#(from what i surmised from analyses)

[aegagrusscholarship]

an analysis of rain world names

this is a rewrite of an earlier post i have made since watcher has now came out. i have touched up the information contained within and formatted it in a hopefully better format.

this document is an analysis of canon names only. i say names are 'valid' or 'invalid' in this document as a shorthand for saying that they adhere to the rules laid out by canon examples, or they do not adhere to these rules. this is for ease of reading. this is not a personal judgement on whether the name in question should or should not be used.

i believe that canon is only ever a guideline. this document is written due to my interest in understanding canon only. i do not believe that anyone should follow these analyses to the letter if they do not want to- and i would be a hypocrite if i insisted on it, as i have named my own characters 'invalid' names as well.

this document does not analyze the meaning of names, only the formats. the meanings are a second can of worms that deserves its own analysis.

========================== OVERALL: WORD CHOICE

The world of Rain World is not our own world. Words that are specific to Earth species (i.e. ligers, ravens) or words that are from human popular culture (...i cannot think of examples but you know what I mean) are likely invalid for Rain World names. Overly scientific words (i.e. chemical names) are also likely invalid.

Also they are always written in one language (in my, the author's case, it would be English). We will not get random German words which are not already loanwords to English in a name.

========================== SLUGCATS:

survivor monk hunter watcher

spearmaster artificer gourmand rivulet saint

Base game and Downpour have slightly different naming conventions (AKA just the Rivulet). This counts Watcher as basegame as it is written by the original writing team.

Base game slugcat names are always a descriptor of a person's job or actions. A person can be a survivor, or a monk, or a hunter, or a watcher. I would say it is their occupation, but that is not exactly correct. Still, it's close enough that I'm including it here. 

Downpour slugcat names follow the same format of describing what a person can be, with the exceptions of the Spearmaster and the Rivulet.

"Spearmaster" is technically a portmanteau, though the concept of a spear master is exactly as expected. It is also a descriptor of a person. We can surmise that portmanteaus that flow well enough are valid according to Downpour.

A rivulet is a small stream, or a small droplet of water running down a surface. This is not a description of a person, but it is a metaphorical description of the Rivulet as a slugcat. So we can surmise that slightly more metaphorical descriptions of a slugcat's personal qualities are also valid according to Downpour.

========================== ANCIENTS AND ITERATORS: OBJECTS AND CONNECTORS

Ancient and iterator names follow the same set of rules. They always contain a descriptor (an adjective, verb, or adverb) describing a linguistic 'object' (a noun that describes a physical thing, or a noun that describes a concept).

The difference is that iterator names are one phrase and thus contain one object. Ancient names are two phrases with two objects. Ancient names are joined by either a comma or a connector word.

EDIT: concepts are considered a single object. otherwise you need to number the object. When referring to these objects, care must be taken to distinguish between the concept and the individual. "the" is not a number, therefore that's why you can't use "the" in number-object format names. but "the moon" is considered the whole concept even though it's two words. that's what is happening here.

IGNORE THIS PARAGRAPH it's being left in for posterity's sake. For example: The concept of crows does not exist in the real world as a physical thing. Therefore, if you were to refer to the concept, you would say "the crows". However, if you want to refer to a crow as a physical thing, you cannot say "the crow" as no one knows which exact crow you are talking about. In this case, you would use "a crow" or "one crow". Drawing upon canon names, "Looks to The Moon" refers to the concept of the moon. "A Bell, Eighteen Amber Leaves" refers to a hypothetical physical bell. The hypothetical name "Watches The Tree" is an invalid name as it is referring to a hypothetical real tree, but seems to refer to a specific individual.

Connectors are words like "to", "and", "upon", etc. Words which can connect two unrelated parts of a phrase. These are sometimes used in place of commas in ancient names to connect the two parts together.

========================== ITERATORS:

looks to the moon five pebbles erratic pulse no significant harassment seven red suns sliver of straw chasing wind/grey wind unparalleled innocence

pleading intellect wandering omen gazing stars secluded instinct epoch of clouds

actions ------------------- action-connect-object | action-object

Always in present tense.

There are two categories of the action-object format. The first, using verbs not ending in '-ing', is a category with only a single example. It appears that there needs to be a connecting word that tells the reader the verb applies to the object, too. May be iterator-unique as this does not appear in ancient names.

[Looks] [to] [The Moon]

Other examples use a verb ending in '-ing'. They do not seem to connect the words with any other words.

[Chasing] [Wind] [Pleading] [Intellect] [Wandering] [Omen] [Gazing] [Stars]

numerical concepts -------- number-object

The number can be definite or indefinite. Examples of indefinite numbers are seen in ancient names, next section. It could be argued that iterator names never are indefinite numbers; this will be further explained in the ancient names section.

Examples of definite numbers are a number in word form followed by whatever object it is describing. Seven Red Suns is an odd case, see following section on prefixes.

[Five] [Pebbles] [Seven] [Red Suns]

non-numerical concepts ---- adjective-object | adjective-of-object

Similar to the action category, but using adjectives (descriptions) rather than verbs (actions). 

[Erratic] [Pulse] [No Significant] [Harassment] [Grey] [Wind] [Unparalleled] [Innocence] [Secluded] [Instinct]

They can also be a description-of-object if the phrase makes more sense that way. This happens when the phrase is implicitly a singular quantity of the object in question- i.e. "a sliver of straw", "an epoch of clouds". In name form you cut off the 'a' or 'an' to form these names.

[Sliver] of [Straw] [Epoch] of [Clouds]

prefixes ------------------ number-adjective-object | negator-adjective-object

It appears that some names are compounded or negated:

[Seven] [Red Suns] [No] [Significant Harassment]

What I mean here is that Red Suns and Significant Harassment are both technically non-numerical concepts. 

However, Seven Red Suns uses a numerical value as a prefix making it a compound numerical/non-numerical name. This is also seen in ancient names, so we can assume the format of number-adjective-object is a valid compound format.

As for negation, it is just a negated non-numerical concept. We see only a single example of this in No Significant Harassment where it negates the rest of the concept with the word 'no'. I do not know if this is possible for numerical concepts (unlikely) or actions (possible, but I am not seeing a way to make the phrase sound good). May be iterator-unique as no ancient names use this.

========================== ANCIENTS:

nineteen spades, endless reflections four needles under plentiful leaves droplets upon five large droplets a bell, eighteen amber beads six grains of gravel, mountains abound two sprouts, twelve brackets

spinning top

twelve beads among burning skies distant towers upon cracked earth rhinestones beneath shattered glass eight spots on a blind eye

connecting the phrases -----

Either you don't connect the phrases and stick a comma there, or you do connect them and use a word that evokes some way of one of the phrases doing something/being affected by the other phrase. What else should I say here.

actions -------------------- action-object

It appears verbs not ending in "-ing" are unique to iterators, as all ancient names seem to use verbs ending in "-ing". This cannot be confirmed due to a lack of examples.

Verbs ending in "-ing" work the same way as for iterator names.

twelve beads among [Burning] [Skies]

numerical concepts --------- number-object

Same as for iterators. I can't be assed to list all names that apply anymore, you get the gist of it.

[Nineteen] [Spades], endless reflections [Four] [Needles] under plentiful leaves

Some names use "a" or "an" in place of the numerical value "one". 

[A] [Blind Eye] [A] [Bell]

This is where indefinite amounts come into play, though! This is where it is implied that there is a numerical value of an object, but it does not specify the numerical value. Therefore, uniquely, these name segments consist of a single word with an implied-but-omitted descriptor:

[] [Droplets] upon five large droplets [] [Rhinestones] beneath shattered glass

Due to the omitted descriptor I have a theory indefinite amounts are invalid iterator names since they would then be a single word, and it appears ancient/iterator names are at least two words no matter what.

non-numerical concepts ----- adjective-object | adjective-of-object | object-adjective

First two formats are same as for iterators. 

There is an example of the object coming before the descriptor in Mountains Abound, where the object being described is 'mountains' and they are said to be bountiful. May be ancient-unique as we do not see any iterator names using this format.

prefixes ------------------- number-adjective-object

We see more examples of the compounded number-adjective-object format here:

[A] [Blind Eye] [Five] [Large Droplets] [Eighteen] [Amber Beads]

========================== EXTRA NOTES

chasing/grey winds It appears it is valid to give iterators two names where the object stays consistent but the descriptor changes. In Winds' case, the descriptor is either an action or non-numerical concept.

(action-object, chasing-winds) (adjective-object, grey-winds)

spinning top Their name is an action name (action-object, spinning-top). Uniquely, their name is formatted like an iterator name with a single object. This seems to imply that iterator names are valid children's names and vice versa.

Makes sense why they share the same naming rules, then.

[weddingchicken]

reviewing the ranma 1/2 fanzine i made when i was 12 years old.

i just found ranma 1/2 fanzines which I made in 1999 when I was 12 years old. here's a review of the zines - and an attempt at analysing what was going through the head of my younger self.

as professional looking as the 'ranma 1/2 herald' looks, i made these fanzines by curating a combination of pictures I found on the internet, my own art, and my own writing, organised into magazine format - all of which I cut up and pasted by hand onto master sheets and then photocopied to yield the finished product.

what's odd (or one of the many things odd here) is that I had only managed to obtain and read the first few volumes of the ranma 1/2 manga at this point in my life (perhaps only the first three volumes). i had never watched an episode of the anime, and as far as i know it wasn't available in the uk at that time - certainly not on public television (we didn't have cable). furthermore, i didn't have any friends who were interested in ranma 1/2 or even knew what it was or who shared any of my other interests. nevertheless, i wrote the zines in a style as if they would one day be read by other people.

my enthusiasm for ranma, and subsequently the contents of these zines, was driven by my imagination, and what i could find through my relatively new access to the internet, which in turn encouraged my imagination. youtube didn't exist back then, but i remember reading summaries of anime episodes and consuming related media in whatever way i could, e.g. listening to audio files with snippets of the anime dialogue uploaded to ranma fan sites.

the information in my fanzines - the ranma 1/2 herald #1 and #2 - are heavily supplemented with my own creative additions to the ranma 1/2 universe, including what i now realise to be fanfiction - or attempts at roleplay - my own creative original characters and stories, and something of an obscured view of our own world.

parts of the zines are written in what I considered to be the voice and from the perspective of ranma 1/2 characters.

really not sure what was going on with the alignment of the page numbers on the contents page...

the zines contained fact files on characters and various other elements of the story. again, as much as i was fascinated by the franchise, i was working with very little information here. so i didn't let a little thing like not knowing many facts prevent me from writing these fact files.

much of the zines were taken up with displays of images i'd found online which i thought were just rad.

some good old school microsoft word clipart included

let's take a moment to appreciate this image of shampoo and mousse which i made on microsoft paint (i could create better art with physical media, but doing it digitally seemed exciting). i had not even read any manga where mousse was introduced by this stage, but i had read about him online.

other content included a ranma 1/2 alphabet: i matched a to z with characters, themes, and concepts from the franchise. highlights include:

Q is for questionable conduct, as many characters in Ranma are known to prance around shamelessly naked - most noticeable of these people is Ranma. (tsk, tsk) V is for VIOLENCE! Z is for zeal, a common problem with those characters who would like to win the girl, but Ranma just can'tbe [sic] bothered

my exploration of what windows 95 had to offer was not restricted to microsoft word clipart - i found the esoteric fonts of "windings" and "animals" fascinating. i felt like i was translating my writing into Egyptian hieroglyphics and back.

i also seemed to want to use the fanzine to promote my own original manga series. this is despite the fact that my original manga did not exist outside of my imagination. this didn't stop me including a summary article of the background story of my manga, which i called Kung Fu City. i also wrote about something called the Ultra Tokyo Files which, as far as i can surmise, was a planned sub-series of Kung Fu City. i do remember being very determined that i would create my own manga series called Kung Fu City when i was a child, and must have had fairly developed ideas about this, given what i wrote in the zines about my original universe, original characters, and original storylines. as you can see below, the principles of the Kung Fu City manga are 1) very little actual conversation; 2) non-stop sound effects and violence; 3) a debatable amount of humour (i don't know what I was getting at with point 3).

as you can see, i imagined Kung Fu City into history. i described it as having started in 1989, when i was two years old. what's more, i claimed that it was an influential factor in nunchaku being banned in the united kingdom! what a feat! so, through my zines, i seemed to be creating an alternative reality - not just an alternative ranma 1/2 universe, as many makers of fanfiction and fan comics do, but an alternative version of the "real world".

furthermore, i included a promotional segment from Kung Fu City in the zines - presented as if it was a preview of material from the part-way through the manga run. except, i created these panels specifically for the zines. there was no Kung Fu City before this or after this. just this.

i could really go on and on about the idiosyncrasies of my fanzines, but I will finish by bringing up the conversations i "had" with the characters. this includes the interview i "held" with ranma. as in, i wrote an article about me interviewing ranma saotome, the fictional character.

unfortunately, 12-year old me made the unusual editorial decision to print out my article on dark blue paper before photocopying it as black and white. as such, the interview article is difficult to read. if this post gets any interest and people want to read my conversation with Ranma (it was um...something) then i will make a post with the contents of this interview.

i also had a letters page where I encouraged my hoped-for readers to write in. but not to me. i asked them to address their letters to the characters of the kuno siblings - kodachi and tatewaki kuno. i went on to write letters from imaginary fans to the kunos, and wrote responses to the letters in the voice of kodachi or tatewaki.

a one sentence response from the imaginary character kodachi kuno (aka. the black rose) to a letter from a fan (also imaginary). i'm sure this was normal behaviour from a 12-year old.

i recognise this now as ranma 1/2 fanfiction. what's more, I think this was roleplay. i didn't have anyone else to roleplay ranma with, so i roleplayed with myself. no one else read my articles or any other aspects of my zines. i think i would have wanted to share my passion with someone else, i just didn't have anyone to do it with. so, if nothing else, i made these zines for my own enjoyment. z really was for zeal!

i was a lonely 12-year old wannabe weeaboo who supplemented my lack of money to spend on the ranma 1/2 franchise and lack of access to the fandom with my imagination and creativity. some of the world i conveyed in these zines was bizarre, but it was creative. and maybe now - 25 years later - someone else will finally read my zines.

[xxscarletxrosexx]

Spy x Family Ch. 99 Thoughts + Analyses

God, this entire chapter has been an extreme roller coaster from feeling excitement to sobbing--I'm terribly emotional when it comes to reading war stories must be from all the times I was forced to read war stories throughout my English education program to anger to resignation.

... but this is why I love Spy x Family and the brilliant storywriting of Tatsuya Endo.

Ch. 99 Spoilers ahead.

There's a level of depth and care put into these characters that make them feel so real. If you have someone who has family serving in the army or if you are someone who has read countless accounts of war, then surely you are affected emotionally by the horrors of war. In my case, war stories are what made me look at life and identify the meaning of it. Although I won't go into too much detail about my findings, I did walk away having a deeper appreciation for literature and for humanity itself, in other words, I cry easily to war stories. Hence the case of this chapter.

I was already prepared that Ch. 99 would be a devastating chapter considering that Ch. 98 ends with a cliffhanger in which the alarms go off just as Martha was going to confess her feelings for Henry, and that this 'side mission' story is expected to conclude before Ch. 100. And it truly did not disappoint.

As mentioned earlier, this chapter is a jam-packed rollercoaster ride with previous expectations motivating my excitement as well as my dread for the inevitable.

First, I'd like to address a part that excited me: parallelism.

What quickly striked me was how similar Henry was drawn to Twilight after departing his jail cell. Even the context of the chapter leading up to this physical change indicates that sacrificing oneself for the best outcome/greater good was a theme echoed by these similar character designs.

There is also a third "similar character design" which has become a popularized theory in a possible relationship between the Captain and Twilight. However, I'm starting to see that these similar drawing styles don't identify relationships, but alignment in sacrificing oneself.

I see this as an alignment amongst the three because we now have two lores that shared the impact of war and the injuries sustained, whereas the Captain/First Lieutenant has yet to have his lore addressed. We can surmise based off Twilight and Henry's background that their experiences from war is what continues to drive them in their chosen field/occupation. I'm excited for the day that we learn the Lieutenant's real name and his POV from war. It is then that we will finally get three POV's:

The West / WISE - [Redacted]/Twilight/Loid

The Neutral Civilian - Henry

The Ostanian / SSS - Lieutenant

This is the perfect time to segway to my next excitement: symbolism.

Even though the lore on the unnamed First Lieutenant/Captain has not yet been addressed, his scars tell me that he's experienced a similar outcome. Tell me, have you guys noticed that all 3 men had experienced the same injury found on the left side of his face?

When I looked into the symbolism behind it, I found that the left side of our brain is responsible for processing emotions. The injury to the left side of the face signifies an emotional trauma in which their emotional side had to be silenced. Given what we've already learned about Twilight and Henry's backstories, their personalities and thinking are often stemming from an analytical/logical approach.

Of course, old wives' tales are not always scientifically supported, so I was prompted to research more, and I stumbled across an interesting one regarding emotions found in different parts of the brain:

Since this is a theory, it should not be taken as a fact without repeated research and evidence to support the claim. I, myself, do not claim to be an expert when it comes to neurology or psychology. But this information, when taken from a creative writing/literary analytical stance, can support that the left-face injuries had essentially damaged the positive facial expressions--which can support Twilight and Henry's experience. Thus, we can also surmise that the Captain had experienced a similar fate.

Another thing that we can learn from these injuries (at the time that they were present) is that the character is currently experiencing a time of vulnerability--[Redcated] after returning from battle and Henry, who is still in mourning, is still a bit withdrawn from his students.

Another symbolism that I got excited about is the dichotomy between Henry and his father in character design.

Notice Henry's hair is straight and tied up in contrast to his father who has his hair wavy and loose. Although subtle, I found this character design beautiful for its ability to show a dichotomy in their social/political views.

Wavy hair can be perceived as something flowy, as in going with the flow. Because it isn't tied up, I see that Henry's father doesn't need to hold himself back, and is free to express himself and his views. In contrast, Henry's hair is straight and tied back. Straight hair can be perceived to support Henry's straightforward nature (which is also one of his weaknesses as well as covered in the previous chapters). When his hair is tied up, he gives an air of elegance and looks like he's got everything together. However, his hair tied back could also illustrate imprisonment of the mind, where his views cannot be vocalized at a time when tensions were high during the first war. Furthermore, his "rebellious" behavior resulted in him ultimately being tied down to what was imposed on him (marrying the person his father picked).

I love the detail in which Henry is drawn with his hair untied and unshaven. He's broken at this point, and as we all witnessed at the assembly, he loses control of himself over this grief that he's taken into custody and slandered a traitor. The next time we do see him is when his long hair is chopped off and traded for an undercut--a telltale sign that he was starting anew, and looking awfully like Twilight.

During this social climate, Henry was perceived as the 'villain' in the Henderson family due to his 'bad' behavior. But let me, just say that Endo-san loves to remind us through character design just who is the true villain. Did you notice it, too? It's the nose. Henry's father has a pointy nose, reminiscent of a witch, whereas he inherited his mother's round nose. Another small detail, but it made me laugh. This is why I love Endo-san.

Above, I have addressed what made me happy. Now, I will address what brought me to tears, that being Martha and Henry.

I mean, it's no surprise that they wouldn't have a happy ending. I was well prepared with the knowledge I know about them from present-day story that mentions of Henry's daughter, cameos of his wedding ring, and Martha working with the Blackbells, and recently reveals that she had an old crush on Henry. The absence of their love being pursued led us to believe that Martha may have had a one-sided romance. But ch. 99 confirms that Henry reciprocated his feelings for her due to yearning her letters.

It wasn't until news of Martha's life-threatening decision did it impact Henry significantly, and then his breaking point to realization that he loved her too late was when Martha showed her vulnerable side in her letter with the following:

I practically balled right here. I was teary-eyed leading up to it because war stories are always so heartbreaking, especially to those who sacrifice or don't make it home alive.

We now learn why Henry ended up marrying someone else is due to Martha's "inevitable" death--unbeknownst that her decision not to volunteer would also result in death. From what we read, Martha was too emotional to vocalize her situation clearly, and even if she did, her message would be blacked out, unfortunately. So it is evident that Martha was trapped and had no way out other than choosing to volunteer and ultimately "die" in battle.

Henry, on the other hand, could not fight the system, despite that he became a History teacher just to do that. He failed because his countrymen and the system failed him. He lost his beloved and if he were to continue holding onto his belief, he'd lose his ability to teach. Essentially, he lost the fight (to change history/improve the situation through education during that social climate), but not the war (in which there is still hope for history to change). Heny, ultimately, shared a similar fate as Martha through self sacrifice of his livelihood.

I was and still am completely discombobulated by the war and its impact on Martha and Henry that, to be honest, I completely disregarded Donovan Desmond.

I know I won't be able to capture the importance of his lines as eloquently and moving as I did with Martha and Henry, the former pair leaving a moving impact on me during this chapter, so I'd like to recommend my dear friend, @yumeka-sxf 's, analysis which covers more of Endo's brilliant story writing and character development decisions.

After rereading the chapter as well as her analysis, I agree with her point that Donovan Desmond was made to be the antagonist of the story. I believe Donovan's view of liars and holding absolutely no hope for them is a necessity for readers to continue perceiving him as a villain in the series. This is because we cannot perceive good and evil as simply black and white in the series when we have both Yor and Loid dirtying their hands in the name of protecting their countries/loved ones. We hold love for the characters in this series because of their personalities, values, and moral compasses amidst taking life after life. In their social climate they must always choose to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, which is why their tainted actions can be perceived as forgiven. Donovan Desmond, on the other hand, cannot share that 'exception' because an action/drama story needs a villain.

If you made it to the end, thank you so much for your time! I hope you enjoyed my analyses and thoughts on Ch. 99! What do you guys think about the chapter and my analyses? I'd love to hear more from you! :3

[woozapooza]

I really love The Sopranos, as the eagle-eyed among you may have surmised by now, and it’s really cool that there is so much analysis of this show out there, but I think going forward I’ve got to be very discerning about which analyses I engage with, because so much of it is just too cynical and misanthropic and pessimistic and I can’t take it. I’m not saying that I’m surprised, or that the hardline cynics are unequivocally wrong (it’s open to interpretation, after all, and it IS a very cynical show), I’m just being realistic about what my sappy little heart can handle. It is, after all, just a TV show. It’s not that deep, even though yes it is that deep.

One of countless examples: I see a lot of people say that at the end of the show, Meadow is about to become a “mob lawyer,” which means that all her attempts to distance herself from her family have come to nothing. But that’s not quite true! Yes, she is planning to become a lawyer, yes, she says the deciding factor was “seeing how Italians are treated,” yes, that’s silly–but she also says, “If we can have our rights trampled like that, imagine what it's like for recent arrivals.” You can question how deep her convictions go—she has, after all, proven time and time again that they don’t go nearly as deep as she’d like to think—but at least she hasn’t totally lost sight of the actual problems in the world. If the show had continued, she probably would have just gotten more and more corrupted, not because she was fated to do so (there’s no such thing as fate), but because of the nature of the show. But it didn’t continue. That’s the finale! Anything after that is pure speculation! So who knows? Maybe she did, in fact, become a corrupt mob lawyer. Or maybe she held onto some semblance of progressive values and focused on the kind of genuinely important work she was still doing as a volunteer as late as season 6. Or maybe—wait a minute, what’s this? I’m getting a call from her right now! Hang on, she’s telling me what she’s up to these days…Oh, okay, it turns out that the second option is the truth. Yeah, she just told me that after getting some more experience in the legal world and just interacting with a variety of people who were able to balance out her upbringing, she realized that organized crime is bad after all (which is not to say that everyone involved in it is innately wicked) and she’s devoted her career to fighting actual injustice. So fuck you* 🫵

*please do not be offended by this, I am just being silly

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 21 - Found family

Warnings: child abandonment, grief

Word Count: 1.8k (gif not mine)

Summary: Clint leaves to find a person from his past, surrounded by the family he created.

A/N: <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

2013

NEW YORK

“Can you find someone for me?” Clint asks Tony, looking around the room, and the technology it holds.

He can’t help but touch the screens and play with the holograms as he waits for Tony to reply.

“Can you pass me the copper wire?” Tony asks.

Clint hops up on the bench and throws it to him, his aim true.

“I can find anyone, if they want to be found, and even then, likely I can find them if they don’t want to be,” he answers distractedly.

“Can you hold this here?”

Clint hops down and pushes on the wire, analysing the circuitry and frowning.

“You’ve wired it wrong,” he surmises, pointing with his other hand.

Tony swears and rubs his face.

“How long have you been up for?” Clint asks, a pinch of worry for his friend and his insomniac ways.

Tony looks up and glances at the time.

Jarvis answers for him, “twenty six hours.”

Clint swears it’s sounds almost disapproving.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks, knowing that until the project has reached a satisfactory conclusion, there’s no way Tony will stop.

Rubbing his forehead, Tony shows him the circuit board connected to the towers alarm system, and automatic controls for system lockdown.

Clint frowns.

“Has there been any attempts to get in here?”

He doesn’t understand why Tony was upgrading the already functioning system.

He shakes his head.

“No, but I just..” he pauses.

“Who do you want me to find?”

Clint ignores him and without words helps, correcting the circuitry then placing the upgraded board into Tony’s hand.

“You know, if you get sleep, these things become easier,” he grins.

Tony rolls his eyes, the lower limbs of the suits attaching as he flies to the control box outside and installs the board quickly.

There’s a quick glow, and a light force field covers the tower before disappearing again.

Clint didn’t realise how big the project was, and smiles as Tony returns.

“Come get some food,” he prompts, holding the door open as the legs come away and he reaches ground again.

Tony obliges.

Heading to the kitchen, Clint explains about Gus.

The ex-carney, convenience store owner that stayed close to the circus and protected Clint from future foster homes and set him on the path of this life.

There’s some hesitation in the way Tony replies, and Clint doesn’t quite know if he should have trusted him with the story.

“Why do you want to see him again?” Tony asks, handing him a Stark-Pad.

Clint hesitates, feeling judged in the moment.

“I want to tell him about Barney, maybe just check that he’s okay. Thank him I suppose?”

He doesn’t know, not in any way he can put into words.

Tony is uncharacteristically quiet, before he takes the stark-pad off of Clint and opens up a data base, taking time, he seems to hack into some sort of data base.

It takes him a minute or so, before he hands the tablet back.

“He’s still in Iowa, Cedar Rapids, last known address was near the Prairie Park Fishery,” he pauses, “we can go now if you want?”

Clint stops in his tracks.

“What?”

Tony points upwards.

“Two hours, we can go there now if you want?”

Clint nods slowly.

“Yeah okay,” he says impulsively, “let me just send a message to Natasha, and let her know.”

Tony shrugs, “sure, I’ll be up at the hanger, if you ask Steve it will be a party.”

Clint decides on calling Natasha, feeling a slight urgency on getting going.

“Hey,” she picks up, after a beat.

“Hey,” he answers.

“I asked Tony to find Gus and he found him in like five seconds. He asked if we wanted to go visit, and I’ve said yes,” he says quickly.

“Doyouwannacome?”

Natasha takes a second before responding, and then tells him she’d meet him at the hanger.

He smiles. It’s like a road trip with his friends, something they’d do at the circus.

It’s seems somewhat fitting.

Picking up the phone again, he calls Steve.

“Hey man,” he says as the phone clicks over.

“Hey,” Steve replies.

“Natasha and Tony and I are going on a bit of trip to see an old friend I have in Iowa. Do you want to come?”

“When?” Steve asks.

“Now?”

Steve takes a moment and then agrees, Clint thinks he can hear the change in his tone, a small amount of pleasure at being invited.

“Come to the hanger when you can,” Clint tells him, “we’ll be waiting.”

.

The trip to Iowa is an exchange of stories. Clint starts by telling the story of Gus and how he taught him magic, he shows the others a trick and then produces a coin from Steve’s ear.

Much to his delight, Steve replicates the trick and produces two coins.

Tony, not to be outdone, produces two coins and a card.

Natasha bursts out laughing.

“You’re all magic nerds,” she says, joyfully.

The rest of the trip they try and outdo each other, Natasha taking the lead in flying the plane as they all show off random magic tricks, and teaching each other the ones they don’t know.

She gives them a ten minute warning and looks back to see Clint smiling, a true smile that had been so rare from the events of New York to learning of his brothers death.

She hopes this is positive and that Gus is the man Clint believes him to be.

Otherwise, she might kill him herself.

.

Clint knocks on the door.

Alone now, he wishes he hadn’t been so adamant to do this himself. He’d left Natasha with the others in the plane, promising to be back soon.

The anticipation feels heavy as he hears movement in the house and he hopes Tony was right in the address.

The door opens slowly, and Clint smiles lightly.

“Hello,” he opens, “I don’t know if you—“

“Clint?”

The door opens wider, revealing Gus, now older but still the same man.

“Hi,” he says shyly.

“Clint!”

He pulls him into a hug and Clint feels himself sink into it, feeling like a kid again.

“Come in,” Gus asks, ushering him through the door.

“Can I get you anything?

Clint doesn’t get a chance to answer as Gus disappears into the kitchen and returns with beer and a bottle opener.

He takes it and opens them both, offering it to cheers which Gus does with a smile.

“Clint,” he says, almost in reverence.

“How are you?”

“I’m good,” Clint replies, not sure what to say.

He came here to say that Barney was dead. To thank him for helping him when he was a child, to pointing him in the direction of the military.

“I — wanted to find you,” he starts.

Gus stands, finds an album on the bench and hands it to Clint.

“Open it,” he gestures.

The album has photos, some articles from the circus, pictures of Clint he’d never seen before, gently he turns the pages, emotion welling inside.

He can’t speak.

Gently touching the photos, he sees himself holding the bow and arrow as a young boy, stance strong and gaze focussed.

“That’s my favourite,” Gus says, watching Clint carefully, “you had such natural talent from the get go, and even if archery didn’t get you famous, I think you would have been a fantastic pickpocket.”

Clint huffs a laugh, turning the page.

“And now you’re an Avenger?”

There’s clippings from the paper from the last twelve months.

Of Tony, Steve and Thor, of him and Natasha. Articles and pictures.

Clint thinks it’s one of the kindest things someone has ever done.

He smiles.

“I’m just a human, amongst superhero’s, metal men and gods,” he laughs, starting at the start again to take the photos in.

“Maybe it’s what they need, to keep them in line,” Gus retorts.

Clint stops at a picture.

Barney stands arms crossed with a smile as Clint does a handstand.

He stares at it, and forces breath.

Barney.

“He’s dead,” he whispers, taking the photo out, he shows it Gus.

“He’s dead,” he repeats again.

Gus hobbles over to sit with Clint, taking the photo and then handing it back.

“I know,” he nods, and hugs Clint in a side hug.

“He came here, a couple of years ago, asking after you, I showed him and told him you had gone into the military.”

He turns the page and Clint finds the picture of himself in uniform.

“He was so proud of you,” Gus tells him.

“I think he wanted to tell you.”

Clint can’t help it; he cries.

For the loss of his brother, for all the words left unsaid and the time they’d never get back.

“Do you think he knew I loved him?” he asks, voice as small as a child’s.

“Of course he did,” Gus nods.

He closes the album, and motions for Clint to follow him.

“Barney stayed here, for a little while at least, and drew some pictures. I held onto them, as I hoped— I wished I would see you again.”

He opens the door and pulls out some pictures from a drawer.

The pictures are of Clint and Barney as children, their faces small and chubby.

Clint feels the tears on his face as he furiously wipes at them.

“Your brother, he was complicated and could be harsh and I think he wanted to protect you but didn’t know how… You were both so young.”

Gus looks down.

“I think I failed you both but I did the best I could,” he admits.

Clint shakes his head.

“No,” he refutes, “you saved my life, probably Barney’s too. I came to thank you.”

Gus waves him off.

“Take them,” he tells Clint, “they’re yours, the album too if you want anything from it.”

Clint nods, finding the album, knowing what pictures he wants and the ones he wants to show Natasha, maybe even the others.

He sits back down, not quite ready to leave yet.

“I’m going to get married,” he confesses.

Gus looks up, his smile wide.

“Will you come?”

The nod and laugh is infectious.

“Of course, of course I will,” he agrees.

He sits back and takes a sip of the still cold beer.

“Tell me about her,” he asks.

.

The plane home is in darkness, as Clint shares the chocolate and pictures that Gus sent with him.

He tells the stories behind the pictures, prompting Steve and Tony to tell their own.

Natasha holds onto the picture of Clint and Barney and stares at it for a long time.

“He looks like you,” she whispers later.

“Remind me,” he tells her, “remind me to tell you the story behind that one.”

Natasha hands it back to him, and nods, bringing her head to his and pushing it against his.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, so the others can’t hear.

“It’s hard facing our pasts, and I’m glad it went well.”

He regards Natasha and all the history she has with facing her past; the good and the bad.

He nods.

“Me too, Nat.”

.

[centralcitylibrary]

Response to Death Battle's Bowser vs. Dr. Eggman: Part 1/3 - Review

These three parts feature the following media from Sonic the Hedgehog, Super Mario Bros., and Death Battle:

Basically all of Mario

Basically all of Sonic

Death Battle’s Bowser vs. Dr. Eggman

Welcome to part 1 of my response to Death Battle, the review. What do I think about this episode, the first game Sonic episode since Shadow vs. Ryuko? Eggman’s triumphant return since Season 1 over a decade ago?

Well...

Let’s not beat around the bush. This is, without a doubt, Death Battle’s best episode yet. That’s high praise, given it’s had incredible episodes over its lifespan (with multiple contenders for best/favourite episode coming just from Season 10 alone), but this episode has a very small number of episodes that can even compete with it for that position.

As you can probably surmise, major spoilers for the episode in this review, and if you somehow stumbled onto this review without having seen the episode, I urge you to go watch it. Right now. In fact, here’s a link to the episode itself so you can go watch it.

So the fight begins with Bowser’s wedding-

Nah I’m just tricking, I’m not going to skip the analyses like that, I wouldn’t disgrace the debate side of things like that. What am I, a reaction YouTuber?

Anyways, those analyses were given impressive editing, a genius at both being slick and at properly conveying what information the hosts are talking about. It really does sell every single feat and analysis they display, and the information they give flows naturally from point to point as a result.

Bowser’s analysis sets up the family aspect of him and his army quite well, at first masking it behind a joke over being mistreated and farmed for one-ups, planting the seeds for that reading while also being deliberately absurd enough to not take the supposed mistreatment seriously. It’s very well done subliminal priming for their dive into Bowser’s character.

And focusing on family for Bowser’s analysis set up a great contrast to Eggman’s, where it delved into how awesome and intelligent he is, but also on the fact that he’s really all on his own – that army might be formidable, but not a single one of them is a person in his eyes – with the sole exception to Sage. He’s so lonely that his only family was an AI girl that he created.

And both analyses cover a good blend of their most iconic and most dangerous weapons. While blatantly impossible to mention everything (even mentioned by the hosts themselves in regards to just Bowser’s troops), they did cover quite a wide blend, and every single trump card the two possessed was at least mentioned, either in the individual analyses or the post-analysis at the end.

… And yet the analyses also contain the worst part of the episode, and the main reason I wouldn’t call it perfect. Yes, the research was off, even with the black boxes included there were multiple incorrect scaling claims and questionable interpretations of how some of that equipment worked (for example, how they claimed that the Pure Hearts nullified the Chaos Heart, despite the fact that even after two uses of the Pure Hearts the Chaos Heart was still threatening to destroy everything; or how they deemed the Phantom Ruby to lose to real reality manipulation despite the fact that – for anyone caught in the Phantom Ruby’s illusions – it IS real reality manipulation).

Given the sheer size and volume of everything, it’s not a deal breaker for the episode like others are (and like a certain episode just earlier this “season”), but it’s still disappointing to see both sides not quite get their dues.

I won’t focus on it anymore however in this part, and from this point onwards I’ll operate under the assumption that the information presented in the episode is 100% accurate for the sake of the review.

… Now, if the analyses are already this good, and I’m saying the worst part of the episode is contained within them, then what does that say about the actual animation? Especially a fight like this, where it’s simultaneously a fight between two armies and one where both sides have a billion instant win buttons – such a combination is inherently difficult to write and difficult to animate, a recipe for disaster in most circumstances.

… Not this time.

This fight was perfection.

The first quarter or so of the match-up focuses on the armies and how well they fare against each other, and it uses that to transition into the first showcase of one of many trump cards – the phantom ruby.

It being so powerful that when Infinite got one tapped (genius idea to amplify gravity when Thwomps exist, loser), the focus on the two armies’ primary focus became just obtaining that gemstone. It’s chaos, different enemies being thrown around all over – even Orbot and Cubot get involved, that’s how important maintaining control over it is.

And given how powerful just the phantom ruby alone is, when that Chance Time guarantees the destruction of the Phantom Ruby, the battle immediately pivots into both combatants and their generals using their trump cards, with the armies turning into a background detail as a result.

And boy did they really sell the raw power of those trump cards. Neo Metal Sonic defeating standard Bowser in one hit and Super Neo contending with Fury Bowser after the latter overpowered both the Death Egg Robot and Sage, Fury Bowser breaking through the Death Egg Robot in a single strike, and that Grand Star boost being so powerful it obliterates Super Neo and the entirety of the Egg Fleet combined in a single blast.

Everything hits hard, and just from seeing them play out we can see that this is what will call the shots in this war.

And all that raw power comes to a head when Eggman commands Sage to fire the Death Egg’s Final Egg Blaster. This is also where the mini-story that was in the animation comes to a head here – Eggman gathering them all up under the false pretense of a wedding to take them out at once, prematurely assuming the fight’s won (and only entering it himself when he believes that), and how callously he sacrifices any robot if it’s for his own sake. Bowser, meanwhile, focused on keeping his own troops alive when the Phantom Ruby starts decimating them, and unleashed the Grand Star due to his fury at seeing Bowser Jr. harmed (which given that he was already Fury Bowser is saying something), and fighting side by side with his army and generals the whole time.

It all comes to a close with the Death Egg, as Eggman’s troops know that they’re being completely sacrificed – the only reason they’re even able to flee being because they’re all being sacrificed in an instant. Bowser, meanwhile, jumps in the way and sacrificing himself to save his army.

And it all means that when Dry Bowser emerges, Eggman’s left with no tools, no options, against the entirety of the Koopa Troop – despite the fact that only Bowser and his son were needed to close out the fight, periodically closing out Eggman’s last few remaining options one by one. He can’t fire the Death Egg again, he can’t run, he can’t use his jetpack – even his weak little gun is denied the opportunity to even fire off a shot.

And his death is celebrated as coins rain down from the sky onto the entire army.

It’s an incredible animation that really sold just how chaotic such a fight would go down with all of their best stuff combined. My only negative is that Sage ultimately did very little, I definitely think they could’ve given her a moment of commanding the Eggman Armada while Eggman himself is busy elsewhere, or a brief POV shot to showcase her aiming at Bowser’s army instead of Bowser, or gave her a voice actress to provide suggestions from her analyses.

Still though, this was already a battle jam packed full of so many factors that it would be hard to include such scenes without ruining the pacing, so I can’t really hold them against it.

Oh, and the music. I don’t have the words to really describe it properly, but the music’s incredible and fits the fight very well. Calling it Game Over is a nice touch.

And then the post-analysis kicks in, and closes out why the Death Battle team came to this conclusion for the battle. It’s a standard post-analysis, but with some really nice brief looks into alternate scenarios. I don’t like how literally all but one of them is Bowser winning for what is supposedly a really close match (and even that one exception isn’t given a conclusion), but they’re great, I really hope they show up again in future episodes when it’s appropriate to have them.

This episode was originally planned for Season 10, but ultimately had to get pushed back due to taking too long to fit in, but man am I glad they gave it the time they needed to, this is without a doubt my favourite Sonic episode in Death Battle. Wait no, scratch that, it’s my favourite episode overall in Death Battle.

I do not normally do reviews on this blog (as you can probably tell), but if it’s something you’d like to see more I can do it for some future Sonic games and/or future Sonic episodes of Death Battle. I mainly did a review this time because I wanted to preface just how much I enjoyed the episode before I delve into parts 2 and 3.

And before I forget (again), I have a Discord set up for this very blog, a temporary link will be available here, and a permanent link should be edited into my introductory message for the blog.

I hope to see you there!

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 36

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Soon enough, they arrive at the correct room and Elo walks in to find Cobbleskater still frantically trying to sort piles of papers. "Did you leave the window open?" she asks. "Did the wind mess everything up?" Cobbleskater startles, looking up with clear embarrassment. As well he might, Elo thinks, because he's usually just so neat and organised and this… "Were there monkeys?" she says – because this is about as far from tidy and organised as the Earth is to Pluto. "Ah, Lieutenant," Cobbleskater clears his throat. "No, there were no monkeys, as such. I… allowed Ms Green to assist me. She and I have, ah, different working styles." He swallows, looking at her with the face of a child who has been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, pages clutched in both hands. Elo takes a breath. "That's fine. We'll get everything organised, and then you can let me know what you need help with." Cobbleskater nods gratefully. "Right, since you two have got this handled, I'm gonna go help Monday with that shakedown," Farren says and beats a hasty retreat. "Well, I never," Cobbleskater huffs. Elo lets out a bark of laughter and reaches for the first stack of papers.

As they set about sorting the pages, Cobbleskater explains, "We started by using the copy machine to blow up the pages of her journals, then noted which book and page number they were from. We then began to review each page and add the Roman characters under each sigil. Only, somewhere along the way, all the pages got a little… higgledy-piggledy. It's much harder to translate when the context gets lost." He sighs and runs a hand through caramel-blond hair. "With the addition that this is not a cypher, as I expected, and there is no clear marker to show when one word ends, there are some pages I'm not convinced are correct." Elo frowns, searching her memories. "No… I suppose it's not. I think, perhaps, we conjured a whole other language." She stares down at the pages in her hands, an itch forming in the back of her mind. She shakes it away – they have more pressing issues. "Why don't I review what you've already got, while you finish sorting the pages?" Cobbleskater nods and hands her a stack of pages. "We think that the vic separated her journals into three sets – one is a personal diary, the second contains notes on her exposé, and the third… Well, we're not exactly sure, but we surmise it's the rough draft of the report she was compiling. These are the start of the exposé notes."

Elo settles back, reading through the pages and taking note of where Cobbleskater or Candy have marked in red pen a translation they're unsure of, and correcting where necessary. As she reads, Elo finds the flowing language returns – like a skill gone rusty, but never quite forgotten – and as she moves onto new pages, abandons translating piecemeal in favour of writing out a summary which is pinned to the respective page. At the top of each page is a date, stretching back a fair few months. Evie's investigation stemmed, it seems, from a trip to an art gallery, where a piece of fine art was up for sale, described as an original by one of the old masters. And certainly, it looked the part but there was something off about the piece. In between attending bake sales and knitting circles for her fluff column, she delved deeper into the mystery – quizzing the gallery curator, searching for the piece's provenance and, once it had been purchased, badgering the new owner to have the paints analysed at a reputable lab. As she dug further, Evie discovered that not only was the painting a fake, but the gallery was now offering for sale another painting by a different old master, just as plausible as the last. After a fruitless hunt for the suspected ring which was creating these forgeries, and nearly giving up to go to the police with what she had, Evie was approached by someone with a tipoff. There's no physical description or explanation of who this person is, only being identified as 'Deciduous'.

Intrigued, Elo searches Evie's personal diary for a corresponding dated entry. She's further astounded when it begins, 'What I record here, no one will ever believe. I hardly believe it myself, but I would swear under oath this is the truth…'. The entry goes on to describe a creature resembling an Eshen who speaks in the tongue of their school days – something that Evie believed she and Elo had created for themselves. The creature reveals to Evie that alongside the fraudulent paintings, someone in high office is smuggling something dangerous into the city. What and who, the creature doesn't know, but gives Evie a tool – the artefact, Elo realises – which will reveal the truth of who, at least. Unlike Elo – who came to live in Toreguard after the unrest caused by Greydown had been quelled – Evie lived through it and lost her mother as their family fled. The fear Evie felt at the Eshen's statement is palpable through her writing, but Elo can read between the lines; were it a normal person conveying the information, Evie would have gone immediately to someone in authority she could trust – her father, perhaps. Maybe Elo herself. But Evie didn't think she would be believed, so she kept it to herself, continuing to investigate with this new tool. Elo sits back, a hollow sensation growing in her chest. If only Evelyn had reached out… "Ma'am? Lieutenant?" Elo blinks. Cobbleskater is looking at her with a worried frown. "Is everything alright, ma'am?" Elo finds herself faced with the same conundrum as Evie. "I. Um. I reached a part where Ev– Our victim was approached by someone who seems to have been a whistleblower. This feels like the part in the story where things take a turn for the worse." Elo sighs. "I could have helped her. If she'd reached out, she might still be alive." Cobbleskater gives her a sympathetic smile. Elo runs a hand over her face. "My apologies. I shouldn't let my personal feelings cloud my perceptions of events." "It's perfectly understandable, ma'am. Maybe we should call it a day here, and you can return home and get some much needed rest." "Thank you for your concern, but I'm alright to continue a little longer." Cobbleskater nods and returns to where he's collating her summaries of the pages back into one pile for ease of reading. Elo turns back to reading the diary – but finds her pen hovering above the paper. Both her police training and sense of honour say that, by all rights, she should faithfully record exactly what Evie has set down. But there is the nagging feeling that doing so would cause her friend to be branded insane, and Elo cannot abide that thought. Rather than make the difficult choice, Elo reads onwards, learning that Evie spent some time hanging around City Hall, peering through the hole at the center of the artefact to find one of the hundred or so councillors who would match the profile of one who might be putting the city in silent danger. Elo frowns, wondering how that works. In her experience, it isn't possible to read from appearance alone who the bad guys are, and nowhere has Evie recorded what she's expected to find. There is a list of all the current councillors; around half have a cross next to their name. "Hey, LT?" Elo jumps as Monday knocks on the door. "Pryderi!" Cobbleskater grins. "Are you here to help?" "'Fraid not, buddy," Mondays says, not sounding at all sorry. "I'm here for our Lieutenant. LT, your–" he clears his throat in a manner that suggests he can't decide if he should be angry or amused "–man from City Hall has arrived." "Right. Yes. Thank you, Monday." Elo stands. "We'll pick this up tomorrow, Cobbleskater." "I can continue from where you've left off–" "I'd rather you collate a timeline of our vic's movements. I'd like you and Breakwood to go back over her steps and see if you can find this informant." Cobbleskater's head twitches in confusion, but he arrests the motion. "Of course, Lieutenant."

Elo and Monday start the walk back to the bullpen in silence filled with the sense of Monday trying to figure out how to word whatever he wants to say. "You have an interesting talent for understatement," he says eventually. Elo flashes a grin. "I seem to recall that 'interesting' was why you moved over to our side of the bullpen in the first place." Monday laughs. "True that." They walk a bit further before he says, "So how's it coming? The translations I mean. You find out anything about the little doohickey the vic had?" "Not much. It was a gift from a whistleblower, but there's no indication yet why it was given." "Hm, that's disappointing. But I'm sure you'll figure it out."

As they approach the bullpen, Elo wonders exactly how badly she's set the cat among the pigeons. "He's waiting in the break room with a coffee and pastry, just as requested," Monday says. "Thank you. If you need me, I'll be at City Hall for the next few hours," Elo says and peels off, heading to where Strucker waits.

She can't quite put her finger on it, but the bullpen feels more industrious as she walks between neatened desks, bereft of dirty crockery and reports waiting to be filed. Rather than the boisterous comments she's used to, the air is filled with hushed voices and busy clacking of typewriters. Elo can't help but huff a little laugh at her colleagues' reactions to having their Commander-in-Chief present, even though as she enters the break room she finds anything but a vision of the gruff General, barking orders. Instead, Stucker is sprawled on the sofa, reading a newspaper with one hand and the other clasping a polystyrene cup of coffee, seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having on the officers outside. With his silvering hair, neat cropped salt-and-pepper beard, and a touch of comfort around his middle, he looks more like a father waiting to give his vagrant daughter a ride someplace. The pastry flakes dusting his casual dun-green suit isn't helping the picture. The only signs of his status as Commander-in-Chief are the insignia on his epaulettes and the strips of colour on his breast that Elo has never quite figured out the significance of. A second low huff of laughter leaves her at the sight of such domesticity, but Elo gathers herself enough to knock on the door. "Hey. Sorry if I kept you waiting long. My team–" Elo thinks she will never get used to saying that. "My team had some updates about the case. We're doing well translating the cypher in E– the victim's notebooks and we've got a bead on the owner of the barge. Things are looking positive." When Strucker looks up, it's with a strange expression for a moment. Then he gives a sharp nod, chugs his coffee with the practice of a man who doesn't know when his next will come, and pockets the half-eaten pastry. "Good to hear. Shall we go?" he asks, gesturing to the door.

–––

Then they are in the car, on the way to City Hall. "So what did you learn from Evie's notes?" Stucker asks. Elo bites her lip, glancing out at the passing shop fronts and then to Stucker. "There was a whistleblower. We haven't finished translating… the victim's notes, but it would be a good bet that this is the person who gave her the tip-off about the barge. Sadly, there's no good description of this person, only a moniker. I've got the boys looking over… the victim's movements. Hopefully, they can find where this informant might have come from." Strucker glances at her, that same strange expression. His voice is quiet, tone accusatory. "She has a name." So that is what that face was for, Elo thinks and takes a deep breath. Equality quietly, Elo says, "Forgive me; but she doesn't. Not yet." She keeps her eyes on the road in front of them, on the traffic of her city, surging like blood in veins. "I can't name her until I've served her with the justice she deserves." Strucker grunts – he doesn't understand. So Elo explains: "It's something my partner taught me early on, to help stay focused and professional while on a case. The dead that come over my desk are all victims of the worst transgression man can take against man. The terms 'corpse' or 'cadaver' are too dehumanising. But using their name can swamp you with emotion, leaving you unable to give them the justice they deserve. So instead, you call them 'victim' to remind yourself of your duty. Only once their justice has been served, in whatever way you can manage, can you return their name. Only once they're at peace, can you think of them once again as a person and mourn as appropriate. To do so before the case is solved may mean not solving it at all, and that cannot be abided." Strucker remains silent, the air in the car tense. When Elo risks a glance towards him, she can see a battle being fought there. She thinks he understands now – might be relating it to his own experiences of loss in combat. But this is his little girl they're talking about. It must hurt him so much to hear how she must be dehumanised, all so her killer can be found. "I'm sorry," Elo says; but only gets a grunt in reply.

Air from traffic in the opposite lane buffets the car like a heartbeat as they sit in their separate bubbles of thoughts. It is only as they cross the bridge to the city center that Strucker speaks. "I do understand," he says. "Of course I do. I know that one must remove one's heart from the equation when one's comrades fall. I know how one must push emotion to the side if one would keep moving forward. But knowing and understanding does not mean I have to like it. I dislike it in myself, I dislike watching it in you, and I dislike that it's against my baby girl." "I'm sorry," she offers again. With a sigh and words laced with a pain that's terrible for Elo to hear, Stucker says, "It's your job."

–––

The tension has eased by the time they pull into Stucker's reserved parking space. Next to his, sits Clayrmantle's Racing Green E-Type Jag. Beyond that is a sight that makes Elo's blood run cold – a dark blue Lincoln Continental with tinted windows. As they get out, Elo swallows away any waver her voice might make before she asks, "Who's Continental is that?" Strucker looks over. "Ah, that's Brauma's. I'm surprised the old boy got it back from the mechanic so fast. He made it sound like it had been totalled." He closes the driver's side door as Elo grips the car roof, breathing hard. "Say what you like about the man," Strucker continues, oblivious, "he has good taste in motor vehicles."

As they walk into the Hall, Elo's head is spinning with the implications of the Exchequer having run her off the road. Stucker, still oblivious, launches into a potted history of the Lincoln division of the Ford Motor Company, the statistics and capabilities of the '64 Continental Saloon, and comparisons to both the year models on either side of it and contemporaries from other companies. By the time they reach the Council floor, Stucker's rhetoric has brought back her equilibrium, and despite wanting to find the nearest phone, she must focus on the task at hand – unruffling feathers. With Strucker's introductions, Elo spends the next hour or so glad-handing various fence-sitting councillors. She gushes about her time in Fangthane, exclaiming her fascination with Icelandic culture and the beauty of their lands. She enthuses about King Storri's honour and nobility, declaring what good company he's been these past few days. Finally, Elo exhorts them not to listen to the naysayers who wouldn't know a good thing if it bit them in the ass, repeating that this alliance brought prosperity before – and it would do again if allowed to be ratified. Elo is deep in discussion with the Councilor for Herberg's Fork, talking through her concerns about increased postal pressures, when Strucker clears his throat. "I'm terribly sorry, Councilor Cordova, but Lady Elowyn and I are late for another meeting." "Oh goodness," Cordova says, as Stucker helps Elo up. "My apologies for having kept you." Elo smiles – though from a glance at the clock, they're half an hour late for Strucker's meeting with the rest of the Triumvirate and King Storri. "It's no problem," she says. "I'll be sure to pass your concerns on to the negotiating team. But please, do think about what I've said, and vote 'aye' when the resolution is tabled." "Of course, your Ladyship. And thank you for taking the time." "My pleasure." The two women shake, and Stucker shepherds her towards the Magister's office.

[myfireplacewentboom]

Jenkins' Boy

Jenkins’ Boy

18+

Male Corpo V x Arthur Jenkins

Vincent is the perfect Arasaka employee: efficient and ambitious. Arthur Jenkins is a cold, calculating corpo with an eye for talent and a serious grudge. Vincent’s growing obsession with both his boss and his own career spirals, and he is forced to confront the realities of the corporate world he has chosen.

I’m sitting at my desk in my office booth on the main floor of Arasaka’s Counterintelligence division. It is seven minutes past eight in the evening which means I have been here thirteen hours, eleven minutes and two seconds. I know that because I am told by the timed tracker on my monitor.

The text on the screen in front of me is blurred; the letters are bleeding into each other and the page I’m reading stopped making sense a little while ago. I restart my cybernetic optics but there is no change: the words are a hazy smear of black and grey on white. As I sit there reloading and reloading my kiroshis, I surmise that this must be a mental issue and this distresses me - a scary reminder of the shortcomings of my organic brain. So I reach for the drawer besides my desk and slide it open before extending a hand inside for my latest cognitive booster -Trauma Team approved - that had been delivered by the medical corporation last Saturday as part of a subscription plan covered by my platinum insurance package. The booster is in its usual place - to the left, at the back - and my fingers wrap around it. I lift it to my mouth, my dry lips close around the cool plastic in relief, and I pump it - once, twice - with a practised hand. The swelling in my head folds in on itself like a ball of paper being tightly crumpled and my mind settles almost instantaneously.

I’m feeling sharper now, less distracted. I blink a few times and when I reload my optics again the text on the screen focuses. My vision is perfect once more so I remove the booster from my mouth and place it carefully back in its usual spot and then I resume analysing the Biotechnica intelligence files our agent recovered this evening. As I read the report I annotate my observations on a separate document and these notes I make are detailed and meticulous (I know what I am doing) and as I’m starting to finish up my eyes dart over to the tracker on my monitor again and I note that in six minutes I will allocate them to my assistant Carter Smith to log.

Harry Johnson, an assistant agent like me who I am forced to work with on this assignment, releases a slow yawn from across the other side of the booth we share. The sound is muffled but annoyingly rich and long with a finishing crescendo. I know Harry has moved his hand to his mouth, closed his eyes and stretched in his blue and white striped Appel De Paris shirt. The image I am holding in my head enrages me because I can picture it so clearly, and then Harry lets out another exaggerated yawn and something within in me that I had been quietly holding together all afternoon suddenly snaps.

Useless piece of shit. I think.

I’m confused by the intensity of the anger because I am usually very calm. My face is all scrunched up, my eyebrows low and knitted; I realise, startled, that I’m glaring at Harry through my screen. I drop the frown immediately because I do not want wrinkles and then I notice a very dry feeling at the back of my throat, so I lick my lips and swallow. My focus shifts away from Harry Johnson and I slide open my desk drawer again, pick up my booster and study it closely. I read through the listed possible side effects and I turn the booster in my palm, over and over again.

My neck suddenly goes cold and I am hyper aware.

The Assistant Director and my direct superior, Arthur Jenkins, strides back into the office. He’s a tall, forty-something man with broad shoulders, wearing a fitted black silk suit jacket and matching suit pants, a black waistcoat and a white cotton shirt with a button down collar, all from Jinguji. His shoes are polished black oxfords (also from Jinguji) which hit the ground loudly as he marches with heavy, purposeful steps. His tie is black and red striped silk done up in a tight Windsor knot and his dark hair is neatly slicked as always. A thunderous scowl is etched upon his face.

The faint murmurings of my colleagues are swiftly ended and the room fills with an uneasy silence. All faces turn towards monitors, mine included, and I ensure that my back is perfectly straight as Arthur Jenkins stops and surveys the room with a cold, critical stare.

I feel his gaze pinpoint on me, as I always do. My insides squirm hideously and the soft dusting of hairs on the back of my neck slowly rise. I think that Jenkins is studying me for some time, although I cannot turn around and be sure of this, and I feel slightly ill but also slightly pleased to be once more the focus of his complete attention.

Jenkins moves on. I chance a secret glance up from my monitor and watch as he stalks into his personal office. From my desk I have a perfect view of Jenkins’ body - his long back, his tense thighs, his perfect ass covered in black silk - and I watch until the double set of doors slide shut behind him.

I can vividly remember the day I first set eyes on Arthur Jenkins. It had been the most important day of my life - my Arasaka interview - a month before I was due to graduate from the Academy, back when my voice used to shake when I was nervous and I had not known the correct amount of pomade to work into my hair. I had introduced myself immediately when he’d walked in and had offered him my hand, which he had shaken, and then he had assessed me coolly from behind his desk as I had sat across from him in my new suit and eager smile and sweaty palms. The sweat had only increased throughout the ruthless interrogation and I recall at one point my voice had accidentally stammered when he’d asked me for my opinion on the 2023 bombing, to my humiliation. Jenkins’ face had been inscrutable up until this point. But I remember how his lips had twisted upwards at this as if he was indulging in some pleasure at my embarrassment and, sensing my fear, he had pounced on this and pressed me. I had survived well enough in that interview with all the trained confidence of an Academy boy from Charter Hill (I had later discovered that I had ranked in the ninety-fifth percentile of my cohort that year) but Arthur Jenkins had made a striking impression on me. I had cried in the backseat of my father’s chevillon as our family’s chauffeur had driven me home, where upon entering the penthouse on Jefferson Avenue I had locked myself in my bedroom and had masturbated furiously through tears.

From across the other side of the booth I hear Harry exhale when Jenkins leaves the room. He then laughs, quietly and nervously, and I find myself struggling to repress my anger once more.

“Guessing the meeting with Abernathy didn’t go well.” Harry Johnson says to me.

 He waits for a minute - the tapping on his keyboard stops. I don’t reply. Harry seems to get the message because the keyboard starts up once more and I’m not as bothered by this sound because I can drone it out, and he does not try to speak to me again.

We work in silence. I finish annotating my report. When I’ve written down my last observation, I glance at the timer on my monitor and realise to my satisfaction that I am two minutes ahead of schedule. I send the file to Carter Smith’s inbox. Then I stand away from my desk and leave the red booth, ignoring Harry Johnson as he slowly lifts his head and looks up at me as I pass.

Carter Smith is sitting at his desk. He does not have his own booth. He is wearing an ill-fitting blue blazer jacket over a cheap cotton shirt. His tan office pants and brown brogues (brown shoes are inappropriate for a professional environment) are non-label. His dotted cotton tie is coming loose and his belt is black, so it does not match his brogues. Carter Smith’s brow is sweaty and his hair lacks pomade. He freezes when he sees me - which I find amusing - and more tiny beads collect on his too-shiny forehead like dew drops on weeds.

“Carter.” I say in greeting.

He stands up abruptly, awkwardly. I notice that he has a good two inches on me but I remind myself calmly that Carter Smith and I are the same age and he is only a junior analyst assistant in Arasaka Corporation and will never climb higher. He will never stay at the Tokyo Konpeki Plaza hotel, taste real sushi in his mouth, or wear silk Jinguji underwear like I do. Carter Smith did not rank in the ninety-fifth percentile in our interview cohort. And, I am pleased to observe, I am handsomer.

“Hi Vincent! I, um, I have those Petrochem reports you asked for.” Carter says, stumbling a little over his words as usual.

He clears his throat and blushes, and perhaps because it has been so long since my own boyish stammering, and perhaps I enjoyed seeing the weaknesses of my colleagues displayed before me, that I feel no sympathy towards Carter Smith, and I do not feel kind.

“They were supposed to be ready yesterday.” I frown.

Carter stiffens as I take a step towards him. He carries himself meekly, apologetically, and he smiles weakly but there is no friendliness behind this useless gesture. I’m aware that Carter Smith hates me but I regard this without emotion; it’s just another piece of information that I acknowledge.

“And whilst I’m here you can explain your dress code breach.” I continue, and gesture sharply towards his ill-fitting blazer and plain tan slacks. “You’re a mess. Did you really thing this was appropriate to wear to the office?”

Carter’s too-big ears turn pink and he says nothing so I have to impatiently ask, “Well?”

He looks slightly shocked, as if confused by the question, and stares back at me helplessly with his dull brown eyes. “Sorry - my other suit’s in the wash - I don’t have another. This, this is the smartest thing I own…” He trails off feebly before adding, “I, um, I didn’t have any client meetings today.”

I know that he knows this is no excuse – Arasaka rules are very clear - but I’m starting to get bored. My admonishment has lost all its fun and I’m too tired to drag the conversation out so I say, “You know what the rules are - see that this doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes sir. I’ll send you the reports now…”

My lips curl at this. Sir. I’m still young enough that this word feels odd in my head but I can’t deny the satisfaction the title gives me, hearing it coming out of my assistant’s mouth. I feel very grown-up all of a sudden, very important, and I have a smug realisation of my increasing status in the world and this makes me slightly giddy. I feel a step closer to Arthur Jenkins and his inscrutable, untouchable power and this is very thrilling.

An unpleasant smell creeps up my nose. It’s Carter Smith’s cheap eau de toilette and it’s sufficiently pungent enough to pull me from my fantasies. Carter looks at me, standing rigidly, and I realise he is waiting for me for me to speak. I remember the files I sent to his inbox and I point a finger towards his monitor. His big cow eyes follow obediently.

“I’ve sent you something – the report our agent at Biotechnica recovered this evening.  Log all of my points and cross reference the data with the Militech report from Tuesday, you know the one.” I’m saying all this with a firm, authoritative tone. “Drop whatever mundane shit you’re doing right now and prioritise this, it’s important. Details are in the attachment - you’ll see my notes.”

Carter nods and sits, sweaty forehead glistening from the glow of his screen. “Ok. Will do.” He thanks me and then he asks, “When do you want this by?”

“End of the day. Hand it to me personally before you leave tonight to buy a new suit.” I tell him coldly. “I suggest you get started. If this one’s late too, don’t bother coming in tomorrow.”

I watch as for the first time, Carter Smith’s face pales. His eyes strain and his mouth opens and closes and opens again and for a moment he looks as if he wants to say something, so I wait. But the moment passes and Carter says nothing.

I’m strangely disappointed. I wanted Carter Smith to push back at me instead of shrinking away obediently like he always did. But Carter Smith was only a junior assistant, a Watson boy, and even though he and I had attended Arasaka Academy together in the same year and pledged ourselves to the same corporation, we did not operate in the same realms. Carter Smith was a Kabuki charity case, the first in his family to join the Academy and then the megacorp, and his name did not open doors for him in the same way that mine did. He would never stand up to me, no matter how cruel or unfair I was, no matter how much I mistreated him - he has no friends here to help him and I suppose he couldn’t bear going back to Kabuki. My disappointment fades, replaced with a gleeful awareness that I possessed power over people like Carter Smith, and I was curious to test these limits.

I start to turn away from Carter - back to my booth, back to Harry Johnson - but familiar ringing swells in my head and I realise that Arthur Jenkins is calling me on holo.

I feel sick; my heartrate spikes to one hundred and six beats per minute which is enough to be considered fast and I know this because of the biometric reading notification flashing in the top right corner of my visuals. I recall the neuromotor relaxation exercises advised to me by my life coach during our last session together where he had told me I needed to control my breathing – visualising a still body of water might help, Vincent – and I breathe steadily: in and out, in and out.

I accept the call.

“Vincent here.” I say, and I wait. Jenkins’ display loads a second later and I notice anxiously that he’s still scowling – jaw tense, lips pressed tightly together.

“Did you not get my message?” Jenkins demands angrily. Dread builds up inside me.

“No - I’m sorry - what message? I’ve been away from my desk.” I say, and I swallow.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Just finishing that Biotechnica report you wanted done. It’s almost there, should be with you this evening.” I explain and as I say this I look at Carter Smith pointedly.

Jenkins nods curtly. “Good, fine. Let your assistant handle it - come to my office. I need to talk to you in private.”

His short tone twists my stomach. I wonder if there have been any faults in my recent performance and I think back on my latest defensive operations - Tokyo, London, Seoul - I had been pleased with the results at the time but doubt begins to creep into my mind and a wash of icy panic envelopes me.

“I’m coming.” I say.

Jenkins doesn’t reply. He ends the call and my view refocuses on my immediate surroundings, where I see Carter Smith staring very hard at his screen. I ignore him and turn, embarrassed. I remind myself that I don’t care what Carter Smith thinks.

I march towards the antechamber that leads into Arthur Jenkins’ private office, straightening my silk suit jacket from Jinguji that I have paired with matching black pants and a red micro-twill shirt with a classic collar. On my way, I catch faint murmurings from some of the colleagues I pass, whose eyes I feel pointed towards the back of my head like knives. One muttering catches my particular attention.

“Don’t look now but that’s him - Jenkins’ boy.”

Jenkins’ boy.

I bristle and flush hard with indignation and something else and there’s a slight tightness in my pants which I do my best to ignore. My spiralling anxiety deflates the growing tent in my slacks but I realise that no matter the outcome here - even if I’m fired and kicked out of Arasaka like Joey Livani had been yesterday with my implants switched off - that I will masturbate vigorously to this nickname tonight.

I step into the antechamber and then maintain a still position facing forwards with my feet evenly spaced apart, as instructed to do so by a disembodied female voice. A blinding blue light hits me as the security scan hones in on my face and it’s very uncomfortable but I don’t blink. Perhaps it is the growing dread in the pit of my stomach, but as I stand there bathed in blue light I wonder what it would feel like for visitor authorisation to fail and to be gunned down by the turrets above the door. I wonder if I would die before my crumpled, bullet-ridden body hit the floor or if I would feel anything at all.

The camera completes its assessment of my face and the double set of doors in front of me slide open smoothly.

My black leather oxfords echo on the floor of Jenkins’ private office. The room is dimly lit but the vibrancy of Night City’s corporate plaza behind the glass back wall casts neon streaks across its length. I can see the mega towers of rival corporations - Militech, Kang Tao, Petrochem - giant concrete monoliths surrounding the plaza like gravestones, blocking out the sky. Two enormous projected koi fish - one orange, one blue - swim in a circle above a sea of gridlocked cars. If I squint I can just about make out the vague shapes of people on the ground, tiny enough that they don’t really look like people at all but more like a variety of little coloured bugs I could step on. Arthur Jenkins stands behind his desk arms folded, a dark silhouette against a blazing urban hellscape. He does not turn around as he speaks.

“Have a seat, Vincent.”

I do as I am told. My erection has completed deflated by now because I’m so worked up and in my head.  I run through, over and over, my latest defensive operations until there is nothing left to analyse because by now they’ve bled into each other. I am reminded once more of the shortcomings of my organic brain except this time there is no cognitive booster waiting in its usual spot in a drawer beside me to be thrust into my mouth and pumped.

Slowly, Arthur Jenkins turns around and looks at me. His face - inscrutable, coldly handsome - is agonisingly calm and after he sits opposite me he pulls from his desk an expensive looking bottle of Japanese whisky and two crystal glasses, and I’m surprised at this. I am offered one, and I summon the Arasaka employee in me and accept, although I dislike the taste of spirits.

“I was gifted this in Kyoto last month by my counterpart.” Jenkins tells me as he rotates the bottle in his hand and inspects it.

“The culinary scene there is unrivalled.” I state.

“You’ve been to Kyoto?” He asks.

“Some time last year.” I say, although I haven’t.

“I despise the Japanese.” Jenkins says casually. I laugh lightly in response although it wasn’t a joke. “But they make good whisky.”

He opens the bottle and pours with large, steady hands. Amber liquid spills from the mouth and into my glass. A wave of lust crests over me and as I watch Jenkins’ hands I imagine them gripping my thighs and spreading them apart.  He kisses the inside of my legs before his hands move to my waist, slowly gliding up my naked body and running over my pectoral muscles until they find my throat, where they wrap around and squeeze the life from me.

When I raise the glass to my lips I meet Jenkins’ eyes. Then I drink with perfect precision.

The whisky swirls around my mouth. It’s Yamazaki – drier and smokier than the American bourbons I order when I have to when I lunch with Brandon Tsang and Frank Nostra. I hold the whisky and chew on it like I should before swallowing and as it runs down my throat it burns but I don’t cough. Jenkins drinks from his own tumbler. I watch - stomach squirming, throat on fire - hoping that he doesn’t ask for my opinion on the bottle because my head already feels light and I’m not well versed in whisky from Japan and I have never actually been to Kyoto.

Jenkins drains all of his. “Fucking Abernathy bitch has screwed me over.” He says suddenly.  I’m startled by the spite in his voice and almost drop my glass. “I was this close to making Director. Smeared me with the Osaka report this morning in front of a load of Japanese execs. Now she’s been the one promoted to Director of Spec Ops. The cunt.”

Right – his meeting with Abernathy that Harry Johnson had mentioned to me earlier. I feel a weight lift from my stomach as I realise I’m not the cause of Jenkins’ fury. The biometric reading notification flashes and tells me my hormone levels have stabilised.

Jenkins has worked himself up now. “Should have known she’d take all the credit for that Jakarta ploy. It was my idea to dump all that synthetic oil into the ocean. And for what? Now she’s on the eightieth floor and I’m stuck in Counter Intel. Need to get back at her, teach her a thing or two; show her what you get when you fuck with me.” He pauses for a moment, looks at me, and seems to remember my presence. His eyes sweep over me approvingly.

“Nice suit.” He says.

“Thanks.” I say, pleased. “It’s Jinguji.”

Jenkins pours himself another drink and studies the glass in his hand. I admire the way he holds the glass - lazily, easily, conveying a deep sense of self-reliance and …inner conviction, I decide; he and the tumbler are one. “You’re wondering why I called you here.” Jenkins states. He looks at me with cold blue eyes.

“Is this to do with the Seoul report?” I ask quietly.

Jenkins’ brow furrows. “What? No, nothing like that.”

He pauses for a moment, looks me up and down again. His face shifts into a familiar detached neutrality. He composes himself utterly as he assesses me, and I am distinctly reminded of my Arasaka interview two years ago. My mouth starts to feel uncomfortably dry. When Arthur Jenkins speaks to me again his voice is hard and deliberate.

“Listen carefully; I’ll only say this once.”

He swirls the whisky around the tumbler and I watch in silence as a drop of liquid spills over the top of the glass and runs down his hand - gold gleaming in the dark.

“I need people on my side, people I can rely on when the time comes.” Jenkins says. “I’ve been monitoring you since you first interviewed with me, you know. There are going to be some major changes around here soon and I need people like you, Vincent. I like the way you operate; you and I work well together. It would be a shame if anything were to happen that would stop that.”

He did not say it directly, but I was experienced enough in the corporate world to know what Jenkins was getting at. Behind the glass wall, a black and red Arasaka AV glides elegantly up to a landing pad above us. Jenkins’ eyes do not leave mine.

“Can I continue to count on you?” He asks softly. His fist is clenched tight around his glass. I know that there is only one acceptable answer here.

“Yes.” I say.

My head feels light and the word had slipped easily out of my mouth, but I had meant it. I’m flattered Jenkins has asked me, has invited me here in private to drink expensive whisky he had been gifted in Japan. He had not asked anyone else; he had only asked me.

He’s studying my face closely. I can see the initial suspicion - the gears turning in his head as he considers my answer, our history, my intentions. Then he relaxes, satisfied with my sincerity. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

He leans back into the chair and drinks smoothly. I watch his as his body spreads assertively – the broad cut of his shoulders pressing his black suit jacket firmly into the dark leather. My eyes trace the outline of Jenkins’ mouth. His lips are full and fleshy as he smiles slowly and I imagine them kissing the inside of my thighs and his tongue slipping out and licking my cock.

“One more thing, so you can be sure you made the right decision.” Jenkins says. “Loyalty should be rewarded: I’m promoting you to agent, effective immediately. You’ll take over Livani’s patch: Europe - Frankfurt. I assume you know why he won’t be doing it anymore.”

Agent.

I run the word over and over again in my head until it sounds funny and loses all meaning. My silk pants grow agonisingly tight. An Arasaka Counterintelligence Agent at twenty-three years old - I might be the youngest agent in the entire Night City branch. The thought of this causes a very smug smile to flit across my face.

Jenkins raises his glass of Yamazaki. I match his toast and drink, downing my glass. The whisky burning through me is a lot stronger than I’m used to and I wince. It’s Yamazaki, a Japanese whisky that Jenkins had been gifted in Kyoto, which I have never been to. The room feels very warm and a pink flush dusts my cheeks.

“You know, you remind me of myself when I was young.”

I don’t hear the rest of what Jenkins says. I’m lost in a light haze - the city skyline behind him is a multi-coloured blur - but it’s a pleasurable experience and his voice makes me hard.

“Come here.” Jenkins commands with a wave of his hand. His lips are curled into a smirk. “Come on.”

The room sways gently. One of the giant projected koi fish - the orange one - swims leisurely past the glass back wall, illuminating the room in a soft sunset glow.

I walk unsteadily until I’m standing before him. I can smell him now - his hair, his breath, his skin.  Pepper, vanilla and spices - strong and musky. I want to breathe into his neck, run my tongue up his face and taste the stubble and sweat. Jenkins looks me up and down. I feel his gaze linger between my thighs, on the outline in my pants.

“You’ve even styled your hair like me.” He says. He runs a hand through my carefully slicked locks and I shiver pleasantly. “Cute.” He intones each syllable.

“I - I …” I say weakly. I don’t know where I’m going with this sentence. Jenkins’ touch is very warm on my face and in my hair and I realise I have never been held like this before. A deeply repressed longing, not only for touch, but for more than that - for genuine connection - swells within me and it is so overpowering and my erection is so sore that I think, blissfully - I love him - andit seems to me as he pushes me firmly onto the floor and unzips and slips down his silk pants to reveal his hard, pink penis, that he loves me too.

He fucks my mouth until I choke. Then he pulls out - his pale cock glistening with my saliva - and throws me onto his desk and my slacks and underwear are easily removed. Jenkins kisses the inside of my thighs then grips my legs and then my waist. He sucks and kisses my stomach, my nipples, my neck, then pushes my knees up to my chest.  I feel his hot breath and his tongue.

A finger is thrust inside me, then two, and it hurts. He hears my cry and grins. I think he’ll force himself inside me then but he coats me in lube and saliva before pressing his penis against my asshole and pushing it in. His hips start bucking, he pants as he ruts. Then his thrusts grow sloppy, his breathing laboured, and it’s all over. He orgasms - eyes wild, mouth open - and hot semen shoots into me and onto my thighs and onto the desk and drips down my ass.

His penis is already going soft as he pulls away. I’m lying on the desk stroking my cock and I look to Jenkins confused but he says nothing; he’s not looking at me. He’s watching the Night City skyline.

I catch my reflection in the glass. I see myself how Arthur Jenkins sees me: inexperienced, obedient, pliable. A startling innocence that I had never recognised in myself before is shown for the first time and I suddenly feel very young, very self-conscious. I realise despite my new title I was still the Academy boy playing pretend in an adult world that was rapidly hurtling towards me, and I feel alone. I’m afraid.

A koi fish - the blue one - swims slowly past. The light washes the office in a blue hue so it looks like water is flooding in and we will drown. It’s cold; I’m naked. I wipe Jenkin’s semen from my stomach with my pocket square and put my clothes back on.

My footsteps echo quietly back to the antechamber. As the double set of doors slide open, Jenkins calls my name.

I turn. He’s a black silhouette against a blazing neon sky and I feel very scared. His tone is threatening when he speaks.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

[anxiouspringle]

criticise analyse agonise

when will you prioritise

your body size

you chastize

with ever sunrise

your daily reprise

tears from the skies

from my eyes they arise

what a surprise

my worth you surmise

my body you balkanise

every inch you colonize

how will you empathise

all you know is to patronize

when will you realise

the struggles you minimise

my body you demonise

i will not apologise

[mindfang-srevenge]

Supernatural Classpect Analysis (Part One)

Hello! I have been watching a lot of television. I have three classpect analyses that I'm going to split up into three posts, because I accidentally essay'd. Here are the links to the other two:

Dean (You're here) Sam Cas

That said, let's get into the meat. I think that Dean Winchester is a Knight of Doom, because of his continual need to help/protect others even though that choice means death or grevious harm for himself.

Let's examine his Class first. Dean continually chooses paths that protect others, which is one of the hallmarks of the Knight class. One big, glaring example of this is his decision to sell his soul for Sam's life in S2, and another would be leaving Lisa and Ben at the end of S6-- even though he may or may not want to stay with them, Dean gives up this simple happiness for the call to protect others. My favorite example of this self-sacrificing nature is What Is And Never Should Be (S3:20). In this episode, Dean is captured by a Djinn, who shows him what may have occurred if Mary had lived. Since in this reality Dean had never become a hunter, none of the people that he'd saved over his career had lived. Even though this is exactly what he's always wanted in the first place, Dean turns against the false reality, both dooming himself to unhappiness and protecting other victims of the Djinn. Through actions like this and others made throughout the show, we can surmise that Dean has a penchant for putting other people first, a common trait of Knights.

Now let's consider his Aspect. Dean continually faces down his own demise/worse-than-death throughout the series, some noteable examples being Faith (S1:12), In My Time of Dying (S2:1), All Hell Breaks Loose (S2:21,22), Mystery Spot (S3:11), Point of No Return (S5:18), and Two and a Half Men (S6:2). This is a hallmark of the Doom aspect, which causes players to face either their demise (Sollux) or a horrific, possibly personality-altering injury (Mituna, who received massive brain damage of a sort that you don't just come back from. But that is another analysis.) Dean faces down, with absolute certainty, the promise that he will die young while hunting again and again throughout his tenure with the narrative. Instead of shrinking away from these choices, he chooses to stand against them and use his role in these events to ensure that others aren't harmed.

Overall, due to his role as someone who looks danger in the face and keeps fighting, Dean Winchester can be classpected as a Knight of Doom. Thank you for reading this impromptu essay, and I hope to see you again when I inevitably write more.

[godeaterazathoth]

a new style that came to me, still inspired by kiss me (kill me)

CW// body horror, implied toxic relationship.

This is a transcript of an audio recording recovered from the scene at ■■■■, ■■■■, on ■■/■■/■■■■, where witnesses reported hearing screams, when authorities investigated, they found multiple bodies stuck together by their ■■■■■ and covered in ■■■■■ and their ■■■■■ filled with ■■■■. This transcript will serve as evidence and as tool for investigation, it will be split into three parts. (part 1, part 2 and part 3) Each part will be concluded with a summary of its contents. Then a conclusion to the evidence will be made to be presented as the accepted version of events.

Part 1

[1]

I [2] love you, and I know you [3] love me too. [4]

1 female speaker in white

speaker is believed to be unidentified female victim 7.

 3 the ‘you’ is believed to be unidentified female victim 8.

 4 it is clear here that victims 7 and 8 had a romantic relationship.  Or did they?

We’ll meet at our spot down by the broken shed [5].

5 the stated landmark allows for the victims routs to be plotted, the shed was at the south entrance of the forest, the victims were found 2 miles northeast from this point.

I’ll take your hand and together we’ll walk on the trail marked on your brothers [6] map.

 6 ■■■■■■■■

You in my sun dress and me in your flowered hat. [7]

7 all victims were stripped of clothes, but a sun hat was found not far from the scene, traces of an unknown black substance, see lab results -> ■■■■

You walk me hand in hand past faded warnings [8], I’ll help you over the broken wall [9], we’ll lift the wire fence [10].

8 warnings? Old trail markings maybe. Or something else entirely?

9 passed through old shelter? Too far west not consistent.

10 there were no wire or mesh fencing in the forest anywhere near the scene or the proposed root.

Strike up my Walkman, we’ll watch the blowfly band jive under the silver moon [11].

11 this could simply be poetic imagery, don’t look too deep into it.

Darling. Kiss me. [12]

12 a far more forceful tone than before in the speakers voice brings up questions to the victims relationship. (see note 4)

Here we can see the two victims, 7 and 8, first enter the forest they would be found in later, the two victims appear to be romantically linked, or at least victim 7 believes they are. It can be surmised that the two enter the forest at the south entrance by ■■■■■ street, and slowly make their way northeast throughout the night. Autopsy repot shows 7 and 8 were only killed 30 (approx.)  minutes before their discovery, lining up with the screams reported at ■■:■■, we can guess that the journey took both victims 1 hour from the length of the full recording.

Part 2

(NOTE, at this point it is evident that the sights mentioned from this point onward of the recording yield little useful information. Descriptions appear to be the product of delirium or otherwise altered perception. Psychoactive substances involved? -or something else entirely?)

NO EXAMINATION NEEDED.

Let’s run amongst the melting leaves.

 You’re just going to ignore the melting?

Let’s kiss on the dead brown grass.

The air is so sweet, but everything is covered in rotting meat.

They didn’t listen to the warnings.

It got so cold.

Wait

What was your brother’s name? [1]

1 Who???????????????????????????????????????????????????

Why,

Dose this bark feel just like  ₕᵁₘᴬₙ ₛᴷᵢᴺ ?

Help me

Why do the trees have veins?

Do you see any bugs on me? I can feel the

oozing

squirming and

creeping

inside me.

She clawed at her skin till it bleeds but it didn’t work.

Ԑ TЯAꟼ

(NOTHING SPOKEN WITHIN THIS NEXT SECTION IS TO BE MENTIONED OUTSIDE OF THIS REPORT. No useful information is present and is strictly a symptom of delusion. DO NOT ATTEMPT to analyse. – don’t listen to them. The department might believe there was nothing to this, but YOU know so much more than them.)

Don’t worry my love it’s all better now,

come here let me hold you,

make you strong.

Let me open you up fill your veins up with the eggs, harden your bones and let you’re your skin slough . [1]

1 Her voice… genuinely thinks… good…

After a second of pain, we can finally be together forever.

Say ‘I love you’.

[END OF TRANSCRIPT]

After investigating thoroughly, no workable leads could be found. Report ends ■■/■■/■■■■

NOTHING HAPPENED, IT WAS AN ANIMAL ATTACK, LOVERS SUICIDE, AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT

AND EVEN IF YOU DID FIND SOMETHING

WHO WOULD BELIVE YOU????

[youtiaoshutiao]

the story of ming lan || 知否知否应是绿肥红瘦 → sheng minglan

"That girl, she lives like the sun."

[magpietoriches]

LockDown Part IV: The Good in People [Revised Edition]

Summary: Loki and you pass the time playing Jenga. You see the good in Loki and Tony sends you on a quest for a laptop

Setting: 2018 in an alternate timeline where Loki made it to Earth after the events of “Thor: Ragnarok” and Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and Scott Lang are still on the Raft.

Pairing: Loki x Reader (First Person)

Playlist ~ Masterlist ~ Next Part

*******************************************************

Gif credited to @davidsfincher

Loki’s Room- 4:00:00 till the bomb goes off

     Concentration was key in these sorts of situations. There was no time for second guesses or shaky hands of indecision. You had to analyse every piece, and then, and only then, can you make your move. And you better pray it’s the right one or else...

     “NO!” I screamed as the Jenga tower fell. “How do you always win?” I asked from my spot on the floor. This was the 10th game in a row I had lost. I reached forward to pick up the blocks, placing them into their box on the coffee table. Loki, who had been sitting across from me on the sofa, leaned back. And I wondered why he always had to sit with his legs spread like that .

     I crawled around the coffee table on my hands and knees, not even considering the humiliating position I was in. I saw a block had lodged itself under Loki’s couch. Pushing his leg out of the way, I stretched out my arm to reach it. “Come on you little bastard,” I cursed the uncooperative piece. My arm was entirely under the sofa. I twisted my body to look up, electing to feel around for the Jenga piece rather than look for it. Loki hadn’t moved. He just kept looking down at me with that smug expression of his. I pulled my arm out and sat on my knees. “Can you at least get up?”

     Loki leaned forward until he was at eye level with me. “I win because, unlike you, I have a steady hand.” Loki stood up. “Move back,” he ordered before I had a chance to continue my scavenger hunt. In one swift motion, Loki grabbed the corner of the sofa and lifted it off the ground. I seized the opportunity and grabbed the elusive Jenga piece.  

     “Steady hand?” I snickered, placing the Jenga piece back in the box with the others. “You made the coffee table’s legs shake a couple of times. Just admit you used magic.”

     “I didn’t need to use magic,” Loki said. He held out his hand for me to take. I allowed him to pull me up off the ground but hadn’t anticipated my legs would buckle from lack of blood circulation. My would-be return to Loki’s hardwood floor was prevented by the strong arm that snaked around my waist, pulling me in close. “Easy,” I felt Loki’s breath on my hair.

   “Thanks,” I managed to let out before pulling away.

    “I confess I’ve been guilty of making legs shake in the past, little one, but not tables.”

     The innuendo of what Loki said hadn't been lost on me. As for my own words, I couldn’t think of a clever response and Loki was clearly enjoying every minute of it. I found people always misidentified what made Loki so dangerous. It wasn’t his magic or his skill with a sharp weapon. It wasn’t even his physical strength, which was often too overlooked. No, the most dangerous thing about Loki was that damn silver tongue of his. His charm could bring people to their knees. And I felt my own knees almost buckle at words. Fine, I admit, he doesn’t shake table legs.

    “Can I ask you something?” Loki’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. He was putting the lid on our Jenga game. I nodded for him to continue. “The SFN, the Anthrax, everything happening this evening, it’s because of me. And you never once b-“

 “Blamed you,” I finished for him.

     “Any other person would,” he surmised, returning to his spot on the sofa. I joined him and made sure to push his legs closer together with my knee. There was no reason he had to take up two spots. He can sit like a slut some other time.

  “Loki, you may be an asshole, and annoying, and a jerk-“

  “Get to the point,” Loki interjected.

     “But, I think you’re a good person,” I concluded. “Your whole,” I gestured to his face with my hands, “I’m better and smarter than everyone, I don’t care, attitude; I think it’s an act. It’s a coping mechanism. Because you do care. And not just about what people think of you. You care about people. About their safety and well being.”

      “I only care about myself,” Loki said, disregarding my words. “And that still doesn’t answer my question. Why aren’t you angry with me? It was after all my actions that caused this mess.”

      I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded in agreement. He wasn’t wrong, and I suppose there was no point shielding him from the truth. He wouldn’t let me avoid his question forever. “You are right, we are here because of your actions.” Loki bowed his head in shame but I continued before letting him wallow too much in self-hatred. “But I think blame is a waste of time at this point. It isn’t going to defuse the bomb or clear the Anthrax in the hallways. But let me ask you this. If you could leave this room, what would you do?”

     Loki seemed to take a moment to consider my question before answering, “I’d go find my brother, and I’d make sure he’s okay.”

  “See,” I smiled, “You do care about others.”

  “Perhaps...but not for you though,” Loki teased. His green eyes playful.

     “Of course,” I said with amusement in my own voice, “Not for me.” I re-adjusted myself in my seat and began twirling my gold necklace trying to build up the courage to ask Loki a question I already knew the answer to. “Do you regret being locked in here with me? I’m just asking because well…I saw the way you desperately wanted to get out earlier.”

  “It wasn't because of you,” Loki said, surprising me. “I wanted to leave because I hate being locked up.”

     “That makes sense. I was once locked in a closet at a high school party.” I shivered at the memory.

       Loki closed his eyes. He looked as if he was trying to find the right words. “The reason I don’t like being locked up is because the last time I was my mother-“ Loki paused. I could see him swallow down his emotion. That is when I realised he wasn't searching for the perfect words, he was searching for the strength to say them. I waiting patiently for Loki to continue. “My mother-“ he tried again.

     “It's okay,” I said, placing my hand over the top of his. I knew Frigga had died, and I knew how she died. Thor told me, and it was all in Loki’s file. There was no need for him to recite a painful memory.

 “She died because of me, you know?”

      “I know,” I said softly. I quickly learned the God of Lies fared far better with the truth, which is also why I added. “But I also know she loved you. And that what happened to your mother was never your intention.”

   “You can’t help but see the good in people, huh bug?”

“I try to,” I admitted. 

    “Even when they’ve hurt you? Even when they’ve been a jerk to you in high school?,” Loki began the start of what I knew was going to be a conversation I wanted no part in. I stood up and headed towards his fridge. I opened the stainless steel doors and looked around at the half-eaten takeout I had left the last time I visited. I closed the fridge when there was nothing that piqued my interest and jumped when I realised Loki had snuck up behind me.

     “Do you still see the good in people after they’ve lied to you about taking you on a date, or when they never plan on returning any of your messa-

    “ERIC DIDN’T LIE TO ME,” I yelled. I took a deep breath, not wanting to give Loki the satisfaction of seeing me worked up. “If anything I’m the one who is going to miss the date. Not him. And he is going to call me.” Loki knew nothing. Eric, I’m sure, was a decent person.

   “What exactly did he do to you all those years ago?”

   “I told you, to forget it. He was just a dumb teenage boy, that's it. That's all you need to know.”

“Come on, bug.” Loki gave me a lighthearted smile.

   I didn’t return the smile. “That's all I want you to know.” What Eric did, or didn’t do, was of no concern to Loki. He even said he didn’t care about me.

   “Okay,” Loki said calmly. The smile was replaced with a look of soberness.

   “Okay,” I uttered in return.

*******************************************************

     “Why me,” I asked Tony that very question in his office 4 months ago. 

     “This is why.” Tony flipped his computer monitor around to face me. 

     “Why the world needs the X-men,” I read the article heading with a woeful sigh. 

    “I picked you because you have experience in trying to convince the world to see the good in others.”

     “Except I don’t,” I scoffed, turning Tony’s monitor around. “The article I wrote was never published. I’m not even sure how you got it.”

“I’m going to be honest with you kid. I don’t care for Loki, and most of the world doesn’t. But according to Thor he’s changed. I get it, your article wasn’t published. Your efforts to get the world to accept mutants failed. So here’s your chance to try again with Loki.”

*******************************************************

     “Once I'm with the Wizard, My whole life will change. ’Cuz once you're with the Wizard. No one thinks you're strange!” The faint sound of music began to fill the room. Loki and I looked at each other, confused.

  “Where is that music coming from?” Loki inquired.

  “No father is not proud of you, No sister acts ashamed,” the song continued.

    “Is that Wicked?” I asked even though I knew Loki wouldn’t know what that was. We both split up in an effort to find the source of the music.

     “Got it,” Loki said, walking towards me with a phone in his hand. “It was your cell phone. You must have left it on the bookshelf earlier.”

    I took the phone from Loki’s hand. The caller ID said ‘Unknown.’ “Loki this isn’t my ringtone, and this isn’t my phone.”

“It’s not my phone. I don’t have a phone,” Loki told me.

'What do I do?’ I whispered as if the phone could hear me.

“Answer it.” That was what I thought Loki said but his voice was too soft.

“What?”

   “Oh for crying out loud,” Loki said at a normal volume, “Just give it here.” He grabbed the phone from my hand and pressed the talk button. “Hello?” Loki’s expression gave away nothing. Not knowing terrified me. Had the SFN planted the phone? I wondered. And then, Loki’s expression changed to that of indignation. “It’s fine. It’s Stark.” Loki said as he put the phone on speaker.

   “Tony?” I asked, uncertain. "Why are you calling from this number?” I looked at the phone in Loki’s hand. “Who’s phone is this?”

    “It was Wanda’s. Loki’s room used to be hers before she was sent to the Raft. Hey, why didn’t you pick up when you saw it was me?”

    I was still processing what was happening. For a brief second, I thought the phone was another bomb. “We didn’t know it was you,” Loki answered for me.

“No caller ID,” I added.

   “I knew Wanda was lying when she said she saved my number in her contacts.” I could sense Tony was about to go on a tangent.

   “Yeah, Tony,” I said before his tirade could continue. “I’d love to chat about all the women who have lied to you about putting your number into their phone, which believe me there are plenty but right now we kind of have a bomb set to go off and we could really use an update. And maybe you can also explain why you aren’t calling my cell.”

   “Here's the update. I think you’re right. I think the SFN are still in the building. Every time we think we’ve gotten anthrax cleared, there seems to be more. We don’t know where it’s coming from. And until we find out-”

   “No one can enter the building to remove the bomb,” Loki completed Tony’s thought.

    “Can’t FRIDAY tell you?” I asked.

    “That's just it. FRIDAY can detect computer viruses, breaches in our security systems. Not biohazards. I’ve gone through all of my employee records and cross-referenced those with people we’ve hired in the past 4 months. I had FRIDAY do a search for only white men. Which is not a search request I ever thought I’d have to make. There were 15 names. Out of the 15, 6 are working in the building today. One is in a wheelchair, so, assuming Curtis didn’t deliver Loki’s painting, that leaves 5 people. Two of them planted the bomb. And I’m guessing if we can identify them, we can find out how they’re administering the anthrax, and we can clear it out once and for all.”

    “Are you going to send us their files for Loki to look at?”

     “That's why I like you kid,” Tony replied, “You think like me. I know you and Loki don’t have a computer on you, but I figured if Wanda left her cell phone behind, there's a good chance she left her computer. I need to make sure you have it before I send those files to her laptop.”

     “I’ve been in this room for 4 months and I have never once come across a computer,” Loki stated.

    “Well she must have it well hidden,” Tony sounded impatient. “Probably has porn on it or something. I don’t know. Just call me back when you find it.” The phone returned to the Home Screen after Tony disconnected.

     I scanned Loki’s apartment-sized room. His queen-size bed was against the far left wall. A bookshelf along another wall. Fireplace, kitchen. It was large, to say the least. And it was filled with shelves, and cabinets, and tables with drawers. There were so many hiding places for a laptop. His large room suddenly felt even larger.

    “I don’t even know where to begin.” Loki relayed, placing Wanda’s phone on his kitchen island. He looked just as intimidated by the task in front of us, as I was. I didn’t say a word, I just began opening every cupboard and drawer I could see. Loki followed my actions. He used his height to his advantage, searching along the part of the bookshelf I could never reach. As I searched, I came to find Loki wasn’t as understated when it came to the decor as I had previously thought. Turns out he had mementoes and trinkets but they had all been hidden away. One drawer held old parchment paper with calligraphy that I assumed was Asgardian. Tucked away in the back of his dresser was a black ceramic wolf.

     “Why do you keep this stuff hidden?” I asked pulling out a Thor action figure. The little guy looked just like the God of Thunder, he was even missing his hammer.

   “Never found a worthy place for any of it,” Loki shrugged.

      “I’m worthy Loki,” I said using my best Thor impression. “Oh sweet,” I gushed in my regular voice, “This thing has kung fu action grip!” I manipulated Thor’s hand to wave at his younger brother.

    “Put down my brother and help me look inside the closet.”

     “I’m starting to think Tony is wrong. Wanda probably didn’t leave her computer here,” I said as I headed over to Loki’s walk-in closet. He emerged holding a milk crate filled with vinyl records.

      “Don’t be so sure. I overlooked this crate.” Loki shoved the crate into my hands. “Perhaps there’s a computer I overlooked as well.” I took a quick glance at the records in Wanda’s collection. Tears for Fears, David Bowie, Whitney Houston. A lot of movie soundtracks. I wondered where she hid her record player. My question was quickly answered when Loki emerged, holding a teal blue Crosley briefcase record player.

      “How are you just finding this stuff now? Have you never been inside your closet?” I was amazed that he had never discovered what Wanda had left behind. I set the record player down and stepped into the closet myself. It was sparse of clothes, but the shelving that ran along the perimeter, close to the ceiling, was filled with cardboard boxes. I assumed they weren’t Loki’s.

      “I usually conjure my outfits,” Loki said by way of explanation. I felt useless searching Loki’s closet. All the boxes were too high for me to reach. And there were far too many of them. Normally I’d have no problem taking the time to look through each of Wanda’s box’s but time wasn’t on our side.

     “Can’t we just call the damn thing, like your phone?” Loki said as he brought down another box.

      “Loki, you’re a genius.” I ran to grab Wanda’s cellphone. I could hear Loki call out an agreement to the compliment I had just given him. I returned to the closet with Wanda’s cell and silently prayed her laptop was charged. Her phone passcode was easy enough to guess. Once I had the phone unlocked I swiped until I found what I was looking for, ‘Find my Devices.’

      Loki and I smiled at each other when wind chimes began to echo from the 5th box to the left. 

*******************************************************

     “Kay, it's on,” I told Tony on the other end of the phone. Wanda’s laptop was placed on Loki’s coffee table. Loki was standing behind his sofa, peering over my shoulder. 

    “Just sent you an email, click on the link,” Tony said.

“Tony I think-“ I was about to tell Tony something had gone wrong. After clicking the link the laptop turned off. Before I could even finish speaking, the laptop burst to life. 

The screensaver of Wanda and her brother was changed to the Avenger's Logo. An employee ID card popped up on the screen and then it was overlapped by another. Three more came through in rapid succession. There weren't just ID photos, there were files that included personal information about all 5 men. Where they lived, what they did in their spare time. There were even videos. It was all there, everything Loki needed to identify the SFN members. All we had to do was search through it.

     “Ladies and gentlemen,” Tony said on the other end of the phone line, “Meet Arthur Dean, Daniel Turner, Stanley West, Henry Clayford and TJ Sherwood.”

*******************************************************

Author’s Commentary: Thank you, everyone, again, so much, for the likes and reblogs. And most of all the comments. It really keeps me motivated to continue with this story. If you want to be in the Tag List, please let me know. 

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[samwontshare]

Analyse Bucky's submissive behaviour in the bank scene?

Hi Nonny!

Sorry for the delay, Tumblr ATE half my post and I was little frustrated with it before I went back to it. XD I also struggled a little bit with my own thoughts about submission because we never know what Bucky’s experience under brainwashing is actually like. How does he view or conceptualize the self?

This connects to my other post on the bank scene here, which is what I am guessing inspired your ask!

I think one of the most interesting things about Bucky as The Winter Soldier within the MCU is this duality of being an unstoppable killing machine everyone is afraid of while also having no agency of his own. You see this a lot in the bank scene, which I'll get to.

There's so much about Bucky's experience under brainwashing we don't know. The Wakanda Files compare it to being in REM sleep - he's awake in a dream but has no control over it. (I’m trying to get a copy of the whole book, this is just pulled from articles about it.) Shuri's logs from The Wakanda Files say:

"Hydra's methods were effective in making Barnes hyperaware and highly suggestible."

"An EEG on Barnes revealed just how murky and extensive his brain damage was. Hydra's Winter Soldier program subjected Barnes to electroconvulsive therapy followed by suggestive keywords and phrases to activate a brain soup knot that could take years to unravel. If we're able to reverse it at all. ECT is extremely painful, and Hydra didn't administer any dulling agents."

Referring to Bucky's limbic system - which is the part of your brain that controls (amongst other things) memory and behavior - Bucky's looks like a "Christmas tree on psychotropic drugs."

Bucky has some pretty extreme brain damage going on in the bank scene. What's interesting about that scene is that Bucky's brain is starting to form new connections after seeing Steve, which brings on flashbacks and dissociation. We can surmise that his serum brain is trying to heal itself, which is why he needs to be put under ice and wiped so often - to keep him compliant. (But even two years later, the serum wasn't able to fix his brain damage without Shuri's intervention. Which means that Bucky survived two years with a pretty gnarly TBI before we found him Civil War.) In this scene, I imagine it's like being in that state between wakefulness and sleep. You know something isn't right, but you can't do anything about it. There’s this nagging feeling something is wrong but you can’t place it or change the narrative.

In terms of submissiveness, this seems less a personality trait or trauma response as much as an intentional form of coercion by HYDRA. Bucky is submissive because HYDRA wants a cooperative weapon. Bucky is HYDRA property, after all, the Soviets even branded the arm. There's this super creepy way that Bucky is both treated with reverence by Pierce and like a tool. HYDRA even reinforces this by his scripted response to the code words: “Ready to comply.” What a power move by HYDRA given Zola’s notes in the Wakanda Files discuss how resistant to the brainwashing Bucky was. It’s a bit of humiliation even if Bucky can’t recognize it when he’s under. You can easily imagine 1945 Bucky snarling, “I’ll never comply.” 

Let’s bust this scene down.

1) Accepting medical attention / mechanical work: So we start the scene with Bucky seated unmoving in the chair with three techs working on him. At least three armed guards are at the ready, but their backs are turned on Bucky. No one is strapping Bucky to this chair and no one talks to him. He seems to be getting IV fluids rather than y'know a glass of water. HYDRA seems to expect Bucky to accept medical attention and tech repair to his arm without any resistance. Bucky, for his part, is totally lost in his internal world. They still keep him in a locked location under armed guard when not on a mission.

2) "He's unstable, erratic." Bucky lashes out at a tech during a flashback. This isn't surprising - in the real world, people can and do lash out during flashbacks because they don't always recognize the people around them. The moment Bucky sees the guns, he freezes and dissociates until Pierce arrives. If fight and flight aren't possible, freeze is the only safe bet and dissociation allows someone to protect themselves from what's happening to their bodies. It's also possible Bucky is dissociating because he's having additional flashbacks (likely). Also by now the guard count has tripled. There are like 12 people with Bucky when Pierce arrives.

3) "Mission report." We don't get a lot of glimpses into how HYDRA communicates with Bucky, but this phrase seems prominent. Bucky is definitely in an "only speak when spoken to" situation unless he's giving orders on a mission, where he speaks Russian. (There seems to be a big difference in how Bucky is treated on mission and how he's treated between missions.) When he doesn't respond appropriately, he's met with violence. Bucky doesn't respond to this violence with surprise or retaliation or even fear. He hardly seems to notice Pierce backhands him; his look of confusion is about Steve. He actually has a moment of rebellion when he asks, "The man on the bridge, who was he?" Steve's not "the target" anymore. 

4) "I knew him." That Bucky asks Pierce and expects an answer is interesting; HYDRA are his people, the only people he actually knows. Bucky looks to Pierce for direction, not just mission directives but for information when he's confused. He also doesn't hide that he knows Steve; it doesn't occur to him. Was he trained to report these incidents or is Pierce the only authority figure he recognizes? He makes good eye contact with Pierce when he talks, which is interesting. I wonder if that was trained. 

5) "Your work has been a gift." I think this moment is really interesting because Pierce tries to talk to him almost like a child who's misbehaving. He praises his work with a creepy reverence. Bucky is the reason HYDRA was able to grow so powerful. At "I need you to do it one more time," Bucky looks away. I think there is an internal battle going on here. He doesn't want to hurt the man he knows, but (literally) can't disobey Pierce - he’s never had a reason to disobey before, that he can remember. "But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine." Bucky blinks, looks down and clenches his jaw. He looks conflicted. Bucky then rebels again when he says, "But I knew him." This time he looks directly at Pierce, blinking rapidly, grimacing. He's starting to question the dream.

6) "Prep him." He has a moment of agency when he asks about Steve but when his handler makes a decision he complies. I don't think Bucky has enough self-awareness at this point to make waves. He knows Steve but has no context for why. He's been spoonfed the idea he's helping the world on a righteous path; the only people he knows tell him so. They talk about him like he isn't there, which I imagine he's used to. He no longer speaks, just watches and seems resigned to what's going to happen. The techs push him back without warning and he doesn't resist. Even though he looks genuinely upset about the wipe, he opens his mouth for the guard. The moment the machine turns on and the restraints snap, he's in a full panic but still, tragically, doesn't resist. The wipes and the ice must be two of the most familiar experiences Bucky has, if Bucky is allowed to retain any of these memories at all. I imagine that he must retain some personal info between missions (aside from updated world knowledge) because he never seems confused about why he’s working for HYDRA when they wake him or why they call him Soldier.

In the field, Bucky orders men around and makes the tactical decisions, but off mission, Bucky seems silent, easily maneuvered by others. He’s touched without permission on a regular basis. There seems to be some use of praise rewards by his Handlers when they want him to comply. There seems to be punishment when he doesn’t. But how does Bucky view punishment and reward? Are they important to him? Do they impact his decision making?

What's hard to analyze about this scene is how Bucky views himself. That's the eternal question I have. How much of HYDRA's party line does Bucky believe? Does he even have the capacity to have his own beliefs? Most of the time, Bucky is not in control of his own body. A lot of times when someone has lost their personal memories, their world knowledge is still intact. But Bucky isn’t JUST experiencing memory loss - his whole limbic system has been altered, which would impact basic functions like remembering to eat/drink or regulating emotions or connecting emotional responses to real world stimuli (reading social cues, associating memory to feeling). 

What makes Bucky’s story so different from many characters who have spent extended time under torture or have been coerced into serving their captors is that Bucky has had his agency and identity fully removed. He didn’t make a hard choice under impossible circumstances - he never had a choice. Any time Bucky begins to remember his identity, he’s strapped down and it’s forcibly and painfully removed. Any time Bucky becomes self-aware or starts to ask questions, he’s wiped. He’s a witness to what his body does without any say and to questionable understanding. We genuinely don’t know what Bucky is able to think or feel when under HYDRA’s control and the MCU doesn’t tell us much. Bucky is almost always silent as The Winter Soldier. 

Not sure if this is what you had in mind, Nonny, but that’s where my mind went! XD

[savagesbonergarage]

ok, i need SMUTTY thrawn. like anything you wanna write

Don't we all 😏

I’m weirdly a little upset with Thrawn right now for ridiculous headspace reasons, so this is gonna be interesting. I think I have a good idea, though...We’ll see how this turns out lol

Update: Wow this has a lot of feelings??? Apparently I needed to get that out of my system *shrug*

A/N - Tried to write this for a gender-neutral reader so let me know how that works 🤐, longer than I expected but what else is new, yeah feelings like I said, but it turns into you domming Thrawn so I think it’s worth it, face-riding, cumming in pants, role-play? kinda?, the smut’s at the end

Thrawn

“Neglect”

“What is this?” you asked with a knowing curiosity and no small amount of irritation in your voice.  

You held the painted helmet in your hands, Thrawn’s gaze never leaving it until he eventually answered you through a defeated sigh. “It belonged to one of the rebel captives I’ve been tracking. The boy Jedi.”

“I see...” you retorted unflinchingly, inspecting the crude loth-cat design on the front of it through hardened, yet undeniably sad eyes. “So this is what you’ve been up to this entire time? Spending your vacation working instead of...” 

Instead of being with me, like you’d promised.

The chiss finally rose from his seat, although he still couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. He was fully aware of the situation he’d created, of the promises he’d made and failed to keep, and most importantly the lies he’d told in order to continue tracking this particular band of rebels. “I...I apologize for disappointing you.”

You uttered a scoff, nearly rolling your eyes at his words. After finally catching him in the act when he’d sworn he was too tired to stay up with you and was heading straight to bed all these nights, it was difficult not to take this revelation a little personally. Not to mention his superiors had specifically instructed him to use this shore leave to actually relax and enjoy himself after his continuous dedication to the Empire and his duties without fail or complaint - and when he’d arrived with more luggage than usual, you interpreted that to mean that he was intending to stay the entire length of his trip this time with no intention of returning to work early as he typically did - however, that extra baggage was ultimately filled with rebel artifacts that he was fully preparing to study. 

“I’m not disappointed, nor am I surprised,” you admitted through a sigh, moving to stand straight across from him with only the width of the helmet between you as you continued, “I don’t know why I was expecting this time to be different from any of the others. I know you. When you’re dedicated to pursuing something, there’s no stopping you or trying to change your mind.”

His lips parted as though he had something to say, but ultimately decided against it. He must have seen through your facade of trying to keep your expression firm as he gently spoke your name, and you silently cursed yourself for never being able to keep a straight face. You caught his hand when he moved to bring it to your cheek, only holding it firmly in mid air as you kept your head down while you asked him the question that had been plaguing your mind for years.

“Are you still pursuing me?”

You clutched his hand even tighter, your frown already shifting into a grimace as you stared straight down into the visor of the helmet. This talk wasn’t one you’d been particularly looking forward to having, especially since you more or less already had a preconceived notion of what his answer would be. Perhaps your relationship really had changed, and rather than voice it outright, Thrawn expected you to determine the status of it through context to avoid having an uncomfortable conversation. It certainly didn’t feel like the two of you were lovers anymore, and with this revelation that he had the time for intimacy if he desired it and was choosing his usual activities over being in your arms, there was little reason to believe otherwise. 

The helmet was abruptly removed from your hands and placed elsewhere, with the hand that was holding yours moving to snake around your waist as you felt him pull you against his broad chest. It was a kind gesture, but what you really wanted was a definitive answer. 

“Thrawn-”

“I’ve always been adept at coursing after my targets,” he began with an ounce of regret in his somber tone, “yet I find that the ones affecting my career operations tend to take precedence over the ventures in my personal life.”

You’d already known that much, and yet the sinking fear that came with the prospect of the inevitable “it’s not you, it’s me” parting discussion still began to overtake you. It felt like you were going through all the stages of grief all at once - denial, anger, bargaining, depression...but you weren’t ready to accept this just yet. You weren’t sure you ever would be. Anger was definitely occupying the forefront of your mind; anger at Thrawn, anger at the Empire, anger at yourself...you wouldn’t be enduring all of this if you’d never fallen for him in the first place. You just had to go and fall in love with a man that was emotionally and physically unavailable, didn’t you? You’d known at least some extent of what you’d be getting into when you agreed to be his significant other - that your rendezvous together would be short-lived and few and far between, with his work always taking priority over you, but this...knowing that given the choice, given the mandate, he was still choosing the rebels over you...

It hurt.

You were tensing up in his arms, doing all that you could to keep the tears from forming. If only to encourage the transparency you wanted to see from him, you began solemnly pouring your thoughts out against his chest, the release of the words you'd been keeping to yourself for so long aiding in your preemptive recovery somewhat.

"I've often thought about joining the rebellion just to reclaim some of your attention," you admitted, the statement sounding more pathetic to your ears than you'd anticipated, "I've never been an artist, but I like to imagine what it would be like if I made rebel propaganda for you to find. I've wondered if you'd even be able to figure out it was mine, and that with every stroke it was really just me trying to tell you..." ...that I love you.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until you felt yourself involuntarily choking on a sob, and before you could hide your face from him his hands were caressing either side of your jaw and pulling you up into a deep, tender kiss. 

How long had it been? When was the last time you felt his touch like this, let alone a kiss? It almost didn't feel real, and you instinctively returned his vigor to make sure it wasn't all just a fantasy. Your tears were stinging against both of your faces now, and Thrawn drew back to wipe them away with the pads of his thumbs. His glowing red eyes were so melancholy, his brows threading into a line as you held his indigo hands to your face and leaned into them, as though the warmth of his skin was a rare sensation that you were savoring to remember back on when you'd be without it again.

"My love..." Thrawn began, his voice soothing as he brought his lips to the tender flesh of your ear, "if I've been so neglectful of your needs that you would become my enemy to be closer to me, then I've failed you so much more exponentially than I ever could have surmised. For that, I am so, so very sorry."

Part of you perked up at the implication that perhaps he wasn't intending to cut ties with you just yet, although it was clear he had much more to say. You brought his hands down to your chest and interlocked your fingers with his, holding onto them for dear life as he continued. "I...I have become consumed by my mission. My mind won't allow me any reprieve unless I've made substantial new discoveries and analyses concerning these rebels on a constant basis. I haven't faced any challenging opposition like them in quite some time, and to feel the invigoration of facing a worthy opponent with the potential to outmaneuver me...it's...addicting."

You listened to his confession intently, relieved to have him opening his heart to you once again. You brought his hands up to your mouth and smiled with amusement before you placed a kiss against them and bore into his concerned gaze with a look of alleviation gracing your own features. “I think I’m beginning to understand where your superiors were coming from when they demanded you take this leave.”

Thrawn’s countenance softened as he returned your smile, even managing something of a titter while he brought your own hands to his lips. “Am I that insufferable?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

He flashed his teeth in an impudent grin, moistening your skin with his lips as he resumed speaking against it. “Reassuring, as always.”

“Thrawn...” you spoke gingerly as the seriousness of the conversation recommenced and you withdrew your hands, rubbing the place where his warmth had just been while you gathered up the courage to proceed with your thoughts, “I need to know where we stand. It would have been stupid of me to expect our relationship to be like anyone else’s...I’ve been aware from the beginning that your duties come first, and I’m perfectly content with that. I want to see you succeed, and I love that you’re so persistent and driven. But...”

“I know,” he interjected, his guilty conscience evident simply by the tone of his voice, “my behavior as of late has been inexcusable. You mean so much more to me than I’ve led you to believe. It has been despicable of me to overlook your wishes in favor of my work when it is unnecessary. I...I love you, and...I’d like to make it up to you.”

Your heart breathed a sigh of relief, remedied by the fact that it still belonged to him. Before you knew it, you were back in his arms in an instant and planting another passionate kiss at the corner of his mouth while you grasped at his light civilian clothing. “Do you mean it?” you asked before he could properly perform the action in return.

“Of course. There are few things I wouldn’t do for you.”

For you, that was about as good as anyone else saying that they would do anything. Some things were off the table, such as leaving the Empire or betraying the Chiss or halting his investigation of the mysterious alien race that posed a threat to the entire galaxy - but other than that, he was yours, and that was more than enough.

“I might already have a few ideas...” you admitted pleasantly, capturing his lips in a more heated kiss as you wrapped your arms around his neck. His smile granted you more access to the rest of his mouth and you obliged, nipping at his skin and warring with his tongue as both of your actions became more lascivious. It wasn’t long before you felt his warm, strong hands snaking up your bare abdomen while you fumbled with the clasps of his shirt, though it become more difficult to concentrate once he reached your chest and focused his activity there, drawing a moan from deep within your throat. Taking note of your struggle, he briefly took his hands away from you to discard his top and aid you in removing your own. 

“I’m intrigued by these ideas, if you wouldn’t mind enlightening me,” Thrawn said as he reached both arms around you to grasp your behind and knead it through the fabric of your pants while he continued to kiss you along your temples and hairline. Your mouth was too busy peppering his pecs with kisses and love-bites to really say much, but that was alright - you were more of a demonstrator, anyway. You brought his hands to your sides and he helped you slide your bottoms down, giving your ass an excited smack once it was bare for him. He attempted to sneak a hand around the supple flesh of your inner thigh and curl a few digits upwards, but you smacked it away.

“Ah-Ah,” you tsked, guiding his arms away from you entirely. He started working at the sealing strip of his own waistband, but again, you stopped him. “No.”

“No?” he asked, a brow raised in amusement but also plenty of genuine confusion. 

“No,” you reaffirmed as you stepped completely out of your pant legs and planted your palms onto his chest, pushing against him with enough force to influence him to step backward. The pressure was continuous, so he didn’t stop until his back hit the cool metal of the durasteel wall behind him. “You’ve kept me waiting for a long time, Admiral.”

“I...yes,” he uttered, slightly taken aback by the firmness and determination in your voice, and especially the mocking tone you used with his moniker, although he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy it. 

In an impressive display of flexibility, you raised your leg up until your heel rested in the curve of Thrawn’s neck and over his shoulder, holding him in place as you stared him down with an air of dominion. “I’ve lost most of my patience,” you explained as you applied a significant amount of strength down through your foot and into his muscle, indicating once again that he was to move. He did so silently this time, enraptured by your confidence as he slid down until he was sitting on the hard ground. Your foot didn’t let up, adding more pressure as your tone became a little more demanding. “Down. All the way.”

He obliged, shifting downwards so he could lean back onto his forearms and lower himself completely onto the floor. Your foot remained on his shoulder, a smile contorting your face as you could see he was taking in the view and enjoying it, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes eventually met yours, giving you an innocent and questioning look as he spoke.

“Would you like to take this outside of the office? To the bedroom, perhaps?”

“Here’s fine,” you retorted smugly, and for a moment your attention was captured again by the painted rebel helmet that was perched atop the desk beside you. You took it, examining the artwork on the front one more time before you smirked at the curious Chiss beneath you and donned it upon your head. His breath hitched when you suddenly dropped to your knees over his chest and slid your hand around to the apex of his skull, lightly grabbing a fistful of previously perfectly slicked-back hair before gazing straight down into his crimson orbs.

“Are you still curious?” you asked with an inflection of authority.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion before he spoke lowly, just above a whisper. “I believe I understand.”

“Good,” you began, positioning yourself directly over his face as you pulled his head forward so that the tip of his nose was only centimeters away from the source of your pulsing heat, “...you kriffing Imp.”

With that, you saddled his face and sighed when you felt the hot wetness of his mouth envelop you, the room quickly filling with the sounds of the obscene slurps and smacks of his ministrations on your flesh. Your other hand grasped another lock of his hair as you bucked against him, his tongue finding all your most sensitive spots as it darted over them, and all the while you carefully supported his neck while he fucked you religiously with his face. You looked down at the master tactician through half-lidded eyes before throwing your head back in ecstasy, feeling the creep of your climax edging closer and closer. You were having a difficult time catching your breath, and eventually you decided that this sensation ought to be somewhat mutual.

You reached your hand back behind you and starting palming Thrawn’s erection through the fabric of his pants, earning an approving sigh between your legs as you stimulated the head through the still-expanding wet stain of his precum. You jerked him as well as you could in tandem with his movements, struggling to suppress the moans and expletives that erupted from your lips as he went at you even harder. His hands gripped your hips with a cautious desperation as both of your breaths became increasingly ragged, and it wasn’t long before your thighs were quivering against his ears as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of absolute pleasure. Your gasps of euphoria coupled with the intensified friction of your touch had Thrawn stilling and slightly jerking his hips not long after, finally leaning his head back away from your entrance as his face flushed while he came in his pants.

The both of you relaxed as you were overtaken by the surge of your highs, and after a while you managed to shift downward so that you were straddling his waist as you removed the helmet and set it aside. You returned your attention to the handsome, feverish warrior panting beneath you and moved a stray strand of his mussed hair back into place. You leaned forward and kissed him gently on his swollen lips, not minding the taste of yourself as you rested on top of him and listened to the accelerated beating of his heart together with yours.

And when his arms wrapped around you while he planted a loving kiss on your forehead, you looked up at the ceiling and pondered just how much work he’d get done the next time he studied that helmet.

[casuallyimagining]

Jealousy Headcanons - OT7

Anonymous asked: Hello! Could you please do a jealousy headcanon for yoongi? Thank you!!

I’ll do you one better, anon. I’ll do jealousy headcanons for all of them. This strayed from headcanons into reactions/preferences very quickly, so if you’d prefer I write some dedicated headcanons, I’ll gladly do that.. (also I’ve combined it with an idea I’ve been tossing around in my head for the past day or so. I’m sorry if Taehyung’s isn’t good—I know the least about him.) Hope you enjoy!!

Jin

He knew you were friends with his bandmates, but he couldn’t help but think you were a little closer with Hobi than the rest.

He hated to admit that his stomach would drop when you laughed at one of Hobi’s bad jokes. He hated that it made him angry when you would go to Hobi with a problem and not him. He wanted to be happy that you were such good friends with one of his closest friends, but every time Jin sees the two of you together, he just ends up upset.

It comes to a head when Jin is walking down the hall one day at the dance studio and hears you laughing. He hears Hobi mumble “Worldwide Handsome” as Jin enters the room and you burst into a fit of giggles, and it makes his blood boil.

As much as he wants to yell and scream at Hobi—at you—not for making fun of him, but to make fun of him to his own girlfriend, and then to hear her laugh at Hobi in a way that she doesn’t laugh with Jin… he wants to badly to fly off the handle.

But at the same time, the rational part of his brain won’t let him. He loves you too much to let something like this get in the way of your relationship. He knows Hobi too well to know the joke was only in good fun, and he knows you too well to know that you would never laugh if it was mean-spirited. Jin doesn’t know if that makes it sting more or less.

So instead of yelling, he spins on his heel and walks right back out the door of the dance studio. He hears Hobi call his name, but he’s too far down the hall to care. He doesn’t hear the door latch, though, and the soft footsteps behind him alert him to the fact that he’s being followed.

The only reason you were even at the dance studio that day was because Jin had asked you out to dinner that evening, and while they were a little late finishing up, the two of you could still get takeout from your favorite spot on the way back to your apartment.

So Jin isn’t surprised that you catch up to him by the elevator, your hand slipping into his as easily as if it were meant to be there. You quirk an eyebrow at him silently, and he hangs his head.

“I’m sorry, jagi,” he mumbles, his thumb ghosting along your knuckles as you wait for the elevator. “He just knows how to push my buttons. Even when I’m not there.”

You hum in response, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to be jealous of him, you know. I love Hobi, but I’m in love with you, Jin.”

The elevator comes then, and he’s glad that pressing the button gives him an excuse to turn away from you so you can’t see the blush or the shit-eating grin that’s plastered on his face.

Yoongi

Yoongi feels like a third wheel when the two of you hang out with Namjoon. You and the Bangtan leader always end up talking poetry, or books, or film, or music in such an intellectual way that Yoongi ends up not being able to follow. So he always ends up sitting silently at the restaurant or in the living room as one of his closest friends monopolizes his girlfriend.

He hates the way you hang on Namjoon’s every word, hates the way that you nod in thought, your eyes focused solely on Namjoon as he says something that Yoongi can only assume is the most brilliant thing in the world.

Yoongi loves Namjoon, thinks of him like a brother, but sometimes he really, really wants to just tell the guy to shut the fuck up.

He finally builds up the courage to tell Namjoon off when the Bangtan leader’s phone rings and he gets up to answer it, leaving you and Yoongi alone in the shared living room of the BTS dorms.

“What do you think of the movie so far, Yoongi?” you question, turning your whole body to face him. You reach out and pull him closer so your legs are touching as you sit on the couch.

It’s then that he realizes that he can’t stay mad at you, not really. Namjoon is charismatic, and you’re friends, and Yoongi wants nothing more than to see you happy. And if that means putting up with you not paying attention to him when Namjoon is around, then so be it.

“I’d like to be able to hear it,” Yoongi jokes, pushing your shoulder lightly and giving you a wide smile. You laugh and promise that you’ll shut up so he can enjoy the rest of the movie.

You turn back to the screen after that, the remote in your hands waiting for Namjoon to return so you can press ‘play.’ Your back rests against Yoongi’s chest, and he slings an arm around your waist to pull you tighter to him.

“You know it’s harmless, right? Me talking with Namjoon?” Yoongi hums in response, but he can feel his face heating up, having been caught. “I really respect his analyses and knowledge. But he’s just a friend.”

Yoongi rests his chin on your shoulder just as Namjoon walks back into the room. You press play on the movie, and true to your promise, you don’t talk nearly as much with Namjoon as the rest of the film plays out.

Yoongi can’t help but smile when you take his hand and lace your fingers together. You might enjoy talking to Namjoon about intellectual stuff, but it’s the love you show Yoongi in the silence that makes him feel like he’s enough.

Hoseok

It was hard for Hoseok to watch you shamelessly flirt with Jin. He knows that’s just your personality—you’re friendly and affectionate with your close friends—it’s part of the reason he fell for you.

But holy shit, watching you and Jin cook together, watching the two of you come up with cheeky dance moves and sing along to the songs blasting through your phone, it really gets to him.

Hoseok is the jokester of the group, and normally, he’d come up behind you and make some sort of wisecrack, but today, he’s not particularly into it. He just feels sad.

Sad that you’re paying more attention to Jin than you are to him. Sad that you hadn’t even noticed him walk through the door. Sad that there’s a hole in your life that Jin seems to fit perfectly into.

He knows that you’re just friends. Hoseok knows that you love him, not Jin. He trusts you to remain faithful. But a small part of him is insecure in your relationship still. And it screams at him that maybe the two of you aren’t on the same page when it comes to how your relationship is developing.

But then you finally notice that he’s home, and your eyes light up in that way that they only do when you lay eyes on him. And Hoseok can’t help the goofy grin that spreads across his face.

“Jagiya! You have to come try this,” you call, waving him into the kitchen. “Jin was just showing me how to make this and I think you’d love it.”

You grab something out of the pot with a pair of chopsticks and offer it to him, your hand under it so it doesn’t drip. He hums in response. Whatever it was, you were right. It was good.

You smile and wipe a bit of sauce off his face with your thumb, and just like that, his insecurities are gone.

Namjoon

Namjoon knows he shouldn’t feel like this. He knows that the strangling sensation in his heart is just irrational jealousy. He knows that however close your friendship with Jungkook becomes, you would never leave him. But does he?

He walks in late one night after a long meeting with Big Hit and an even longer rehearsal with Hobi and Jimin to find you and Jungkook curled up on the couch fast asleep. Jungkook has his head in your lap, and one of your hands is in his hair, the other resting between his shoulder blades. Your laptop is plugged in and sitting open on the coffee table in front of you. Watching a movie, he surmises.

Namjoon can’t help the exasperated sigh he lets out, can’t help rolling his eyes in frustration. It’s times like this when the youngest Bangtan’s pretty face really gets under Namjoon’s skin.

Silently, Namjoon sets his jaw and goes about his nightly routine, washing his face and changing into his pajamas before deciding what to do about you and Jungkook on the couch.

He appreciates your friendship with Jungkook, truly, he does. But it’s nights like this—when he finds the two of you being overly affectionate, or when you seem to confide in Jungkook more than you do him, or when the two of you feed off each other’s competitiveness and end up in some ridiculous competition that only adds fuel to your friendship—nights like this where his insecurities seep through and he doubts himself.

He can’t bring himself to blame you for this. You’re far too amazing, and he knows that you care about him deeply. No, he tends more to reflect inwards when he feels like this, because he knows it’s his problem to sort out. If he caught you asleep on the couch with any other member of the group, Namjoon didn’t think he’d feel nearly as jealous. So what was it about Jungkook, then?

Of course, Jungkook is kind. And he’s energetic. And your personalities match in ways that Namjoon had never thought possible. It didn’t hurt that Jungkook was handsome. And there it is, Namjoon thinks as he steps back into the living room to check on the two of you. That old insecurity flaring its head again.

He considers leaving the two of you on the couch for the rest of the night. It’s late, and he really doesn’t want to wake either of you if you’re truly resting. But then he sees the odd angle that your head is resting at, and he takes pity on you. So ever so gently, he shakes your shoulder.

It doesn’t take long for you to wake up, stretching when you do. Namjoon hears your shoulder pop, and you rub it, a scowl on your face. Then, you see him, and you shoot him a tired grin, your eyes lighting up,

“Hey handsome,” you whisper, making grabby hands at him, beckoning him closer. Namjoon smiles, and he knows that he would believe anything you said, so long as you say it with as much conviction as you just spoke with. He believes you when you kiss him, soft and tender and full of love. He believes you when you chuckle softly at Jungkook snoring softly in your lap, the look on your face saying everything he needed it to. And he believes you when you tell him that you cleared your schedule for his next day off, promising to devote yourself solely to him.

Sure, he might have to deal with feeling jealous of Jungkook every once in a while, but he wouldn’t give you up for the world.

Jimin

Jimin prides himself on keeping a cool head when it comes to you. The two of you have never seriously argued before—he likes to think that he’s good at communicating his needs.

Except for one: your friendship with Taehyung can be a bit much. Jimin knows he should be grateful—he and Tae are close, so it should be a blessing that you fit right into the fold. But he just couldn’t help it.

He gets frustrated that Tae knows your go-to order at coffee shops by heart, and that he always gets food to share with you when he orders out. Jimin knows he shouldn’t get frustrated by that—Tae knows his orders, too—but for whatever reason, it just gets under his skin. Especially when you shoot Tae a smile, or you ruffle his hair.

That is, until one day when Tae, Jimin, and you are hanging out one afternoon and Tae offers to buy dinner that night. You smile warmly at Tae and ruffle his hair, and for a moment, Jimin’s heart sinks again. But then he hears you hum in response.

His heart soars when you cheerfully decline. “Jiminie and I were going to hang out tonight. Next time for sure, though.”

Tae accepts it with a laugh, and a joke about how the two of you are lovebirds, but Jimin doesn’t pay attention. His heart is pounding in in his ears, and he can feel his face flush. He can’t help it—he’s just so happy to hear you choose him.

Taehyung

Tae hates how you and Jimin connect on what seems like the molecular level. The two of you can carry on a conversation about literally anything. Fashion, pop culture, the universe. You and Jimin could talk at length about anything.

When you hang out with Tae, though, the two of you end up sitting in silence. Where you and Jimin could watch a movie and talk the whole time about your favorite characters or what you think will happen next, you and Tae watch in silence, only making comments to each other once in a while.

He knows that Jimin is his best friend, and that he would never intentionally do anything to hurt him. But there are only so many play arguments and deep, meaningful conversations Tae can walk in on before it starts to affect him.

He knows deep down that you love him, and he knows you wouldn’t leave him, especially for Jimin—he knows in his heart that you aren’t actually in love with him, despite his insecurities—but he just loves you so much, and the amount of attention you pay to Jimin makes him feel like he doesn’t make enough of an effort to connect with you.

You tend to notice when Tae is feeling jealous. He doesn’t particularly try to hide it. So when you notice him start to draw into himself, when he starts to get tenser around Jimin, you make sure to pay him extra attention.

Tae never talks about his jealousy, and you don’t want to push him, so you don’t bring it up. You know that someday, you’ll have to address it, but for now, you’re happy to dote on your grumpy boyfriend when he’s feeling this way.

Jungkook

Jungkook’s competitive side doesn’t really play well with his jealousy. He can’t help but see you hanging out with Yoongi as a challenge for him to be a better boyfriend.

He notices that you spend a lot of time with Yoongi, especially when the days are long and hard and when Jungkook can’t spend much time with you. He notices the quiet conversations the two of you share over coffee in the mornings, and the silent looks the two of you send each other before busting out into smiles and giggles.

Jungkook likes to see you happy, but it stings a lot that he isn’t the one making you smile.

When you’re hanging out with Yoongi, he does everything in his power to try to pull your attention away. And yeah, Jungkook knows he’s probably being annoying, but he rarely gets your undivided attention. It upsets him that you try to push him away to continue to pay attention to Yoongi.

You confront him about it one morning after Jungkook successfully manages to chase Yoongi from the shared living room of the dorms. Your ‘what’s your problem?’ is venomous, and Jungkook can’t help but feel like a child being scolded.

He’s silent for a long while, and you let him be. He tries to speak several times, but no matter what he wants to say, it isn’t the right thing. He knows he can be an ass, but he just wants you to love him.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of silence, you silently wrap your arms around him, and you can feel all of the tension in Jungkook’s body disappear. “You don’t have to be jealous of Yoongi,” you mumble into his chest. “He’s just a friend. Sometimes, we both need quiet, y’know?”

And he does know. He knows how sometimes, crowds exhaust you. He can only imagine how the band’s whirlwind schedule affects you.

You kiss him gently then, cupping his cheek in your hands and playfully squishing his cheeks together. “Not all of us can be an endless source of energy, my love.”

He smiles, your hands still pressing his cheeks together, and you can’t help but crack up at the sight. He promises himself then that no matter what, he’ll do better at hiding his jealousy. You love him. That’s what matters most.