#beyond deterring sonic

[redpenship]

cosmic wip

an: this fic is taking me FOREVER to write and i like this convo quite a bit so I am posting it on tumblr!!

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This was a huge claim. Starline blinked in surprise. “You . . . stabilized an energy circuit? Without a surge protector?”

Ivo gave him another paper from the folder. Starline stared at it blankly. On the paper was a schematic for a capsule; in the main section was a drawing of a small bird, and attached to the bottom was a battery. The title read: animal-powered battery. 

“This must be some kind of joke,” Starline mumbled incredulously. In what world could animals power a facility like this on their own? He couldn’t even begin to imagine how they would stabilize his energy electrical circuit. That was a feat physicists had been trying to achieve for decades. And here, Ivo was claiming to have done it own his own. Without training. 

“It’s not a joke! I’ve been using those batteries as my main source of power for many years, now.” Appearing excited, Ivo leaned forward and tapped the schematic with a finger. “They work because I adapted our laws to the conditions of this world. You are a biologist first, so I will explain this simply: Chaos Emeralds respond to the needs of living creatures. Without their interference, the animals inside the capsule would die during the energy extraction process. The emeralds protect the animals by supplying the electrical circuit with enough energy to function without killing them.” 

Starline blinked. Ivo was right—he was a biologist, not a physicist. He hadn’t looked at energy physics in a very long time. But despite his inexperience, he understood just how big this stable energy capsule could be. Ivo had made a breakthrough in Earth’s sciences. Unstable energy had suppressed the planet’s sciences for millions of years. If Ivo’s invention really worked . . .

“Given your silence, I can only assume that you’ve come to understand the grander implications of this capsule,” Ivo said. He took the schematic and put it back into the folder. “Don’t get too excited. I have no intentions of sharing this with anyone else for the time being.” 

He was keeping it for himself? “Why?” Starline demanded. “You could help science everywhere!” 

Ivo shook his head. “This will not help science. It is a temporary fix to a much larger problem. To help science, I will need to present a complete solution to the energy crisis.” 

“This is a good first step!” Starline argued. “Other physicists could use this to find the solution!”

As Starline spoke, Ivo’s face fell. He said his next words sternly. “If human science was capable of solving the crisis, we would have done it by now. I accomplished what I did by abandoning our methods completely. No other scientists would have been willing to do such a thing.”

They were right back to Ivo’s initial argument: humans, and by extension their science, are idiots. “What makes you think so?”

“Anyone who is allowed to practice science in a lab has completed the circuit of higher education. To survive such a circuit, students must depersonalize themselves and accept rigorous training. They are traumatized into accepting academic dogma even if it seems unnatural to them. Upon graduation from such a system, how many of them will be willing to abandon everything they’ve learned to perform ‘unscientific’ experiments?”

Starline immediately disagreed. “They’re rigorously trained to meet scientific standards.” 

“On a non-standard planet! Everything they’re learning is useless until we can solve the energy crisis.” 

The logic didn’t add up. “Then the crisis is unsolvable. Unless you mean to say that you’re the only one who can do it?”

Ivo crossed his ams with a huff. “I’ve hit a road block in my research. Now that I have the capsules, I am finding it more and more difficult to pretend that I don’t have expectations for my experiments. Staying away from university could only bring me so far. No matter what I do, I will always make assumptions about the future and my experiments. It is an unconscious way of thinking that I cannot overcome; my brain simply cannot accept the uncertainty created by Chaos Energy.” 

Unconscious ways of thinking. It all clicked at once. Starline looked to the cognitive tests on the table in front of him and realized exactly what conclusion Ivo had drawn from them.

“You think only someone with a traditional Mobian worldview can solve the energy crisis,” he said. Ivo nodded his agreement and Starline kept going. “It has to be someone comfortable with uncertainty . . . someone with an intuitive understanding of Chaos Energy.” 

“Precisely! The energy crisis will only be solved by someone whose first reaction to learning the law of conservation of energy is to refute its existence.”

[warriorscend]

@letsk1ckitup xxx

►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►►► it was purely from reaction thanks to his past. sonic had to huddle under cover whenever it rained, because he didn't want to get sick! rain sure felt good, but too much of a good thing was never... well, a good thing! so of course he'd make sure to tug knuckles in under shelter too: didn't want knuckles to get sick neither. at what knuckles gruffs at him, sonic gives a gentle, patient and polite smile in return, "really really!" he chirps back, then goes silent because he knows that knuckles has more to say. knuckles always came up with smart plans, or workarounds to these sortas things. it was soorta like tails' smarts with inventions, cept knuckles was more hands-on & woodsy. an outdoors type! like sonic! he rocks on the heels of his shoes, bright smile plastered naturally along his expression. & sonic's tottering along next to knuckles as the taller, broader echidna leads the way. literally tugs him via the 'umbrella', but really sonic doesn't mind. he's grateful to knuckles for taking charge and being so hands-on. it was never dull whenever knuckles was nearby! sonic watches with soft intrigue as knuckles digs out a hovel for them to wait out the storm.

"that's so neat~!" a genuine little gasped compliment, & then knuckles is speaking shortly. wuh-oh, sonic knows what that tone means! he's smiling over at his friend, "on my way! hyuph!" he's hopping into that tunnel without a second thought. hmm~. stretching out gently, sonic purrs a tad in his contentment, "thank you, knuckles!"

He does not share the hedgehog's aversion to water in the slightest. Even deep pools don't deter him, having the strength and vicious momentum to propel himself through such viscous density known as water. Rain is but an expected anomaly to find himself subject beneath while guarding the emerald. Sure, there were times when it did not let up that he would take shelter beneath a few large colocasias leaves growing along the outskirts of the temple site, but very rarely even then. To be tugged under some make shift, portable shelter on the hedgehog's whim was most insulting, though he supposes he can't fault Sonic for his oversights. He tended to run faster than the situations his brain could keep up with half the time.

"You could be a little less sunny, you know." He grumbles as they treck to his burrow zone, half inclined to knock the umbrella away just to distract Sonic from his cheery mood long enough for them to reach the destination. "It is disrespectful to the weather at hand."

With a firm shake of his quills to send the condensation that's collected between them splashing outwards and onto Sonic once they've stopped, he tends to the burrow's entrance without pause, opening up the immediate entryway beyond the wall of ivy vines serving as its curtain which he lifts away just enough for the hedgehog to duck past and find a seat below ground around a burned out firepit he'd yet to stoke with fresh wood from his insistence on staying out beside the emerald for most weather aside from the bitterly cold nights when the burrow gave him some reprieve between shifts. Hopping in after his easily impressed company, he settles down on his haunches and watches the few raindrops that manage to pierce the ivy shroud fall through with diluted sunlight strained into beams...for about as long as it takes Sonic to start disturbing the peace again, that is.

"Expressing every the thing you are thinking aloud does not seem like a tactical advantage to me." He grunts, half musing, half matter-of-fact. Amethyst gaze swivels sideways to regard his cheery company, squinting soon after the fact. "Is there a reason you are here, or do you simply enjoy showing up at the most inopportune moment?"

[es46]

False-head type monsters are a favourite of mine, so a quick sketch for one such concept. The hood is bigger than depicted. - KOBADRA Title - Dragontail snake Monster class - Snake wyvern Known locales - Fringes of volcanic regions, miasmic zones Element/ailment - Confusion + Dragon Elemental weakness - Ice (3), Dragon (3), Water (2), Thunder (1), Fire (0) Ailment weakness - Poison (2), Stun (1), Blast (1), Paralysis (1), Sleep (1) Kobadra is a snake wyvern that is usually found on the fringes of volcanic regions, uniquely adapted to deal with toxic gases and zones of miasmic residue. As its title suggests, Kobadra is distinguished by the false head upon its tail that resembles a dragon's maw. The black-purple scales and iridescent hood of the snake wyvern are oddly beautiful, but it appears truly intimidating to most other monsters with its false dragon head. Kobadra is a scavenger whose strategy revolves around scaring other monsters away from their kills. The snake wyvern meticulously searches for other carnivores to steal from, supplementing its diet with dragonfell berries or minerals forced upwards by subterranean activity. Kobadra very rarely hunts directly, and even then only small monsters it can easily overpower. This opportunist lifestyle actually makes Kobadra quite dangerous to humans, as it may perceive them as easy meals. Fortunately, the snake wyvern can be deterred from attack by use of flash or sonic bombs, convincing it that humans are too troublesome to prey on. The key to Kobadra's imposing reputation is the combination of its false dragon head and the iridescent membrane of its hood. The snake wyvern confronts other monsters with both, disorientating rivals and victims alike by alternating attack patterns. The false head is heavy, effective as a cudgel, and specialised ports on its tip emit dragon energy in burning clouds. The hood can display luminescent patterns, disorientating observers and invoking Confusion. Enemies attempt to attack the tail may be met by a surprise attack from its fangs and claws. In turn, should they focus on Kobadra's head, they can be caught out by blows and blasts of the false dragon. Researchers have not yet determined how Kobadra employs dragon energy without exhibiting the same aggression as the like of Deviljho or Ebony Odogaron; it is believed the quality of its energy is less powerful, or its supplements of dragonfell berries and minerals help maintain its coherence. Surprisingly, given dragon-element monsters are usually fiercely territorial, Kobadra is cordial towards its own kind. Females (distinguished by their greater size and bolder colours) establish territories where dragonfell berries and minerals are abundant, which they share with several males; territorial disputes with other females are settled by display, not violence. Throughout most of her life, the dominant female produces only sons, who leave for new grounds when mature. Past a certain point in age, the female then produces daughters, who compete to succeed their mother and oust their siblings and fathers, forming a fresh clan with new arriving males. Kobadra is a respectably powerful monster wherever it lurks (Low Rank - 4, High/Master Rank - 3) and challenges hunters to test their cunning. Hunters must avoid fixating on one end of the snake wyvern lest they be baited into a surprise attack from the other. The use of traps is advised, temporarily stymying the snake wyvern's movement and making it vulnerable to attack. As Kobadra will come to their own kind's aid, hunters must be sure to isolate the target from its clan.

Its skill in intimidation and confusion means Kobadra usually deters attack from stronger carnivores or aggressive herbivores. It has few natural enemies beyond elder dragons, even if it is not necessarily as strong as the likes of Rathalos. However, Kobadra does have a nemesis in the form of Zykitin Cerra, a powerful neopteran who covets the snake wyvern's dragonfell berries. Zykitin Cerra is resistant to dragon energy and not easily fooled by displays, making it well-suited to overpowering the snake wyvern. - Thank you for reading and take care.

[angeart]

//more crackers smp lore and also some comfort

There’s been another attack—another overwhelmed scream—and it hurt, but that wasn’t the important part. The important part was that the night that wrapped around them all afterwards was silent, muffled in a way wholly unsettling. Bereaved and lonely. Something sad carried on the gentle breeze, mixed in with drifting snowflakes and fluttering pink petals. A fracture was growing, unseen but still there, around the snowy tips of the mountain. Somewhere amidst the cold, unfriendly snow, a patch of sculk steadily grew.

Ange finds herself standing at the edge of the snow, letting all of this wash over her. A mix of emotions swirls in the pit of her stomach, fueled by unease and worry. She stares, through the darkness that surrounds her, towards the little dip just below the top of the mountain range, where a house sits in isolation. Well, as much isolation as the ever-present sculk and the sway of wheat that’s not meant to grow in such a cold climate can grant. 

She takes a breath, the air crisp and heavy in her lungs, and she steps forward, placing her feet carefully along the pathway she’s learned over the time—a safe route picked apart after many mishaps, a way to reach her friend without unnecessary trouble.

Wren liked this place. They liked it, all the coldness and treachery of it. 

That’s why they picked it, for their café. For their home.

The views were wonderful, Ange had to admit. The gently falling snow, even if freezing to touch, was oddly comforting. Except not now. Now it reeks of solitude, where before it was a shared place, somewhere for people to come—a café.

Now, the only thing greeting Ange are the sculk sensors lighting up and rattling at her, and the mobs lurking in the dark ready to pounce.

The creaking of the snow gets swapped for a much more mushy sound of the sculk, only marginally less soft. If she’d slow down, she could make her steps almost completely silent, but there’s no need for that. She isn’t down in some deep, dark cave. She’s up in the overworld and the night sky is lit up by the northern lights, snaking through like a beacon of hope, and sneaking won’t help her deter the pesky skeletons that rattle just beyond the closest snow dune. 

She walks over the blackened ground, littered with specks of light blue not unlike freckles over skin or stars over the sky, until she reaches the house. 

And then she stops, seeing the figure curled up in front of the front door, warm in the thick winter clothes, but definitely not safe out here at this hour. 

Ange hesitates, despite herself. There’s an echo of a scream, something distressed and wounded and desperate, and a responding echo of pain that digs in white-hot, unravelling something at the code-level, burrowing under the skin, touching the organs and making the blood boil—all in one go—like a sonically charged shriek. Her hand trembles a little as she holds it over her stomach, lingering memory of a hurt that shouldn’t have been real flaring up under her touch. 

Still, she takes another tentative step closer.

The sculk sensors rattle, and Wren snaps their head up at the sound.

Wide alarmed eyes meet Ange’s across the distance that still separates them.

“Wh— No—”

Ange stands perfectly still, brows furrowing as she tries to parse through that reaction. “Do you… not want me here?” she hazards a guess, because she isn’t here to impose and even though she came uninvited, she doesn’t want to make Wren uncomfortable.

At the question, Wren takes a sharp breath and uncurls a little bit more, back straightening. “No, that’s—” Sculk sensors light up, rattling softly in the background at the words. Wren’s eyes flit to them, as if they were louder than they actually are; as if they pulled and tugged violently at their attention. It’s only once they quiet down that they take a breath to speak again, and it’s wobbly on their lips, full of wariness and apprehension. “I could hurt you!”

There’s a momentary pause as Ange blinks, taking it in. “Is that the only problem?”

Wren pulls away slightly, confused. “What?”

A small, unbothered shrug accompanies Ange’s words as she reinstates the question. “Is that the only problem? That you might hurt me?” The night chill is sneaking under her clothes; she’s not dressed for snow, even if she keeps coming here. An involuntary shiver runs through her body, but she ignores it. 

“Yeah,” Wren says, breathless and still on the edge of baffled. Their brows knot. “Is that— Is that not enough?”

“Enough for what?” Ange considers Wren where they still sit huddled up. They look warm. They look like it’d feel nice to cuddle up to them, steal some of their warmth. At the same time, they look cornered. They look like they’ve put themselves in a place they can no longer run from, at the end of their rope. Just inches from falling apart. “Wren, what is it that you want from me?” she prompts, waiting for the words I want you to leave.

The words don’t come. 

Instead, frustration seeps off Wren as they say: “I want you to be safe.”

A small, sad smile curves Ange’s lips and she takes an easy step forward. “Nowhere is safe.” Nowhere is safe, and everywhere is just a step away from the maze of the mines, and the call of the sculk, and the disorienting dizziness of the world. Everywhere just a step away from an arrow in the back, a sonic shriek, a fall of a cliff. Just a step away from drowning in a powdered snow. “And I’m not afraid of you.” She takes another step, just as easy as the first. 

“Ange,” Wren says, and it comes out a warning.

They’re tense, wide-eyed, everything about them screaming You should be afraid. I am. Please be afraid. For your own good. Please understand.

But Ange brushes the message aside and doesn’t heed the warning. She keeps on walking, step after step, arms wrapped around herself just to stave off the impending, bothersome cold that keeps her verging on shivering. “Oh, so many things can hurt me, Wren, you’re not special,” she says half-jokingly, trying to lighten the situation. Her eyes shine in the dark, light but bright purple as she makes her approach, each step marked by a rattle of several sculk sensors that have made their home here.

Wren seems to deflate a little, something warring and unreadable in their expression as they pry their gaze away from the approach of a friend, eyes flitting across the glowing sculk sensors that pierce and diminish the soothing darkness of the night.

“Actually,” Ange sighs quietly, and she’s so, so close now. She crouches down, slow and careful and unthreatening, keeping her voice soft. “Wren?” she tries to catch Wren’s gaze, anchor the attention for the next words.

Wren pulls their knees tighter to their chest, their back against a corner of the building as they loook up and meet Ange’s gaze. “Hm?”

Ange offers a tiny, encouraging smile. “You are. Special, I mean.”

Incomprehension flickers across Wren’s gaze, and behind it something knowing, but deliberately evasive. “What?”

With a small huff, Ange sits back on her heels. “It’s like the whole powdered snow situation, isn’t it.” She tilts her head a little, considering. This probably isn’t going to make much sense, and she knows it—because it makes sense to her, in her head, but translating it into words is hard. Still, she studies Wren’s face, hoping to find something more than fear and tension and anxiety. Just a sliver of opennes, something she could slip through, that’d be enough. “You know, how if you fall in, you aren’t supposed to break it,” she says softly. “You don’t break it just because it hurts you. You let it run its course. You let it consume you.” 

Honestly, she isn’t sure she’s explaining this right. But there’s something about it that rings so true in her heart—maybe because she’s fallen into that damned powdered snow over and over again. Wren asked her not to destroy it, and so she always let it be. She let it be, cold biting and ravaging, taking away her warmth in a swift and vicious way and chipping away at what was left underneath. And she still didn’t take a weapon to it. Because she knew it’s going to be alright. Because at the end of it, she would respawn, safe and sound, in the warmth of her bed, and all she’d lose was a bit of time.

Most importantly, she never took a weapon—or a shovel—to it, because she loves Wren.

She looks at her friend now, a mix of sorrow and pleading in her gaze as she reaches out, slowly and questioningly. 

Wren tenses up, but doesn’t move away, too surprised and still tangled in trying to understand whatever Ange was saying for any sharper reaction. 

Ange takes what she’s given, and she lets her fingers connect with the warm skin of Wren’s face. Sculk-stained blackened fingertips slide over the cheek, right into the fur equally marked by sculk.

They’re not that different, she thinks.

“I’ll respawn if anything happens, Wren,” she half-whispers. “It’s okay.”

The gentleness of it all seems to break something in Wren, as their eyes suddenly glisten and fill with tears, hot ones that easily overflow. A dark, clawed fear that they’re now dangerous and nobody is safe near them and that everybody surely hates them now was so overpowering, but it shatters and gives so easily under the pressure of cold, friendly fingers and a kind smile. Somewhere behind it all, like a beacon of a lighthouse, the thought: I am not completely alone yet.

So Wren hiccups and sniffles and dips their head, even as it disconnects the salvaging touch. They pull into themselves, a bubble of self-protection from the thorns of the world, the ground rattling and humming and whispering underneath them hungrily, incessantly, even with someone’s presence so, so close.

“Oh, Wren,” Ange breathes out and shifts closer, still careful, still slow. She moves to sit next to Wren, wraps one arm around them and pulls them to her.

Wren slumps against her without a fight, hands pressed to their face and body shaking.

Relief is a warm tide, washing over Ange as Wren allows themselves to be held. 

Murmuring quiet things, Ange continues holding Wren without any sign of a desire to move away. She holds them, and she looks ahead at the sculk crashing into snow, and the pale, beautiful glow of the northern lights, and the blurry sway of cherry petals somewhere deep below the mountain.

And she thinks that, one way or another, they’re going to be okay.

Even though the black markings on her skin whisper gleefuly that she’s wrong, she elects not to believe them. Not to give in to that anxiety. Not on this particular night, with a precious friend in her hold. Not now, not now, not now.

Time twists around them, a nonsensical and dizzying concept, vague and dancing. It could be minutes, it could be hours, before they stir and Wren pulls away a little, finally quiet, rubbing their cheeks raw to erase the lingering traces of the tears. It’s still dark outside, stars shining brightly high above them.

“Wren…?” Ange says their name quietly, testingly, sheepishly.

“Yea?” Wren sniffles, face still hidden from sight.

There’s a skipped-beat of hesitation, before the question spills out, inviting and encouraging and afraid of rejection: “Do you want to sleep over at mine…?” 

Ange thinks of the dark circles under Wren’s eyes. Of the desperation and distress that led to those hurtful screams in the first place. Of their tears. Of the rattle of the sculk and the humming of the endermen somewhere just beyond the windowpanes, inside. She thinks of Judas’ empty bunk bed upstairs. She thinks of Wren, possibly falling apart at the seams, awake and exhausted and stumbly on their feet. She thinks of how heavily they leaned into her just moments ago, as if the weight of their own body—or maybe the weight of their sculk-stained soul—was too much for them to bear.

“Stiff is going to be in the lab all night again,” she continues to explain, to soothe any worries or bumps that might cause indecision. “And I have a spare bed.” 

There’s silence, considering and tense and not promising anything.

So with an audible smile, Ange adds a hopeful “We could cuddle?”

She feels Wren take a breath. 

It takes another moment, before Wren’s voice breaks the silence, shy and barely audible: “You’d… want that?”

Ange immediately latches onto it, because it isn’t a no. It’s a seeking of reassurance, and that she can do. With a grin growing on her face, she nods, even though Wren isn’t watching. “Yes,” she says, unhesitatingly. “I absolutely want that.”

It’s only then that Wren shifts again, enough to turn, and their eyes meet. They search in Ange’s gaze for a while, destabilised and desperately trying to find something that’d offer them some footing, and—

And maybe, just maybe, they find it.

Because when Wren breathes out, they end up saying “Okay.”

[clonescubed]

I love Shadow and Silver so much, but I wish their dynamic was more nuanced in an ideal world that stories/arcs in Sonic don’t have to revolve around his participation.

Like I wish there were more moments between them because they shouldn’t like each other.

I think their optimism and cynicism (modern Shadow 😔) should clash more. I think Silver should be annoyed with how bleak and almost pointless that modern Shadow views things while Shadow is annoyed with how Silver doesn’t know when to quit.

I think Silver is a better foil to Shadow than Sonic lmao. Both at their cores are optimists (with good Shadow characterization, think ‘06) but modern Shadow is jaded and doesn’t believe in any reason to try and why he’s relegated to an antagonist most of the time while Silver believes unabashedly that anything is possible and is willing to make it happen no matter the cost.

Something something about Shadow having lost everything and learning to continue going while Silver continues to lose everything and fighting against all odds to correct it. Something something an optimistic pessimist and a pessimistic optimist. Idk man.

Obviously, they seem to be turning around on making Shadow grumpy all the time and realizing that Shadow can be the cool character and not be a dick 99% of his screen time. But like even then it still stands, they function as opposite sides of optimism without either being “correct”.

I can only hope that they give Silver his grit back so that he’s pushy and rude and not just there because of course he’d be there. Like Silver lowkey just feels lonely a lot of the time since they won’t introduce anyone else from the future and he doesn’t talk about friends/family. He SHOULD have stunted social skills lol.

This is beyond shipping btw. I feel like people get deterred from having characters exist with more nuance and relationship friction if they don’t like the pairing as a romance. I think Sonic and Metal Sonic’s relationship should have more screen time and desperately needs to be brought back as a focus. But I do not ship them. At all. I think that ruins the complexities of their dynamic to boil it down to enemies to lovers.

[musicarenagh]

Rhythms of the Earth: Michael Beck's "Tierra" Weaves a Tapestry of Unity Allowing myself to be enveloped in "Tierra," the latest offering by Michael Beck and Chandra Lacombe, the soft scent of bergamot wafts up, awakening a deep yearning to connect with the natural world this single so masterfully embodies. https://open.spotify.com/album/5bB91VOSXmeaEOFdVbbWDA?si=LKAxw1PAQm6J60dF7mjs4A The tapestry of emotions from Michael Beck's soulful vocals weaves me into a place where the rhythms of the earth speak to the pulse of my heart, as the whispers of ancient secrets fall from Chandra Lacombe's fingers onto the kalimba, and Txai Fernando murmurs sweet nothings to the wind on his flute. Moussa Diallo provides the heartbeat on bass, Uriel Seri the percussion heartbeat, while Sudha provides supporting vocals of leaves dancing softly. In fact, "Tierra" is much more than the sonic tapestry's call to unity, a celebration of our connectivity with things that remind one of beauty and strength in harmony concerning the current challenges faced upon this earth. [caption id="attachment_56841" align="alignnone" width="2000"] Rhythms of the Earth: Michael Beck's "Tierra" Weaves a Tapestry of Unity[/caption] I couldn't also help but make comparisons between "Tierra" and the works of Hildegard von Bingen since Beck and Lacombe get deep into spirituality beyond borders and boundaries. That said, for all its beauty, "Tierra" is far from faultless on occasion, the production can feel a mite overly polished, the edges sanded down to a smooth, commercial sheen. The small niggle does little to deter from the impact of this release, though. As the last notes die away, I am left to reflect on Rumi's words: "Raise your words, not your voice." "Tierra" stands as testimony to a few soft, persistent voices that even at the bleakest moments, beauty and unity can take the fore. Follow Michael Beck on Facebook, YouTube and Instagram.

[xasha777]

In the year 2049, the city of Neo-Eden sprawled like a luminous octopus, its tentacles of glittering infrastructures diving deep into the sky, thanks to anti-gravity technology. It was a metropolis divided not just by wealth and cybernetic advancements, but by the very air its citizens breathed. Above the dizzying heights of the city's chrome towers was the Prohibited Airspace, a zone off-limits to all but the airborne elite and their automated sentries.

In the underbelly of Neo-Eden, where the city's lights could not pierce the ever-present smog, there resided an android known as Ira-7. She was an anomaly, a synthetic being with the appearance of a high-tech knight, her body a testament to engineering marvels long forbidden to the public. Ira-7, equipped with sensory enhancers and processors that made her more perceptive than any human, was a relic from a bygone era, relegated to the shadows of a society that had outgrown her kind.

But even relics have their uses.

A group of rebels, known as the Terra Firma, sought to dismantle the unjust barriers that kept the skies out of reach. They saw in Ira-7 not just an outdated machine, but the key to infiltrating the Prohibited Airspace. She was immune to the sensory overload that protected the zone, the bombardment of sonic waves, and encrypted frequencies designed to deter any unauthorized flight.

The Terra Firma reprogrammed Ira-7 with a mission: to escort a data disk containing the codes to dismantle the Prohibited Airspace's defenses, allowing every citizen of Neo-Eden to roam the skies freely. They had tried and failed with human pilots, but Ira-7 was different. She had no need for a cockpit or oxygen, no fear of heights or the guardians that patrolled the skies.

The plan was set into motion on a night when the neon rains fell, the droplets flickering with the city's pulse. Ira-7 ascended, her form cutting through the heavy air with precision, the leather of the old-world chair she left behind still warm. Her body was built for this—her every step defied gravity, her eyes pierced through illusions.

As she approached the invisible barrier, alarms blared throughout Neo-Eden. The sentries, swift and ruthless, converged on her position. Ira-7's programming allowed her to dodge and weave with a dancer's grace, her limbs moving in fluid, calculated defiance. She engaged in a deadly ballet, her form shimmering with each movement, a ghost in the machine.

She reached the core of the Prohibited Airspace, a floating fortress of steel and light. The data disk whirred within her chest, ready to be uploaded to the central hub. But there, she faced the ultimate guardian, an AI with the might of the city's founders behind it. The battle that ensued was silent but ferocious, as both beings of code and steel clashed in a storm of digital fury.

The fight seemed an eternity, but in a moment of clear strategy, Ira-7 unleashed the disk's payload. The codes spread like a virus, seeping into the fortress's systems, and with a surge of power, the Prohibited Airspace's barriers fell.

Neo-Eden woke to a new dawn, the skies open and inviting. And there, standing atop the highest spire, was Ira-7, her eyes reflecting the boundless horizon. She had not just delivered the skies to the people but had also found her purpose beyond the confines of her programming—a guardian of freedom in the boundless heavens above.

[nomorebirdsblog]

Above and Beyond: The Modern Bird Scarers for Home Roofs 

Birds, with their melodious songs and graceful flights, have always captured our imaginations. Their vibrant colours, varying species, and interesting behaviours are undoubtedly a sight to behold. However, homeowners often find themselves at odds with these feathered friends when they make a nest or perch atop their roofs, leading to potential damage, unsightly droppings, and even blocked gutters. Enter the world of modern "Bird Scarers For Roofs" - devices designed specifically to deter these winged visitors from taking up residence on your rooftop. 

The Problem with Feathered Guests 

Before diving into the solutions, it's essential to understand why birds on roofs can be an issue: 

Damage and Decay: Bird droppings are acidic and can erode roofing materials over time. 

Blocked Gutters: Nest-building materials and droppings can block gutters, leading to water damage. 

Noise: Early morning chirping can disturb your sleep. 

Health Concerns: Birds can sometimes carry parasites or diseases. 

Traditional Bird Deterrents 

From scarecrows in fields to plastic owls on rooftops, humans have long tried various techniques to keep birds at bay. Some of these methods include: 

Visual Scarers: Objects like reflective tapes or fake predators. 

Audio Scarers: Devices emitting distress calls or predator sounds. 

Physical Barriers: Nets, spikes, and mesh to prevent landing. 

However, as with everything in life, adaptation is the key. Birds have grown accustomed to some of these methods, rendering them less effective. 

The Evolution of "Bird Scarers For Roofs" 

Today, technology and innovation are driving the creation of more effective bird deterrents. Here's a look at some of the modern solutions: 

Motion-Activated Devices: These devices detect a bird's presence and respond by emitting a sound or spraying water. The unpredictability keeps the birds on their toes, ensuring they don’t get too comfortable. 

Ultrasonic Repellers: Birds have a different hearing range than humans. Ultrasonic repellers emit high-frequency sounds, undetectable to our ears, that are unsettling for birds. 

Laser Bird Repellers: By emitting bright, focused beams of light in specific patterns, these repellers disorient and deter birds, especially during low-light conditions like dawn or dusk. 

Electromagnetic Fields: Some modern bird scarers use electromagnetic fields that disturb the birds' navigation senses, making roofs less attractive. 

Eco-friendly Repellents: These are sprays containing natural ingredients that birds find repugnant, ensuring they stay away from treated areas. 

Eco-conscious Solutions 

While our primary goal is to deter birds, it's also essential to ensure their safety. Always opt for devices that don't harm the birds. We want to repel, not hurt. Hence, always avoid: 

Sticky gels which can trap and harm birds. 

Devices that could potentially injure or electrocute them. 

The Perfect Solution? 

What works best for one homeowner might not be effective for another, depending on the specific bird species and the environment. It's crucial to test different solutions and maybe even combine a few to see what works best for your unique situation. 

Solar-Powered Repellers 

Harness the power of the sun with solar-powered bird scarers. These devices are eco-friendly and can operate without the need for batteries or electricity. They can be equipped with motion sensors, sonic repellers, or even light flashers, ensuring birds steer clear of your roof. 

Aesthetic Integration 

Modern bird scarers for roofs are becoming more aesthetically pleasing. Homeowners need not worry about these devices detracting from the beauty of their homes. Manufacturers are creating scarers that can blend seamlessly with the architecture, or even double as garden or roof ornaments. 

App-Connected Devices 

With the advent of smart homes, there are bird scarers now available that can connect to your home's Wi-Fi and be controlled via smartphone apps. You can adjust settings, get activity notifications, and even monitor bird activity through some of these apps. 

Biodegradable Deterrents 

Consider bird deterrents made of biodegradable materials. For example, there are biodegradable reflective tapes that disintegrate over time without harming the environment. It reduces waste while keeping birds at bay. 

Educational Perspective 

While bird scarers serve to protect our homes, they can also be educational for kids. Some devices provide an opportunity to learn about the different bird species in your area, their habits, and even their migration patterns. 

Bird Psychology 

Understanding bird behaviour can be key. Many birds are territorial, so placing decoys (fake birds) or even mirrors on your roof might give the impression that the territory is already "claimed," deterring other birds from settling there. 

Cost-Effectiveness 

It's essential to consider the cost-benefit analysis of these devices. While some high-tech options may seem appealing, sometimes simple, traditional methods, when used creatively, can be just as effective without breaking the bank. 

A Holistic Approach 

When trying to deter birds, it's also worth examining other attractions. For instance, if you're feeding pets outside, you might be inadvertently providing a food source for birds. Consider a holistic approach by examining all potential attractions and addressing each one. 

Community Cooperation 

If you're living in a community, coordinate with neighbours. Birds deterred from one roof might simply move to another nearby. Collective efforts can yield better results for everyone involved. 

Final Thoughts 

As we navigate the balance between co-existing with nature and protecting our homes, it's essential to approach the issue of birds on roofs with sensitivity and understanding. Modern "Bird Scarers For Roofs" offer a plethora of options that are both humane and effective, ensuring that we can enjoy the beauty of these winged wonders from a distance, without the associated troubles they might bring to our homes. Above and beyond traditional methods, these modern devices truly redefine the way we look at bird deterrence in today's age. 

Disclaimer: This is generic Information & post; content about the services can be changed from time to time as per your requirements and contract. To get the latest and updated information, contact us today or visit our website.   

[chaossensitive]

There really was no safer place to be than the Ark. It had been revitalized by the striped hedgehog not long after their last adventure, as a means to keep Sonic safe from Eggman until they could understand what was going on. The defenses alone deterred many from approaching, but it was the fact that Shadow was nearly always ‘home’ added to most’s reasons to avoid it.

Which made it all the easier for him to focus on the teen and his injuries.

He helped the other out of their jacket and nodded softly. “As much as I wish this was better circumstances for our meeting. It is nice to meet you Simon. When Sonic wakes, you may refer to him as Aether and he will know that you are a traveler.”

Carefully, he coaxed the teen to move his hand, grabbing a nearby spray to apply to the area. Immediately there was a numbing effect that also caused part of the wound to clot. Strips of thick gauze were applied with gentle pressure. Ruby eyes never lifted from their work but the hedgehog hybrid’s rounded ears shifted and wavelet to show he was still listening.

“So you were unable to get a good look at them, then. It’s a pity. I’m sure my alternate would have loved to have a chat with them.” His tone suggested that it would have been anything but a pleasant conversation. “Beyond the one here, are there any other injuries?”

Simon hadn't even considered the idea that others might not be aware of the multiverse. Guessed he lucked out that this Shadow knew about it all. It did save the teen the need to give more explanations out.

The hybrid paused at the doorway, taking in the scene before staring down Sonic. There was a slightly amused look on Simon's face at the sight. Another familiar face. Both bringing comfort and a feeling of safety. Both family in another world.

Carefully he moved to sit on the unoccupied bed, only moving his hand away to make sure he got up without problems before it went back to holding the wound.

"Simon." He answered. His eyes trailed down to his side before he started to remove his free arm from it's sleeve. It would be easier to get to the wound if there wasn't a jacket in the way. "Must've sniped me... freaking weirdos out for blood."

[honeydjarin]

5. COLD

DINCEMBER 2022

DIN DJARIN X READER

You don’t realize how cold it is until it’s too late. Din helps you warm up again

genre: fluff

word count: 1,100

a/n: a little late as always!

PREVIOUS || SERIES MASTERLIST

A cold front sweeps in, frost blooming across every surface it can touch, including the exterior of the Razor Crest. It paints the transparisteel in delicate fractals, but that doesn’t deter you from venturing beyond the ship. 

The cold doesn’t seem so bad at first. In the morning, just as first light creeps between the trees, pale gold broken by shadows like stained glass, you lower the gangplank and step out into the snow, sealing the other inhabitants in once more so that they can stay warm, just as you’ve done every morning since landing on this sleeping planet. 

Icicles hang like ornaments from the trees, glimmering in the light but showing no signs of melting. The snow beneath your feet, once light in its freshness, crunches with every step, the top layer giving way to something softer underneath.  

The cold seeps in slowly. It brushes its fingers along your spine, caresses your cheeks and takes your hands in its own. Before you realize that the beauty has a bite, it’s too late. Your fingers and toes are numb, muscles aching, jaw straining to prevent your teeth from clacking together. 

The walk was still worth the trouble, even if you won’t thaw for hours.

You fumble with the remote Din gave you to access the Razor Crest. He had pressed the device firmly into your hands all those months ago, stating, “just in case something happens to me.” You try not to think about the implications of his words, but always keep it with you. Now, however, your frozen fingers slip, struggling to gain the dexterity needed to work the karking thing. 

Before you can press the button, the gangplank lowers. You’re blinded momentarily by a flash of gold—the morning sun reflecting off unpainted beskar. It only takes a moment for the frost to form across Din’s armor, the shiny surface turning matte before your very eyes. Din seems unphased. 

“It’s cold,” he states. For a moment you just stare at him. lookong at him is easier now that the frost coats his armor. It really must be cold. 

He’s staring down at you, visor giving nothing away, and yet you can almost feel the waves of disappointment crashing over you. You should move, but if you do he just might scold you, not unlike a child. 

A gust of wind rolls through the trees. It lifts the edges of your cloak and hides itself away inside with you. You pull the fabric in closer, the first to yield in this standoff with the Mandalorian. 

You shuffle up the ramp, and Din steps aside to allow you to pass, like a teenager who got caught sneaking in late at night. The ramp closes behind you, and instantly you feel the difference in temperature. Still, you’re cold, and will be for a while yet. The Crest is warmer than outside, but it always runs a little cool no matter how hard the heating systems are running. 

You bring your hands up to rub along your arms, hoping the friction might speed up the warming process. Behind you, Din sighs. 

“I would suggest taking a hot shower, but the ship’s sonic isn’t going to help,” he states. His footsteps are quiet as he comes to stand in front of you, still keeping some distance. Even with the space, he is almost menacing in his beskar. Too bad for him, you know how soft the man beneath the armor can really be.

“Din,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. It feels almost wrong to use his name, like a secret you aren’t supposed to know, even if he’s the one who offered it to you. It holds so much weight. 

He just sighs again.

In only a few strides, he stands directly in front of you. You can see the frost melting on his armor, separating into droplets of near freezing water. A thought crosses your mind, fleeting, but enough for you to act. 

The droplets might leave marks. 

It will be your fault if they do, and Din will have to do more work just to clean them. 

You reach for the bottom of your cloak with a cotton hand, your other hand held close to your chest, still seeking warmth. Your hand shakes as you use the cloak to wipe the drops away from the armor. 

He grasps your wrists, not enough to hurt, just strong enough to halt your rubbing motion. Maybe you’ve gone too far. His armor isn’t just for protection, it’s a part of his religion. You shouldn’t have touched it without permission. Your mind is still just clouded from the cold. 

Din lowers your hands gently, forcing the one that is barely grasping your cloak to let go, before reaching out again. This time he pulls your hood up, all the way, until it falls over your eyes.

“What are you doing?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. 

He simply says, “don’t look.”

There’s the sound of something light falling to the ground, and then you hear it again. Before you can ask him anything else, his hands return to you. He grasps your shoulders before rubbing them, just as you had done before getting distracted. Unlike your hands, which were robbed of both heat and mobility by the cold, his hands are warm, hot as a fire.  

They slowly work down your arms, rubbing heat back into your biceps, your forearms, and finally, your hands. You nearly gasp from the contact. His hands are bare, gloves discarded somewhere on the floor. You have never seen him without his gloves, never seen an inch of his skin. He is always fully covered around you, nothing less. 

Even if his Creed dictates that the only thing he is not allowed to take off around another is the helmet, that his face must remain unseen or be Mandalorian no more, he never risks showing any skin. 

It’s in that moment that you are struck with the realization that he trusts you. Sure, he’s shown it before, in ways both big and small—he has given you access to his ship and trusts that you can keep his son safe should something happen to him—but this is new. This is personal, just like when he gave you his name, hoping that you would keep it safe.

Your heart swells with affection, and suddenly it’s not so cold.

“What am I supposed to do if you get sick?” he asks, although it sounds more like a reprimand. You can’t help but grin.

“Take care of me?” 

Din just sighs, he has done that a lot this morning, but time, you like to imagine that he’s smiling too.

NEXT PART

Taglist: @dontletyourchildrenwatchthis @itzagothamcitysiren

[robotnikium]

mr. tinker was undoubtedly one of the more interesting things IDW could have given eggman, and I desperately wish it was explored a bit more.

doctor eggman, fresh out of sonic forces, loses his memory and his first gut instinct is "i don't know who i am, or where i came from, but i want to help this village that found me." which implies his evil came to be through nurture over nature. things happened in the course of his life that pushed him to be the man he is today.

eggman, the renown world conqueror wants to sing, make toys, take care of his community and be a father. he creates belle because he wants to be a father.

yet doctor eggman, before tinker, does nothing but reject the companionship of others. insists he's the only one that knows what is right for the world and will not here another word about it. he is fury incarnate. obsessive and violent. so much things must have happened to push him to this extreme.

and i'm not saying this to gain sympathy. i fully believe (even as mr. tinker) he should get what is coming to him. because despite what he's been through, it doesn't deter from the fact that he's done so much worse. he has gone well beyond the grace of second chances.

i really wish IDW would challenge eggman more with the idea that he created belle as a daughter and that she, despite everything, wants to see him as her father. i want to see that struggle of desires and i want him to, finally, ask himself if this is what he wants.

but he won't. he's too addicted to his own chaos to change. he's already come so far, what point is there in turning back? he won't stop until there is a tombstone with "the planet earth" engraved on it.

[gftimelord]

*Stanford watched his younger self, studying every flicker of emotion across the younger man’s face. The way he stood, rigid and on edge, scrutinizing every word and movement as though trying to piece together how his future had led him here. It was almost amusing, seeing that cautious, rule-bound version of himself, the one who had once followed every law of science to the letter, now staring in disbelief at the man who had tossed those rules aside in favor of something far more dangerous.*

*The doctor chuckled softly. He could practically hear the gears turning in the other's brain, the younger researcher’s mind racing to reconcile the version of himself he knew with the one standing in front of him.*

"If you're wondering just how much trouble I'm in with nearly everything else in the multiverse, let's put it into perspective, shall we?"

*Ford’s tone was casual, as if he were talking about something mundane. He knew the other man was likely thinking about the sheer scale of it all, how someone as cautious as he had been could become this version of himself. The same version that now strode across dimensions, facing—and at many times causing—threats beyond what either of them could’ve once imagined.*

"I can deter entire armies from attacking by the simple mention of my name. How's that for renowned?"

*The older man smirked slightly, letting the weight of those words sink in. It was a statement of pride, yes, but there was also a heaviness behind it—one the younger Stanford wouldn’t yet be able to grasp.*

*But his younger self wasn’t focused on that. No, his eyes were glued to the sonic screwdriver. Ford could see it in his posture—the tense way his counterpart was watching the device, ready to jump at the first sign of carelessness. To him, that little device in Ford’s hand might as well have been a ticking bomb.*

*Ford’s grin widened. He couldn’t resist the temptation. With a nonchalant flick, he tossed the screwdriver over his shoulder, sending it sailing out of the younger man’s reach. It clattered harmlessly to the floor with a dull thud. And nothing happened. No explosion, no rift in the fabric of reality. It was just an object hitting the ground, no more threatening than a dropped pen.*

"Stanford. Filbrick. Pines."

*The doctor said, shaking his head slightly, amusement lacing his tone as he punctuated every word.*

"You would think that for something as important as the sonic screwdriver, I would at least make sure it was shock-proof or drop-resistant. I'm not an idiot. Unless you'd willingly call yourself such."

*The while initially at ease, the mention of the portal shifted Ford’s expression, dimming the amusement in his eyes. That wasn’t something he could brush off easily. The memories of the portal were still sharp, still cutting. The guilt from what happened with Fiddleford and Stanley, the whole mess he had caused, resurfaced like it always did. No matter how many victories and achievements he secured or how far he traveled, that part of his past refused to fade.*

"I'm here because uh... I suppose the nostalgia?"

*The doctor’s voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. The levity in the room had drained away.*

"I'm the Doctor. I go wherever, whenever, in my spare time if I'm not sticking my nose in whatever chaos the multiverse needs sorting out. Missed the simpler days, is all."

*The weight of the conversation hung in the air, thick and unspoken. There was so much he knew, but so little he chose to say. The mysteries of his travels, his scars, his triumphs—always more than met the eye.*

"How fascinating, versions of me from all walks of life seem to collate on this platform. I'd argue that we've saturated this place but I think we could always do with a couple more... or would this high level of interaction be quite detrimental? Mabel was fine with her counterparts, navigating this should be a walk in the park!"

"Well, a labyrinth more like but I'll manage. I think."

- @gftimelord

Greetings! Glad to see a new version of me! Are you also studying parallel realities? At the moment I have not found a way to move (other than the portal), so I am collecting information about variations through interviews. I would be glad if you tell me a little about yourself!

[barnesandco]

Blame it on the Heartache

A broken woman finds a lost man, and they try to put each other back together.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo​​ 2020. Word count: approximately 2219. Square filled: “Morning Sex”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence, warzones, and one brief mention of persecution of LGBT people in Chechnya. Oh and also smut. Lots of smut (18+ only). It was supposed to be just smut, but then angst happened, and here we are. 

A/N: There’s some talk about blame in this fic, and honestly, I blame (and thank) @heli0s-writes​, this post, and this one. Also, there will be a part 2 some time next week.

You find him by accident. Kiev bar just after dawn, with wooden bar tops and table tops all rotting with the steady decay of time and too little money, disguises his head of dark hair and grimy outline in a corner booth perfectly but your eyes lock onto the side profile, the slope of his nose and the bow of his lips arching against the light of the snow outside. The Winter Soldier, or the shell he has left behind, sits with a shot glass clutched loosely in a gloved hand, the other one’s fingers decorated with rings.

They’re intriguing things, that you watch closely from the bar, pounding head distracted by the scent of hot chocolate and the jewellery that is both the manifestation of wishes for a prettier life, and the mark of a roughened man at the same time. The light catches on a round ruby set on a silver band on his forefinger. It reminds you of the red star painted on gleaming gray you first saw smuggling political refugees from one warzone into another. The time you were a spy, before you were an activist, before you gave up all hope of NGO pretenses and took things into your own hands, helping people with only the wind to guide you.

Not that you succeeded much. Now, days after desperate depression and harrowing hopelessness thanks to only having managed to rescue half as many queer Chechen teens from their torture cells as intended, you are aching with the weight of your uselessness. The air around you, the tonnes of the morning sky are pressing down on your shoulders, and the whiskey in your hot chocolate is doing little to relieve the tension.

The sorrow is what you will blame, later. Or perhaps, the alcohol, although there is barely a syringe’s worth of it in your system with less than half your mug still empty and going cold quick. You’ll fault the loneliness of decades helping a world that does not want to become better for how you rise from your stool and sit down across from the man who thinks he is a stranger to you.

You’ve read the stories. Seen the videos of the helicarrier falling apart above the Potomac, the camera footage captured by a daring chopper, and the Smithsonian’s exhibit on Bucky Barnes. The eyes staring back at you, calculating, clever, above cutting cheekbones, are the same as the ones on the wall in the museum. He’s had a century of pain and you only tenths of one, but the hurt rings out and resonates clearly, a sonic bell of a distress signal, captured by wandering eyes and inexplicable want.

You wonder what he will blame for his response to you unbuttoning the top of your shirt, and your hand over his. Possibly, the fact that he’s been on the run for a year. A year out of the cryostasis detailed by the files the Black Widow leaked in D.C. A year of running, of being alone and sometimes worse -- only the haunting nightmares for company. Your sympathy, the same one that pushes you to keep at your job when it is forever hopeless, is what pulls your heartstrings closer to him.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you blame desolation. You blame the flaming burn of want that shines from his eyes when he sees a face that is not just friendly, but maybe familiar, too. Something tells you you ought to be scared, as he rises and drops a hryvnia bill on the table, and leaves, still holding your hand, but the strength of his grip deters you. The hold is gentle, calloused, the rings grazing your palm as he adjusts to intertwine your hands, so each metal band comes to rest against the sensitive skin between your fingers. Tight enough to feel coarse skin and trembling desire, but loose enough that you can easily leave. Run. You are not being forced anywhere.

The streets of Kiev become a shimmering, white backdrop to his face that looks even more stunning in the light. How much of your last encounter does he recall, if any? New Mexico, 2001, protection detail for war scarred children who needed to evacuate, one of which was an heir to a throne. A brawl in a market, sweat-sticky sundress flaring furiously, the heat of the American sun no match for that of his arms around you. A dance, a twirling battle, and the gasping from breath in the aftermath was one hell of a challenge. Something that restored your faith in your job.

But you’re far from Albuquerque, now, and are reminded of that fact as he leads you to the polar opposite of a southern tavern. It’s an inn. A quaint, small place, more wood, this one gleaming brown on the walls and the hardwood floors and the mahogany counter, all well kept. He strides past the burning fireplace in the lobby and climbs the stairs two at a time, as you struggle to keep up. Part of your lust-addled brain thinks to joke about how he has you panting before he’s even gotten you in bed.

All thought of laughter evaporates when he shuts the door and presses you against it with his human forearm pressing on your neck. Tight enough to threaten but loose enough to let you breath. Your heart beats faster, the pulse of your veins thrumming a little closer to the surface. 

Who are you? he growls in Ukrainian, eyes shifting between threatening and offering little hints of fear. When you do not answer, he asks, who sent you? 

The material of his jacket is rough where it pushes into you. You have to fight to speak. “Nobody.” The English makes his eyes widen, and you barely have time to question whether this move killed you or saved you, when he takes his arm off your neck and replaces it with his mouth.

Heavenly heat, hellish white light, blinding ecstasy erupts like a volcano where he begins to devour you like he hasn’t for centuries, for millennia of loneliness, and there, in the innocent hotel room, your head fills with images of everything but. Hands find his hair, knock the woollen hat off his head while his teeth trace a pleasure-trail down your neck and to your collarbone, his fingers clenching on your hips. 

You push back, off the door and into the room, standing now, supporting your own weight on weak knees and shaking breath. He steals the last of it you have left when he leaves your collarbone -- a bruise blooming ripely in the color of a plum -- to find your lips, and this, this is what salvation tastes like. Vodka and whiskey and chocolate, on lips chapped but lush and soft beyond the rough exterior. A gasping sound of want released in a hurried exhale between kisses makes him growl from somewhere in his chest. 

The vibrations reach your heart, heavy and loud and beating a march of deathly desire on your rib cage. You hold onto him with tight fists, like he will float away, because this is the only way to let go. There is a reassurance, in his hands clutching your jeans tighter, that he isn’t leaving. His fingers slip under your sweater, and then under your shirt, and you break away with a gasp as cold metal -- full hand on one side, and slim rings on the other -- meets your skin.

Then you press his hands to you tighter, let him tear your upper layers away, tug his jacket and sweater off his shoulders as he becomes well acquainted with the tops of your breasts, the parts visible above your bra. Head bowed in sacred confession, he finds rescue in your body, skin shining in the light of the beginning day behind you. A new start.

A new hiding place, he goes down on both knees, laving at your belly button, leaving you spit-shiny and cooling in the chilly air. He takes your jeans off slowly, a contrast to every other step made so far, and mouths at your mound, soaking your underwear further with slow, maddening movements of his tongue. You’ve had enough. This buzzing heat has turned to forest fire in your pulse, and you take your bra off and pull him up and towards you. 

His chest is warm against you when you fall back against the bed, his weight recognizable. The Soldier -- James, you think, for now -- buries himself in your neck with a renewed vigor. Begins to move down your body to the apex of your thighs, where you are wet. Dripping, soaking wet, just for him. The first touch of his tongue to your honey-sweet slick is an electric spark, and he lights you up like the fourth of July with every touch after. Fireworks in your irises mirror the flames licking up your spine, and his eyes meet yours when he opens them in moments of reprieve from enjoying the taste of you.

Purgatory, this limbo between right and wrong, is the closest you have been to joy in as long as you can remember. It aches in your limbs as you inch closer to the cliff’s edge of delectable joy. 

“Enough,” you say, when you ache for more, when you are empty and wanting only him inside of you, all of him, and he moves away. Trepidation in his eyes at the thought of being pushed away evaporates when you pull him back, the flow of your pushes and pulls echoing with the power of the moon, and how it brings the waves to lap at the land a reflection of how James’ chest meets yours when you have opened the buttons of his shirt.

It hangs open, a curtain around you, and you dexterously strip him of his jeans as well, toes pushing at the waistband and belt falling off the bed with a clink that sounds like the final nail in the coffin. You’ll gladly die a little death here, if he’s the executioner. 

His cock is leaking with arousal, hard against the lines of his abdomen begin to smear a shiny trail against you as well, and you take him in hand and he groans. Throbbing hot in your hand, velvet heat over solid steel hardness, and you spit in your hand before slicking him up a little more, his moans louder and unreserved in your clavicle, teeth grazing the spots he has made tender. 

Desperate man. Lonely, sweet, sad man. Your heart aches for him, and you want to give him more than his cruel lifetimes have so far. You want to give him warmth, starting with the warmth of your silk body, as he slips inside of you, slumping, his forehead pressing into your shoulders and murmuring what you think is a prayer into you. 

His hands are moving with feverish intensity over you, metal warmer now, as he throbs and pulses and then adjusts to your heat. All that while, you hold him. Hands first over his shoulder blades, then moving your right hand to his left, slipping under his hold on the sheets to entwine his fingers with yours the way he did in the street that feels miles below wherever you’re flying.

He’s so big, and you are so full, nerves prickling with electrostatic lust, that you have to focus on the swell of him above you, the hand holding yours and the shape of the rings on his fingers not to lose it right there. Then he starts moving.

And you’ll swear you’ve never felt true bliss before this moment, because James moving inside you, with slow thrusts, stretching your walls in delightful pain, is a luxury you’ve never lived before. Stealing your breath, his pace picks up, and you feel every ridge along his length on the inside of your body. Fire pools in your belly, and his hand is drawn to it. He supports himself on his metal arm, and trails the other down your torso. Obsidian shimmers on his ring finger and there is the unmistakable wink of vibranium on his little finger, as his hand dips lower to your clit, and you watch the spot where he moves in and out.

Lascivious eyes watch you watch his fingers circle your nub, tracing the path to your gratification, and they shine when you mewl, arching up, circling your hips. Climbing higher and higher, he moves faster, hits a spot in you that burns brighter than the Sun rising in the sky, and everything explodes in a supernova of heat, color behind your eyelids and warmth flooding your insides as he spills deep, growls against your throat, hand clutching your wrist when he falls forward. 

You are marked up in his artistry, a painting of pleasure in the mouth-made bruises on your neck and the fingerprints on your hips, and the circular indentations from his rings on your neck. He softens inside you, as you overflow with your combined pleasures, and you hum against the crown of his head, as you run your fingers through his scalp. Sated man, grateful man, miracle pleasure, purring in your arms, too dangerous to keep, but too comfortable a weight to let go of so soon.

[newmusickarl]

Album of the Week: 91 Days In Isolation by The Slow Readers Club

When Mancunian indie rockers The Slow Readers Club released their fourth studio album The Joy of the Return in March this year, they probably weren’t expecting to drop their fifth studio album just a few months later. However 2020 has been a strange year, with COVID-19 causing non-stop disruption and hardship on both the music, and wider world. Summer festivals and album tours were off the agenda, with the Readers instead plunged into a UK-wide lockdown.

Not to be deterred, the time was spent productively with each member of the band working individually at home on different elements of songs. This eventually all came together and out of this bleak, secluded period comes 91 Days In Isolation – an immensely timely and politically-aware record, that also features some of the band’s finest moments to date.

The Starkie brothers, James Ryan and David Whitworth have never been ones to shy aware from the darker social and political issues, and whilst confined to COVID lockdown it’s come as no surprise they’ve dived headfirst into the changing times that the pandemic has caused. Across the album’s eight tracks, the Readers share their observations during an intense summer of fear and uncertainty, letting the listener into their most vulnerable thoughts and feelings. All of this is propelled wonderfully by their signature sonic backdrop of pulsating synths and atmospheric guitar riffs.

From the ominous swell of the mightily infectious Yet Again, the piano-driven outro of Like I Wanted To and the stinging guitars and heartfelt vocals on Everything I Own, the lockdown has really brought the very best out of the Readers. However it is arguably Two Minutes Hate that offers up the record’s crowning achievement, with the track’s arena-ready chorus of “And I start to crave chaos, unleash this rage in us” providing the perfect anthem for 2020.

All in all this is a fantastic record, not only one of the Reader’s best to date but also an album that couldn’t be more of-the-moment.

Best tracks: Two Minutes Hate, Everything I Own, Yet Again

Albums also recommended:

Letter To You by Bruce Springsteen

From a record that was forged over 91 days to one that was crafted in just five. On the Boss’ 20th (yes 20th) studio album, he looks back on his life and career in profound and poignant fashion, crafting some of his best work in years. Recorded live with the ever-present E Street Band, songs like the stripped-back, Dylan-esque strum of One Minute You’re Here and the roaring Born-To-Run vibes of Ghost, show Brucey still has plenty left in the tank.

Song Machine, Season One: Strange Timez by Gorillaz

Damon Albarn has revived the output of his cartoonish creation through Gorillaz’s new Song Machine project, which sees the band releasing a new song each month. Now Season One collates all the tracks released throughout the year so far, featuring some iconic guest artists including Elton John, Kano, Robert Smith, Peter Hook and St. Vincent, as well as current favourites like Slowthai, Georgia and Octavian. It all makes for a fun, fascinating listen, that potentially offers an insight into the next evolution of music releases beyond the traditional album format - roll on Season Two!

Tracks of the Week

Been In My Dream by Dave Jakes

The former Lonely The Brave frontman has returned, with a new self-titled EP arriving in December. Been In My Dream offers the first taste of Jakes’ solo material, and it shows undeniably that he still has his flair for beautiful, heartfelt songwriting, that hits you right in the gut. Stunning!

Artifice by Sundara Karma

Reading-based indie darlings Sundara Karma mix things up on their brilliant new single, with the guitars taking a backseat to xylophones, synths and frontman Oscar Pollock’s distorted auto-tuned vocals.

Straight To The Morning by Hot Chip featuring Jarvis Cocker

Enrolling the legendary Jarvis Cocker to join them, Hot Chip’s latest dancefloor-ready single is “a disco anthem about going out, for a time when people really can’t.”

Teardrops by Bring Me The Horizon

With an apocalypse-inspired new album dropping later this week, Sheffield rockers Bring Me The Horizon have dropped the final teaser in the form of Teardrops. Continuing their trajectory back towards their heavier tendencies following their recent pop-detour, the track draws heavy Linkin Park comparisons blending alternative metal with a mainstream pop hook.

First Aid by Gus Dapperton

And finally this week, indie-pop sensation Gus Dapperton has already assured himself of a spot on my Albums of the Year list thanks to his incredible sophomore effort Orca, and one of the main reasons for that being the case is his track First Aid. Now released as a single with a striking, self-directed video, First Aid sees Gus confront head on (literally in the video’s case) his mental health issues, in what is still one of the most heartbreaking, emotionally-stirring, but ultimately uplifting songs I have heard all year. Check out the video above and definitely give Orca a listen if you haven’t already.

[a-patheticapathetic]

Rishloo - Feathergun: Review

New year, new me. Let’s repeat that until it becomes true. 

There seems to be a pattern with how I discover music. At a very young age, I hear a song in a very specific circumstance. It has a big impact on me, but I make absolutely zero effort to check out any of the artist’s other music and instead meander onto another earworm. Then, years later, I have another chance meeting with the same song/album/artist and fall completely down a rabbithole that foundationally changes my taste in music. It happened with Radiohead (High and Dry as one of the default songs in the original Rocksmith), Queens of the Stone Age (Lost Art of Keeping a Secret in a stick figure animation), and Nine Inch Nails (Hurt (Quiet) on Spotify radio). Then, there was this strange song called “Scissorlips” that I saw on a very small Rock Band 3 drum channel. I showed it to my brother because of how fun the chart looked, and made the mistake of watching his reaction to the video. His disinterest embarrassed me enough that I never chased the music. That is, of course, until many years later, when I was introduced to Tool. The rest is history, and is frankly stalling me from starting the actual review. Let’s get to it.

Scissorlips - 8/10

The strange, dark jungle the album begins with is a nice representation of the album cover, although it won’t rule over the entire runtime. Don’t let the de-tuned guitar under the vocals deter you; the rest of the guitarwork here is beautiful. As we reach the pre-chorus, the percussionists may hear why I was interested in this song as a kid. This is also where the sonic background really opens up, swallowing you for a moment before the intro verse comes back. The lyricism here is also very abstract, yet isn’t impossible to follow. A couple of metallic bites taken out of the mostly psychedelic walls of guitars, then, the first of many beautiful delay effects. The build-up got me pretty good when I heard this so many years ago, and It’s still damn good. For the love. There are so many guitar lines here that just intertwine and enlace you. Then, something a bit heavier (yet oddly hopeful) to round the song out.

Turning Sheep into Goats - 7/10

This intro is more of what can be expected for the rest of the album, sonically speaking. A lone guitar with delay playing a complicated and alluring line in a strange time signature, then built upon. The path you may assume this song will follow is extremely suddenly changed at the chorus, the vocals really driving it home. Then, back into that nice opening riff like nothing happened. The next time that chorus comes thundering around, listen to that low guitar and the way it combines with the drums. Then drop out the ugliness into a floating mesh of palm mutes and synthetic strings. And don’t miss the fl

Systematomatic - 7/10

awless transition into the next song. Immediately, a new riff rises from the pond of reverb. You may not identify it immediately, but don’t worry, you’ll get more chances to. Very fast guitar-work that somehow doesn't sound so frantic, although the chorus definitely has a certain desperation to it. The mood gets heavy again, before quickly sliding into a strange, feverish haze. Some hits of percussion, then a recontexutalized and slower return to the riff at the start of the song. Weave us back into war.

River of Glass - 8/10

Now this is an ear-catching introduction. What seems to be a calm wave of delay is punctuated by war drums and a grimier lead. The mood builds, then crescendos into the song proper. The chorus is hear damn near immediately, and is extremely catchy for prog. This album is really just full of extremely memorable vocals, and the instrumentals complement them perfectly. We get two goes-around before we fall into these twisting and sliding strings. The drummer is also on his A-game here. Then, the guitars push into the clouds before coming back down with another short but heavy low. Then it all cuts out for a second, juts to make the burst into the final chorus that much more effective.

Keyhole in the Sky - 7/10

This one is simpler, but also very filling and peaceful. Unfortunately it does begin to showcase my only problem with this album; the vocals are mixed too loud at times. And while the singer is absolutely incredible, sometimes I’d like the instrumentals to breathe a bit more. The walls of high guitar come back around, this time feeling much more friendly and familiar. One last chorus, closing on a quiet note. Though it’s not over; an alien feedback loop and somber, echoey horn passage lead us into the next track

Downhill - 10/10

This song has two main phases, and is absolutely perfect throughout. An easy start; a relatively simple and serene riff fed through a pleasant delay pedal, with some subtle synth and bass backing. The vocals shine through, as clear as ever. And wave, goodbye. Then, like stepping through a portal into phase one. A very interesting, rhythmic and almost bluesy instrumental accompanies the title-drop. Then, we fall for miles down a well of piano. The bottom greets us with a moonlit key solo, then an incredible Floydian guitar solo. Hanging on the last note, phase two begins with an ominous drone and repeating guitar line. The drums rise, give a false start. then... perfection. I cannot do phase two justice with words. Just close your eyes, listen, and be swept away in what I believe to be one of the greatest vocal performances of all time.

Lost.

Feathergun in the Garden of the Sun - 9/10

Not to be outdone by the previous masterpiece, the title track opens with another wonderful soundscape, before the distortion comes in. The drums pick up the tension, bringing us into the pre-chorus. That riff is going to be impossible to tap your foot to at first, but the next ones should be easier. And here we have perhaps the best chorus on the record; extremely powerful in writing and execution on the parts of every band member. The second time around is just as good as the first, then the brdige begins. Ready, aim... The heaviest riff on the album, and an abrupt switch into the last chorus. Fade out.

Dreamcatcher - 7/10

A nice break from the intensity. This feels like a peaceful tidepool on an alien world, with creatures and colors beyond the world floating around my head. Short but sweet.

Diamond Eyes - 6/10

By no means bad, I do feel like this one may be the weakest track on the album. While it’s certainly beautiful, I feel like it doesn’t do a whole lot that’s new or interesting. Also, when listening at high volume (which is the proper way to listen to this album), the faults in the mixing really rear their ugly heads during the choruses. Still, there are some very pleasant rolling delay loops here during the bridge, and a nice and satisfying buildup towards the end.

Katsushika - 7/10

While the guitar opening this track may be the most straight-forward and least effects-driven riff we’ve heard so far, this song will eventually become the most alien one of the entire lineup. In a good way, of course. I can barely even decipher exactly what’s going on in the instrumentation during that build. The chorus also ends with a nice drop-off into the next verse. You may be noticing a pattern with the songwriting, where the chorus usually leads into the second verse, following the pattern of the first one but with more layering. I like it; it gives the ideas present more time to mature and develop. Anyways, here comes the bridge, where everything changes. Out of everything going on here, I feel like the drums and the background vocals are the most striking thing about this outro. What a fantastic progression and dropout. Beautiful monsters.

Weevil Bride - 8/10

The finale. This riff here is extremely well-done. The tone here is somehow piercingly bright and concerningly dark at the same time. The lyricals themes of the album also come to a head here. This chorus is another incredibly written and performed beast; just wait until it’s modulated. The second verse lays away with the subtleties and strikes at the head. And I just need to know that everything is fine, and everyone’s alright. This bridge also kicks ass, with its heart-pouding combination of guitars and toms. Then, comes the heaviest part of the entire album: Yes, please. Then we are snapped out of the masochism and lifted back to hear the main point of the album, before the intro riff carries us into an uncertain but complete conclusion. After the “true” song ends, there is a long passage of somber horns and a tranquil, almost lullaby-esque keyboard. There’s something extremely nostalgic about this outro to me, but I still can’t put my finger on where it comes from. This section almost feels like the music they play after the end of a play, as the lights come on and you make your way down the dimly-lit theater steps on slightly numb and shaky legs. The story is over; this is your time to reflect.

The main reason I wanted to write about this album in particular is because I feel like it hasn’t gotten the attention it’s deserved. It truly feels like a masterpiece worthy of widespread recognition and praise, but despite being released over a decade ago, few people have even heard of this band. It feels like injustice, not only for Rishloo’s efforts, but for the people who would connect with this album as much as I have. Also, there’s the slightly selfish hope that increased attention would incentivize the band to work on more new stuff, or better yet, remaster their older works.

In any case, It’s very late, my back hurts because my spine hates my nervous system, and I need to actually get to sleep tonight so I can heal the godforsaken nerve that wedged itself in my inner workings yesterday. On a scale from “Your all-time low just lowered again”, to “Want some? Yes, please”, I give Feathergun a “Oh, what beautiful monsters”.

[amillionmillionvoices]

27 "Tell me Again" 11xRiver, please 💕

(featuring sex pollen but with no sex)

“Tell me again,” the Doctor says, “Start from the beginning.”River huffs, agitation growing as she tugs a hand through her hair, her nerves alight. “For the third and final time,” she says, trying not to grit her teeth, “I was excavating a tomb on Haras. I found an idol. I touched the idol. The soil was laced with poison and now I need you to take me to the Sisters for an antidote.”It’s the truth, sort of, or partially—she’s well rehearsed in leaving out vital details, and this is no different. She’d done her due diligence, asked him immediately where they were—and then immediately regretted it. He doesn’t even know who she is yet, let alone that they’re married, and when she’d sent a message for “a little help” this isn’t what she’d had in mind: the Doctor, scanning her with his sonic, trying to determine exactly why she’s burning up, why she’s weak and leaning heavily on the TARDIS console.“There’s no poison in your system,” he says, staring intently at the TARDIS’ scanners. “But your vitals are all over the place. And the TARDIS keeps—” He whacks the scanner with his palm, and River resists the urge to snap at him. The TARDIS is doing what she needs to, to keep their timelines in tact; if he finds out now she has two hearts, that she isn’t quite human... River doesn’t want to think about it.She doesn’t want to think about anything right now.“Doctor,” she manages, “I think I know when I’ve been drugged.”“You said poisoned.”“Semantics.”She straightens, and tries to move around the console to input the coordinates herself, but her thighs rub together and it hurts, in such a good way, that she whimpers.The Doctor reaches for her, and it takes every ounce of her willpower to pull away, a barely growled, “don’t touch me” that sends him reeling back.“River—”“This is why I wanted an older you,” she mutters, trying to keep her hands from reaching for him. It’s always a struggle when he’s young, not to touch him—little brushes of her hands over his arms or back, brief kisses to his cheeks or lips, even just to press herself into his side when they stand close. But she can’t do any of that, especially not now, not with the drug in her veins and her vision starting to cloud.“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks indignantly.River huffs. “Nothing, sweetie, just—”“You’re in pain.”She almost laughs. “Just—get me to hospital.”He nods, still staring at her for a long moment before he moves, careening around the console, and he leaves the breaks on and the TARDIS groans and River stumbles and she grits her teeth to keep from snapping at him.They land with a jolt, and River means to push herself toward the door, but when she moves, a wave of arousal so strong passes down her spine that she has to stop, half bent at the waist and her eyes squeezed shut and then his hands are on her, so soft and gentle, helping her up and she can’t help but lean into his touch with a whimper, her hand curling into his tweed jacket before she can stop herself.“Doctor—”“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low and warm and does things to her they shouldn’t, not when he’s so young. His hand rubs over her back but it isn’t soothing; her skin feels like it’s on fire, and she bites down hard on her lip to keep a moan inside.It’s every ounce of strength she has to pull away from him, to slip out of the TARDIS and into the bright of the waiting room. She’s got one hand around her stomach and the other on the wall and it’s only a few seconds before a nurse appears at her side.River knows she’s asking her questions, but she can’t quite answer. She’s starting to sweat and her hearts are pounding and the Doctor is standing so close she can smell him, sweat and pheromones and time. She wants him, but the nurse has a firm grip on her arm and she just keeps repeating to herself, too young too young too young.“River,” his voice cuts through the fog, “River where did you say you were digging? What tomb?”“I didn’t,” she says. “I’m fine now. You should go.”He looks affronted, and she almost smiles. “I’m not leaving you here.”“I don’t need you to—”“I don’t care. I’m staying until you’re better.”There’s an edge to his voice she’s heard before, a protective note she never thought she’d hear again, and it softens something inside her, against her better judgement.“Fine,” she grits out, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”His response, “Warn me about what?” gets muted as the nurse guides her to a room and begins questioning her, and she can’t lie, not anymore, not without getting the wrong medication so she steels herself and says,“I just need a dose of takisol.”The nurse barely bats an eyelash. “I’ll be the one to determine that,” she says, reaching for a heart monitoring device.River shakes her head. “I’ve been here before, you have my file. Just—”Another wave of arousal steals over her skin, and she grips the nurse’s wrist a bit too tightly.“Takisol. Now.”“River, you need to let the nurse do her job and—”She cracks, eyes squeezed shut as she says, “Haras is known for their sacred tombs dedicated to the Valya, the goddess of fertility, marriage, and love.” She looks meaningfully at the nurse. “Their idols are often doused before they’re entombed.”“Doused with what?” the Doctor says, at the same time the nurse says,“Ah. And how long ago—”“35 minutes.”It’s not quite do or die, but without a release—or an antidote—the drug causes debilitating pain, blindness, and, in some instances, excessive vomitting, all things River would very much prefer to avoid. The nurse checks a few things on her device, then pulls gently away and pats River’s arm. “I’ll get you that takisol.”River nods gratefully, trying not to shift too much on the bed as the nurse quickly departs.The room is silent, only the faint hum of commotion beyond the door, and River wants to keep her eyes shut, wants to pretend she’s alone; but she can feel his presence, feel him in the room, and can’t quite stop herself from looking up.He isn’t looking at her, his cheeks flushed red and his hands fiddling with a bit of machinery as he sways on his feet, and she almost laughs.“Figured it out, did you?”He barely glances at her. “Well, yes. I mean. I’m assuming... I thought you were— but you’re not—““Don’t hurt yourself,” she says, gritting her teeth, thankful when the nurse returns. Two pills and a shot in the arm later, the nurse tells her to rest and she’ll be back in an hour. “It should wear out of your system in less than 90 minutes, and we’ll get you your second dose then.”River nods, and caves to the feeling of the soft bed and puts her feet up, angling the bed so she can sit straight. The Doctor is still examining the room with far too much inquisitiveness, and she tries to ignore the sting of it—that he won’t look at her. That he won’t speak to her. That perhaps the thought of being with her, that way, is too much, is so repugnant to him he can’t bare to lay eyes on her.It’s a far cry from the last time she saw him, older and calmer and worshiping her with his hands on her skin and his lips everywhere and she takes a deep breath, pushing those thoughts as far away as they’ll go.Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and tries not to fidget.“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she says, and he jumps a bit, turning slightly toward her. “I’ve got my vortex manipulator. I’ll be out of here in no time.”He doesn’t quite look at her. “If that’s what you want.”She can’t tell if he’s offering to stay or begging for an excuse to leave.“I’m more concerned with what you want at the moment,” she says plainly, and he looks at her, finally, cheeks still slightly pink and eyes wide, but to her surprise, his expression is soft, careful.“You’re alright?”She forces a smile. “I’m fine, Doctor. Just a bit...uncomfortable.”He flushes again, but moves slightly closer to the bed, rather than away.“I thought you were hurt,” he says after a moment. “When you called me, I thought—”“I didn’t mean to worry you.”“I wasn’t worried,” he says, and her hearts pinch.“Well, no, of course—”“I was frightened. I thought something happened to you.”She softens, and resists the urge to reach for him.“Technically speaking, something did,” she teases gently. “But I’m alright.”He nods, still inching closer, fingers tangling together.“You said you wanted an older me. Why?”River sighs. Of course he would ask, even when the answer is so obvious. “Spoilers.”He shakes his head. “I don’t think it is. If all you’d wanted was the medication, you could have brought yourself here.”“TARDIS is easier.”“Also later.” He looks a bit chagrined. “My fault.”“Always is,” she says, smirking, but he isn’t deterred, finally close enough that he sits down, perched on the edge of the chair near the bed, like he might take flight at any moment.“You didn’t want to come here. You wanted an older me.” He pauses, licks his lips, and River wishes the damn meds would work faster. “Is that because we...” He trails off, glancing up at her through his fringe, almost nervous.River swallows tightly. “That’s up to you.”He frowns, and River fights the sudden, inexplicable urge to cry.“Time can be rewritten,” she says, and hopes her voice doesn’t waver too much. She can’t bear to think about it - if he did decide differently. If he looked at her and felt nothing, continued to feel nothing. If he never married her, never touched her, never cared for her the way her Doctor does. She thinks of all the stories they’ve had, all the nights and days that would be rewritten, retold; what her life would or will be like, without him so close. What it would or will be like to love him from afar and he’s promised her it won’t happen; promised her time and again that he chose her, and always will. But he’s looking at her now with confusion, without a shred of desire, and she can’t see the path: can’t understand how he gets there, to where she is. Can’t imagine why or how he ever falls in love with her.And then there’s something on her hand, soft and warm and she opens her eyes and he’s leaning forward, his hand covering hers.“River.”She inhaled sharply. “Doctor, don’t—”“You’d let me change it? Your history, your past?”She blinks, and nods. “If it’s not what you wanted? Of course I would.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it’s all she can manage. Her skin is still tingling, especially where he’s touching her, and her mind is reeling and her hearts won’t stop pounding as he stares at her, and stares, and stares, and then, slowly, smiles, and squeezes her hand tightly.“Have I ever told you that you’re quite amazing, River Song?”She exhales shakily, does her best to smile. “A few times.”His thumb brushes back and forth over her skin, but it feels nice now, soothing.“Remind me to tell you more often.”It isn’t a promise, isn’t a guarantee, but there’s something in his eyes, something warm and welcome, something that looks a little bit like longing. And she can wait for the rest.