#the acting?? the writing?? everything???? SUBLIME

[elimore-art]

domestic bliss

[dearharriet]

American Honey; Steve Harrington ⛱️

summary: it’s summer, and you’re in love with your boyfriend, steve.

word count: 2K

warnings: implied fem!r, drinking, lots of pet names (honey, baby, pretty, beautiful), lord of the rings references (+ fellowship spoilers!!), tickling, suggestive language

authors note: rly missing summer after writing this one 😭 also I made a mental yarn map between st and lotr while writing this that i can’t unmake I fear

Steve Harrington is an American Treasure.

Fresh out of the pool, he strides toward you, a limber hand reaching out for the beer he entrusted you with. It made you feel special, and Steve certainly entertained the notion. He’s always calling you sweet things—baby, pretty, beautiful, or your favorite—

“Honey.” His shining body is enveloped in shade as he steps under the umbrella you’re using.

He’s an American treasure. Patriotic the way that Colonel Sanders or Bruce Springsteen are. Spangled with freckles and moles like stars, stripes of hot skin on display. Red-shouldered from the sun, blue-lipped from a rocket ice pop, but his teeth remain pearly white.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his warm fingers dampening yours as you hand the can off to him.

“‘Course,” you reply, breathless.

“You sure you won’t swim with me?”

You liked that. He never pretended he had the interest of the whole group in mind. Steve wanted you all for himself, and he wasn’t shy about it.

Smiling up at him, you shake your head.

“I don’t wanna get burnt,” you say. “And anyways, who’s gonna look after your drink if I get in?”

Steve steps closer to pet your hair. It’s a little awkward with his hands still being wet, but you accept it nonetheless.

“Lucky for you, I don’t really care about the drink. I only asked you to hold it ‘cause you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

A smile creeps onto your face, which has turned red—sunblock be damned.

That’s another thing you like about Steve. He’s not really coaxing you into the pool. He knows you burn easy, and further, he’s trying his hardest not to touch your face. He’d watched you meticulously rub sunscreen over it just thirty minutes ago, and he’s sweet enough to remember now.

Worst of all, he knows your anxiety about burning stretches beyond just you, so he ordered the kids to sunscreen up just to put you at ease. It has you thinking undeniably fond, hungry, and binding things about him.

Steve is none the wiser, setting his beer down and rubbing a pruny palm down his chest.

“Could you get my shoulders again, babe? Think the chlorine washed it all off.”

You both know damn well it didn’t, but neither complains as Steve perches himself on the edge of your lounger and you rub sunblock into his broad shoulders.

It’s hard not to love everything about him. Not that you’re trying to stop, but you haven’t admitted to it yet, so maybe you are. Everything is terribly simple and domestic with Steve, easily imaginable as a forever kind of thing, and you’re desperately trying not to jump the gun.

What’s stuck with you time and again—like now—is your contentment in committing unselfish acts, as long as Steve is happy. Everything you do for him is sublimely fulfilling, and you can’t help but imagine that he thinks the same about you. Why else would he happily swim alone and bake away in layers of sunblock, if not because you’re happy first?

Feeling intimidated by all of the commotion around, you amalgamate all of these big feelings into a subdued kiss on Steve’s sticky shoulder. Your lips come away tangy with sunblock, but it’s worth it.

Taking it as a sign that you’re done, Steve turns around and gives you exactly what you want, leaning over your bare legs to kiss your waiting mouth. You think it’s a thank-you kiss, but then he’s leaning in for another, and another, his hand holding steady to your ankle.

When he pulls away he’s like a concentrated UV beam. His shoulder is hot where you draw shapes into it.

“Y’still having fun? We could go inside.”

Your legs press together.

“I know why you want to go inside,” you tease, poking his cheek, “and it’s going to have to wait.”

“Who says,” he challenges, pouting, “s’my house.”

Your eyes leave his face to watch the action in the pool. The kids are reenacting a Tolkien-related battle very loudly and dramatically, with Eddie as Aragorn.

“Everyone is here,” you remind him, nodding at the pool just as Will flays an imaginary Orc. Steve doesn’t even glance behind himself.

“So?” He mumbles, kissing your bottom lip. “I’ll tell them to leave.”

He’s so hard to resist like this, all gushy and lovesick. You push your fingers into the hair at his neck to pull him away and he hums happily.

“You’re terrible,” you chide, but you’re smiling, anyhow.

“Is it a crime to love your girlfriend?” A shock zips through you, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice what he's admitted.

“Steve!” Lucas—who is using his recent growth spurt to play Legolas—calls over, saving you from responding.

“Stop sucking face and get over here! It’s time for you to die.”

“Uh-oh,” you laugh, patting Steve on the back. “Sounds serious.”

“How come they always make me play Boring-mir,” he complains, turning back to you. He doesn’t seem very motivated to get up at all, practically lazing beside your legs despite the gang of nerds waiting on him.

“He’s not so bad, from what I’ve read,” you argue, glancing at the closed book by your side. “Though I think they should let you take a crack at Aragorn.”

Grinning, Steve stretches up to kiss you.

“Honey, I think you’re the only one who believes in me,” he whispers sarcastically, and then presses in again.

“Steve!”The kids all throw their hands up. Eddie continues to swing a pool noodle like a sword.

“Coming!” Steve gives you the kiss they interrupted, though it's missing the sensuality it began with. “Jesus, you guys, you see what I’m leaving behind?” Steve gestures to you, and you swat at his arm.

“Steve, stop.”

“No! It’s an impossible task,” he declares, arms out, loud enough so the kids can still hear him. Then, quieter, “you’re too damn gorgeous, gorgeous.”

“Resist temptation, brother,” Eddie calls. “The power of the ring cannot be wielded!”

Steve waves him off as he gives you one final, lingering kiss. Then he's up, trekking back into the sun.

“Don’t think you’ll kill me so easily this time, brats. I’m fighting for Mordor!”

“You’re fighting for Gondor, thick head,” Dustin snips, but screeches when Steve tackles him.

Smiling from your shady oasis, you leave your book forgotten at your side. Steve puts on a good show, taking imaginary hits for Merry-Erica and Pip-Dustin, cutting off forgotten lines with groans and tears.

You shake your head ruefully as the kids cheer and applaud his passing, not sure they understand the sacrifice made. Steve just smiles and bows, and you think maybe he doesn’t, either.

When he finally slumps down next to you again—dripping and warm and happy to be discharged—you curl into him and throw your legs between his.

“Tired?” You lean your head against the springy elastic slats and look at him softly. He nods and pulls you closer, his free hand and his thigh working together to open a new can of beer. He takes a swig and hands it to you.

“I don’t know how they can keep going. I feel like I need an IV.”

You laugh around the rim of the can.

“Maybe I can get you a glass of water, then, and keep this to myself.” You swirl the heavy can in front of him. Steve shakes his head.

“You wouldn’t dare. Beer is, like, basically water, I’m pretty sure.” You raise a skeptical brow, but hand it back to him. “It is! It’s sterile, baby.”

“I love it when you talk sexy.”

Steve throws his head back laughing, nearly dumping the can into both of your laps. You never take your eyes off of him, chest light with the high of encouraging a sound so sweet.

“Where did you even hear that?” You trace his collarbone as you ask, and then his adams apple. Steve’s eyes are still squeezed shut as he attempts to talk through his giggling.

“E—hedd—d-iehee.”

Surely it wasn’t that funny, you think, watching him go red in the face. He’s working himself up more than anything, now. You don’t care. You add fuel to the fire, pinching under his ribs to watch him squirm and howl.

Steve practically throws the can onto the ground, writhing away from your menacing fingers.

“Baby—stop!” You’re laughing with him now, infected by his hiccuping voice. “Honey—honey, please——time-out, time-out!”

You stop, and he snags your hand to hold it away from him. Panting, Steve twists around to pin you on the chair, his free hand creeping towards your bare side.

“Payback…,” he whispers threateningly.

“No…Steve—“It’s too late, Steve’s hands are already working into your sides cruelly, and his mouth is blowing raspberries into your neck. You kick your feet wildly, pushing at his shoulder with your connected hands.

At your shrieking, everyone looks over, faces forming into a hash of reactions. Surprisingly—or unsurprisingly—no one intervenes. The boys boo at you, but it’s only as long-lived as the tickling itself.

“Sto-ho-ho-hoppp—“ you plead, and Steve yields, a satisfied smile on his face.

When you finally relax back into the chair again, chest rising and falling rapidly, Steve takes your hand into his and holds it over his torso.

“Hate you,” he puffs out, and then picks up the beer that started it all.

“Hmph,” you complain, and hold your hand out until he passes it over.

“I love you.”

You’re aiming for casual, but you miss the mark obscenely. It sticks in your throat and you end up saying every letter.

Steve is eerily silent, watching as you take a nervous gulp of PBR. When you try to pass it back, his receiving hand floats up to your face to wipe over your bottom lip instead.

“What was that?” It’s not a question so much as an encouragement, a request. You can’t even look him in the eyes, curling into his shoulder shamefully.

“Please don’t laugh,” you whine, mortified. How had he made it look so easy?

Steve snakes an arm behind you and rubs your back comfortingly.

“‘M’not, honey. Just wanna make sure I heard you right.”

“You heard me,” you confirm grumpily.

He hums a warm laugh.

Smushing your face into his bicep, you laugh, too. Like magic, the ease flows through your body again, as if it never left. Like the water in the pool, your conversations always slip and slide from childish to heart-pounding and back again. So far, the scariest parts of being with Steve have been the anxieties you invented along the way, and he’s never been unprepared for them.

Propping your chin on his peck, you cuddle closer to him, the warm day slipping into evening chill. Steve waits, patient as a Saint, fiddling with your hair and your top and your mind.

“You knew, didn’t you,” you whisper, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. The near-empty can is still wedged between your bodies, cool against your ribs.

“Sure,” Steve admits. “But thinking it and saying it are different things.”

“True.” You swallow. “Were you waiting on me?”

“Mm, I guess.” He shrugs. “I know it doesn’t change anything if you don’t, but I think I wanted to hear you say it back. Yknow, when I told you.”

Nodding, you kiss the closest patch of skin you can find. Steve continues.

“And then I realized I’d never know if you’d say it back, so I thought I’d wait for you to say it first, which is dumb—“

“S’not dumb,” you assure him, “that’s what I was doing, too.”

Locking eyes, you both peel into laughter at the same time.

“That’s why it’s dumb,” Steve emphasizes. You crawl closer still, giving him the can to put down so you can close the last gap between your bodies. Steve sighs as your nose presses into his neck. “What am I gonna do with you, honey?”

“Terrible, awful, horrible things, I hope.”

You can feel him smiling, sense it.

“Nuh-uh, we’re in love now. Only love-making from here on out.”

You look out towards the pool, at the kids drying off and getting hungry.

You could hardly wait.

+

thank you for reading! 🦢

masterlist

[mothiir]

So how would a non-con totally casual affair between Sevatar x reader workout?

Fair warning, this turned into a bit of an essay :’)

In the books, it’s pretty strongly implied that there is something ‘not quite right’ about Sevatar — maybe he’s a sociopath, or maybe it’s just the general uncanniness of being a psyker. However, its enough for me to think that he probably isn’t the sort to muck in with his brothers every time they take a world and find some pretty women — I’m not saying that he disapproves, more that he just considers it all a little dull. Rape is just one of many crimes that his brothers commit, and most of his sexual appetites have probably been sublimated either into bearing the colossal weight of holding the majority of the Night Lords’ common sense, or into fighting back his latent psyker ability.

So, in a pre-heresy world — just because I like writing about things before everything crashes and burns (and because I don’t want to learn the heresy lore, there’s so much of it) — Sevatar is focused largely on torture-kill-flay. He also suffers from crippling migraines from said repressed psychic ability. The only thing that soothes the pain is the sound of crow wings flapping; back on his home planet he fed the crows bits of corpse, and although I’m not sure if he brought them with him when he travelled off with Konrad I’m going to say yes, because crows are great.

The reader is probably fairly new to Night Lord service — a conscript from one of the more compliant worlds, rather than a trophy of conquest, because Night Lord trophies don’t tend to last long. You’re doing your best to adapt to your new reality, keeping your head down, avoiding notice. The other serfs warn you that there are really only a few ways to deal with the inevitable attentions of bored Night Lords: get really good at hiding, deliberately make yourself look as unappealing as possible, or find one of the more tolerable Astartes and hope that he can be convinced to protect you in exchange for your body. That last one comes with considerable risk — Astartes are fickle, cruel things, and stories abound of poor women being bedded one day and flayed the next.

You have chosen to hide. That is why you find yourself in a corner of the Night Fall, eating the scraps of your breakfast, when you see a crow. For a moment, you think you’re hallucinating — then you realise that no, that is really a crow. They’re found all over the galaxy, spread by long-forgotten human colonisers, though this one is a little larger than the ones you are used to. Still, you give it a crust of bread, because it looks skinny, because you want to, because even now in the belly of hell you want to try and hold tight to the last lingering shreds of your decency. You are human, no matter how the creatures around you act.

It becomes a habit. You sneak off to feed the crows, and they come to recognise you, cawing in excitement when you arrive. You can never feed them more than a little bit of bread or some scraps of meat, but they don’t seem to care. They perch in your hair, peck at your ears, yell at you and at each other like fishwives announcing their catch. You imagine that they are treating you to all the latest gossip, and find yourself talking back to them. You tell them that you are lonely. That you are frightened. That even the other humans here are warped and bitter, and you pray that you will die before you become like them. And then you admit that isn’t true: that you don’t want to die. You want wings, you say, wings and keen black eyes. The freedom of a bird.

It’s all nonsense, of course, and you know in your heart that it cannot last — you’re certain that soon one of the other serfs will see you sneaking off and move to eliminate the birds, seeing them as pests. But, selfishly, you cannot bring yourself to stay away from them. Once or twice they bring you gifts in return for food: a veterbrae you’re almost certain is human in origin. A bit of skin, complete with tattoos. You graciously accept both, discarding the skin at the first opportunity, but keeping the bone. At least the bone doesn’t smell of death, and you can pretend it is something else. You keep it in your pocket, where it is swiftly worn smooth by your grasp.

And one day, it all changes. You sit in your usual place, with one crow in your hair, another in your lap, when the cawing starts up once more. Not a warning, but a welcome. An unseen door opens; the flock descends, and you’re left with two birds and the rabbit-pulse of your heart on your tongue. You don’t know who the First Captain is — your new masters haven’t really informed you of more than what is needed to do your duty — but you know that he is a Night Lord, and that you are dead. You wonder if he will spare the crows — you hope he will. Or maybe they will escape, with black wings and swift talons, and —

He’s feeding them. You freeze, once again thinking that this isn’t real, you must be hallucinating, and one of the crows takes advantage of your sudden lack of movement. She pulls a strip of flesh from the hunk of dripping red meat Sevatar holds, and flutters over to you, taking up position on your shoulder.

She then tries to ram the meat into your mouth. Crows, after all, are clever birds, and this one has been a mother thrice over, and she knows what starvation looks like. To her, you are a frail flock member, a chick in need of fattening up — and crows share with those who share with them. When you recoil, hand coming up to block her insistent jabs, she chatters impatiently, and pecks you smartly on the cheek in reprimand.

Sevatar laughs at the display. You’ve never heard a Night Lord laugh, because you’ve never been in a situation they find entertaining — which is much to your benefit, because those situations normally leave serfs dead or wishing they were. The sound distracts you, and the crow mother finally succeeds in jabbing the meat past your teeth. Horrified, you swallow, praying it isn’t human, and wondering if that’s it — if you are already dead, and this is some absurd afterlife hallucination.

For his part, Sevatar is interested. It takes a lot to ignite any curiosity in his jaded mind, but here you are, like a flash of iridescence on a magpie’s wing; something bright amongst the monochrome.

He has you feed the crows with him, noting how gentle you are with them, even when they leave your hands bloody with acquisitive little pecks — nothing malicious about it, only that they are scavengers, and sometimes you do not magic the food up fast enough. You tell him your name and your position in a trembling voice, and he informs you that you have been reassigned. You do not question this. You do not question much — it’s how you have survived so long.

He takes you to his quarters, and of course you fear the worst at once, doing some mental arithmetic — he seems to be almost eight feet tall, and preportionately large everywhere — but he directs you to a (slightly stained) sofa and throws a blanket at you. He doesn’t trust the other serfs, he says, not to have a go on you. You flush, assure him that none of them have even hinted at it, and he looks surprised. Normally the older servants go straight for the pretty new girls.

Congratulations, you’re now Sevatar’s personal serf. It’s a fairly easy job, all things considered. No heavy lifting (he can take his own armour off) and no caring for human hides (he can tan his own cloak, thank you very much). On your first day polish his armour obsessively, because you don’t have much else to do. He asks you why you have repainted his pauldrons and you have to — gently — say that no, that’s just the colour they go when they are clean. He has you prepare food for his crows, and you learn that they are his, and in no danger from anyone. No one will touch them, because they know better than to incur Sevatar’s wrath.

On the second night, he comes back late from a meeting with his father, with a face like a thunderhead. Blood drips from his eyes, and his face is twisted in bestial agony. You want nothing more than to cringe and sob, but you think of the crows — of how merciless they are to their prey, and how mewling only proves that you are something to be devoured. Instead you greet him, and ask if you can help. He shows his teeth, but lets you stroke his hair, and rub his temples, and although he doesn’t go so far as to fall asleep in your lap he visibly relaxes, his breathing evening out. You ask if that is all he needs of you, and he says no, and bids you remove your clothes.

It’s not unexpected, and not completely unpleasant — though it is painful. Sevatar is large, and although he does try to open you up on his fingers — using his own armour oil as lubricant — he soon loses patience and pushes himself inside. You grit your teeth against a wail of pain as his cock bullies past tight walls, his breath humid in your ear. He takes you from behind, mantling you like a great bird of prey. He tells you how good you feel, how tight and sweet, and you feel him smirk into your nape when you start to cry. You do cum before he does, driven there almost out of self defence, your whole body one taut nerve. He follows you over the edge, spilling inside and remaining there as his hearts thunder against your back.

The next day, he tattoos you with a mix of his blood and ink, across your abdomen and down your leg. The tattoo takes far longer to heal than it should, because he can’t seem to stop licking at it — but it is the closest you can get to safe here, and for that you are thankful.

[nekovmancer]

Broken porcelain

pairing: Ramattra x f!reader  prompt: sexual tension when tending to someone's wound from this list warnings: semi-nsfw, mentions of blood, injuries, semi-nudity, swearing, reader being a bit masochist etc etc word count: 2272 a/n: backstreet's back, alright! and finally. 😎 I’ve been a bitch with a big B for Ramattra over the past couple months, and of course I had to write a piece on that robot guy. He gives me… feels I can’t explain. So, for all my fellow robot fuckers, hope you enjoy reading this as much as I’ve enjoyed writing! Feedback is always appreciated and please please please send an ask, a chat, anything so we can talk about this big guy and more fanfiction prompts. 😭 also on ao3!

Who would ever say to be a human amongst killing machines would, impressively, be a dreadly task? Or deadly, you would remark to yourself after a long walk of dragging your wounded body through the corridors from the training field to Ramattra’s personal workshop. At least, those new assassin omnics would perform their duties impeccably, you could tell from the way they cut through your skin without a single issue.

The wound was still covered under the thin layer of the tank top you have on, the white fabric damp of crimson blood denouncing something went terribly wrong, not to mention the pained expression contorting your face. 

As soon as he eyes your state, if Ramattra could bring a worried expression to the surface of his faceplate, he would, a mirror to the torment running through his systems. He was an engineer, not a human healer, but you needed him to act more as such in the present moment if you’re both willing for you to stay alive, which you indeed were. 

Growing impatient, not to mention the pain reaching under your skin, you adjust yourself slowly on top of his workbench, holding your side to prevent any further damage. Your fingers get moist with blood, and that has your lips twitching. “Can you fix me or not?” 

“That depends on your meaning of fixing,” he states, a stoic demeanor on the outside despite feeling quite the opposite inside. Feeling. Something he didn’t think to be inclined to, at least not when those diverged from the violence he was shaped to perform as a being… and yet, here they are, as foreign to him as the surgical aspects of flesh and bone. “I can’t weld you, obviously. At least, not as a first resource,” his slight humor brings a faint smirk to your lips, slowly shaking your head in a quiet response. In a lighter tone, Ramattra proceeds, and now it’s definitely a command. “I would like to have a closer look.”

Quietness follows, not as fast as the warmth spreading from your neck to the tip of your ears. To say you hadn’t considered you’d need to remove your shirt was unnecessary, in front of him of all people, ‘cause you’d rather overcome your own fear of blood if a second thought had you aware of the chances before. But as the old saying remarked: if you are in hell already, just go and sit on the goddamn devil’s lap.

Proceeding a thick swallow, you do as you’re told, diverting your eyes to a corner to avoid examining the cut yourself, or to avert them from Ramattra’s, anything and everything were an excuse in such a situation. It hurt just enough to be something you knew you couldn't handle alone, and considering how sharp that assassin’s knives were… fuck’s sake, what a weak fool you were.

On the other hand, at the sight of your almost bare torso, Ramattra felt inexplicably tense. The wound itself was not too deep to reach anything vital, but would need a patch up indeed in order to heal properly. Yet, his sight wasn’t restrained to that minor part of your skin, and that’s when tension was found. Maybe the vocabulary wasn’t a perfect fit, ‘cause that jolt of electricity running through his circuits was something else, something as sublime as the curve of your hips, and the way you shallow breaths of anticipation had your body quivering, despite an enormous strength to keep it still. He could hardly find beauty in human beings, and let’s not even mention himself, but that was a whole different scenario… warm, with a hint of degradation he couldn’t ignore, and something that could only be named as akin to desire. 

The silence was killing you now, almost making you forget the very pain which brought you there in the first place. “Will we be helding any funerals?” you risk, in the same light humor he used with you before. At least, if you didn’t consider the shaking tone in each syllable you’d pronounced. You thought Ramattra couldn’t  never understand your concerns fully, even if he invested all his force to: if the worst happened, he could be reconstructed, you were there for it after all. But as a human, it’s not like you have a respawn chance anytime. That’s why, aside the anxiety turning your stomach into a knot, you needed him to act. 

“You speak as if it's more severe than it is in fact,” he muses, tilting his head as the scanners on his optics do the rest of the work, searching for the right proceeding in a shared data file, where he was hoping to get anything from an omnic model whose initial propose, contrasting his, was to heal, not to kill. “No funerals, you have my word. The pain may be harsh, but the wound itself is of little harm in the bigger picture. You’re safe,” the addition of the last sentence has you sighing in relief, and a pinch of pain reaches you once more, but it’s bearable. Ramattra made you feel protected, or better, cared for. The warm feeling is enough to soothe your anxiety, dissipating the chill air in the workshop for a little while before rushing up to your cheeks as you’re reminded you’re still half naked in front of him. 

“Lay,” he commands, and your breath gets caught in your throat in the act. Only if your mouth were open, your heart would surely jump out if it during one of its chaotic heartbeats, contrasting the steady tone on Ramattra’s voicebox, echoing those words without a single trace of malice. But when they hit you, they sounded profane, leaving a delicate trace of forbidden to the tip of your tongue. 

You curse your mind as you lay down, a shiver erupting from the contact of warm skin to the cold metal of his workbench’s surface. Fuck, he’s your commander, superior office or whatever goes between you both, your boss to be short. Thing is he saw a purpose for you and spared your life long ago, and that purpose goddamn sure didn’t imply any… deeper contact than the occasional intellectual help you provided, with efficient (and smaller) hands and a cunning mind. After all, no Ravager was made to indulge in such a thing as intimacy, the very same thought cursing through Ramattra’s systems right now. He wasn’t built for delicacy, a single gentle touch for his standards would be brutal enough to leave you bruised for days, and how he would lament to see such perfect skin ruined by his own hands… unbearable to even think of it without feeling a strange sensation housing between his metallic limbs, pushing further inside in search of a bloody beating heart among the cold hardware. 

It wasn’t the first time he felt unsure in his existence, but that was a whole new thing. To think one like him was able to possess a spirit tender enough to be mesmerized by such a fragile thing as you touched him not physically, but deeper than it could ever be… how thrilling it was, but insufficient to make him search for its source on his internal data to completely erase it. No, never. He was actually holding into it with every fiber of his soul, curious to see which path it would lead him through. A bit embarrassing, at first impression, like the sight of you would burn his optics until they melt.

After all these years working along, was it there all the time? Within him, within you? He would search for it later, revisiting each time you shared each other's company in his memory, to see where a quiet admiration turned into this. 

After gathering the resources to fix you, ensuring everything was sterilized, he turned to sight over your form once more. Ramattra could sense the rapid heartbeat against your chest controlling your breath motions, the rising and falling of your chest following along, where he caught a peek of your nipples drawing a small circle under the fabric of your top, the last barrier between him and your fully exposed torso. Thankfully, unlike any human, his faceplate didn't betray any of his thoughts. They’re guarded within his systems, safe in his memory and imprinted there forever. Nothing could ever make him forget of you, nor time, nor enemies, nor… fuck, the injury. 

“It would feel better if you were asleep,” he commences, carefully. You’re already scared for it seems, and it’s not on his wishes to make it worse. “Instead, I will ask you to bite on this,” the discarded cloth of your tank top is brought to your lips, and your heart could have stopped right there. Instead, avoiding the disbelief, you silently obey. “Try not to move. I shall be slow.”

A nod follows, and you gather your best to not whine, or flinch, or sob too much when his hands begin to work, stitching the wound close. Whatever sounds leaving your mouth are muffled, and the pain is great. But erotic. And, fuck, you should be loosing your mind by this point. How could your brain process such agony in a pleasurable way? You’d be blaming the omnic in charge of patching you up, for sure. It was him, after all, all about him. 

Ramattra was enormous, and the effort he put in each precise movement didn’t go unnoticed. He could have discarded you, blamed you for your mistakes, assigned anyone else to deal with this bullshit, but there he was: the infamous Null Sector leader, treating you as a precious porcelain tea-cup, once broken, now being patched in threads of gold, despite the gold being metaphorical. It was a form of art, wasn’t it? You’ve read of it somewhere, once. If so, right now, you’re his masterpiece.

To say he’s being delicate is a statement. Ramattra is afraid he could shatter you again, worse than they did with you before. The responsible for it would be severely corrected, later of course. The pads on his fingertips could never be soft as your skin feels under them, and an eagerness to venture further brings a shiver of electricity through his spine. Should he ever be thinking of it in your state? In fact, was it reasonable to have you consuming his memory like this, injured or not? What could be a groan echoes from his voicebox, and within a few long minutes, it was done. 

Your jaw clenches to the minimum effort of raising your torso, sitting on his workbench once more as a small discomfort to the newly sewn cut emerges. Covered in bandages, you can’t see his work, but there’s no blood and the pain is moderate, so you trust with your eyes closed it’s perfectly fine. Your shirt is sitting by your side, bloodied and wet from your own saliva, but you don’t mention reaching for it. 

Blinking, your eyes search for him, meeting the stoic faceplate turned to you. Silence lingers as you both stare at each other, considering every single thought that coursed through your minds during the late couple of hours. Was it genuine? Absolutely. Would you voice them? No, surely not. Tension is still there, so palpable you could touch it, and shattering it would come with a price. 

A small blush color your cheeks red, and you finally manage to break eye contact with a hint of timidity. Too much to ask of you for a little time of strong, contrasting emotions, still tickling under your skin as the adrenaline begins to sparse. Clearing your throat, you’re the first to speak. “I apologize,” it begins as simple as it, almost ending the sentence there as your eyes don’t dare to move from your lap and you choose carefully what to say, and what to keep to yourself. Ramattra may have performed a solid progress towards emotions, but you feared he would fail to comprehend the turmoil in yours. “It wasn’t strict of your concern, nor a matter you should care for as you did, and I-”

“I had to,” he cut you off, sternly. Now that you’re safe, his worries tend to other subjects, still resonating over you. Was he too obvious, despite his best efforts? Couldn’t be, and yet he wished fervently for you to point it out, verbalizing what he was too afraid to: he wanted to keep you close, and safe, more than he ever did. “Whatever happens to you is my business, especially if it's a menace to your well being,” Ramattra takes a step closer, his fingers aching to reach for your face, and soothe that sorry expression out of it. Instead, he keeps them to his sides, clenching them a fist. “So don’t apologize for it. It wasn’t your fault, in the first place, and yet I’ll ask you to be careful and not wander over the training field whenever a new IA is being tested.”

A short nod follows a faint smile. His words were gentle, not explicitly voicing what he meant in between the lines, but you knew it nonetheless. Ramattra cared for you, more than you could have thought, and enough to satisfy your heart. “I don’t even know how to begin thanking you.”

“Dressing will do,” a chuckle reverberated in his metallic rib cage, and if his words alone wouldn’t catch you yet, it would be enough to make your face red as a cherry for, somehow, you were able to sense a trace of malice in Ramattra. “Rest now, human. I shall meet you when the day is done.”

[cablyunkataplum]

Stanford Filbrick Pines

Words: 4,524

Summary: He was so small next to him, he could fit in the palm of his two-dimensional hand and peel millimeter layer by millimeter layer to do whatever he wanted with the raw materials and waste. Previous enjoyment, at this moment repulsion for what is felt.

Written Curse: What can I say, saw someone suggesting it on Tiktok and I did it, Descriptions of insanity and more insanity, suicidal behavior, manipulation, paranoia, kind of religious trauma, self-harm (thoughts and action) depictions, and maybe more sensitive topics, please be aware, MDNI. it's kind of different from what I'm used to writing in some aspects but I enjoyed iy Seeeeeee yaaaaaa darlings!

Versión original-español

I walked through the mists of a gloomy limbo… If such a vague description makes sense, I paid attention to every step I took but I didn't feel it, almost as if it were a dream until my attention it was redirected, something was heard in the distance and I wondered what it could be. It carried with it a sinister air, perverse dyes that dripped phlegmatically, the forbidden, the temptation, the sin that, as its passage, seduced me to approach, thus, little by little, it was not only an unusual song but also a particular smell, a sensation that made one's skin crawl but as everything here was far from comprehending.

Time was distorted and my mind fell into a spiral that I didn't even know I had entered until seeing me in a dreary reflection a realization revealed, it was me.

That smell, that sound, everything… It was nothing more than my own body, that empty and rotten container that wanders aimlessly waiting for an end but even if I succumbed to the clutches of mortality, I know that my corpse would be nothing more than poison for this earth that now curses my existence. I beg for mercy even if I am not deserving and as a heretic I receive cruel punishment that lurks in the depths of my being, which from the beginning eats away at me, what led me to this state.

A simple act like the sliding of curtains felt so treacherous, he was turning his back on him and leaving him adrift. He deserves it, after all he did it was absurd that he thought he would receive any defense from him. He placed the reminder of the freshly made wound in the trash and tried to fall asleep but at no time did he blink, the minutes passed ignorantly to his situation and emotions so overwhelming that they seemed to mock without decorum. He had found a motivation that vanished at the same speed with which it arrived, he had to find another goal, a purpose, something that would give him what he had always longed for.

The days passed without anything remarkable, a blind and tired routine between corridors, living rooms and his bedroom with the irregular change of going to the library or chatting with his roommate, with whom he shared certain hobbies. He was about convincing that he enjoyed it, that despite being an unexpected result, he could take advantage of it and prove to himself that others were wrong, that he was better.

When he made the decision to live in Gravity Falls, it was as if that little flame struggled to remain incandescent and wanted to get bigger. It could be taken as an escape from home in a certain way, miles and miles away from his parents which doesn't make much difference from what it was in Backupsmore.

Everything was different, a new life that he would not let anything or anyone spoil. And so it was for quite some time, there was no day or night in which he did not find something fascinating, a distraction and a temporary relief to his thoughts that dejected him the most, but then, like a rose, it began to wither and the petals fell. Leaving a voracious appetite again.

And what happened when the snake approached him? He fell for the deception. So desperate for a shred of recognition, acceptance… And what person could resist a being greater than their own existence? It was an honor to be the favorite of such a sublime presence, a powerful being who did respond to his prayers, to his doubts, where he believed he was walking on the same floor as this one and not below as he was for so many years with his kind, he was finally an equal.

A nosedive into veneration.

The night was paler than the moon itself, its emanations were blunderbussed as they passed through the stained-glass windows with motifs that I distributed with my own free will throughout my cabin. Immersed in my inscriptions, Bill prowled in the same space and chatted about things that I didn't pay enough attention to since I was used to his actions. When I finished my last stroke I placed the pen aside and closed the bottle of ink to let it rest and therefore dry the contents of the page.

"Hey, Sixer" I turned my head and the first thing my eyes met was the triangle reflecting my appearance, I raised my eyebrow until he continued "Look, someone with science of humor" he laughed to return to his color, he snapped his fingers and pointed at me "Did you understand my pun?", "Of course I did, It's a simple enough thing not to" I adjusted my glasses before closing my journal, getting up from my chair and walking over to put it on the shelf next to the other books in my collection.

"You demean yourself a lot, don't you think? Give yourself some credit" he turned around as he moved forward with me, "I do credit myself but I know when things are easy, Bill" I rolled my eyes and left the room, on the stairs he was behind me "That's because you're very intelligent and perceptive, not everyone would have understood it the first time or the second" At these words I smiled but not for much since the day had exhausted me enough to use my muscles. The cabin was as lonely as the day it was finished, on one hand it was reassuring not to have to deal with those noises resulting from annoying habits of other people but on the other hand I couldn't help but feel more lonely… at least I had Bill by my side, even if I got desperate but very rarely. Maybe I should make a statistic about that.

"It's better as you are if you ask me," I heard his voice again but this time I didn't look at him, I went down step by step until I finally reached the floor. "What are you talking about?" I really had no idea, "Nobody deserves you, Ford" that confession intrigued me now in the kitchen where I didn't turn on the light bulb and only opened one of the drawers in the cupboard for a glass. "I mean, just look at you, six fingers; attractive, intelligent, funny, organized. You're out of their league, much better than all of them" he stood in my field of vision and crossed his arms, "And I doubt very much that you would settle for that anyway".

The circumstances that led to such a fatal encounter…

I closed my lips and remained silent, his words like gasoline for thoughts and speculations to nest in my head "We'll never know, they're counterfactual events and hypothetical situations" I drank from the glass I had previously filled with water "Besides, it makes me sound like a narciss-", "Hey, hey, stop your car, friend" Bill pushed and pulled his arms in the space between him and me "I don't say that with those implications, you're very humble Stanford" he moved his body in such a way that it gave the impression of shaking his head, he raised his arms "Everything you're doing will benefit humanity, for me that's not being selfish, quite the opposite" he approached and placed his elbow on my right shoulder.

"What I mean is that you're better off like this" with the open hand of the other arm he pointed at me, moving up and down, to emphasize his point. "You're happier than you could have been" I was still with my eyes on him without speaking "I'll show you" he moved away a little to extend his arm. "You trust me, right?". It was a bit strange to me that Bill used to ask about my trust in him as often as he did, but I always assumed that being someone with his powers was normal, after all it was logical that when he gave me knowledge and his friendship he needed to know that I would not misuse his generosity.

"Of course I do" I took his hand, his eye curled "You can always trust me, Sixer".

The cabin began to crumble and suddenly the environment changed to an impeccable construction that I did not recognize, at least not immediately, laughter and chatter filled my ears while my eyes ventured to get used to the interior, the sound of some open doors made me spin slightly where I saw something that squeezed my heart, in front of seats and more seats there I was, walking on the stage with a toga, I received my title and it was clear. I was graduating from West Coast Institute of Technology.

It was something unreal to see myself in this situation, to see how my face reflected true enthusiasm and happiness at achieving one of my many dreams that I had as a teenager. My parents were there, Stanley was there and his face was a mixture of pride and joy for me; disappointment, loneliness and doubt in those small details. It continued with a family celebration until the scene changed for the second time where I now worked as an inventor in a company of sorts, I knew that time moved forward thanks to the fictitious calendar, which at first filled the Stanford in front of me with motivation, now it filled him wit sadness. It caused him misery as he was limited by his contract, he no longer had time for his own projects or the family with whom he maintained contact.

And everything changed again, I was on Backupsmore and another possibility unfolded, I met someone and we developed feelings for each other and then, we get married? That would be a waste of my research time and even more so as I watched how we both settled in Gravity Falls and then started a small family, with similar results I gradually fell into the same thing: misfortune, sorrow, and suspicion due to the dissatisfaction with the life I was leading. I separated from my spouse to try to have some serenity but nothing, I constantly saw my other self immersed in the memories and torments of his decision, of the intensity of those discussions; about what was said or not said.

When I turned to the other side, my eyes widened when I found myself in front of the same person, they were talking or rather vociferating, it had taken me a moment to process that change so that their words made sense. "Who is going to want to be with someone like you, Stanford!?" Their face was like a slap that burned even before it landed aggrievedly on my face, but I couldn't mutter so shocked by the constant receipt of information "You're a damn selfish man!" they pointed accusation at me while they continued with their argument. Each syllable only served to sharpen the stake and in the end when it stuck in my heart I looked down, it seemed it could never escape me. Something I never asked for.

Then I knew that my insides were questioning and mortifying. Love is such a complicated concept for a mind like me, I have witnessed finite ways to demonstrate it and I can't seem to fully understand it, from my childhood until now, I still think that it is nothing more than frivolities that everyone pretends to know and handle. and then judge those who try to reach it with simplicity.

On many occasions I had witnessed my father's demonstrations towards Stanley and much more aware when they were for me. So many times I heard the expectations, his disappointments or simply his thoughts about us and each time I felt the need to relieve him but without leaving my brother aside, I wanted to be the one who was deserving enough to let me into his vulnerability and let him know that just as he loved me, I loved him. His words...they hurt , they made me feel insufficient and had the same effect on my brother but... I guess it was his way of showing that we were important, that he knew we could be even better.

That's how this person vanished and windows surrounded me to show hundreds of other situations, no matter how different they were, they all ended in disappointment "Do you see what I mean?" Bill finally decided to make his presence again and with an irritated attitude. He stayed in front of my eyes without the windows stopping rotating around us "They wouldn't appreciate you, six fingers. They are the selfish ones, the fatuous ones who couldn't stand someone as genuine as you" with his hands he enlarged one of the windows that remains motionless to show the image "Even before you moved here" my mother appears, then my father, Stanley and other people with whom I once crossed paths "They hurt you but expect you to give everything for them without complaining" he sighs "And that is why this is better for you".

"You have me by your side, I have seen what the others have not" now we moved to the usual space and he made me sit down, a cup of tea in hand "And I feel very lucky that it was you who called me and not a trashy scientist or something like that" he rolled his eyes and I just laughed, I adjusted my glasses with a little push of my index finger and sipped the liquid "I'm the lucky one, Cipher. It is not an everyday occurrence that such an intriguing and wise being decides to respond to my call" I thought the conversation would go to a more pleasant one immediately but Bill just looked at me "You are very important to me, Sixer" I didn't know what to do or say. because of the seriousness with which he said it "I need you... I would love to be in your dimension to spend more time with you, you know?" I stood up to finally be able to say something until his laughter was the next thing "I mean, at this point you are like my family and that is what all those corny things do to someone" I smiled and nodded, amused at his choice of words "Do you also need me as much as I need you, six fingers?"

"I need you, Bill".

Years later, standing on the bow looking out over the vast sea, he meditated while the other Pines was resting. The waves combined with their reflections induced a peaceful state but a hollowness different from the others persisted. The movement reminded him of thoughts and internal debates at his worst, where he let himself be dragged into the darkness and suffer in it.

If he jumped, it was likely that he would find the sense to live, hewas barely visible due to the stars that saw themselves still, the wood under his feet did not creak or seemed to recognize him, a ghost in pain that wanders in the icy night. He took a step closer to the edge but didn't take anything off, the weight would do. But with half his feet suspended and the other half still on the dock he stayed like that. How long did it take until his heart even beat? When he regained consciousness he was in his bed without a shirt or any clothing for his torso, mere soaked socks the only fabric on his body other than the blankets that maintained an acceptable temperature.

The next morning he left the cabin and walked unconsciously into the forest. Some creatures that he had already studied looked out timidly when they saw the afflicted figure of the man, who acted with the nature of a magnet. He arrived at an area where the trees contained peculiar lines that kept following him. Murmurs began to greet him and say nonsense. When he tried to ignore him, he realized where he was standing and froze. Thousands of eyes stared at him without blinking, they did not have an iris so the blackness of the pupil made him more gloomy and as if they were reading his thoughts, they began to manifest throughout him until he was no longer but a cluster of these organs.

He had come to consider removing his eyes, the simple fact of remembering that he had those orbs caused the most unpleasant reactions in his body, the immediate rejection of a similar object in a metaphorical or literal way, in any information format, just like the other geometric figure. What was once a paradise in their home now behaved like hell. His knuckles were still in limited recovery but his mind was an uncertain omen.

Or he would see his wrists that palely denoted something that he had come to hate and he would think that perhaps, with the help of some instruments he could manage to remove those ropes from his entire body, no matter how long or how painful it meant that Bill would not be able to use him never again. And he tried. What did it matter, if he was already alien to any humanity. His mania for sharp things was not discouraged, if there was the possibility of being there, it was, but; of not, did it by force. Like that time, one of the many times.

It was a moment like the other, he was wandering through the forest, now the ardor flamed between the distances from one flora to another, the aberrant calm. His body rocked because his swollen feet tried not to feel his condition, as well as making himself sick until he couldn't take it anymore and sat down against a tree. He removed his glasses to rub his eyelids with the impression of not being lucid. When he opened them, he realized that the tree in front that reached to the heavens was no longer a tree, a block splintered in its place surrounded by other thorns as a replacement. He knelt before standing on his feet and walking until the tips of his shoes touched the messy roots and he got back on his knees, his hands resting on the edge of this circle, how could he see in such detail without his glasses on?

There was no room for that question because he hunched over and brought his face closer…closer…even closer. His skin instinctively repelled his face but the word is there, instinct. Macabre allusion when the fine fabric did not hold for long and spilled on the wood until its anatomy prevented it from breaking, he moved away with complicated motion as some tried to continue in him, and at a slightly considerable distance. Whipping. And the snap didn't take long. Paralyzed it oozed with more current, the thorns appropriated the rest until they swallowed the last piece.

He hurriedly opened his eyes and sheltered his head to check that everything was still together to get out of there without waiting. It was just a dream.

Few interactions with other people made his delusions worse, strangers who were crafty, stupid, lacking in judgment, narcissistic, filthy... he was 100% sure that they reeked of Cipher. But he would not make that 'knowledge' evident, with his hands and elbows on the table he turned his back to the costumers and workers, he knew that they were watching him with that damned smile and those devilish eyes. Disgust to the one who touched his shoulder, his left imprisoned the outer wrist but what he saw was fear in normal pupils and a short circuit occurred within his logic, his face became grim when the woman began to laugh.

Another woman followed a few tables in front, so that like an infection all the faces would lengthen. Without control he imitated, the sweat reflected the terror that the experience gave him, his right hooked half of his face. His nerves had jammed as well as his vocal cords with the same sound quality as a phonograph. At the windows, palms slapped against this surface, their eyes moved quickly and in the opposite direction to the complement of their pair "I still have my eyes on ya, Stanford" they spoke in unison "Too bad you won't have any!" and some of the limbs that were hitting the windows passed through them and lunged at him, with specific emphasis on his eyes. He bent down and pulled the woman so he could leave the establishment.

Was it a good idea to have sent that postcard? It made him an easier target, he didn't know what Bill's supposed henchman could do to find him but if he was under his orders it was common sense that he already knew his location. There was no way to know what tactics he would be able to use. It could even already be at his house and he wouldn't know it.

He was so small next to him, he could fit in the palm of his two-dimensional hand and peel millimeter layer by millimeter layer to do whatever he wanted with the raw materials and waste. Previous enjoyment, at this moment repulsion for what is felt. When he turned the handle and the door gave him permission to enter, everything contained his essence, from the rugs to the money he carried with him. With his chest almost touching one of the tapestries, he wrapped himself up and inhaled the intoxicating fragrance, pressing it to his ribs. and began to rub his face against the fabric. As he raised his head, it was now suspended by his semi-extended arms, he looked at the ceiling and tears flowed. He still needed him.

"Wow" Bill spined his cane while he continued to see me in the mirror "It looks great on you, tiger" I arched my eyebrows without stopping smiling "Really?" I turned my body while taking my eyes off the mirror and adjusted my coat "Do you call me a liar?" he made clicking sounds and helped to adjust the garment "Come on, man…you're pretty much the definition of romantic, Beethoven would be jealous" this made me laugh and I restated my posture now with my fingers adjusting my neck, I had to admit that the costume was quite refined and just as I expected a period costume to feel.

"Ready to go?" he bowed and took off his hat that I reciprocated with another bow, we walked until we reached the place of the event where the most outstanding intellectuals of all time waited with cocktails in hand and chatting with each other. When I entered I had a drink and went to talk to a small group with Bill's company, even with the magnitude of the revelation I did not feel nervous, in fact, I was sure of myself and deep down I did not care what opinions they would give me as soon as the curtain came off.

When the time struck we both took the lead and gave a speech, his jokes were not lacking. When I pulled the curtain and the portal was in sight I heard exclamations, there was a silence until everyone began to applaud and ask its mechanism, my smile was so big that Cipher pushed his elbow against my arm and we only smiled before addressing the others to answer their questions.

When I woke up I didn't wait to stand up and go to work in the portal.

He remembers when his palate caught the improper corroded and pulled his upper lip that showed his red teeth in the mirror, he ran a finger to clean them but did not investigate further, convinced that Bill, by using his body got into a fight and that this was a mixture of his fluids with those of others. There were several times that it was repeated and that he decided to accept his explanation. How much had he done while using his body? For God's sake, the photographs showed him but he was a piece of something bigger, what repulsive things that being must have been capable of.

During the 30 years out of his dimension the thirst for revenge never paled, on the contrary, it grew stronger with each day that he felt his blood boil at every mention of his name. He lived for that, he had to… to see the day when Bill Cipher ceased to be a threat to reality.

But he never expected his defeat to happen in the circumstances in which they occurred. Seeing his brother with his head down and now empty as him, added to his guilt and afflictions, Stanley was always strong, determined and confident in his eyes. The other side of the coin.

The days went as the whole family and even Soos or Wendy helped Stan regain his memory and with that he tried to get his life back, which he now knew Stanley didn't take from him but Bill.

He used to think that he had to give everything to receive the minimum, but when he returned and got forgiveness… love… It was difficult to accept it at first but the night he found old photographs as well as home videos from his childhood that the brothers reminisced about, something changed.

"I can't believe you actually did that," he put his hand on his stomach and laughed, Stanley only crossed his legs and arms before extending his last ones with a failed attempt to look annoyed at the comment "It's pure comedy! A brainiac like you wouldn't understand my developed sense of humor" a blow landed on his twin's shoulder. "It drives ladies crazy" "Oh, I don't doubt it, completely crazy," he nodded mockingly in his way of doing it.

Stan hit him again "Idiot" Ford rubbed himself before returning the blow with greater force, to be fair "Nerd". After a while sleep began to come to them, Ford put his head on the shoulder of his hand while his held the bowl on his lap, and on the verge of succumbing to it he heard "I love you, Ford" a long second passed until the words came out of his mouth "I love you too, Stanley."

People could love him for who he was, not for how deserving he could get that affection.

He continued with his eyes on the wide sea remembering the details of his whole life and with that voice that told him that he was still broken. "Ford, the children are calling us!-- Stan shouted on the other side of the Stan O' War II, "Coming!" so he made his way, but not before stopping and turning to see the sea again, with an inhalation of the salty air he whispered, "I don't need you."

"Hurry up, Poindexter or else I'll throw you overboard" the sound of the seagulls, he pushed his glasses higher and resumed his steps. "Greetings children, how are my favorite kids of all dimensions?", "Uncle Ford!".

[richonnesbitch]

Yep yep yep I could write a mf thesis on the costumes in TOWL!!! Lowkey might be the standout of the show for me (-ok, maybe acting aside lol)? Maybe/especially because I wasn’t expecting it? Not that I was thinking it would be bad or anything like that, I just wasn’t thinking about it. But the work the costume designer, Eulyn, did was absolutely sublime. I’m absolutely gonna keep an eye out for her and her work from now on. It’s not just that the costumes were beautiful (which, they were! Just to give maybe the most obvious example; Eulyn, girl, you don’t understand, we owe you for life for Rick in his military uniform 😮‍💨😂) but the storytelling told with the costumes??! 🔥🔥🔥 Just incredible. For example, in ep4, you can fully trace the state of the Richonne relationship and Rick mental’s state just by looking at the costumes.

The work done has been truly phenomenal. I hope she is getting the flowers she deserves!

The talent Eulyn has is crazy!!! She's so so good. I'm glad Danai wanted her for this. Danai's vision is never wrong. She's so right about everything. Not to go on a tangent about Danai and everything but its so beautiful to see nearly every headcanon Richonner's had come true on the screen. Like... our own ship actors had the same ideas. They were real the whole time, not just fanfiction. Just speaks to how well of actors Andy and Danai are. We really picked up everything they put down. It's amazing.

TOWL is just a masterpiece through and through. A true love letter to the fans. Even the costumes have you reeled in. It's so crazy! I've never seen costumes tell a story like this. Also I'm drunk right now soooo... sorry if I don't make much sense. I just really fucking love every single last thing about this show lol

[burningvelvet]

Some of Mary Shelley’s journal entries from late July 1816 when she, Percy, and Claire toured the Valley of Chamounix and visited the Mer de Glace (Montanvert). The scenery inspired Frankenstein and Percy Shelley’s poem Mont Blanc:

“Tuesday, July 23 (Chamounix). — In the morning, after breakfast, we mount our mules to see the source of the Arveiron. When we had gone about three parts of the way, we descended and continued our route on foot, over loose stones, many of which were an enormous size. We came to the source, which lies (like a stage) surrounded on the three sides by mountains and glaciers. We sat on a rock, which formed the fourth, gazing on the scene before us. An immense glacier was on our left, which continually rolled stones to its[Pg 145] foot. It is very dangerous to be directly under this. Our guide told us a story of two Hollanders who went, without any guide, into a cavern of the glacier, and fired a pistol there, which drew down a large piece on them. We see several avalanches, some very small, others of great magnitude, which roared and smoked, overwhelming everything as it passed along, and precipitating great pieces of ice into the valley below. This glacier is increasing every day a foot, closing up the valley. We drink some water of the Arveiron and return. After dinner think it will rain, and Shelley goes alone to the glacier of Boison. I stay at home. Read several tales of Voltaire. In the evening I copy Shelley’s letter to Peacock.”

“Wednesday, July 24. — To-day is rainy; therefore we cannot go to Col de Balme. About 10 the weather appears clearing up. Shelley and I begin our journey to Montanvert. Nothing can be more desolate than the ascent of this mountain; the trees in many places having been torn away by avalanches, and some half leaning over others, intermingled with stones, present the appearance of vast and dreadful desolation. It began to rain almost as soon as we left our inn. When we had mounted considerably we turned to look on the scene. A dense white mist covered the vale, and tops of scattered pines peeping above were the only objects that presented themselves. The rain continued in torrents. We were wetted to the skin; so that, when we had ascended halfway, we resolved to turn back. As we descended, Shelley went before, and, tripping up, fell upon his knee. This added to the weakness occasioned by a blow on his ascent; he fainted, and was for some minutes incapacitated from continuing his route.

We arrived wet to the skin. I read Nouvelles Nouvelles, and write my story. Shelley writes part of letter.”

Excerpts from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein:

“At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.”

“These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.”

“Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.”

Mary used some of Percy’s poetry in Frankenstein. Here’s an excerpt from one of Percy Shelley’s most famous poems, Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni:

“Some say that gleams of a remoter world

Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,

And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber

Of those who wake and live.—I look on high;

Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd

The veil of life and death? or do I lie

In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep

Spread far around and inaccessibly

Its circles? For the very spirit fails,

Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep

That vanishes among the viewless gales!

Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,

Mont Blanc appears—still, snowy, and serene;

Its subject mountains their unearthly forms

Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between

Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,

Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread

And wind among the accumulated steeps;

A desert peopled by the storms alone,

Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone,

And the wolf tracks her there—how hideously

Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high,

Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven.—Is this the scene

Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young

Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea

Of fire envelop once this silent snow?

None can reply—all seems eternal now.

The wilderness has a mysterious tongue

Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,

So solemn, so serene, that man may be,

But for such faith, with Nature reconcil'd;

Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal

Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood

By all, but which the wise, and great, and good

Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.”

Excerpt of a letter from Percy Shelley to his friend Thomas Love Peacock, July 25th:

“We have returned from visiting the glacier of Montanvert, or as it is called the Sea of Ice, a scene in truth of dizzying wonder. The path that winds to it along the side of a mountain, now clothed with pines, now intersected with snowy hollows, is wide and steep. The cabin of Montanvert is three leagues from Chamouni, half of which distance is performed on mules, not so sure-footed but that on the first day the one which I rode fell in what the guides call a mauvais pas, so that I narrowly escaped being precipitated down the mountain. We passed over a hollow covered with snow, down which vast stones are accustomed to roll. One had fallen the preceding day, a little time after we had returned: our guides desired us to pass quickly, for it is said that sometimes the least sound will accelerate their descent. We arrived at Montanvert, however, safe.

On all sides precipitous mountains, the abodes of unrelenting frost, surround this vale: their sides are banked up with ice and snow, broken, heaped high, and exhibiting terrific chasms. The summits are sharp and naked pin-nacles, whose overhanging steepness will not even permit snow to rest upon them. Lines of dazzling ice occupy here and there their perpendicular rifts, and shine through the driving vapours with inexpressible brilliance: they pierce the clouds like things not belonging to this earth.

The vale itself is filled with a mass of undulating ice, and has an ascent sufficiently gradual even to the remotest abysses of these horrible deserts. It is only half a league (about two miles) in breadth, and seems much less. It exhibits an appearance as if frost had suddenly bound up the waves and whirlpools of a mighty torrent. We walked some distance upon its surface. The waves are elevated about twelve or fifteen feet from the surface of the mass, which is intersected by long gaps of unfathomable depth, the ice of whose sides is more beautifully azure than the sky. In these regions everything changes, and is in motion.

This vast mass of ice has one general progress, which ceases neither day nor night; it breaks and bursts for ever: some undulations sink while others rise; it is never the same. The echo of rocks, or of the ice and snow which fall from their overhanging precipices, or roll from their aerial summits, scarcely ceases for one moment. One would think that Mont Blanc, like the god of the Stoics, was a vast animal, and that the frozen blood for ever circulated through his stony veins.

We dined (M[ary], C[lare], and I) on the grass, in the open air, surrounded by this scene. The air is piercing and clear. We returned down the mountain sometimes encompassed by the driving vapours, sometimes cheered by the sunbeams, and arrived at our inn by seven o'clock.”

[sgiandubh]

You aren't the first to mention it and I'm sure won't be the last, but does everything have to be award worthy to be good? Can't this just be an opportunity for a broader audience to see Sam in a different role and in some cases for the first time? This fandom has a very strange relationship with Sam, he's talked about in a way no one else on OL is. Once Sam was overlooked for his stellar work in those last 2 episodes of season 1, I knew he'd have an uphill battle as the show continued, and he has. I like OL, it's an imperfect to overwrought book series and an imperfect to horrible show (season 4 is terrible) the writing is sometimes garbage and the acting from all 4 leads could be better at times, yes, even Caitriona. I for one hope he's seen by people and cast in something people think he's worthy of. Whatever that means. I watched TCND, it was a good use of my time and quite enjoyable.

Dear Award Worthy Anon,

No, of course not and you definitely have a good point, here. If TCND can be a good opportunity for more people to see S and raise his brand awareness, then of course amen and hallelujah: but will it be so or will it be something more akin to 'oh, almost there, but not quite'? This, only time will be able to sort out, I think, depending (for example) on how many foreign channels will buy it in Cannes (not the Festival, the TV and creative content fairs: MIPCOM, Canneseries and MIPTV). Note to self: write a separate post on these, as the distribution circuit of creative content looks like totally unexplored territory for our fandom.

This fandom has indeed a very strange relationship with S, because he triggered a perpetuum mobile between lust and rejection of his persona, where possession (fantasized, frustrated, denied or sublimated) is the common denominator. I had always said it and now more than ever: this guy has no idea, and maybe if he did, he'd start taking himself more seriously. And I agree with almost all of your comments on OL: despite all these flaws, here we are. Still hanging on, still ogling, still talking. This,*** understood very well, along with another solid sales argument: you don't need GoT's figures to keep the project alive - cult status and an uber invested fanbase is enough.

As I already mentioned, I also hope to see more of S. And I will. TCND is but another step on a bridge like this one I was reminded by coincidence about half an hour ago:

This is the famous U Bein Bridge, near Mandalay, in Burma. As seen and photographed by me, in August 2010. Easily one of my favorite places on Earth.

Thank you for dropping by, Anon! These asks are really down my alley and totally my jam. Don't be a stranger!

[the-dairy-of-a-normal-person]

idk how to start but I am SO confused about that last look of a flabbergasted Francesca when she meets Michaela? WHAT WAS THAT? i haven't read the books so excuse me for that 😭

some thoughts-

+ they are wasting away Benedict. they are wasting his potential and story and what all he could be. he felt so...out of place, confused and useless this season. half of his scenes were of him having sex that was not going ANYWHERE. i love Benny so much but i want shonda to treat this President of Pookie Nation with care and love. I want the story to respect Benedict because his character has so much potential and so much to offer. He hides behind his charming smiles and taunts but his eyes are always sad. As if he is looking for something-this one crucial piece of puzzle and he cannot seem to find it. shonda babes you better sharpen your quill.

+ all the instances that were supposed to be happy for Pen- the marriage, the engagement, the wedding night, ALL OF IT WAS RUINED BECAUSE of that stupid LW secret.

+Kate and Anthony still the best couple i do not make the rules. i don't think even Polin is topping them. tho Kate is certainly topping Anthony tonight.

+ the season was good don't get me wrong but it felt..a bit... rushed and its like the writers are focusing more on the future than savour the present. everything is happening because of the future seasons. idk if that makes sense

+i DID NOT like violet's treatment of kilmartin. i like violet most of the time but she didn't have to act so "unsure", distant and sloppy with kilmartin.

+Francesca gave some slippery vibes as if she is hiding something. or is it just me?

+I don't know why everyone is bashing Eloise so much. I pity her so much. She has kept the sword aside, she stopped fighting but she looks SO LONELY. she is not always the easiest person and she is whiny but i wish i could give her the tightest hug and talk day and night. maybe I see myself in her too much that i am defending her.

+i like they included hyacinth and Gregory this season, they are so precious.

+ i liked cressida's redemption arc but I think Lady Featherington might have won this one. She made peace with Pen in her own tight lipped fashion but i love that for her, i am not going to lie.

+ oh, cressida. i feel too bad for her. i do. but I do not sympathise with her. i actually do not know what to think of her at all.

+mr and Mrs mondrich yassssss slaying as always so cool so suave i love them

+once again, KANTHONY💅🏻🕺🏻✨🥰✨⭐✨💫❤️❤️❤️ ALWAYS AND FOREVER

+ Best acting this entire season- Claudia Jessie. She is just too good.

Honorable mention- Colin and his rage when he finds out the real LW

+ Nicola is so real for baring her boobs we love a relatable queen and SHE MADE SO MANY WOMEN SEEN WHO DO NOT THINK THAT THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL JUST BECAUSE THEY LACK CONVENTIONAL BODY TYPE. THANK YOU, QUEEN FOR MAKING ME FEEL SEEN.

+did I mention KANTHONY?

+LADY DANBURY' storyline was TOO DAMN GOOD. Her pain, the sweet moments between violet and her, how she confronted her brother. She is simply sublime. One of my fav characters. Again, i love my boy Benny but Lady Danbury had a better storyline than whatever the heck his story was trying to achieve.

okay, i ll stop. i am so sorry for making you read all this. i may not be as interesting as Lady WhistleDOWN.

Abt benedict : i'm afraid they are just going to use him off but apparently next season is about him so we'll, but yeah, appart from the sex scenes we had nothing more of him 🥲

Abt LW secret and all : I absolutely hated colin's reaction to pen's power and his stupid jalousy that he has all bc she is more sucsesfull than he will ever be and that she was able to build all of it by herself and her own labour and NO ONE praised her for that exept mme delacroix

Abt kanthony : i loved them sm but why werd they randomly popping on and out. I honestly lost track of them at some point

Abt the season writing : after discussing with a friend, we thought that the season did not have the same pattern as the others, especially part 2 which seemed a bit weird, as if not wrote by the same person

Abt violet : i used to be always like " i could never hate her " but now she just pissed me off. Girl, u can see that your daughter is happy and she found someone she's confortable with so why being such a brat ???

Abt Éloïse : i understand that she felt lonely and all but she is such a bad friend, took cressida for granted, just using her and not even caring for anyone but herself

Abt lady featherington : i had the feeling her "redemption arc " was forced and unatural

And finally, i agree with pretty much everything

Thank you for interacting ❤️

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2023: #10 & #09

10. PORTUGAL Mimicat - "Ai coração" 23rd place

Decade Ranking: 33/116 [Above Diljá, below VICTORIA]

Man, I wish Eurovision had better things in store for Mimicat than 23rd place. It feels like highway robbery? I'm pretty sure we all agree that "Ai coração" slaps? It's cute, whimsical, well performed, her voice is a temple, her dancers sublime.

This is one of the best choreographed bops in recent mothering. SERVER SERVED, MOTHER MOTHERED, as we all knew she would the second she won FdC.

However, I can't shake the feeling that the budget was cut drastically short between Lisboa and Liverpool. The whole ensemble looks more inexpensive? It's not even the missing couch, the camera work and backdrops are uninspired and look like they've been cobbled together last minute? At times, it feels like you're watching a rehearsal. Why is everything so DARK? Why are there SO MANY wideshots? So that we cannot appreciate how good the dancers are?

The issue is one of respect, or rather the lack thereof others had for Portugal. Not many, including RTP for some reason, seemed to believe Mimicat was an easy qualifier (HAVE YOU HEARD THE SONG?!) and even the newspapers here called her "a surprise revelation that came out nowhere to deservingly take a slot in the finale" ummmm.... At this point, you know the writing is on the wall and Mimi will be tossed into a death slot to serve as kindling for the Loreen coronation pyre.

However, I respect Mimicat and her heart, of which she has so much, so I still grant her the top 10 she deserves! 🙂 A suboptimal Mimicat is still a Mimicat, you know. Some people carry the Serve gene, and it is dominant in her.

"Ai coração" is -if nothing else- a wholesome, catchy earworm that is a joy to listen to and behold under any circumstance. Top shelf filler, eventhough it deserved more distinction. Mimi OWNS it, it's her song, and only she can perform it this well. Her vocal, the dancers, the build up it's all delectable and I savour it. It made for a fun and whimsical three minutes that definitely earned more than an unfair bottom five finish for the ultimate crime of not being a bookmaker's pet.

--------------------------------------------------------------

09. ALBANIA Albina & Familija Kelmendi - "Duje"22nd place

Decade ranking: 31/116 [Above VICTORIA, below Albina (Tick Tock)]

MORPH! It's been YEARS since the last time I've had a positive whiplash between preshow and postshow, and here we are (and it's not the last one...x) I've done a complete 180 on Albania and have ZERO regrets. "Duje" flies in the face of every principle Eurovision 2023 stood for (a song that IMPROVED from the NF and was RESPECTED by its stage director), how could I not reward them with a generous, well-earned spot in my top 10?

But first things first - Yeah, "Duje" came into Eurovision with a lot of problems. It was outright bad in FiK. It was off-putting, cult-like, amateur and had no true identity beyond "Hi We Are The Kelmendi Family From Albania This Is Our Song Representing Albania". The only salient detail was that Albina wore a giant ass cloak that obscured half her face, as her family awkwardly shuffled around like cross-wired automatons. Everything about FiK "Duje" was lame and inept, and I was rooting against its qualification - This one, I concluded, was not for me.

How wrong I was.

I don't even know HOW OR WHY, but once in Liverpool, it clicked. I completely underestimated that Albina Kelmendi's is kind of an amazing talented performer, and good god this was a great performance. Both in the semi and in the final she delivered on the passion and the pathos, which the act put at the centre.

THE SCREAMINNNNG

THE DRAMA

The CHOREOS

Which brings me to the act which... SJB magic at its finest tbh. It respects the people on the stage. The Kelmenboys were recalibrated into competence, and Albina's dad, sister and sister in law all proved decently charismatic individuals that could serve as worthy foils to Albina.

Albina's mother and brother remained servephobic blocks of wood but that humanizes them, in a way - Mama Kelmendi is just Doing It As A Favour For Her Kids, just like how Mery Bas is doing Zorra for her 500.000 gay manwhore sons. which is earnest.

Alban otoh... hasn't improved at all, lmao. It's hard to discern whether its the complete inability to perform or just not giving a fuck because moving and singing is tedious yo, or both (also like Mery Bas). At a certain point you have to accept his role as one of comedic foil lurking in the background (notice how he's always directly behind Albina) and in that role, I can appreciate him. Missing his cues all the time with a bored look on his face amidst a group that was whipped into a style of discipline you only see at North Korean national parades, gives just enough personality to the performance to make it work, and not seem like Albina, and five androids.

I'm still figuring out how it all came together as well as it did, and where they Actually rank for me, so about 9th seems a good poiint to start? "Duje" was really good, and that's enough for me. If an act that I didn't like very much delivers the drams out of nowhere, I'm not going to ruin it by overthinking it. "Duje" may have gotten the typical Albanian result but through magical happenstance felt just that bit more special and earnest than the typical Albanian entry.

THE RANKING!!!

(feat. a new graphic since the old one wasn't clear enough imo)

The font of the numbers could use some tweaking but oh well, i think this looks better? Next update whenever I'm ready I guess.

[miloscat]

[Review] Bomb Rush Cyberfunk (PS5)

Jet Set Radio Future 2 is here, and it's all I ever wanted.

When Team Reptile made Lethal League and—more precisely—its sequel, they did an excellent job capturing the feel and aesthetic of Sega's Jet Set Radio games in a new genre. Now they've only gone and bloody done it - made an actual Jet Set Radio homage game, and it's an absolute stunner! Specifically, this is a pitch-perfect pastiche of Jet Set Radio Future, acting as a sequel to the 2002 classic in all but name, and since that particular instalment is a personal favourite of mine, I couldn't be happier.

BRC seems to deeply understand what was great about JSRF and then faithfully and lovingly recreates it, with some new ideas and refinements to boot. In case you need catching up, it's a sort of urban street punk adventure: you get around, grind, and trick on inline skates, tag graffiti all over, contest with rival gangs, and avoid the overzealous police force. The world is colourful and detailed but a bit low-poly with a cel-shaded filter, and levels are set up as huge skatepark playgrounds. All the while a soundtrack of fresh beats including hip-hop, house, and electropop accompanies you.

In BRC the structure of story-related tasks broken up by exploration returns, the levels full of collectibles to give you new colour schemes, music tracks, graffiti designs, etc. as well as just setpieces to "platform" around. A fast-travel system helps you get between areas, some of which replay the hits of JSRF while others explore new territory like a mall complex or industrial oil rig; the setting of New Amsterdam nods to the developer's Dutch origin but in practice it feels like it would easily fit in Tokyo-to (disclaimer, I have never visited The Netherlands). In addition to skates you have skateboards and BMX, each one having slightly different manoeuvrability plus the chance to open certain doors in the game world: for example, a skateboard can trick on fire hydrants to get elevated to a handful of secret areas. This gives more of a reason to have different ones on hand but can feel like an arbitrary passkey check.

Movement is aided by the new boost pack mechanic, which gives you an enormously useful air-dash. A boost meter gives you some speed but can also freshen up trick combos and extend your manual, while it's refilled by tricking (like in Sonic Rush), so doing these cool lines and combos feeds back into movement in a satisfying way. Cans have been done away with entirely so you can tag at any time without worry, and graffiti minigames have actually been brought back from the original JSR, except here they're super quick and snappy, and your inputs determine which of your unlocked tags goes up which keeps the visuals fresh.

A handy new feature is the flip-phone menu (reminiscent of The Arcane Kids' vaguely JSR-esque Zineth). It's great for flavour but also lets you get tips from teammates or contact new recruits, check out your range of graffiti designs and how to write them, consult a persistent minimap while highlighting tag spots, or change the currently playing music. And speaking of the soundtrack, it's sublime, a heady mix and perfect tonal accompaniment that even includes three tracks from the funky uncle himself Hideki Naganuma (much like Hover before it)... and if you ask me they're some of his best.

Another way BRC expands slightly on JSRF's template is a bit more emphasis on plot, with a central mystery revolving around recently-decapitated protagonist Red, his new cyberhead, and his connections to the previous top dogs in the city's counterculture. This framing fumbles at times, but it gives more purpose to your interactions with other rudies and conflicts with the cops, and interstitial sequences between chapters lets the game reinterpret JSRF's surreal climax in a dream context.

I've been eagerly awaiting this game and as a big fan of JSRF it didn't disappoint. BRC takes everything I loved about that (now slightly creaky and inaccessible) game and gives it a fresh coat of paint. I've seen people gripe about the price and playtime but both are about on par with the game that it styles itself as a love letter to, so it would be disingenuous of me to complain about either. Better by far to celebrate what an awesome achievement this game is in recapturing a unique classic while brilliantly modernising it. Bomb Rush Cyberfunk reminds me why I love video games.

[fallowhearth]

Well, I'm not sure why I did that, but I did, and now it's done and I can move on with my life. I reread all the Poirot novels. I also ranked them.

I'll write them out here for the benefit of anyone who doesn't want to squint at a small low res image or who can't see the image. Within each tier they are in random order.

S (sublime) - The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder in Mesopotamia

A (highly enjoyable) - Murder on the Orient Express, Poirot Investigates, Death on the Nile, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Third Girl, Five Little Pigs, Dumb Witness, Sad Cypress

B (moderately amusing) - The Murder on the Links, Peril at End House, Evil Under the Sun, Lord Edgware Dies, Death in the Clouds, After the Funeral, The Clocks, Mrs McGinty's Dead, Dead Man's Folly, The Hollow

C (meh) - Three Act Tragedy, The ABC Murders, Cards on the Table, Murder on the Mews, One Two Buckle My Shoe, Appointment with Death, Poirot's Early Cases, The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding, Hickory Dickory Dock, Elephants Remember, Curtain, Hercule Poirot's Christmas, Taken at the Flood, Cat Among the Pidgeons, Hallowe'en Party

D (literally unreadable) - The Big Four, The Labours of Hercules, The Mystery of the Blue Train

D is the only objective tier as these are just the ones I couldn't finish. C may well contain books that are worse overall but they were compelling enough for me to finish them, so. Everything else is subjective. There are a few controversial picks - some of the most beloved novels are meh to me. And I had a few standouts among Christie's later work, which have not entered the public consciousness unlike many of the earlier installments. Third Girl I'll call out particularly as a fascinating example of the Christie formula working in the 1960s.

Reading them chronologically was fascinating as an account of how much Britain and the world changed between the 1910s and 1980s. I probably have a few posts worth of thoughts about the later day Poirots, which I will write up at some point.

Anyway, that's all, I have escaped, it's over.

[absolutebl]

I've been thinking obsessively about story structure lately. Are there any BLs you consider particularly well structured/paced? Or at least very typical? Especially for Thai BL, since so many are 12 episodes and that makes it easier to compare. I know we can all think of examples of shows that just kind of happened without any structure...

Now in the above post I wasn't thinking specifically about pace. I think that post is more about what you're calling structure (the narrative backbone brought to light via the script).

Thai stuff is always gonna be slower paced than Korean stuff. Because it's longer and jsut less tightly controlled by the directors.

Also something like 4 or 6 act structure (popular in China, Taiwan, and sometimes Japan) will often FEEL slow to western viewers.

I think the pace of a show is partly a judgement call on behalf of the viewer, but also heavily cultural, so let me try to explain.

Structure, Pace, Plot

Structure, or the writing of a narrative script, can be divided into plot vs pace as follows:

Plot: movement of characters through time (scene by scene) and space (setting) and the people they meet along the way (dialogue).

Pace: how the plot is executed in terms of which scenes follow which, length of scenes and shots, presence or absence of flashbacks, cuts, voice-over work, but also literal words on the page - staging instructions, dialogue sentence structures, monologuing, and so forth.

Plot = what is written in the script

Pace = how it's written in that script

This is going to get further complicated once an entire film crew gets ahold of that script.

Plot is characters moving through time, space, and interactions in the show AKA WHAT the characters are doing.

Pace is how that script and story now in the hands of the performers is relayed to the viewers using camera angles, dialogue delivery, staging AKA HOW those characters are filmed.

Plot is the responsibility of the actors and script writers to convey.

Pace is the responsibility of the directorial and editing teams to convey.

Thus a part of the world that has good talent but poor production values (like Thailand, Philippines, or Vietnam) will always be weaker on pacing. But they can churn out something raw and brilliant IF they have a good script.

On the other hand, a place that has great everything but just really likes to mess with story structure and style, like Japan, might ALSO have weak pacing because that isn't their focus or interest.

In the first case, they lack the editing talent, money, and technology, in the second they just like to play with structure A LOT.

But it means each country that produces BL ends up needing to be judged on its own merits and choices (or lack of options) IMHO.

So, I stand by my list above. I think of it as representing all round story execution to the capacity of the country of origin. They are still the best story, although by western standards that story structure may feel a little off - depending on how you feel about that country's style of BL.

I might add a few to the above list (from late 2022-2023)

Semantic Error - of course. This show is perfect, after all.

The Eighth Sense - Korea went gritty and tense, outside their comfort zone, and executed it sublimely well

Love Tractor - Korea frmly and entirely in their comfort zone but the pace never lets up

Jun & Jun - a master class in pure sappy fluffy romance but still knuckle biting tension, I was upset at the end of every episode that i couldn't watch the next one INSTANTLY, in TV that = pitch perfect pacing

Tokyo in April is... - this is paced beautifully for Japan, very tense but with Japan's signature artsy atmosphere, it's not it's fault I didn't like the story

Laws of Attraction - this is a plot-based pacing story, like UWMA, and these tend to be the ones Thailand paces best using plot to amp up tension, unfortunately that best can still feel a little weak on actual story strcture and basic plotting, e.g. they can go off the rails easily like Manner of Death or KinnPorsche, but at least this kind of Thai show keep us intrigued for the next episode.

I'm gonna mention Bed Friend here as a lesson in pacing. If this show had stuck to it's guns and stayed 8 episodes, rather than stretching to fill 10 at the last minute, it would have been a near perfect high heat show out of Thailand. But it didn't have the confidence, and it likely wanted the money from those two added episodes. It's a real shame.

I gotta say I think this is the fans. fault.

People always want more of a good thing, or more of the same thing, it's why we get shitty 2nd seasons. Sometimes what we need to truly better cinema is LESS of the good thing - better editing, tighter scripts - because that way the pace will be superior.

Bah, anyway,

Be you didnt' want a film lesson with your spontaneous ask?

[spider-xan]

Honestly, I feel like there would be a lot less frustration with the Coppola film if it was completely irredeemable trash with zero good things going for it bc then we could just write it off as an awful film and laugh at it for what it is - but the fact that there are SO MANY great things about it that are worthy of praise, and we know Coppola generally isn't a bad filmmaker, is what makes it so frustrating, precisely it could have been an amazing high-budget film adaptation that was accurate to the novel and the indisputable definitive version, and then it swerved and made the framing and other choices that it did, with its specific vision superseding the actual text; and ofc there's the title issue of including Bram Stoker's name and implying a faithful adaptation, though I think Coppola tends to do that with straight book adaptations to credit the author, like how The Godfather's full title is actually Mario Puzo's The Godfather.

Like, the casting is amazing! Winona Ryder is perfect as Mina! Anthony Hopkins is inspired casting for Van Helsing! Even Keanu Reeves, with his questionable acting and accent, is at least cute as Jonathan, and his star power at the time makes sense for why he played the role. The costumes designed by Eiko Ishioka are honestly among the greatest film costumes ever, and she rightfully won the Best Costume Design Oscar that year! Love the liminal creepiness of Dracula's castle and how his shadow has a life of its own! Everything about the way the scene of Lucy entering her tomb as a vampire is filmed is sublime - the lighting, the cinematography, the camera angles, the eerily chilling on a visceral level music and sound design, the make up and costume, the way the candles supernaturally light themselves, etc. Quincey is actually included for once! Even some of the epistolary format is retained, with things like the log of the Demeter narrated over scenes on the ship, Mina typing on her typewriter, Jack recording on a phonograph, etc. There are honestly a lot of positive things that can be said about the film, and Coppola does know what he's doing on a technical level, along with the talented cast and crew.

And obviously, no adaptation is going to just copy the text exactly for various reasons, like film being an audio-visual medium with a shorter length than a novel, adaptations being filtered through the lens of their creators and reflective of the social milieu they are being created in, commercial box office considerations bc capitalism, etc., and I think being faithful to the spirit of the source material is more important than textual purity, and a lot of this is going to be subjective on the part of viewers as well. But yeah, it's like, personal preferences aside, the Coppola film just came SO CLOSE to being a film adaptation that's both accurate to the novel and incredible cinema at the same time, but then it made directing and screenwriting choices like Mina just being Dracula's love interest and having none of her heroic moments (all removed or given to the men), everyone being a total asshole, Dracula going back and forth in characterization bc the film can't decide if he's a sympathetic romantic hero who just wants true love or a scary monster villain who wants to take over England and eat people, and you kind of need the latter to drive the plot outside of the romance, etc.

We could have had it all, and that's what is so frustrating to me, along with how the film is so definitive that it gets projected back onto the original novel and just about anything Dracula.

[songhunter]

still thinking about how the concept of undead's AIs could have been explored even more. it makes so much sense for a morally bankrupt company like rhylink (who already doesn't understand the appeal of undead as a unit) to fund an AI version of undead using their old selves because all they see are numbers and the popularity of hellsing (and it's certainly what akira was expecting us to assume from the first half). they set up so much for the conflict to center around undead feeling useless in the face of technological progression, like all of adonis' comments about feeling unmotivated to improve his writing when he could just run it through an AI writer.

take rei's monologue in the final chapter about what the true strength of humans is -- that humans are alive. (and he's talking about himself, too -- he's a human, he's alive.) rei comes face to face with an AI version of himself that acts as his charismatic, godlike war-era self with none of the physical disability and limitation, something that can do anything and everything, and recognizes that it's not alive. not just because it's an AI -- rei was also not alive back then. rei was just like the AI, acting out a shallow personality, following a set pattern of behavior, not feeling any kind of human emotion or connection. like a living corpse pretending to be human. his "softness" in the modern era doesn't make him weak, but is rather his greatest strength. and now rei is loved just as he is, for being human.

i also think it would make the reveal of koga having written resurrection soul more impactful -- this is proof, flesh and blood, that AI is a shallow copy. every song koga writes is a labor of love (nightless world's lyrics make me incredibly emotional). rock 'n roll comes from deep within your soul, as koga would say! all the pain and love and character development undead went through over these past few years is sublimated into their music. AI would have been a fantastic vehicle to reaffirm what undead meant as a unit, especially in the wake of undead losing fans in !!-era and feeling directionless.

[skaruresonic]

I write HL fics sometimes so go check 'em out. links and excerpts under the read more. yeet

In the Eye of the Beholder - benignmilitancy - Half-Life [Archive of Our Own]

It wasn't a conscious decision.

It seldom is.

Risk factors. As if one's life can be reduced to a chemical deficit. ---

He can't say where it started, only where it's led him.

He saw the dwindling rations, the tight pinched miens of the men around him. The incessant chatter of a television broadcasting some new infathomable horror.

He ate less, started giving Kleiner his share. You need it more than I do.

Maybe the transference is why Kleiner started fighting battles on his behalf. Merely breathing is an incredible act of courage. I'll not have you speak ill to him when he's ailing.

"What about the rest of us, Kleiner? Do you really think this has just been peaches for us? Damned facility took everything! May God have mercy on our souls, because this coalition certainly won't spare us!"

In the days following the Seven Hours, he experienced no passions, no ambitions, no plans or desires. Consciousness a blank expanse. He became an unthinking creature, a vegetable at the ripe old age of twenty-three, confined to lying on a dirty couch, waiting for it to become a coffin.

A hand rustling the pillow beneath him, propping him up. A spoonful of flavorless chicken broth poised to his chapped lips, which parted out of reflex and allowed the liquid to slip inside.

Occasionally he felt fingers, dry and cold, knead his throat.

You must live. Kleiner, a tremulous wisp. Our hubris stole your future. Barney, I promise with whatever breath is granted me, I'll correct this grievous wrong. ---

I believe the Combine intend to show us every horror possible. They'll try to strip us of our rationality, our humanity, our sanity and our very souls. They'll parade us as animals to be gawked at and specimens to be dissected. You cannot do their work for them, Barney.

Life has no intrinsic meaning, it's true. We can neither rationalize nor justify our existence. We may not have a reason to continue. But there is such cohesion, such structure, to the universe that I find it impossible to believe we don't have a place in it at all. Let us be damned before we let our aggressors define it for us.

For a single sublime moment, Kleiner's hope made him beautiful.

Bless the wretched, who cling to scraps as they drift through this dark sea. --- Mycotoxin - benignmilitancy - Half-Life (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] Hammer Two forges ahead and freezes at the threshold.

"Oh, sh... " And then it remembers. "Untagged biotics in Sector Nineteen."

Ghost Five staggers back in, twists and convulses beneath a pulsating mask of black mold. Spores spray on each exhale of the ventilator, latching onto the dust motes and burning. Asthmatic smoke.

Christ. Fall back. Bear back.

Daggers discharge. Raindrops in a puddle. The sterilizers have nowhere to go. They're simply eaten.

Hammer Two activates its wall and pulls up its hammer, sloughing sparks. There is something gladiatorial in the way it creeps toward Ghost Five. Near valiant. But the moment dies brutishly: the wall sputters and half of Hammer Two disintegrates. The other half slumps to the carpet. Carrion. Feasted upon. What it is now, the others don't know.

What's the designation? someone asks. Questions ripple through them.

What's the designation.

Spores.

The designation.

Mold?

Designation.

"You fucking morons, who cares what it is?"

They call for their mother, who responds with cold silence.

OVERWATCH WE ARE REQUESTING DESIGNATION

WE HAVE UNTAGGED

--- Derailed - benignmilitancy - Half-Life [Archive of Our Own]

Rain bombs the rooftops, a thousand simultaneous explosions silvering the streets. Water rattles the drainpipes loose from their bolts. Skies weep, unable to inhale. Endless baptisms rinse the city clean. He hasn't seen anything like it since the Seven Hours.

The man who stepped in front of the razor train, the whole and complete Kevlar-clad body he used to belong to, asked him in a thin whisper: You think it'll work?

Will what work?

Your Resistance. Go poking at the beast and it'll tear your head right off the stump. ---

Mask - benignmilitancy - Half-Life [Archive of Our Own] After a moment of silence, you roll up the hem of your armor.

They can't help but stare at the purple welt puckered over your right kidney. The flesh folded inward, the serrated ghosts of stitches puncturing brown skin.

Torso pads caught most of it. You appraise it with a nonchalant sniff. He cut it from a tin can, y'know, didn't know how to hold it the right way, and, uh. You trace the scar, almost fondling it under the pad of your index finger, before lowering your hem. He ran when he saw it broke off. They sent a couple shredders after him. Didn't make it past the front gate.

You sigh then and throw a stick into the oil drum. Golden cinders flare.

You know the real fucked part? As you were bleeding on the floor like a stuck pig? You got pissed at him. You. The mask. They were chasing him out the door and all you could think was, Just you wait, you raggedy little shit.

---

Path of the Borealis - benignmilitancy - Half-Life [Archive of Our Own]

Alone, he contemplated his failure.

One thread remained.

He crushed it.

Windows shattered outward, crashing tidal waves of glass into the darkness. Incandescent tubes scorched around him, belching sparks that caught on the upholstery. The tram's chassis screeched as the car folded in on itself, metal joints and steel bones scrunching with papery ease.

The last vortal cord sizzled protest in his fist.

Doctor Freeman. The darkness harbored lungs, and it prepared to scream. It… appears we've been quite… obdurate. ---

"You call me less than human. You, who are no more than an animal yourself, terrified of any glimmer of truth illuminating the shadows playing upon the cavern walls of your dim consciousness. What possible use could we have for you, an evolutionary dead end clinging wretchedly to its last vestiges? Only a fool would believe her short-lived passions serve us in the palace of the enlightened."

Breen dropped her. Let her crawl.

Long, jointed fingers grasped her ankles and dragged back its prey, letting the steel grate abrade her Hunter wounds. The floor's ridges scraped her flesh until her scabs cracked. A cold, seeping trickle smeared across her stomach, joining the sweat dampening her undershirt.

"I am the gentlest propagator of this process, believe you me. The native-born aren't quite as considerate for the concerns of the flesh, but I still remember what it means to be saddled down by human foible."

Clutching her throbbing shoulder, Alyx scrabbled in vain at the floor. Toward the launcher, toward anything that could offer salvation. Her heart slammed inside her ribcage, full to burst.

"I can improve you, perfect you in ways your simian cerebrum can hardly grasp. Have you seen the thorough work I've done with Dr. Mossman? How easily I've washed away her pesky flaws? One can't help but appreciate her now that she lacks her stubborn streak, her subtle arrogance driven by fears of inadequacy. Far better than the existing stock, wouldn't you agree?"

This couldn't be it. She couldn't die here, not to him, not with Mossman watching—

" …Now, there, you won't feel a thing, I promise. This baptism is the most invigorating thing you will ever do. Doesn't that sound far kinder a fate than any afterlife could purport to be? And who better to convert you than me?

"Not to worry: you're in much more capable hands than the ones that clutched your father. His death was an unrefined mess I wish not to repeat. No; for my next piece, I intend to chip away at you until what remains cannot even be called broken."

In the midst of horror, a place of calm. A clear voice.

Look, her father said. Look closer.

No; closer. Past the shock and pain and helplessness; past the blood pooling through limestone; peel back the layers, quiet the scrape of the scream writhing from your throat; stop feeling, stop grieving and see; what remains?

The Advisor in the barn. Bearing pockmarks from its damaged life support.

Alyx, her father said. Look in the inhuman eyes of the one who killed me. ---

Around her, darkness laughed. Stupid girl. Your father suffered many nightmares, but only one was born of choice.

[Lies.]

Whether hand or mind willed it, she didn't know. The former slipped into her boot and curled around a familiar curve.

[Vindicate me. Extinguish these lies.]

Alyx slaked off the HEV with a shove and brandished the pincer. Let the bastard's amused gaze absorb the glint of the weapon that had lured the terrified animal from Breen's host body, made the human inside taste hell.

"This is what you really want, right?" It turned, wry amusement etching Gordon's features. "What you arranged in Black Mesa." With a spirit as chillingly clear as ice, she poised the tip over her heart. "Let him go." Pushed in until the point sank through the parka's outermost skin, slitting tender down. "Or you lose everything."

Unperturbed in the slightest, it rose, and walked toward the fire. "Of the various species I have encountered, I have noted core characteristics." Emerald radiance blurred its edges. Gordon immolated. Gordon through a stained-glass window. Exalted. Untouchable. "They are born, cold, hungry, and screaming, into a world where their suffering engenders no meaning. Rather than endure such an existence, many seek relief. They embrace the end."

The pincer quaked.

"All except one. You do not know how to die."

The light was as holy as it was alien. Heatless like oblivion. Like transcendence.

"It is because you do not know how to die that your kind worships shadows. I knew your Resistance would never come to be without a sacrificial lamb or two. For that role, I could have chosen anyone. You, well. Provided the most convenient means, shall we say.

"To put it in the simplest terms I can: I don't like squandering my investments." Smooth metal nudged her breast. The heart, pumping worthless blood, accelerated at the intrusion. "At Black Mesa, I hoped to purge you of your afflictions. But I see my methods have failed. Instead, you passed your strain onto your neighbor."

Instinct checked her hand, prevented her from carrying out the threat.

The entity huffed a noiseless laugh as she relented her grip. "The flesh is a prison. It craves survival."

tery power is four p

Reduced to a crawl, she knelt beside Barney's prone form while the entity raised its arms, spreading veined wings of cables and cords. If she couldn't commit the crucial deed, she could at least... At least...

"There is nowhere to run, Miss Vance. You both belong to me," it said, "the organs of my body." ---

Something Secret Steers Us - benignmilitancy - Half-Life [Archive of Our Own] Maybe all their struggles amounted to futile effort, a fool's errand. An armored suit worn once and tucked away.

She wouldn't accept her death with any of the grace her mother and father had. She'd be dragged screaming into the dark, gnashing her teeth and biting the hand that supposedly fed.

Until now, she'd been measuring herself against this shadow in her head, this specter of Eli, weighing whether or not he'd have done the same in her circumstances. And she'd been so certain, so absolutely sure her father would have done the right thing, wouldn't have let anyone under his protection die.

"I can't take this," she whispered. "Between Dad and Barney and Gordon, it feels like I'm being crushed… And I know they need me to hold it together, I know… But making these decisions over who lives and who dies… How am I supposed to do that?"

But maybe he would have. The prospect that she didn't really know him at all, what he was capable of in a similar moment of blind, abject desperation, terrified her. That behind every self-effacing moment of his was calculation. That his insistence not to saint him but to look to Gordon instead—so certain this myth of a man held the answers they sought—had been in fact meticulously designed to get her to this point, with Gordon as the control. Solved like an equation, by proof and by axiom, whose life will pay the greater dividend? Whose life may we cast aside? Show your work, Dr. Vance.