"The first time she noticed it, she was deep in the depths of her Instagram page, digging up wedding photos for her mătușă during a flight. The more she scrolled, the less she recognised herself, although her memories surrounding the photographs themselves remained intact. By the time she found the posts she was searching for, a sensation akin to shame had settled over her; had she really been so small and undisciplined when she married Roderick?

Jetting home a few weeks later, it was still on her mind. Her bare feet, calloused but well attended to, padded across the gentle, ocean-surf blue of the guest room carpeting. Hands with countless scars and raised veins and a thin layer of dark hair creeping from her forearms up her wrists towards her pinkies opened the closet, dug through six years' worth of relatives' clothes until they found the garment bag from the bridal shop. The gown was simple- cheap, too, something she was still proud of, two thin straps, open back, plunge neck, long skirts. It accommodated her musculature at the time perfectly. She tossed Roddy's old shirt aside, kicked off her sweats.

The pure white skirts hung limply over her hips, the fatty fullness that bumped them up gone. Her waist had lowered and the taper become less dramatic, the waistband digging into her wide ribcage. If she pulled the skirts down to her current waistline, her stomach was too flat to support them and, besides, this was all fussing she did before pulling the straps up. No way would they be long enough to lower the waist even more; Marina settled for allowing the dress to bite the spaces between her ribs, moved on to sliding the straps up her arms.

Those bit into her now, too; her shoulders were too broad, shoulder blades and traps too built, and she had to shimmy the waistband up even further to have any hope of shrugging her shoulders. Now the dress was digging into her underbust and her back, straps taunt over her shoulder joints, yet the bust was utterly formless. Her breasts couldn't fill the plunge neck out anymore, her whole chest tighter and pecs wide, high, prominent at the centre and tops of each side of the v-cut fabric.

In front of the mirror, Marina did a little twirl, flaring out the skirts with her hands. She saw herself smile, flash teeth. Saw her eyes dewy and bright. This wasn't a phantom memory - she adored Roddy, felt nothing but love and joy and bliss and excitement reliving this small part of her wedding day. It'd been a beast to bring together and impossible without her mother, but... They made it work. They always did.

She straightened her posture, grimaced at the sound of at least one seam popping, turned around and drew the length of her hair over her shoulder. The straps were leaving angry, red lines in her back, over the curves of her shoulders. She tried another smile and felt like her jaw was sharper, maybe squarer, than in her wedding photos. She was significantly less squishy overall now. When she pursed her lips, the tension created sharp cuts in her cheeks. A little more careless flexing and the straps began to stretch out, seams visibly trained where they connected them to the top. When she carefully wiggled out of the dress and kissed it goodbye before zipping it back up, her underbust and ribs were almost welted, horizontal line curving around her back not looking much better.

How did Roddy marry someone so weak?"

— [skipping a few written scenes]

It's satisfying, thrilling, being wanted like this. The way Roddy wants her underwent a metamorphosis somewhere along the line; he wants her the way he wants other men, she doesn't know how else to describe it, lacks the words. It isn't like the way she wants the pretty girl who knows how to fight back, it's like the way she wants the big mean bitch that can tear her limb from limb if she isn't careful.

It's the way she'd wanted Nyla for a long time but couldn't admit it, maybe felt scared to. Nowadays, they're on equal ground, capable of making each other fight for their life. There's never any submission between either of them (not for lack of trying) but Roddy- he submits. She makes him, and he wants her to make him. Makes her make him.

It hit her belatedly, how Roderick began to contribute to the shape she was taking, how closely it aligned with what walking the path of the Death Rider did. She spent hours in the passenger seat of the truck digging through Spotify, trying to find some words or sounds that make sense, give her feelings form.

Brick Shithouse took her down the Placebo rabbit hole for the umpteenth time, and maybe she fucked with Nancy Boy a little harder than usual, sure, but she doesn't find what she's hunting.

Moxley didn't bother her, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and leaving her curled up in the seat, hood drawn, nose in her phone. The hoodie wasn't oversized anymore and she dashboard digging into the side of her knee. At the first rest stop, he grumbled c'mere at her and hauled her awkwardly across the centre console, squeezing. He always squeezes with the same force as when they first hugged, something Marina notices, now that the way everyone touches her has changed. Bonking her head against his, she let him keep her there for a minute, let herself be held. Amongst her new thought patterns, in which she classified things like this into good or feels bad, Marina isn't sure which this falls under. Good, but too outdated, maybe. She had changed; she thinks Moxley should, too, but isn't sure how. The pride that burns in the hollow of her throat when he kisses her temple before releasing her super cedes everything, grants clarity:

Mox has always seen the silhouette of what she could be. He's always interacted with that shape, knowing she'd grow into it. And she did.

-

as for the problemblade notes document... that thing is incomprehensible even to me /j

the original fic document was a complete disaster, written almost like a screenplay-in-progress with notes scrawled in the margins. the very first day i started writing it, it was a fargo fx (season one specifically) AU. at some point, it practically became a songfic for the decemberists song joan in the garden, with selected lyrics serving as scene titles and at times dictating actions characters would take. i lost the plot of this thing so badly i never figured out how to wrangle it back to the base concept of "jay is the lorne malvo to marina's lester nygaard" - it went from a fuck up doomed hetslop fic to a marina shafir introspective, and i couldn't reconcile all the moving parts. much of the reason it became This™ is that i cannot write jay white to save my life LMFAO, i needed so many assists from mango

i basically published the actual fic as-is with no actual editing or quality assurance because it rot in my folder for over a year, putrefying in the guest room. tasty !

highlights (in which the vestiges of the truly batshit original formatting still remain):

[leverage attempt: roll for initiative (partial success)]

[jon moxley as a switchblade/jay white punctuation (she is you more than you) <- this note makes perfect sense if you are me] (6/10/26 editor's note written in real time live right now: this shit does Not make sense if you are me why the fuck did past me not elaborate. hello.)

[SCENE: SHE IS DAUGHTER AND SON. THE IMPERIUM UNDONE.]

[^it only works in jay’s favour]

[something something jay white i have nothing yet <- figured it out. jay white wants that belt. mox: i am the championship, stupid. jay: lol. no. marina is. meaning if i win she’s the prize. mox: [RECALCULATING]]

[yuta: don’r you ever feel crazy dojt you ever just wat to go apeshit. marina how are you feeling. marina don’t you want to explode. marina.]

[marina: jon moxley is not fit to rule. this was always the way it was meant to be.]

and

[mox: this was always the way it was meant to be.]

[ACT THREE: I CANNOT TAKE WHAT IS ALREADY MINE]

[Bear Trap™]

[now you’re mine]

and

[i didn’t know what it would be like to possess you]

[mango do you want to write jay thinking about david finlay]

[AS IT EVER WAS SO IT WILL BE AGAIN]