it precariously, he adds, “It's not that I don’t think you can handle more. You wrangle animals every day. But your form is important so you don’t injure yourself. Can’t have you ruining the other knee.”

“Couldn't have that,” you laugh, running your finger along the barbell. “Okay, now what?”

“You’re going to stand in front of the bar, legs shoulder width apart.” He does exactly as he says while he’s explaining, thighs separating just enough as he needs to. “You’re going to wrap your hands around the bar, thumbs around the bar. I’m going to get under and rest it just below the base of my neck.” 

He slips under with ease in a maneuver you’ve seen often enough from the numerous TikTok videos you watched in preparation. His biceps shift with the movement, fingers loosening and tightening as he gets into comfortable positioning. He unracks the bar with ease, spreading his legs a little wider, eyes on his reflection across from him. 

“You’re going to take a deep breath and brace your core before squatting.” 

He demonstrates, the bar clearly too light for him, because there’s no struggle on the descent. His thighs don’t even quiver, they merely tighten, highlighting the definition honed from years of time well spent in the gym. 

“You’re going to want your thighs to be parallel to the ground.” 

He lowers until he’s in the proper position. 

Pauses. 

“And then you’ll drive up through the heel.” 

He rises, hips drawing forward, racks the bar, and turns to you. Growing warm at the sudden attention on your figure, you push down the lip of the hat he wears, rushing in front of him to stand warily in front of the squat rack. 

Suddenly, you’re aware of the set of eyes staring at your form in the mirror that belong to Steve. The way he walks up behind you and curls his palms over your shoulder, kneading the muscle there. Suddenly, you’re overly aware of the fact that here's your ridiculously fit husband, and in front of him…you. 

You’re wearing a pair of running shoes you bought a few years ago, a ratty old tee shirt from your early years of college, oversized basketball shorts, and mismatched socks. 

“You know I can always tell when you’re overthinking, right?” Steve asks, rubbing particularly hard on a spot that has you about ready to melt into his arms and call it a wrap on your workout. 

I’m beat, looks like we’re all done here! Great workout, honey. Let’s hit the showers, you want to say, before folding into his embrace. 

“You won’t judge me? For being nervous?” 

“Why the nerves?” He turns you around to face him, peering down at your eyes. “It’s me. Me…who you’ve seen every day for four months now.”

You shrug, because there really isn’t a reason for it. With a heavy sigh of resignation, you turn back around and face your reflection in the mirror, trying to follow Steve’s instructions closely. Feet, shoulder width apart. Fingers around the bar, thumbs curled, palms facing forward. Duck, slide under the bar and rest it at the base of your neck. 

And here’s the part that has you nervous, the lifting up onto your feet, driving the bar up and out of the rack, wobbling a little bit at the unsteadiness of the suddenness of the weight on your shoulders. 

Before you can even start to panic, Steve’s fingers are hovering underneath the spaces beside your fingers, letting you start to adjust a bit and find your balance.  

“I’ve got you,” he says, chest barely brushing your back as you take a couple steps backward on unsteady feet closer to him. “I’ve always got you. I promise.”

I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. I promise. 

You’re brought back to your wedding day. Dancing in the middle of a room full of strangers, arms around your new husband’s neck, swaying to a song you both liked enough to be the one to “define” your day as a couple for your first dance. Recall those words he spoke then. You’re the Harringtons. You’re not alone. It’s the two of you now. Different, and yet the same. Providing you with the strength you need to steel yourself, righting the bar, and training your gaze on the girl in the mirror. 

And you trust him. Wholeheartedly, you trust him, as you drop down into your first squat. Then the second, and the third. The fourth and the fifth come with a little resistance. Six feels like your thighs are burning. Seven has Steve coming up a little closer behind you, his arms extending out into the air on either side of your waist, hovering beneath the bar. 

“Do you have one more?” he asks, and you try…you really do. 

The descent is fine, despite the quivering of your thighs from exertion. But as you try and push back up through the heel your breath rushes out in a puff, head shaking. Steve hurries forward and pushes the bar up and onto the rack, just as you slide out from beneath it and smack backward into a chest. A firm, yet soft, and sweaty chest. That chest comes equipped with arms that curl around your form to keep you upright, and then linger for a moment as you collect your bearings. 

Like this, you can feel every inch of him. The contours of his body, the fullness of his biceps, the hair on his chest. Can feel the cradle of his hips…pressed precariously flush against your backside. And as you glance up at your forms in the mirror, it’s almost like you’re hugging. 

It’s not even an almost, because you are hugging. 

His arms around your waist. His ringed finger resting comfortably against your bicep. His chin over your shoulder, your cheek flush with his. Spine to chest, ass to hip, his breath fanning against your skin, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his weight. 

It’s a perfect moment, and neither of you want to disrupt it. There’s only his breath at your back, his arms around your waist, your hands across his forearms. Peace. Safety. Rest. That is, until Charlie Harrington decides he’s not about to let his parents hug without getting a hug of his own, running over to thump his paws against Steve’s hip, demanding his own cuddles. And you both oblige him, dropping down onto the gym floor to give him all the belly rubs he could ever want, pink tongue rolling out of his mouth, paws in the air. 

Laughter. There’s laughter and Charlie’s little yips of happiness. Laughter and Steve’s eyes on your profile. Laughter and your eyes darting to meet him. Laughter…and this unspoken thing left to linger in the air between the two of you. Laughter and maybe something tentative. Something more? A little breathlessness, the rush of air falling from your lungs as he reaches over and tells you how well you did. The gentle squeeze of his hand around your uninjured knee, a sweep of thumb across your skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. 

Eventually, Charlie gets his fill and scampers off. You return to your training session with your husband. There are gentle touches throughout, his arms there to correct your form, to guide you through the program for the day. There aren’t any more lingering hugs, but that ‘something’ burgeoning remains. 

It’s in his easy smiles. In his encouragement. In the brushes of his hands at your arms, your sides, your hips with your consent as he shows you how to move this way and that way. It’s in his praises and his promises. And later, it’s in his maneuvering in the kitchen as he prepares you a smoothie, as he looks at your knee again in his bathroom. 

And you…well, you want to explore it. 

Heart be damned. 

 ——

 Breathtaking. The material of your silk evening gown exudes elegance and sophistication. Eye catching, meticulously crafted, and designed for your exact measurements. 

It’s a timeless silhouette that only enhances your figure. Delicate sweetheart neckline that hugs your chest and shoulders, draping sumptuously at the middle of your bicep. Every movement of your body has it shimmering where it hugs the curves of your body, like an inky night sky. 

However, it’s the back of the dress that’s your favorite part. The captivating open design, leading to the fabric that drapes at the smallest point of your lower back. The way the dress falls down to the floor, swaying and shifting as you smooth your hands over the fronts of your thighs one last time. Exhaling deeply, you reach over to grab your rings from their holder. 

For the first time ever, you feel like Mrs. Harrington. Truly. 

“Well, what do you think, Charlie?” The Bernedoodle lifts his head from your bed where he’s been trying to get the squeaker out of his penguin toy. “Do you think your dad will like it?”

The puppy in question rests his head back down on his paws, nuzzling his face into the blankets you have pushed to the edge of the bed. It’s as good a response as you’ll get, and with one last glimpse at yourself in the mirror, you slide your rings up onto your finger and step out into the hall where Steve’s already dressed in a black tuxedo. And…the sight is just as wonderful, if not better, than on your wedding day. 

Hair freshly blown out and coiffed to perfection, facial hair trimmed, the tux tailored to perfection. He’s foregone his glasses tonight, instead opting for contacts, and you rush over when you notice he’s fiddling with his watch, reaching out to help him settle it into place. 

It’s better than locking eyes with him. Better than pretending you miss the way his eyes roam your form, round and full of reverence—for you. As the watch locks into place he catches your fingers within his own, holding them lightly as he takes a step back and gazes at you. 

“You look…” He pauses. Swallows thickly. You wonder if he can feel the sweat of your palms, can hear the beat of your heart slamming against your sternum. “Wow. You’re—well, you’re always beautiful. But…just…you’re stunning.”

“T-thank you.” 

You stutter your reply, parting enough to take him in. Hair curling around his ears, now in need of a trim. The hair along his jawline and upper lip, the dark tuxedo hugging his form. He’s handsome. Handsome in a way that has you feeling a little breathless, a little nervous as he laces your fingers between his own. 

“Should we…?” The words you speak are left to linger in the air, because Steve moves forward and cups the bottom of your chin. Tips your head up just in the slightest and presses a kiss to your forehead. Warm. He’s so damn warm and you’re pretty sure you’ve now lost all feeling in your toes. “What was that for, Steve?”

“I’m just…I’m really happy you're here with me tonight.”

“Part of the agreement, right?” 

It’s meant to be a joke. But Steve’s face drops, mouth drawing into a firm line. He coughs into his elbow, head turning away from you, and in that you know you’ve messed up. And not wanting to start the night off on a bad foot, you curl your arm around his bicep and drag him forward, forehead against his jaw, left to nuzzle there for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling his hand tighten around yours. “I say things sometimes and I don’t think about how they might be perceived. I think you might actually be my best friend, Steve.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, pulling back enough to stare down into your eyes. “Best friends, huh? I’ll take it.”

“Four months of marriage definitely gets us best friend status,” you tell him, winking. “I’m excited to spend this night with you. I’m a little scared about being around all these people…but I’ll be the perfect Mrs. Harrington, don’t you even worry.” 

“Just be yourself,” he says softly, and you feel your heart jackhammer in your chest. “They’ll love you.”

After that, the two of you make your way down to the main floor as a couple. The doormen whistle and holler as the two of you walk by, dressed to the nines, and apparently looking a little extra loved up, because Hopper gives the two of you a look you’ve never seen before as you approach. Brows high on his forehead, shit eating grin in place, and smug as all hell. 

“Mrs. Harrington,” he says as he opens the door for you and Steve helps you in with an extended hand. “You look wonderful.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Steve muses as you settle down. 

And fuck, you hate what that does to the butterflies in your belly. They’re not even just fluttering anymore. It’s like they all picked up fireworks and set them into motion. There’s not much time to linger on it, however, as Steve rushes around the other side and clambers in beside you, your left hand sliding over onto his lap. You tell yourself it’s because you’re nervous, because you’re about to be around socialites, celebrities, dignitaries and businesspeople alike. 

But when you don’t let go—well, there’s no one to blame but yourself.

The drive is spent in nervous silence. Your fingers around Steve’s and his around yours, playing with your rings as always. The gala is being held at one of your husband’s hotels, and yet nothing prepares you for the grandeur of the Harrington Hotel looming before you. It’s massive. Reaches high up into the city sky, bracketed by workers prepared to take care of the guests’ cars, weaving in and out seamlessly as evening gown after evening gown pours out of classic cars, luxury cars, limousines, and the like. 

“Hey,” Steve says as Hopper opens the door for you and you both step out onto the busy city streets. You whirl around, facing him. Your chests brush lightly. His hand comes to rest in yours, pulling it up to his mouth to brush a gentle kiss to the skin there. “Eyes on me. It’s the two of us, remember?”

 ——

Harrington Hotel’s ballroom is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. High, vaulted ceilings that go on endlessly. White walls with ornate carvings in their tasteful pillars situated on the outside edges of the room. Drapery that likely costs a small fortune hangs from the walls in sweeping arcs, a projection of your new last initial displayed against the far wall, with the charity information beneath.

The room itself is dim, cast in a pretty blue light, with a large chandelier twinkling from up above. Set on each table are beautiful centerpieces with gorgeous flower arrangements. Various deep shades for the approaching fall season, with candles lit on the table below, flickering atop the tablecloth, gold embellished chairs awaiting their many guests for the evening.

Steve helps you get situated upon arriving at your table, tugging your chair out despite your protests that you don’t need him to. And before you can even utter a request, you’re being handed a glass of champagne from one of the many workers on staff for the evening, and finding yourself tugged into a hug by Eddie, who Steve purposefully placed at your table so you’d have someone by your side at all times throughout the night.

A fact you become increasingly thankful for as time ticks by and Steve’s immediately pulled this way and that way into various conversations you can’t seem to keep up with, before he’s ultimately tugged away from you with a promise to be back soon, your request for another glass of champagne when he gets back met with a glowing smile as he rushes off with another businessman, leaving you alone with Eddie.

 “Nope.” Eddie shakes his head, ringed fingers waving in the air. “Nope. No! I know how this goes.”

“How what goes?”

“You’re eye fucking your husband,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your fake husband, need I remind you. This whole charade has an expiration date. You two decided this. You made your bed, and now you both get to lay in it.”

“I am not.” You exhale deeply, watching your husband raise his hand to the bartender, capturing their gaze so he can order you another champagne. “I just…have been spending a lot of time with him lately. And would it really be the worst thing if I was…interested in the man I’m already legally married to?”

Eddie seems to consider this, twirling around his glass tumbler on the tabletop, silver rings glinting in the chandelier light above. “Look. That would be the best case scenario. I’d love for you two to fall in love, be disgustingly gross together forever looking at him the way you are now. But need I remind you of high school? Early college?”

“Eddie…”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. For a while there it was just you and me against the world.” 

You know this. Eddie’s been there for it all. For that first boyfriend in freshman year you dated for all of one week, and yet felt like they’d ripped the rug from beneath your whole world. 

To that asshole senior you dated while you were in your junior year, thinking that because he was an ‘older man’ that must mean he’s more mature. That must have meant he knew loyalty wasn’t making out with another girl while you went to grab him another beer at a party. 

And then there was freshman year of college. The pre-med student who promised you the world, only to decide two years later he liked the pretty nurse in L&D and broke things off through a text message.  

He’d been there for those major milestones and all the silly relationships in between. The fleeting things, and yet there all the same. Watching your heart crumble over people who never had any right to it in the first place, with his arms tight around your frame in a hug, a glass of wine at the ready, or your favorite tub of ice cream already purchased and thrown into your lap as soon as you let him know you were coming over. 

The stress remains on his face now. The downward drag of his lips, the furrow of his brows, the way his chocolate brown eyes regard you carefully, like you might shatter right in front of him now. 

But Steve…Steve is different, isn’t he? Steve, who stands right now with his elbow on the bar, tuxedo sculpted flush around his bicep, mid-conversation with a man with salt and pepper hair and thick black glasses. They laugh, and you can hear it from where you're sitting, your thumb running idly on the underside of your wedding rings. 

Eddie catches the movement and slides a palm over your own, stilling you in your movements. “Steve is a good guy. I wouldn’t have let you carry on with this crazy situation if he wasn’t—”

“Wouldn’t let me? When have I ever let anyone tell me what I can and cannot do?” 

Narrowing your eyes at him playfully, he amends with, “I would have strongly advised against it. Maybe stood up when the officiant asked if anyone opposed the marriage.” He swallows, giving your hand a squeeze. “He’s my best friend. But you’re family. And if he fucks it all up, I just want you to know my couch is always open. Don’t know if I’ll be around because of tours and all of that, but you know it’s yours. My snack pantry, too.”

You clap a hand over your mouth in a dramatic gasp. “The snack pantry?”

“The snack pantry.” He nods. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though,” you tell him, rubbing your hand along your forearm. “Pretty sure it’s one sided.” 

At that, Eddie breaks out into barking laughter, drawing the curious gazes of multiple tables around him. Someone even hisses for him to be quiet, and he reaches to grab a piece of caviar, poised at the ready to throw it right back at them. Luckily, you manage to whip your arm out and stop him before he can get himself kicked out of the gala. 

“What was that for?” Your voice is a whisper, but you’re shrieking it at him all the same. 

“One-sided?” Eddie laughs again, head shaking. “I’ve seen Harrington flirt with women. I’ve seen him fail time and time again, and because of that…I’ve seen him give up on the whole thing. He said when it happens, it’ll happen. I always thought that was just a thing people said. Today when you two walked in, he looked so damn happy to have you at his side. This room is full of people, but he’s only got eyes for one.”

Nose wrinkling at his words, you snort. “You’re going soft in your old age.”

“It’s called having you as a best friend since we were in middle school, and knowing if I say the wrong thing you could justifiably stab me and I’d have earned it.” His head turns to where Steve is gripping the stem of a champagne flute in one hand, and a glass of whiskey in another. “I just want you to be happy. I trust him. I do. But at the same time, I care about you enough to also know I don’t want to see you cry over another guy ever again. So I’m telling you again, no matter what…my couch always has space for you.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” you breathe out, sniffling on a shaky inhale. 

The backs of your hands dab beneath your lash line, making sure you don’t actually cry in front of the man, and smile fondly up at Steve when he walks over and leans down to press a kiss to your temple, handing you your glass. 

Eddie dips his head at Steve, extending his fingers around the glass he holds in greeting. He lifts the glass to his lips and downs the rest of his drink in one go, before standing to his feet. “Now if you don’t mind me, I am going to try and talk to Chrissy Cunningham. Wish me luck.”

“You’ve been trying to talk to her for m—” At Steve’s pleading gaze, you pause. 

Eddie’s been crushing on the actress for months now. Met her at some party you'd been invited to, where Steve introduced the two of them. She had shyly waved at Eddie, and he’d waved back. 

Annnnd then they never said another word to one another for the rest of that evening, their nervousness too grand. 

Today she looks gorgeous in a powdery blue shimmering gown that matches the hue of her eyes, blonde hair curled to perfection, falling down from the high, slicked back pony tail on her head. From where you’re sitting you can see her laughing at something her friend has said, a bright smile glimmering in the dim light of the ballroom. 

“Ask her about her favorite song. Or—oh, her favorite cheese!” You suggest, bouncing on your chair, clasping Steve’s hand excitedly. 

“Could also ask her if she’d prefer an extra toe or an extra nipple—”

“Surprisingly enough, I actually don’t want to know what kind of stuff you two are into,” Eddie interjects, pinching the bridge of his nose. He levels his gaze with Steve. “Just…take care of her, okay?”

There's silence. Steve’s mouth twitches, his head nodding once. And then, “You know me.” 

Eddie only smiles. You don’t know what the hell that means, nor do you have time to investigate their odd exchange, because Eddie’s off to find Chrissy. 

 —— 

 The gala passes in a blur. 

Evening becomes night, and the ballroom is suddenly illuminated in a lavender glow. Your husband stands on the stage in the far corner of the space, thanking those for joining, and reminds everyone of the purpose of the evening: raising money for charity. 

All of this, this evening, is nothing to him if he’s not giving back. It’s one of the many things you admire about him. The acknowledgement that though he was fortunate to grow up with a life where he never needed to worry, not all experience the same. And the drive to want to do something about it. 

The room erupts into clapping and people disperse to grab drinks, interact with friends and family members, make new acquaintances, and give their donations. 

Your feet have never hurt more in your life in these way too expensive heels, you’re still itching for a dance with your husband once they announce for those wishing to to walk onto the dance floor, and your champagne glass is empty. 

Caught up in a conversation with a business partner, you offer to refill yours and Steve’s glasses, trying to no avail to call over the bartender. 

All around you you're made aware of the decadence in which these people live their lives. 

Women and men alike seemingly drape over the bar, garbed in fancy suits and flowing dresses. Hair perfectly done, makeup to perfection, men showing off with the most expensive watches, shoes that likely cost a small fortune, cufflinks with family initials on them, encrusted with diamond embellishments. 

Tonight, they behave like you’re one of them. A member of their seemingly secret society. They pass you smiles as you go, veneers glowing in the dim light, those who weren’t present at your wedding congratulating you on your marriage. And for a moment, however brief, you allow yourself to enjoy it. To enjoy the affection from strangers. To enjoy being Steve’s wife. Being perceived as the woman who gets the joy of spending forever with a man so well loved by many. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at these social functions before. I would definitely have remembered you,” a voice from beside you practically purrs. You stand up on your tippy toes once more, waving at a bartender who seems to completely miss you as they rush on by, trying to keep afloat in a sea of bodies. The man waves a hand in the air, and a bartender finally notices. “Jason Carver. Quarterback for the—”

“My husband watches your team.” 

Simple. 

Curt. 

He’s shock of blonde hair and a handsome face, a multi millionaire, ridiculously popular for being one of the best at what he does, but you can already feel the asshole aura radiating off of him—made only more so noticeable when you catch the flash of his smirk directed at you, the trail of his gaze on your bare shoulders, and then the flash of his ring on his left ring finger.

Briefly, you recall meeting his wife, Tina, earlier that evening. A smiling face with a hand never straying far from her presently rounded belly. A little girl due in early January, she’d told you fondly, muttering how she hopes the baby gets her husband's eyes. Those same eyes that look at you now with increasingly questionable intent. 

With that knowledge, you train your stare ahead, rambling off your husband’s order and yours. Jason shifts closer, the heat from his body making your skin crawl, back ramrod straight. 

“And your name?”

You tell him in a rush, watching the bartender start on your husband’s drink behind the bar. There’s a touch along your tricep that has your throat closing, the feeling of his breath nearing your ear as he leans down closer into your personal space making your stomach curl. 

“Can I just say,” he whispers, and your eyes dart up to reluctantly meet him, “you are absolutely beautiful.” 

The backs of those fingertips trail your flesh. Unwarranted and unwanted, chest heaving with the flurry of your choked breaths. The room starts to swirl around the edges, Jason’s voice a revolting caress down your spine, colors melding into a kaleidoscope around you.

Harnessing the shiver of disgust into power, you shift out of his grasp, barely brushing against the person standing on the other side of you. “And you, Jason Carver, are making a fool of yourself.”

And then you hear him. The familiar sound of Steve’s voice in your ears, and then feel his hand at the small of your back, the warmth of his palm and the slight tingle of his wedding ring against your spine tethering you back to reality. Grounding you once more.  

Jason stills beside you as the bartender slides your drinks over into your waiting palms. Steve takes his from your extended hand and sips, leaning down to tug you closer and press a kiss to your temple. All still unfamiliar, all still sending new waves of electricity along your skin. 

“I see you’ve met my wife,” Steve says calmly, and you glide your hand over your husband’s chest for emphasis. 

“I have,” he says thickly, dipping his head. 

“Sweetheart,” you begin, “we were just talking about how lovely and beautiful Jason’s wife, Tina, is. He’s so lucky to have someone like her in his life and definitely shouldn’t ever forget that. We were also talking about how exciting it is that they’ll be having a little girl in just a few months. He was just getting back to her, wasn’t he?”

Jason wastes no time in making himself scarce, leaving you to stand near the bar, still pressing against Steve’s side. Neither of you moves for a bit, and you simply relish in the nearness—shocked by the comfort that barrels into your bloodstream over simply having him there. 

“For the record—”

“You didn’t need me to do that,” he finishes, and your brows shoot up because how the hell did he know what you were thinking. “I know you can take care of yourself. It’s one of the things I…honestly admire about you. But I also want to remind you that you’re never alone. You have me. You know that, right? Isn’t that what a…best friend would do?” 

You snort at the title. “I know. I-I do know that, Steve.” 

But you’d been taking care of yourself for so long you don’t know any differently. So instead you glance over to where Jason and Tina are sitting at their table, his hand over her rounded midsection, overly affectionate for someone who had just moments ago been flirting with another woman.

Another married woman, on top of it. With her husband only a few feet away. 

“He’s an asshole,” you tell Steve. 

“I know. I saw him touching you. I watched you tense up.” His fingers trace the path Jason’s had trailed, covering the tracks he left with his own. “I’m serious. You look for me in a crowd, and I’ll always be there.” 

There’s such a sincerity there. A plea behind those hazel eyes that has you swallowing the remnants of your drink and placing it down on the bar, gripping Steve’s hand tightly within yours. Without another word, you pull him along behind you, Steve managing to drop his drink down onto your table before you tug him over to the dance floor where other couples are now slow dancing, far away in their own little worlds. 

“What are you—”

“I want you to dance with me,” you tell Steve simply, stopping in front of him. Your heels to his leather shoes. “I really really want you to dance with me. I feel like a damn princess in a silly dress, at a ridiculously fancy party with my husband, and I want him to dance with me. Because I hate that I’m enjoying this. I hate that my last name is plastered on everything here, and that I’m in this dress, with these shoes on, and I feel like a pumpkin carriage is going to pull up at any moment and take me home. And if I’m enjoying it, and if at twelve I’m going to be whisked away from here, then I at least want the full experience.”

Steve’s not judgemental. He’s never been. Has never questioned your past, wondered where and what you came from. He’s only ever been open to knowing who you are at present. The everyday. The chaotic and crazy moments. The monotonous ones. The time spent watching your shows, cooking to music in your kitchen together, playing with Charlie in the living room as a movie plays in the background. 

But standing before him now. Him in his tuxedo, staring at you the way he is now, his hands moving to curl around your waist and draw you close—it’s the first time you really feel like someone could take a needle to your current reality and pop it. Like all of this would disappear at any given moment, like it’s all a dream conjured up in your mind. You hate it. Hate it so much that your eyes start to burn with it. 

Sensing your inner turmoil, or seemingly just wanting to hold you, Steve folds you into his chest. Rests one forearm low against your back, and curls his hand around yours, swaying you back and forth on the dance floor as “The Way You Look Tonight” by Frank Sinatra starts playing in the distance. Your dress shifts and moves across the floor, your cheek to his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. He’s warm and solid and you can hear the frantic flutter of his heart, and can feel the slickness of his palm against your back. He’s not wholly unaffected by all of this, either. There’s a sense of comfort in it. This unfamiliarity of feeling—and the uncertainty of what? 

“Can I be honest?” he asks at the top of your head. 

“Always.”

“I hate all of this, too.” 

“Steve, it’s horrifying. Our name is on literally everything.”

“I know,” he laughs, the rumble rattling your skull. You nestle in closer, and his arm drags you in tighter. “Does it make you feel less bad if you strip away all of the—” He waves his hand around at the grandeur of the room. “stuff and just focus on the fact you’re allowed a night out where you dress up. Away from school, away from stress, with the people who care about you? Because take all of this away, and that’s all this is.”

It’s not. And even so, you know he’s right. Because take away all the gorgeous scenery, the fancy clothing, the endless drinks, the designer cars, and the end result is the same: Eddie and Steve are here. 

You’re not sure when Steve became one of those constants, yet it’s the truth all the same. 

“If I’m being honest, parties like this usually end up feeling lonely,” he says heavily, and you tip your head back enough to get a good look at him. “I grew up going to these things. My parents were always leaving to talk to friends, leaving me to sit back at the table. And I mean, people talk to me now, but only because they need something. Never because they want to. Not really.”

And that laugh that…wrinkles your nose…

“I want to,” you tell him softly. 

It touches my foolish heart…

“I know. And that means more to me than you’ll ever know,” he mutters back, a little choked, a little breathless against your skin as he lowers his face into the space beside your ear, cheek to cheek now. 

Lovely…don’t you ever change…

There’s a whisper of a kiss against your shoulder, meant for those looking to see, nothing unusual there. And then he adds, “The parties aren’t so lonely anymore either.”

Keep that breathless charm…won’t you please arrange it?

He holds you closer, if possible. Hides his face in your shoulder—trembling against you as though the words he’s spoken terrify him. They terrify you too. The implication of them. The meaning. The lines in the sand that become blurrier by the day. His head leans back, eyes locking with yours, dancing to your lips, then moving back up again. 

His fingers curl around the side of your cheek, and he leans down. Presses his lips to yours in a way that’s familiar. You’ve done this before countless times at dinner. A short peck. The smallest of brushes. Yet you sigh against him all the same, palm resting over his sternum, his hand along your back. Against your skin that burns hot—hotter now. 

“No one is watching,” you murmur against his mouth and open your eyes to find the room swirling around you. 

They’re not. You’re surrounded by a sea of couples on the dance floor. Even Theobald and Cami, who you would try to go above and beyond to sell your marriage to, are tucked away in their own little world. Forehead to forehead, hand to hand, heart to heart. 

Cause I love you…just the way you look…tonight…

But he doesn’t speak. 

Doesn’t say a word as you sway to the song, chest to chest in what feels like a slow motion love potion, his other hand joining the first on your opposite cheek. His eyes roam your face, a frantic slide across your features, before he’s leaning down and kissing you anew.

I’ll be gentle, echoes in your mind, his soothing words like balm across the sudden skip of your heart. He is nothing but gentle as his lips slot with yours, your lower lip between the plush curves of his mouth. Warmth, warmth, warmth abounds as your eyes flutter closed and you lose yourself in it. 

You’re not his fake-wife right now. You’re not under contract, you’re not putting on a performance for investors or chairmen or Theo, you’re not practicing to make sure it all looks real. This is real—the press of his nose against your cheek, how he uses the touch on your jaw to adjust your head to press in at a better angle, the gentle glide of his soft lips around yours as he kisses you like you’re something delicate. Something precious. Something real.

Time stands still and time rushes forward all at once, the moment exploding through all those ‘what if’s and ‘what are we doing’s and ‘should we’s. None of that exists here as your swaying comes to a stop in the middle of the dancefloor, your fingers tucking into the lapels of his tuxedo in a show of please don’t go.

His steady hand skates down, sliding along the side of your throat to press the tips of his fingers into the nape of your neck, thumb beside your ear in a show of I’m right here.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your lungs absolutely burn in your chest, pulling just a sparse inch away to gasp in air like you’ve just surfaced from water. Steve is similarly affected, shoulders in a heaving rise and fall as he presses his forehead to yours. Neither of you say a word as you catch your breath—your eyes lost in the mossy green woven into the golden brown of his hazel eyes, his flicking back and forth between your gaze and the shine of your lip gloss like he can’t think about anything else.

A gentle clear of his throat, a harsh swallow of nerves before his lips, the ones that just kissed you, tilt in a bashful smile. “I didn’t mean to take your breath away,” he murmurs in a tease, hot air puffing against your lower face as he gently laughs.

Unable to find the part of you that wants to tease back, to make it a joke, to keep it safe, you’re pouring out honesty when you tell him, “You don’t have to try very hard to.”

He remains there, you both do, bodies swaying, foreheads pressing close. There are no more stolen kisses, no whispers of breath between the two of you, only the quiet of togetherness that drowns out the rest of the room. There are no decisions for the ‘what next?’ nor the ‘what does this all mean?’ Instead you relish in the moment, hands still around his lapels, his own covering yours, keeping you near to him. 

And that’s more than enough. 

 ——

——

if there was ever a chapter i would love to hear your thoughts on—it’s this one! please consider reblogging, liking, leaving a comment. you all mean the world to me. haha seeing everyone get excited over this fic has made my week. xo luna. 🤍

[scientia-rex]

So many people on this site have somehow developed Extreme Old New England Money Vibes. Like they’re DISAPPROVING. But they’ll put it in the tags. And they won’t just SAY “that made me sad.” They’ll frame it in 15,000 elliptical sentences I can’t possibly parse while high. And then they’ll inevitably be AFFRONTED if I block them. Guys! This here blog is MY party! I get to uninvite you!

[astralscrivener]

✨ fic directory ✨

i’ve created a post to keep all of my fics in one place. all fics can be found on ao3. (last updated may 4th, 2024)

major ongoing works

STEALING OUR OWN PLACE IN THE SUN

- voltron: legendary defender: a rewrite of vld seasons 4-8. - team focus, broganes, klance, adashi, romellura - rated M, graphic depictions of violence + other warnings in author notes - 22/45 chapters, 251k words (december 25th, 2022) - last posted: chapter 22: season 7, episode 3: elliptical orbit

AT SKYFALL

- voltron: legendary defender: canon-divergent au in which keith and shiro are captured by the galra at a coalition gala. things become more complicated when the team’s search for shiro turns up someone else: adam, shiro’s fiancé.  - broganes, klance, adashi - rated M, graphic depictions of violence + other warnings in author notes - 8/? chapters, 25k words (september 2nd, 2023) - last posted: chapter 8: division and discord

ABCS OF KLANCE

- voltron: legendary defender: oneshots, one prompt for each letter of the alphabet, focused on keith and lance’s relationship - variety of aus, some overlap with squad up (2017-19 modern au), mostly established relationship klance - 18 works, 87k words (may 4th, 2024) - a: artistry • b: brutality • c: comfort • d: defeat • e: elegance • f: faithfulness • g: grief • h: homelessness • i: information • j: jealousy • k: knell • l: loyalty • m: mercy • n: need • o: opportunity • p: pain • q: quest • r: rumor • s: sleep • t: trust • u: uncertainty • v: victory • w: worry • x: xenon • y: yearning • z: zero - last posted: lightning in a bottle (y: yearning)

other ongoing works

THESE 20S ARE RAWRING AND THESE DUNGEONS ARE DRAGONING

- voltron: legendary defender: modern au + d&d series started in 2020 as a stress response to quarantine - team focus, klance, adashi, romellua, hunay

• main work: the rawring 20s XD - chatfic that only updates if i think it will be funny - rated M, no archive warnings apply + other warnings in author notes - 5/5 chapters, 17k words - last posted: chapter 5: there is no easter bunny, there is no tooth fairy, (september 8th, 2022)

- other works include klance-centric oneshots + snippets of the group’s ongoing d&d campaign - 5 works, 37k words - last posted: midnight into morning coffee (february 7th, 2024)

VLD FIC REQUESTS

- voltron: legendary defender: oneshots across a variety of aus written in response to prompts from friends and followers - variety of ships, but mainly klance and adashi - some overlap with squad up  - 15 works, 92k words (july 8th, 2023) - last posted: distraction

major completed works

DECEIT SO NATURAL

- voltron: legendary defender: canon-divergent trilogy in which lance and keith fool their way behind enemy lines and onto lotor’s ship to steal vital information on the galra empire—only for lotor to become far more dangerous than anyone anticipated. - mainly klance, extremely one-sided lancelot - written before gay shiro reveal + age discourse, contains side shallura - 3 works, 315k words - completed june 15th, 2018

• WHERE PEOPLE GO TO DIE - lotor mistakenly believes that lance is a galra soldier spying on the paladins, and invites him to return home. keith follows him undercover as a prisoner, and quickly draws lotor’s ire as things spiral rapidly out of control. - rated M, graphic depictions of violence - 14/14 chapters, 49k words - completed july 9th, 2017

• DYNASTY DECAPITATED - lotor becomes vindictive after having been played for a fool by team voltron, and the team struggles to hold the voltron alliance together while fending off his rapid advances. meanwhile, keith and lance explore a new stage of their relationship and learn exactly what the other means to them. - rated M, graphic depictions of violence - 18/18 chapters, 67k words - completed august 7th, 2017

• STARS GO DOWN - lotor has captured lance and sentenced keith to death halfway across the universe. lance struggles to hold onto himself as he plays the role of an amnesiac, while keith attempts to fight his way back to the team, alone. meanwhile, the team, down two lions and two paladins, scrambles to bring keith and lance home amidst betrayals and tumult in the voltron alliance. - rated M, graphic depictions of violence, temporary major character death + other warnings in author notes - 37/37 chapters, 198k words - completed june 15th, 2018

SQUAD UP

- voltron: legendary defender: modern au written from 2017-19 to cope with the horrors of being in high school and the transition into college - written before gay shiro reveal + age discourse, contains side shallura and shiro/allura/matt - 25 works, 561k words - completed may 10th, 2019

• main work: squad up - chatfic chronicling the gang’s last year of high school - rated M, no archive warnings apply + other warnings in author note - 140/140 chapters, 327k words - completed june 15th, 2018

• main work: a midsummer night’s meme - chatfic chronicling the gang’s last summer before college - rated M, no archive warnings apply + other warnings in author note - 27/27 chapters, 79k words - completed august 31st, 2018

• main work: because guys like us are cool in college - series of oneshots/snippets following keith and lance’s freshman year of college - rated M, no archive warnings apply + other warnings in author note - 84/84 chapters, 83k words - completed may 10th, 2019

LIGHT UP THE PATH (THROUGH A SKY FULL OF STARS)

- voltron: legendary defender: 28 oneshots completed for klance au month february 2019. - klance - variety of aus, including but not limited to modern au, canon-divergent/other paladinsverse, fantasy au, and more - rated M, creator chose not to use archive warnings + other warnings in author note - 28/28 chapters, 49k words - completed february 28th, 2019

additional oneshots not mentioned here can be found on archive of our own ✨ other writing (including drabbles, snippets, and prompts from tumblr ask games) can be found in my writing tag ✨

happy reading!

[ferronickel]

Lettering Tips for Comics Artists!

Lettering is an easy to overlook aspect of comics creation, partially because good lettering is designed to be invisible, but bad lettering can ruin an otherwise well crafted project.

Now, I'm not a letterer by trade, I'm a colorist who thinks too much about comics craft, but I've picked up on a few common mistakes I've seen new webcomic artists making, and I thought I'd share my tricks.

#1: Get a Dialog font

Sorry, despite Comic Sans having the word comic in the name, it's not actually good for lettering comics. Comic book letterers usually use specially designed fonts when they're lettering comics, and they often have websites where you can get these typefaces for a reasonable fee (or sometimes even free!)

What makes dialog typefaces special?

The barred-I! (and other contextual options)

This one is subtle, but generally, you want to only use the barred-I for the personal pronoun "I" or for roman numerals. It helps clarify that what you're looking at is an I and not an L, but it takes up more space in the word, and we're trying to reserve as much space as possible for the art on the page.

Specially made comic book fonts will also be custom designed to be legible at a distance, have multiple bold/italics options, and might even include special versions of individual letters for when you type multiple of the same character in a row! It'll give your lettering a personal touch that you won't get from typefaces designed for other things.

Blambot is a great resource for all your lettering needs. Here I'm using Backissues and Nightmark

#2: Dialog Stacking

Dialog should always be stacked such that your longest line of text is in the middle. The block of text itself should have a sort of diamond shape <>. Sometimes this is difficult to do, especially if you have any long words at the beginning or end of a sentence. You can't always get it to work (and if you're unwilling to rewrite your dialog so it fits), so sometimes it might not be perfect, but if your text block is more hourglass shaped >< that's a good indication that you should try putting your line breaks somewhere else. Basically try to make your text as round as possible if it's in a balloon.

#3: Balloon Shape

One of the more common mistakes I see webcomic artists making is using perfectly elliptical balloons. It's actually kind of difficult to fit text into balloons that are perfectly elliptical; there ends up being a lot of uneven space around the text, and it looks kind of cheap. Making your balloons slightly more rectangular is going to give you more bang for you buck, they'll fit the text block a little better. I like a hand drawn balloon, I tend to think they add variety.

One thing you definitely shouldn't do is this:

This might be a personal preference thing more than any kind of hard and fast rule, but these lettering styles give me the impression that the text is pasted on top of the art, and that no real thought was put into arranging it thoughtfully with the art. These are probably more appropriate for captions, not so much for dialog

Lettering is a part of the medium we're working with, the dialog should be approached as a part of the artwork, and treated as such.

#4: Balloon Placement

The number one, most important rule of lettering, is that the placement of your balloons should never confuse your reader. The goal of balloon placement is to guide your reader around the page, each one should naturally lead your reader towards the next thing they should read. Here's an example of something I see a lot:

While yes, it is true that on a comics page, people read left-to-right top-to-bottom, if two balloons are connected with a line, I am going to read them one after another. Readers are not going to intuitively assume they should jump to the other side of the page just because the #2 balloon is slightly above #3. In this situation the balloons should be interwoven.

It should not be possible to look from one balloon to another and skip over intermediate dialog. If your reader misses a part of the conversation and has to double back to figure out what they missed, you've broken the flow and immersion of the page.

Like I said, lettering is all about guiding your reader around the page, it should be a part of your composition from the beginning, don't forget to incorporate lettering into your work when you're first laying out your page. Put yourself in the place of your reader and see how your eyes track across the page.

Hope these help! Like I said, I'm no expert; it took me a while to learn a lot of this. I would have found these tips super useful when I was first starting out. If you're interested in the technical side of lettering, I highly recommend The Essential Guide to Comic Book Lettering by Nate Piekos. It's one of the most useful reference books I own, and I learned most of this from that book.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Original Sin

iI already know what my sentence will be, long before the judge begins to speak. In my unconquerable, relentless optimism, I imagine that there will be a miracle, that It will instead call for an immediate execution.

I’m wrong, of course. There can only be one sentence for the slaughter of a god.

“The transgressor shall be Voidcast,” the judge intones, as I knew It would. “May your soul burn alone in the darkness for ten billion years where no innocent soul can witness your agony, until the merciful hand of nonexistence finally claims you.”

I can’t fully keep the horror from my expression. Even knowing what the sentence would be, I’d been hoping for a shorter life – a billion, maybe even just millions of years. Ten billion… but I don’t fight as the guards drag me to the Circle. There’s no point, and I don’t want to waste my last few precious moments in the real world being in any more pain than I have to. Pain is something I will have aplenty, soon enough.

They throw me down onto the sacrificial slab, careless of how the rough rock scrapes at me. The highmage lights the flame, expression dispassionate; It has done this millions of times before, and what is one more endless torture? I go to scream the most vile string of curses I can think of, but before I can say a word, Everything is gone.

Everything

Is

Gone.

Well. Not everything. There is the all-consuming fire, eating away at all that is left of me, as it will continue to do for as long as there is anything to eat. There is my own endless screaming across the entire electromagnetic spectrum, broadcasting my agonies in ways that I am too overwhelmed to even try to control. And there are others; bright spots in the void, their own screaming visible an almost incomprehensible distance away.

We can’t communicate. The distance is too great, the pain too overwhelming, and even if we could, what would there be to say? What could we tell each other that we weren’t telling each other already? There is long, laborious, unrelenting pain and then there is the mercy of nonexistence. We all know this. There is nothing else.

Sometimes, one of my fellow sinners vanishes, and I am distracted for a moment by a furious envy, a rage that It has been granted the escape of an end while I still suffer. Sometimes, a new light appears in the void, and I am distracted a moment by a strange joy that another who would otherwise have lived a blissfully ignorant life will instead truly understand my pain.

I would worry that this experience was making me a worse person, except that it is already reserved for the worst of the worst.

This is how it goes, and this is how I know it will go, unchanging, until the end.

Except

Something changes.

Amidst the screams of my fellow prisoners and the debris left of long-dead former inmates, I see/hear something new. Faint, oh so faint; I wouldn’t have noticed it at all, if it weren’t for the novelty.

A song.

It is nothing from any culture I recognise, but there is a rhythm to it, a declaration. Something singing that it is here and alive. Can the others hear it? I have no way to ask. To do that I would have to stop screaming, and even after billions of years, the pain is too great for that. I think it’s too close, anyway; close and quiet. Somebody humming nearby. Somebody alive and not screaming. Somebody in the void who was not Voidcast.

An innocent, bearing witness? Dare I even hope?

It is hard to see anything within a limitless nothing drowned in the clamour of burning sinners, but I listen as quietly as I can. There’s little else to do with my time.

The innocent is moving. Wherever It is, It’s going in circles, around my general area. It takes approximately, but not exactly, one year (the span of time that I am used to viewing as a year) to lap me once.

The innocent moves steadily. Judging by the direction from which the signal comes, It is moving in an elliptical orbit. It must be moving very, very fast, unless It is extremely close.

The innocent speaks more and more over time. A whisper becomes a murmur becomes speech, in waves of coherent light cast into the void. I do the math, I watch the direction, I notice that It is not slowed or waylaid by any other prisoner that may be in Its path. I see that It is very

very

close.

I look close, and then I see It.

It's almost on top of me! A tiny, fragile thing, clinging to a piece of debris left by – I think – my own arrival, a cast-off limb that never cast off far enough away to be gone. I cannot even see the innocent, merely hear It dwelling on the debris, and It is not shy about making its presence known. Is It trying to communicate? We have no shared language in this place, so far from reality.

I can’t respond, anyway, no matter how much I try.

I watch, and I learn, and in my limitless free time with nothing else to do but burn, I learn a lot. The innocent is… strange. It is like unlike anybody I know; unlike anybody in reality, unlike the other sinners, unlike me. It is many things and one thing and It speaks in one voice of many fragmented pieces on many spectra. I do not know how It got here, I do not know where It came from

Unless

I think it came from here.

I know! Ridiculous! The void is nothing; that is its purpose! It is an unreality reserved for those who deserve far worse than a quick death, where their sins and punishments cannot impose upon the real world. Nothing can be ‘from’ the void! It makes no sense!

And yet, here It is. Something not Voidcast, in the void.

It feeds on me, on the fragment of offcast corpse upon which It clings. I do not resent It this; I wasn’t using it, so somebody might as well. Besides, to somebody in my position, the ability to give something to anybody to benefit them in any small way is an incomparable joy. The innocent can take all of me, if that will help.

And, as I learn slowly, It is doing exactly that. It sounds impossible, but this strange being feeds on agony.

As I scream my torment across the electromagnetic spectrum, the singer upon the debris collects it, traps it, uses it to live and to grow. Its singing strengthens, fed by my screams. My pain and my body, together, nurture this life that slowly consumes me piece by piece.

I have never been so proud in my life.

I had known since the moment that I slaughtered the god Eden that the void would be my fate. Since then, my unshaking optimism had been burned out out of me over the course of billions of years, failing me just before a miracle. I had never expected to nurture another, to be useful to anyone, ever again. But here we are.

Do the other sinners have this? Are there little singers like this elsewhere, too far away for me to hear their faint song? I have no way of asking, and the other sinners have no way of responding.

I don’t know whether they have such blessings. But I know that I do.

I scream loudly and resolute. I burn as brightly as I can. I revel in my pain, knowing that every ounce of it strengthens the song of my strange voidborn child.

And for the first time ever, ten billion years doesn’t seem like nearly enough time.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Yardstick

Above the hospital, the moon kept shining. I wasn’t anywhere and I couldn’t describe it, I couldn’t stay awake. I mumbled. I stuttered. I crashed the words together or trailed off. I couldn’t say it straight so I tried saying around it—dark-struck, slumber-felt, sleep-clogged. My glasses were broken and my eyes wouldn’t resolve. My stomach was bruised from the Heparin shots. I turned in sleep, shouldering into the dark, glossy water. I practiced connecting. I measured the gaps. I started new dreams without finishing the last, sifting in sleep what I couldn’t sift in daylight. I jumped from house to house, through iterations of myself. My memories were inaccurate and out of order. They did not accumulate. What had made things follow had come apart and the coming apart was no longer interesting. To link it up, to milk the cow and show the math to make the butter, to describe the greened field, trampled or untrampled, was beyond me. Someone came every hour to check my blood pressure. I would raise my arm for the cuff without fully waking. My brother called. I told him not to come. I wasn’t sure who he was and I wouldn’t be able to fake it. I couldn’t lie and I couldn’t track. I made sentences but I couldn’t remember them. It made me unreliable. It was uncomfortable to watch. I blathered in loops—repetitive, elliptical. I was overly invested and empathetically blurry. I had lost my poker face, my guile, and I was in danger of betraying my secrets and everyone else’s. The bed was uncomfortable. I was heavy. I was bricks. Above the bed, the ceiling and the stars. Below the bed the floor, the earth, then out the other side and stars. I fell in all directions.

+

“Describing the world was easier than finding a place in it.” Read excerpts from Richard Siken’s poetry collection I Do Know Some Things (2025), which he began writing while recovering his language, mobility, and sense of self in the aftermath of a stroke.

BY RICHARD SIKEN

[Bomb Magazine]

[zaceouiswriting]

Fairy Prince - Hearts of Leviathans - Ch.12

Character: Sky x male reader, Riven x male reader, Brandon x male reader

Universe: Somewhere in Winx Club/Saga

Warnings: None

Before you read: I had some major problems with this chapter. Therefore, I would be very grateful if some of you could give me your opinions or criticism.

My body is heavy. I've never done anything so stupid. Now I know why the books always said methods like this should not be used unless necessary. It might have been wiser to put off the bet until I could at least try to rebuild my body. But of course, as the idiot I am, I have to do it like this!

"Shit, I'm about to throw up!" I blurt out as a particularly bad wave of nausea washes over me.

Dry heaving I try my best to keep everything in, not wanting to leave all I had to endure for nothing.

“Here, drink this.“ 

Corey's sudden voice almost made me lose focus and throw up.

Without a question or making a sound, I grabbed what he gave me and slammed it down even faster. Oddly enough, the nausea was gone within a minute. Thankfully, I turn to him with a bright smile, but for a strange reason, his face seems somber.

He holds his hand up to stop me from talking like he always has since his brother and I became friends. "Don't thank me. You will feel drowsy-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, I felt something strange happening. My head starts spinning. Very quickly, my eyes closed until darkness was all I could see. However, when I open my eyes again, something warm surrounds me. I try to move my head, but something is holding it.

A hand adorned with a soft glove gently lays me on a comfortable bed. Immediately, Corey's sharp features appear in my field of vision. I open my mouth to ask him what's going on. But he only put one finger to his mouth.

“Your grandfather thought you would do something so stupid,” Corey mused. "He ordered me not to intervene and to give you the potion instead." He shifted a little uncomfortably on his feet. "You'll sleep for a few days, hopefully just until your bet with the two directors begins."

I try to hit him, to throw curses at his head for serving my grandfather and not me. I will never forget this betrayal in my life. But I couldn't do anything.

“The old king has high hopes for you to show people the renewed power of your elusive family. And I will watch over you and protect you all the way, even now when you sleep. So go into the world of dreams knowing that you are safe!”

He kissed the top of my head, brushed away a few strains of hair, and closed my eyes for me.

I could hear him walking away but not leaving the room. Even if I feel betrayed by one of my closest confidants, I still trust that he will not hurt me or allow anyone else to hurt me while I sleep.

Soon, darkness pulled me reassuringly back into its arms, this time with happy chatter.

Soon, I'm wandering through a world of my own making and seeing my dream version of my life, with a family that still has feelings towards me, especially love.

Only this time, I didn't experience it myself. I'm just watching it from the sidelines.

***

“You never really wanted your life to be like this.”

It is a statement I have often thought about myself, but hearing it from someone other than me seems to carry more weight.

I didn't turn my head to look at the voice because I already knew who was standing next to me. The same being I talked to in the hidden room deep in the palace I once called home.

“We both know that neither of us knows exactly what I want. Maybe I want this to be the reality, or maybe the darkness and blood I had to wander through have always been what I wanted. Both are possible."

Barely out of the side of my eye, I could see him turn entirely to face me, his elliptical pupils staring holes into me. But contrary to what I expected, he didn't become aggressive. Instead, he started chuckling. 

“Even now, you’re trying to be mysterious.”

His warm hand touched the side of my face closest to him. All I could do was shudder. But the warmth of his flesh was quickly replaced by the cold of the scales on the back of his hand. A cold sweat rushed all over my body. I know very well that he could smell the fear on me.

“You’re still afraid of me. Hmmm. What could I do?” he asks himself out loud.

It terrifies me even more. Who the fuck does this shit?

I still didn't dare look at him properly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see him acting the part as if he was thinking of a solution. Much longer than necessary.

But then his eyes suddenly jumped back to me. It scared me so much that I jumped in my standing position. I didn't dare take a step away from him, as he had reprimanded me the last time we met.

“I bestow a blessing upon you!” he finally announces.

It is so out of character for this creature that I felt forced to turn to him for the first time.

But before I could do that, he was already standing in front of me and placed a gentle kiss on the middle of my forehead. Just when I thought it was all over, he suddenly started muttering words that I couldn't understand. Not cause they are spoken quietly but because the language is unknown to me. I always thought these beings were the ones who gave us our tongue, but apparently, I've been wrong my whole life. This would also be true for most scholars.

“Remember these words, little prince. One day, you will know their meaning, and the truth of the stars will reveal itself to you.”

Confused, I could only stand there and feel his presence disappear. I quickly turn around before he fully vanished. All I could see is his back, his silver scales that protect every part of it, and his hair, which is the same color and texture as mine. 

“What blessing did you bestow upon me?” I called after him so loudly that I thought the dream would respond to it.

But when my question reaches him, he already disappears into sand-like dust. I could only see his eyes and lips, the rest of his body hidden behind his long, smooth hair. 'Follow the whispers,' he mouthed in my direction.

It left me stunned how he dissolved into sand and disappeared into the air. Left behind, I could only let my gaze wander over the beautiful, lush landscape surrounding the palace where I was born and raised.

What could he mean that I should follow the whispers? What whispers?

Amid my pondering, a ball suddenly falls at my feet. My body moves by itself and takes the ball into my left hand. After I picked up the ball, I was immediately confronted with its color: a blue leather ball. When I turned it over, I could see what I had already expected: my family's crest embroidered on it. 

My family coat of arms: A gray background with a shield. The inside of it is an icy blue, its outer layer dark and with a black border. A silver snake slithers along the edge of the shield. In the middle sits a light brown animal, the legendary beast Bulderwick, whose massive claws can tear continents apart and whose fur protects it from all external harm. But the most frightening thing is its blind eyes. Even without sight, it can see the truth behind a person's words.

If the legends are true, the first of my ancestors made a pact with this beast so that it wouldn't further destroy their shared planet. Since then, no head of my family has been allowed to lie. It would explain why many did not speak for long periods or never spoke a word during their reign.

As I look up at the child, my eyes widen for a second. It's just strange to see Tristan standing in front of me like a little child again. He was such a sweet kid, too, so reserved and polite. 

In the distance, I could see myself arguing with Tristan's older brother, Corey, like we always did.

“Of course,” I answer with a cheerful smile.

I slowly put the ball in his hand without touching him. Knowing it is safe in his little hand, I pull my arm back just as slowly. But before I could sit up the child, Tristan, suddenly tugged on my arm with his free hand.

The once utopian surroundings are shrouded in darkness, the moon red as blood. Everyone around us lay dead and mutilated except for my body. My body was gone.

Perplexed by what has happened, I continue to look around: the lush and rich landscape I have always been so fond of is burning, the mountains are destroyed, and the lakes and rivers are dried up.

The grip on my arm tightened and started to hurt me quite a bit. “Ah, that hurts!” I finally scream. 

I turn back to the child. But there was no longer a child, and it wasn't Tristan.

Suddenly, a bloody Corey stands before me, his sword from its scabbard. “I will never forgive you!” he shouts, ramming his sword into my stomach. "You monster! You killed them all!" He screams even louder, only for blood to spurt from his mouth.

I look down in horror. There, I could see my body covered in blood, holding a sword I had never seen before. The weapon is drinking the blood of those I seemingly had just killed.

“Master,” it whispers, “We are not finished yet. We still have so much more to destroy, to kill!”

***

"Ahhh!"

A piercing scream suddenly pulls me away from what is happening before me. Instead of the terrible sight of my homeworld in ashes, I suddenly find myself sitting on the bed I fell asleep in. It didn't sink in right away. But when it did, I breathed a sigh of relief. 

“It was just a dream,” I murmur quietly. The shock of the situation slowly wears off.

"A dream. It was just a dream," I repeat like a mantra. I put my hands on my forehead, both covered in sweat. My head throbs in pain, and my whole body hurts.

“What happened?” I ask no one in particular.

A grumble from the side makes me jump in fear. Wasting no time, I scurry to the wall furthest from the noise without looking in that direction.

The events from my dreams flooded back to my mind all at once: The betrayal, the blood. Was it really just a dream? Or a vision? Great sorcerers, fairies, mages, witches, and all others can involuntarily slip through a crack in the void where time does not exist. Some can see the past, while others can see what happened at this very moment where they are, and others can see one of many possible futures. I saw my bloodied body. I was taller in that dream than I am now, hardened by more war. So, a possible future?

"Your Royal Highness?"

The sudden voice interrupted my thoughts. Another wave of fear, this time mixed with deep betrayal, hits my senses. There's Corey with worry all over his face. All I can think about is the anger and pain I saw on the face of the Corey in my dream - or whatever it was - who stabbed my stomach with his sword.

After receiving no response from me, Corey, foolish as his entire bloodline is, takes a step towards me.

“Don’t!” I warn him, not loudly, but firmly. All the blood was pouring from my face. I don't want to see the future I had seen. Even though I hate most of my family, what they did to our home and me. But I would never bring death and destruction to innocent people.

Corey suddenly stopped. Confusion spread across his face, replacing his concern. Even though he doesn't say anything at first, I can read his face better than he seems to think.

“You should prepare yourself. Director Saladin almost postponed the training camp until next week because you haven't woken up yet. But I assured him that you would wake up soon enough.”

I scoff at his words. But it finally makes me realize that this is reality and that whatever I have seen could still be stopped if it really was a vision and not some foolish dream.

For some reason, Corey thought this to be a good time to reach out to me again. However, I don't want to know anything about it. With all the authority my powers give me, I push him back toward the door.

“Get out!” I tell him sternly. But he doesn't move. I roll my eyes, my patience finally running out.

As I snap my fingers, magical particles surround me. With a single thought, my body is clean, and my clothes have changed. All hidden behind a layer of magic. But as soon as I wore other clothes, the veil disappeared and showed me to Corey again.

As the light faded, I could see Corey's eyes widen. “Now, let’s get this over with. So you can tell your master everything that happened.”

“Wha-“

“Shut up, Corey," I interrupt his attempt to appear innocent, “I don’t want to hear it.”  

Trembling with fury, I raise my voice: "I will never understand why everyone still bows down to my old grandfather. In a few years, he will be dead, and I will rule."

Corey could clearly see fury building within me. Maybe he even knows that some of it is directed at him. “I swore an oath never to forget those who stood by me and those who did not.”

"But I'm not-"

“Silencia Incarnia!“

Corey just stands there in shock. His mouth opens, and to my delight, no sound comes out. A sigh of relief passes my lips. Silence. Even if the spell only works for a few hours, I will cherish those, possibly forever.

I have no idea why, but his role in the vision is particularly painful. His words hurt so damn much, even though none of it happened and maybe never will. At least as long as I figure out what will bring this darkness over me.

I blissfully ignore his presence and leave the room, fresher than ever, in casual clothes, as no one knows where I will study for the next few years. So, no Fountain Academy uniform or whatever they wear in Alfea.

Since I have no idea where to go, I wander the halls and look at everything there is to see. I admire paintings and wonder who the people in them are. Further into the corridors, I find still good weapons hanging on the walls. Why would they use functioning weapons as decoration? 

Things get even stranger inside the building. After many corners, I suddenly find myself in a massive library. Why does a soldiers' school need so many books? But there is no one I could ask. What a pity.

Stepping forward to a railing, I let my gaze wander over the many bookshelves about eight floors up and at least as many down.

“I wish Galan would be here with me. He would love to see so many books,” I murmur quietly, the sadness clearly audible in my voice.

[Masterlist]

[sercezgazety]

For the ask game, 3, 4, and 20 please :D

3. What is your absolute favorite kind of fic to write?

Angst, angst, angst, angst! Sometimes mixed with dark comedy. The kind of angst in which the blorbos are solely responsible for their own misery.

I do love it when my blorbos are pieces of garbage. *cracks knuckles* I could make them worse

4. Are there any other fic writers you admire? If so, who and why?

Oh boy, okay, that is a super difficult question because there are so, so many. I don’t think I can do justice to all the amazing writers I admire, but here’s a (definitely too short) alphabetical list of people who make the blorbos act perfectly in character, complicate their lives, and do it in magnificently skilful ways:

babel  

cleanwhiteroom [the author of the most amazing Pacific Rim fic with worldbuilding so complex they even delved into the impact of kaiju attacks on research grants and the structures of academia; unfortunately, afaik, this person has been chased off ao3 for the most ridiculous reason imaginable, that is: for queerbaiting in a fic that was actually just a slow burn]

elliptical

Hella Jelena  

Jagodzianka  

Schildkroete  

SmolWhiteWolf

spacebrock

Vee_hee_hee

WabiSabi

WalkingIvy

20. 4 sentences from your work that you’re proud of

I’ve answered that one, but it was an ask by a person who’s in The Owl House fandom, and since we’ve encountered each other in the Re-Animator one, I intend to cheat and pick yet another four sentences.

Three years from now, squirming under the prosecutor’s gaze and carefully avoiding Herbert’s, Dan will say he cares about the defendant a lot, but it doesn’t change the fact that all of it was Dr. West’s doing. At least half of his statement will be true. 

[Mourning Sickness]

“Of Herbert West, I can only speak with mild annoyance,” Dan tells the police. "He mostly keeps to himself."

[a Re-Animator WIP in which Dan is trying to figure out whether Herbert killed Rufus]

[wellntruly]

M*A*S*H - Viewguide, S10

Are you interested in the long-running anti-war situation tragicomedy M*A*S*H (1972-1983), but there are simply so many asterisks and so many episodes?

Well I can’t help you with the asterisks, but nor can I help myself: I started watching all 11 seasons of M*A*S*H, and bringing back for you my viewing selections, chosen for The Qualities.

— — —

Hiiiiiii guuuyys. So something new has happened, here in the tenth season. Her name is Karen Hall. Who is Karen Hall? Well I've looked into this: a young writer Alan Alda met in a workshop he was teaching, was like, uh, you rock totally, pulls a Daniel Craig on James Bond, and gets M*A*S*H to hire her for last season's ‘Father’s Day’ (none for Margaret's dad with left beef). This season, she’s got four more scripts, and her name is on every episode as the series' new story editor. I kept thinking I was seeing “Karen Han” and going, well of course Karen would freak this, and the thing is that sentence is still right: Karen freaks this. Season 10!!!! My favorite season since Season 6?? Itself my favorite since Seasons 2-3??

And just one more (!) after this, oh my gOD....

M*A*S*H - Season 10 Recommended sequence

10x01-02 ’That’s Show Biz: Parts 1 and 2’ - A U.S.O. troupe gets stuck at the MASH for a couple days, and unlike all the other two-parters they’ve done, this one really uses the pace of having a full hour, seeding so many elliptical details and unexplained behaviors that they are in no hurry to answer just yet. It gives these two an intriguing depth. Also: former burlesque dancer played by GWEN VERDON. Aah-aah-aaaah!!

10x06 ‘Wheelers and Dealers’ - I’m including this one for two reasons. 1) Rizzo, whom I don’t believe I’ve featured yet, and when he’s in the pocket, boy does this raspy Bayou weirdo make me laugh. And 2), I *think* this is gonna prove the last big blow-out finale of BJ being such a jerk to everyone over his family, and we definitely should go out with the bang that is Margaret tearing into him with a perfect diatribe that’s been two seasons coming. Cathartic! And then this seemingly clears the way to shift gears, or change roads, whatever episode-apt vehicle metaphor you want, and set us now humming along the rest of this season with pretty much exactly the BJ I would have expected we’d have at this point when I was in Season 5 or 6: tall mid-tempo California-goofy sweetie who mostly does actually like other people, including his Army-issued boyfriend.

10x07 ‘Communication Breakdown’ - Like, to wit: very next episode, BJ’s slow adorable amazed grin to the mess ceiling at Charles showing his whole ass over the PA (foreshadowing) had me, confusingly, going: [Trapper voice] Hawkeye, I think I’m in love. It’s another Karen/Alan co-pro, baby, and Season 10 is now really kicking OFF.

10x10 ‘’Twas the Day After Christmas’ - Two visiting Englishmen straight out of WWI Britfluence Colonel Potter into adopting their topsy-turvy Boxing Day tradition of having the enlisted ranks swap roles with the officers, and oho, are they also All SO COLD about it, and oho are they doing [short shaky exhale] this:

10x10 you mean 10/10?

10x11 ‘Follies of the Living - Concerns of the Dead’ - The ‘Written & Directed By Alan Alda’ contribution this season is this Distant Voices, Still Lives ass title (affectionate) heading the episode where Klinger has a fever and is seeing ghosts. HIGH degree of difficulty on this one, my good friend, and for the first part I was like, maybe?, and then we get to the dead soldier hanging out with Margaret in Furious & Marvelous mode, and then the best drinking scene this show has ever done. The pitchest black wry comedy, mostly just gutting. Mostly just exquisite.

10x12 ‘The Birthday Girls’ - Outrageously boyfriends Hawkeye & BJ are trying to become cow fathers, while Margaret & Klinger finally get their mandated bond in adverse conditions outside of camp arc and are like, we have been waiting for your call. Riotous and sweet with an ass script that won’t quit, it's Karen Hall’s ‘The Birthday Girls’, [opening locket meme] my Beloved. ❤️

10x13 ‘Blood and Guts’ - The fact that the villain is a misleading writer is honestly so tasty for this show to do.

10x14 ‘A Holy Mess’ - A riveting turn that features a sort of semantic legal battle around religious sanctuary (COOL), but above all, this is an episode about eggs. Talking about eggs, thinking about eggs, the consuming drama of how the eggs will prepared....this is what I meant about riveting.

10x17 ‘Where There’s a Will, There’s a War’ - Sorry to end a second season list in a row with an aid station episode (and third season I've done this overall), but just, my GOD, take this—

Charles: “I hope you manage to stay beautiful until Pierce gets back to see you.” BJ, sudden quiet dread: “Back from where?”

and go, go!!!!

Season 1 • Season 2 • Season 3 • Season 4 • Season 5 • Season 6 • Season 7 • Season 8 • Season 9 • Season 10 • To be continued

#M*A*S*H hours

[motifcollector]

... They surprised me as much as if someone else had written them; yet I recognized the vocabulary, the shape of the sentences, the drive, the elliptical forms, the mannerisms. These pages were soaked through and through with my self—there was a sickening intimacy about it, like the smell of a bedroom in which one has been shut up too long.

Simone de Beauvoir, “The Age of Discretion” in The Woman Destroyed, trans. Patrick O'Brian

[booloocrew-blog]

“The word that Mrs. Bronson is unable to put into the hot, still, sodden air is 'doomed,' because the people you've just seen have been handed a death sentence. One month ago, the Earth suddenly changed its elliptical orbit and in doing so began to follow a path which gradually, moment by moment, day by day, took it closer to the sun. And all of man's little devices to stir up the air are now no longer luxuries—they happen to be pitiful and panicky keys to survival.” 

rod serling, S3EP10, The Midnight Sun, November 17, 1961, being a real fucking prophet

[thessalian]

Thess vs ChatGTP NPCs

Happened to trip over a Kotaku article about this mod for Skyrim that lets ChatGTP create additional dialogue for NPCs. There are a lot of people in the comments defending something that makes your NPC sound like that auto-generated voice you find on TikTok, which ... I do not get. I’m seeing, “Just wait five years and see how great this tech will be!”

First of all ... no.

Second of all ... hell no.

Look, I’ve already seen the development of the tech that turns voice to text. It still can’t figure out some accents, almost no one speaks slowly and clearly enough to get a decent reading, and it’s shitty for people with speech impediments. I mean, it may well be better now, I don’t know. The thing is ... there’s one problem with text-to-speech that speech-to-text doesn’t have: emotional context.

First of all, no voice actor in their right mind is going to sign away rights to their own voice for use however some AI chat bot dictates, mostly because the loopholes would state something about “we can use your voice whenever we want, however we want, forever, and only pay you this one fee”, and nobody is that stupid. And honestly, even if they were, the recording sessions for it would be insane. Here’s an example in text format: “I never said she stole my money”, and how a change in emphasis changes the entire sentence:

“I never said she stole my money.” (someone else made that accusation)

“I never said she stole my money.” (abject denial)

“I never said she stole my money.” (I just heavily implied it)

“I never said she stole my money.” (but someone else did)

“I never said she stole my money.” (she just borrowed it without clarifying that it was okay to do so)

“I never said she stole my money.” (my roommate’s money, yes. Mine, no)

“I never said she stole my money.” (but my favourite necklace is missing)

Stresses change a spoken sentence. That is why we use italics. And stress can go on any word and more or less entirely change a sentence’s meaning. Even how you stress a word changes depending on the sentence. Consider: “I do not drink ... wine”. That elliptical pause is integral to the way that line flows in speech, and suggests a whole host of emotional context that needs to be given to that line when spoken. And verbal stress is different depending on the situation. It might be a voice rising in volume and pitch due to frustration. It might be slow and a bit louder to really rub it in someone’s face. It might be triumph. It might be pain. Wail of sorrow or shout of joy or anything in between.

Now, assuming that an AI could accurately identify the need for whatever stresses are appropriate in their self-generated text, the shift from that to actually making a computerised voice say the right thing in the right way would depend on a voice actor reading pretty much the entire dictionary several times over in various ways to make sure the AI had enough building blocks to put it together correctly. And then the AI would have to actually do it. I can’t imagine what voice actors would say to that kind of demand from a game publisher. I also can’t imagine the size of the sound file folder. And one bug and it’s all a huge mess. Tell me that it’d all be working perfectly when you got the game. Given the tendency of most big publishers to release games in a barely-playable format with intentions to patch it later, tell me that and I will call you a liar.

This kind of machine-learning situation may have its place, but art and entertainment ain’t it. I’m trying to imagine some of my favourite games and favourite voice acting moments being machine-generated instead of acted out. Try to imagine “I AM URDNOT WREX! AND THIS IS MY PLANET!” spoken basically like the TikTok caption-reader voice, but more gravelly. I dare you.

...Honestly, the only place I could see that working is the elcor.

Anyway, point is, if we’re going to take AI anywhere, could we do it someplace that doesn’t rely on emotional depth and nuance? Some people in the comments of the Kotaku article were talking about “video games don’t have the luxury of story or lore”, and my immediate thought was, “Okay, no, no; your fixation with “Go To Place, Shoot The Dudes” is not infecting my single-player story-rich RPG experience so go fuck yourself.” I don’t want a machine just randomly generating movie scripts and then speaking them in barely-emotional snippets of other people’s words. The whole point of flagging up how Marvel / Disney gave no context to anybody’s scripts in scenes like Tony Stark’s fucking funeral was that you can’t just put something together out of unrelated snippets without human talent and emotion at the helm and expect anything good. I signed up for art and pathos and beauty (joyful or terrifying or sad; beauty takes so many forms), not a BtVS Script Generator. Because, seriously, AI learns what you give it, and doesn’t have the option to go out and seek sources other than its parent / guardian / creator / whatever that, say, humans do. AAA games companies will feed the AIs a diet of “what market trends say is popular” and we’ll get faux-witty quips spoken in barely-emotional tones that may or may not match the emotional context the game is going for.

...So almost exactly like a late-stage MCU movie.

[divinumv3ntus]

Black Moon Lilith

The astrological sign Black Moon Lilith is the skyward representation of The Dark Goddess. Beyond Her other planetary correspondences such as Venus and Saturn, this celestial body and occurrence is a lunar apogee, by definition. Merriam-Webster defines "apogee" as "the point in the orbit of an object (such as a satellite) orbiting the earth that is at the greatest distance from the center of the earth." Here, the word "satellite" takes on the astronomical definition meaning "a celestial body orbiting the earth or another planet." With all that being said, the phase of the moon in the occurrence of a lunar apogee may seem irrelevant. Afterall, an apogee doesn't need to be in any one phase to become an apogee; the moon will keep moving regardless. It's not entirely irrelevant, however. The moon phase in which it occurs may hold astrological and personal meaning to the practitioner.

Black Moon Lilith is also known as "Mean Lilith." The black moon is calculated based on the average elliptical orbit of the moon at its farthest point (distance) in relation to the Earth. In order for you to understand this concept better, I will explain True Lilith first. True Lilith, also known as "Osculating Lilith," is a point in reference to the furthest point of the moon from the Earth on an unsteady ellipse due to its perturbation. The "wobble" of the moon is the conventionally accepted simplification for a "nodal precession." According to Wikipedia, "nodal precession is the precession of the orbital plane of a satellite around the rotational axis of an astronomical body such as Earth. This precession is due to the non-spherical nature of a rotating body, which creates a non-uniform gravitational field." The "non-spherical nature of a rotating body" is referencing the Earth's equatorial bulge. "The Earth has a rather slight equatorial bulge: it is about 43 km (27 mi) wider at the equator than pole-to-pole, a difference which is about 1/298 of the equatorial diameter." I don't necessarily like to use Wikipedia as a source, but these sentences were worded too perfectly for me to leave them out. Taking all of this into account, the furthest point in relation to the moon's precession, or "wobble" in its elliptical orbit is True Lilith. Mean Lilith, or Black Moon Lilith is a theoretical point farthest from Earth within the average elliptical orbit of the moon, if the Earth were a perfect sphere. Neither of these points are right or wrong, they both simply take a different mathematical approach.

The well-known Black Moon Lilith symbol (or sigil, depending on how you see it) refers to Mean Lilith. Although it is most commonly associated with Mean Lilith, there are people who associate it with True Lilith. I personally believe it's associated with Mean Lilith by default and in my case (meaning it resonates with me). If True Lilith resonates with you, then go with that. Having Black Moon Lilith in the different signs and houses can have different meanings for an individual as well. Furthermore, it is possible that if you have Black Moon Lilith in your ascendant in your natal chart, you are more likely to be in Her favor and have a relationship with Her. I say possibly because whether this is true or not, I know my matron isn't so rigid (but then again She could be since there is no defining the powerful being associated with immeasurable freedom). If you don't have Black Moon Lilith in your AC (ascendant), don't let that stop you from reaching out to Her. In fact I'd say you're stupid if you did. She does as She pleases and a theoretical point won't stop Her. The placement isn't some key you need to somehow just have in order to be able to work with Her. She calls Her own whoever She wants. I genuinely do believe astrology and the zodiac to an extent, but I would never let it dictate my life. If you do have the black moon in your AC, don't let your ego in, it does not serve you. Evidently, She doesn't work with everyone with the placement. There are people with the placement who don't even know it or care to know it. These are people who couldn't be further from this path and have it. There could even be people on the path that have it and can't work with Her because She doesn't want to. You have to respect Her.

There are two additional Liliths in astrology. One of them is Dark Moon Lilith, also known as "Waldemath Moon," "Ghost Moon," or "Sepharial's Moon." It was and still is an obscure hypothetical second moon which hasn't ever been proven to exist. It was "discovered" sometime in the 17th century. The other Lilith in astrology is Asteroid Lilith. Numerous sources indicate that Asteroid Lilith was discovered February 11, 1927 by Russian-French astronomer Benjamin Jekhowsky and had been named after the French composer Lili Boulanger.

You may be wondering how to find the Liliths in your natal chart. I used the website AstroDienst (https://www.astro.com/h/index_e.htm). The website had undergone an intensive update simplifying it. For me it only increased complications since I had already known how to use it when it was 'mechanical.' Luckily for me I had created and saved my natal chart before the update. In other words, I can't tell you how to do it; I tried it once with the new version and it was pretty rough. One thing you will need though are the object codes. They are as follows: 1181, H13, H21, and H58, for Asteroid Lilith, True Lilith, Mean Lilith, and Dark Moon Lilith, respectively. Be certain to get every detail down to the minute, approximate location, and whatever else for a precise and accurate result.

Darkest blessings, ⛧DivinumVentus

[cycas]

Hello, Cycas! I wanted to ask you about the specific character voice of Maglor. I reread RtA and Quenta Narquelion to do some analysis of the way Maglor construct sentences and which words he uses. I still struggle with him a little bit, I'm missing some piece in the puzzle. I would be grateful if you can tell me more about the way you write Maglor and what character points to not miss?

What I learn about Maglor's speech patterns is the interesting contrast of flowery and lively speech, not being very blunt and dance around topics, but then suddenly being alarmingly blunt and to the point the second later. He is very eloquent and I noticed he is maybe persuasive without the intention to be sometimes? Always in control of every conversation and the way he is perceived by people even in daily life. My problem is I just.. have problem to write him like that and I would really appreciate some tips.

I would also appreciate if you can link me to some good books or essays on the matter of medieval kingship. Useful for the writing of noldorin politics. Thank you very much!

I finally got to answer this, terribly late, sorry. Very flattered to be asked!

I try to write Maglor as someone who enjoys language, and is sometimes a little playful about using it. Both he and Maedhros have a tendency to longer, more complex sentences and are perhaps more likely to use a scattering of Latinate words than many of my characters (particularly Nimloth, who is much more direct.)

But Maglor is more concerned with the sound and rhythm of words, while Maedhros is more likely to be obscure and elliptical when speaking. (Of course, really, they aren't speaking English, but, well, call it a translation convention.)

So on the whole, Maglor says what he means, using words that have a pleasant shape and rhythm. He's very good at that, so one thing he does, as you mentioned, is deliberately vary his sentences length for impact.

But he is also a procrastinator who prefers to avoid unpleasant truths. Such as: we are going to lose this war. Such as, just giving up and going home will go horribly wrong. Such as: you need Fingolfin's help so ffs, ask. (Maedhros faces unpleasant truths head-on, which is one of many reasons that Maglor used to prefer to leave big decisions to him.)

So when he is finally forced to face a situation he would have preferred to weasel out of (for example: the Oath really is still binding, or Elrond and Celebrimbor are in danger, etc) he's often a bit more staccato, because he's uncomfortable and dealing with emotions that he's definitely not going to explain to anyone.

But at the same time, like all of Feanor's sons, he can make a speech at the drop of a hat if he really has to. He has the ability to put on his princely mantle and play the part, the way Celegorm and Curufin did in Nargothrond. When Maglor does this, he does it expertly. Feanor's sons generally do things expertly, of course, and Maglor is an expert in language, and in manipulating emotion with language by telling stories.

So yes, sometimes he finds that he's swaying the people he is talking to with his words, even when he knows that's a perilous path to walk and is genuinely trying to dial things back. His default register, I suppose, is Teller of the Tale, and that is a role that is intrinsically manipulative of emotion and opinion. And controlling that is quite difficult because all of that family grew up using all their many talents as often and as hard as they could. They are not used to restraint. I think this is one of the many things that draws him to Elrond,Finrod and Fingon. Apart from shared history, they are genuinely friends because these are people that Maglor cannot accidentally push around, because they are more than capable of seeing what he is doing, not being impressed, and pushing back harder. After the First Age, Maglor finds that reassuring. He is aware that his own judgement has sometimes led him terrible consequences that he regrets, and he doesn't trust himself: even worse, he can't trust Maedhros or Feanor any more either, and that is really difficult for him.

A younger and more competitive Maglor would be much more irritated by Fingon and Finrod, I suspect, but of course he didn't know Elrond then. I think he gets on much better with reborn Fingon and Finrod than he did when they were children. As to medieval kingship, that's... a big question! And I don't know if I can answer it because I tend to feed in stuff from my long-ago history degree which probably has been superceded and also I can't remember where I read things anyway. But my emphasis tends to be early medieval European- what is often called the Dark Ages - rather than late medieval. Rosamond Mckitterick,J. M. Wallace-Hadrill, and Janet Nelson are relevant historians, maybe also Brian Ward-Perkins on the Fall of Rome. I like Nelson's book on Charles the Bald, but I'm not sure how much fun it would be to read just for fanfic!

But my ideas about Maglor as a leader and his characterisation are also particularly influenced by a couple of novels (neither of them, strictly, medieval!) : Island of Ghosts, by Gillian Bradshaw, and Sword at Sunset by Rosemary Sutcliff, and I can definitely recommend those as fun to read.

Thank you for the ask, it was a lot of fun to answer, and I hope it made some kind of sense even if rather late.

[kiramoran]

tagged by @straydelivery, mwah

Relationship status: single for centuries. not happy about that, bleh 🤨 but not too concerned either, jeez 💅

Favorite color: peach, ruby and all those that work well in drawing

Favorite food: caesar salad with shrimp; avocado (in any dish)

Song stuck in my head: slowthai - Dead leaves. love this one and that whole album.

Last thing I googled: some routes and locations in the place where i’m currently having a vacation. went to the beach today, and now i can say that i’ve had a swim in all the four oceans on planet Earth.

Dream trip: huh whuh anywhere abroad because due to political status quo i cannot leave the country and probably wouldn’t be able to for some time. so my record of 20 countries has ceased for now. but if i imagine the better future i’d certainly visit Vienna again, it’s a miracle, and after that i’d visit my European friends.

Something I want: i dream to do nothing but art, to make a living from art. no idea how to achieve that yet. also i’d like to work on important stuff much more than rn and for my mental health to allow me to do that.

Currently reading: Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. he actually uses impersonal sentences so i was like 🤔 so i can use them too? i was refraining from them in my english writing because to my knowledge every english sentence has to have a predicate. but if Mr.Franzen uses these, why can’t i?

Last song: Oxxxymiron - Нон-Фикшн 🤷‍♀️

Last series: oh i watched that The Bear series, started because it was all over my tumblr dash. INCREDIBLE, just great, especially that elliptical plot composition where all the things that the character ignored in the beginning come back to ensure his salvation/reawakening in the end. and yeah ofc Jeremy Allen White 🤤

Last movie: The Third Murder by Hirokazu Kore-eda. i started with his Shoplifters (those who read my WIP fic know why) and the director’s style was love at first sight so i resumed learning his filmography.

Sweet/spicy/savory: savory, but actually whatever, i wish eating didn’t exist

Currently working on: well yeah my infant son Disintegration, a Tokyo Revengers fanfic, that’s it for now. it gives me great pleasure, especially since i take my time trying different patterns of episode build-up/scene size/chapter composition, though the most interesting episodes to write are only about to come. like, my favorite scene is planned for chapter 8 in the first draft. i’m mad & sad that it takes more than a week to make a chapter, but well, the trick is that i rewrite every scene three times in order have it solid, so if achieving faster pace means sacrificing some quality - no can do, my perfectionism holds me hostage

Time: 8PM

tagging my mutuals @xlappy @screechingnebula @aokuro-san (no pressure)