#Yes it/its is barely scratching the surface of the fucked up interesting things one can do but the point is even it/its is hard to find. Ok

[seafoam-taide]

there needto be more weird little freaks with weird pronouns and weird interests who do weird things in the world (<- guy who's every oc is one or all of these things)

[fumifooms]

Mozu character analysis - Power & Security

[pics: first is from here, second is from here. First is the official translation but second can also reinforce details imo]  Tw for: extensive discussion of parental physical abuse and trauma. Violent demeanor and also implied sexism & objectification.

Mozu’s a really interesting character that Dr. Stone barely scratched the surface of with the prodigy discussion with Hyoga, and I’m just unhinged enough (and my college semester just ended) so that I’m going to write an essay about his psychology. Rejoice, autism be upon ye. It’s under a cut bc buckle up everyone this is gonna be long. Oh also, this is just a fan analysis so of course I can’t and don’t claim that this is the ultimate universal “right” reading of his character, but I do think it’s a solid reading with what canon gave us. Also I have to confess that I didn’t read all of the Treasure Island arc… I mostly skipped chapters except the ones Mozu was in lol, for that reason I might very well be unaware of some aspects.

The way his backstory affects him

Here are the main points of canon to keep in mind for this:

1: His father was abusive, and when he started being violent with him, Mozu almost killed him when he retaliated. 

2: He’s lived all his life on Treasure Island, and is its lead warrior, very high-ranked.

3: He’s a prodigy that supposedly was born with an innate incredible physical strength. 

Now I’m a nurture over nature kinda gal, so we’ll spend a long time talking about how his environment shaped him. We’ll start of by clarifying the father situation as much as we can: it’s rare that someone/a relationship goes from 0 to 100 like that, I think it’s safe to assume that even before he started hitting him his father was still very much unpleasant and abusive in various ways.

So let’s get into it. 1: Do I even have to talk about how much having an abusive parent fucks you up. That kid probably developed hypervigilance and survival instincts early on at home, that tends to happen when you have to make sure your father isn’t going to take out his anger on you, and calculate what you can do to not get punished, more on that later. You know, like that post of someone talking about how someone angrily folding a sock at you makes you tense and adrenaline rush. Things become warning signs to defend against, anyways I’m getting slightly sidetracked- I’m sure his father taught him a bunch of shit ideology by his actions and words. Just even how he sees himself being a prodigy: being as strong as he was is how he was able to defend himself when his father became physically abusive, maybe he could have even died. That alone could explain for me why he values the innate qualities such as strength and beauty in people instead of training and earned skills, because in his case if he hadn’t been born strong or whatever he wouldn’t have been able to come through the way he has. He’d be in deep shit. And that’s why he sees innate strength as the only thing that distinguish people of value. Just getting beatings alone, without the extra backstory of retaliating, could have very well “taught” him that strength is the way the world runs, making him see it as the ultimate thing to possess. The human brain focuses first of all on survival and safety, whatever wrong things you learn or do come in second to that, especially when you’re in a developmental stage like a kid.

2: I think we can all agree the system on Treasure Island is hella tyrannical. Ibara can pretty much do whatever he wants, and the only untouchable people are the one who are high-ranked (pretty much only warriors) and… Yep no that’s it. Mozu became the highest ranking warrior besides Kirisame thanks to his strength and that’s what keeps him secure and generally comfortable, with his access to the harem girls and ressources, as well as being generally respected and feared. His strength is what gave him that, and his strength is what ensures he’s safe in the hierarchy and in general. Once again, his world view about innate strength being the most important thing is reinforced by the whole Treasure Island system and society he lives in. What can he do, flee Treasure Island? Hah, good joke. So he follows the system and takes advantage of it as much as he can, even shooting for becoming the chief at some point.

3: Soo the reason he’s 1: alive and safe, and 2: in a good place in the society hierarchy, ensuring him safety and comfort, is that he’s a prodigy, that he was born with that strength. I’ve already mentioned it in the other points, but yeah at this point there’s nothing that can prove to him that his world view, about innate strength meaning you deserve everything you want and deserve to rule over the weaker, is wrong. It’s very much a "survival of the fittest" mindset with a focus on eugenics. That’s where Hyoga comes in, kicking his ass, but that’s for later on.

I do feel like the way he deals with conflict is very telling as well. When Mozu realized he knew who the invaders were, he sat back and watched over to see how the chaos would unfold. He stepped to the sideline and let things happen, so he could later strike when the opportunity presented itself and he could side with whoever is going to win in the end. That *cough* sounds like *cough* a strategy someone who lived in an abusive home would instinctively develop, make yourself scarce so no attention is placed on you when things are bad and shit is brewing, then take the opportunity to grab power if it’s safely presented to you. 

So. I think it’s pretty much canon subtext that Mozu seeks power as a trauma response. Power in his life has meant safety and control of his life. Literally just self-defense and survival instinct/self-preservation. Not only power in status, but also innate, believing that the attributes with which you were born are what gets you to where you deserve to be in life, strength (and beauty just as a collateral product of what he considers to be innate qualities). In that sense, like any other unhealthy trauma response, it’s something he should unlearn to heal, and to stop being a piece of shit also.

There are also other aspects of his character that support this, that’s kind of all his character tbh, but for example there’s just how much he doesn’t blink at, and even thrives in, violence. There’s how he was very trigger-happy when it came to killing the science crew, almost playful in the way he treated their lives like lottery. He’s cold hearted and sees killing someone you can defeat as a right, and he doesn’t assign value to lives at all, except when he can get something out of it, power mostly (letting the science crew live so they can get the medusa out of the picture, with Kohaku getting informations on the invaders). 

If you think about it, he’s also a lot like Denji from Chainsaw Man… Just look at this post. He just seeks quick instant gratification through sexual affection. Has he ever even had any positive relationships? Does he even know how to express and receive affection? It is after all well known that hypersexuality can be a coping mechanism born from trauma.  All of the relationships and interactions we see him have with others on Treasure Island (apart from the harem girls) are professional in nature. It’s implied he has no friends from the lack of counter evidence. We don’t see him just hanging out with anyone, no one speaks of him with any sort of fondness. It’s also lowkey implied he doesn’t seek out the same harem girl multiple times, so there’s very low chances of him having formed a connection or friendship with any of them. So, he’s got no friends, no family, no romance. The only validation and affection he gets is in a professional sense because of his feats (which is in turn due to his innate strength) and from the “special time” spent with harem girls. Iirc we don’t even know if the harem girls like him or not, they might just be doing their job… So, like. Yeah, the only positive attention he gets is from maiming people and from sex, so that already paints a pretty picture doesn’t it.  Edit: Ok so I found it too much of an assumption to put it in initially but I always think about it again so, with the way Treasure Island guards frequently have to turn dissident people to stone or worse, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mozu’s apathy when it comes to killing or even murderous tendencies kinda come from the fact that he was pushed to do them + it’s very normalized there. Like… Mozu lowkey dissociating to get into a killing mood or when thinking back on it and trying his best not to dwell on it is a concept that has got me going. Not mentioning the systematic murdering and how that might affect him negatively being the one that has to carry it out would just be a missed opportunity from me. 

Motives & other traits

His biggest motivation for becoming chief of Treasure Island, if we’re to believe his own words on the matter, is that he wants the harem…? Yeah well, I’m sure that’s part of it, gratification and possessions for a type of pleasure that he does value, but I do think the power part of it is understated a lot. He’s obviously a character that cares a lot about power, and so I think he just didn’t talk about that part much because it’s just obvious. He wants to become chief because chiefs are at the top of the hierarchy, and why would he not want that. In part, I do think he doesn’t realize just how much the chase for power drives him. He seems to kinda just be doing whatever he wants to do at the moment, which to me seems like it means that Mozu’s craving of power is a subconscious thing to him. To him, it probably all just sounds like the natural thing to seek. Oh and that does bring me to another point, I think freedom is really important to him. The freedom to meet with harem girls, the freedom to be at the top of hierarchy, the freedom that comes with being the strongest around, the freedom that comes with everyone having to listen to you if they don’t want you to kill them, he wants to have no limits and be fully unrestrained. Comes with living on a small island you can’t leave that has a super strict system that treats you like shit, tbh. The negotiations with Gen were very interesting for me because of this, when he had the knee-jerk reaction to demand he keeps the medusa after their alliance because Gen said he couldn’t. He wants the freedom to choose to keep the medusa or not, even if he doesn’t actually really gives a shit about it because he’s the strongest without it anyways, so he decides he’ll keep the medusa as a show of power, simply because he can and the science gang can’t go against him. Phrased differently, the negotiations with Gen also confirm he’s pretty contrarian in general, wanting freedom and pushing for it thoughtlessly regardless of the practicality of it (he didn’t seem like he cared about getting the petrification beam. It’s just a power move, because that’s what he wanted: unconditional power).

He’s a veryyy proud character, we we know this, big ego that thinks he’s hit shit with the ladies and the strongest and that means he deserves everything he wants on a whim, but he does react very badly when someone talks about him negatively or otherwise challenge him (Kohaku when she said he had no integrity or appeal lol, making him go “you’re no longer cute, let’s fight to the death now”). He takes rejection really bad. Maybe that can show that his self-esteem is less strong than we think. Not that it’s completely a front, boy no actor is that good, but certainly, Mozu could get triggered by someone insulting him or confronting him with his flaws, insinuating that he’s anything less than worthy of his success or whatever else. His strength and, eh, beauty, are the only things he has going for him after all, he might get touchy with them being put into question, or rather having their worth put into question the way Hyoga does by claiming people can train and become better than Mozu if they have enough trained talent. It can also be less personal, that just as someone who hasn’t been used to people refusing him anything for a long while and being contrarian himself having someone just straight up provoking him or insulting him makes him see red. Whatever, cool excuse for bloodlust, bro.

He’s also not as impulsive as one would assume with his horny jock archetype tbh. Rather, he’s very observant and calculating, which was pointed out a significant amount of times. I do feel like it’s often overlooked that he didn’t just want to keep Kohaku alive because he wanted to sleep with her, but that his end goal was for her to spill the beans. It’s a threat as much as it’s unappealing flirting, a power move once again. He likes to do a lot of them, to be sure. That’s why he bragged about lowkey wanting to kill the science crew in front of them. Anyways- Yeah, in the end even with Kohaku, everything he did from A to Z in the Treasure Island arc was to actively further his own agenda. Also he’s sneaky and light in his feet, rather than being super loud or even attention seeking tbh. (Watching people quietly & noticing things/spying, sneaking into the cave without anyone hearing or seeing him arrive, the whole cloaked surprise attacks thing)

Redemption & healing

So. How did this fucking murderous selfish piece of shit become this?

Well… Errr, an off-screen redemption arc?

It’s very much swept under the rug, the difference between the climactic battle he had with Hyoga and later on after he got unpetrified to become a part of the science kingdom is staggering, and unexplained. The manga wants you to assume that his last conversation with Hyoga explains his change of heart enough. Which… It kind of does? Like, canon if you could have spent like 1 panel telling us that Mozu has been training with Hyoga and getting along well with the crew and acclimating peacefully it’d have been cool but whatever, we can piece it out pretty well on our own.  My best guess for his off-screen redemption arc is that the whole Hyoga speech and defeat humbled him enough to reconsider some of his life philosophies (pretty much the canon reading, especially since he confirmed he’d like to train, aka an acknowledgement that he’s not the best he could be + shows him learning some work ethics). But, I like to think that what makes him become much more of a team guy rather than wanting to be above everyone, is that being away from Treasure Island and the tyrannical system that was there, his agression and need for hierarchy subsided because in Senku’s group there is safety. There is no struggle for power, working for one guy that just wants to be powerful and take advantage of that (Ibara. Which ironicalky is what Mozu himself wanted to become, since he had no example of what else there is than exploiting and being exploited), instead there is a community that is very open and humane, one that values the life of even their worst enemies, one that doesn’t treat you like shit even if you contribute less to the working force or have unconventional qualities. He got fricking humbled, and he found that there were other ways to live. So, he mellowed out. That’s kind of the only realistic explanation I can make for it, so in the end I do think that supports my reading that his resorting to violence so automatically and all o’ that is a trauma response. The epilogue chapter showed he got a happy ending with plenty of chicks so like, lol, things are working out for him ig. 

And that’s how you turn an horrible irredeemable-seeming villain into a comedy relief character with minimal exposition and redemption arc. 

In conclusion

[last pic source: https://www.tumblr.com/9009l3/658963831138238464/mozu-flower :) 💖]

Also I made a spotify playlist for him bc I’m cringe, here it is if ya want it: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/79AEoXTRT3GTYVGlUONGol?si=ag6wl-CnT569OCM5CGWnhw

[kobblefort]

Daarunbay Detevay 2

When you zoom out and look at it like this, it's not really an anomaly. Like, it's fucked up, but it's barely even a footnote.

In the grand history of The Nightmare of Tunneling, which is thousands and thousands of lines long, Blackfaint is two of them. It started and then it ended. The Land of Nails is a cruel place where life moves fast from beginning to end. The Hill of Scars just happens to be one exceedingly fast-paced part of it. I haven't really provided many good visual aids, so here's an image of the Daarunbay Detevay in its entirety which took me way too long to make.

The whole world! The Land of Nails is the western continent, the Land of Dividing is the eastern one. Where's The Hill of Scars in all of this, you might ask?

"Circled" in red is The Hill of Scars. Over on the left in blue, Rushsly. And on the right in puke green, Blackfaint. All the history of The Nightmare of Tunneling, of The Comedy of Sweating, has been constrained to this little western chunk of the continent. We have barely scratched the surface of the surface, even with our deepest dives into the history of kobbles and ratfolk. There's like 10 other major civilized species inhabiting the world, some of them not even on this continent that we've only known a little 1/10th swatch of. For instance, did you know there's fucking crab people?

There's crab people, baby. Well, that's an oversimplification. They're Decapoda, which is an umbrella term that includes lobsters, shrimp, and all kinds of crabs. The Axe of Glaciers live on the edges of the world, where it's cold: all the way up northwest on the glacial Island of Fate, and another decapodian civilization named The Paddle of Furs lives far to the southeast, among The Hills of Dividing and the terrifying Glacier of Corrupting at the end of The Land of Dividing - some even living out on the great ice floes in the arctic ocean. The harsh conditions come natural to such hardy peoples - after all, even the humble shrimp among them can heal well enough to regrow lost limbs.

There may very well be lobsters among us older than the very concept of counting years. And hell, there's one among The Axe of Glaciers who's as old as the calendar. The first King of Decapodia: Kuteci Peaceletters.

There's something very interesting about his reign, besides the "suddenly getting deposed in a coup" part. Yes, obviously, it's the "throwing competition" part. Obviously, losing 10 years in a row is one thing - but in the very first one at Bronzeskies, the seat of AoG, he actually won that one. The fact that he put the competition to rest until right at the end of his reign is just... interesting. Did he keep trying it again thinking he'd recapture the glory of his youth? Been there. Did his desperate attempts turn everyone against him? Been there. I don't throw controllers or anything because them shits cost like $60 for a good one but I haven't been able to enjoy fighting games for over 3 years because lately when I lose I get so fucking mad I punch my desk. Part of my ego is inextricably linked with the idea that "I have to be good at games." If I hop on an FPS and get headshotted over and over I have to just turn that shit off. I physically cannot handle "getting dominated" because I have so few avenues for success in my life that I have latched on to "yeah, I'm good at Sniper in Team Fortress 2" as one of my last pathetic desperate reaches for validation. I don't know what's wrong with me. I try to not be like this. I'm reading The Inner Game of Tennis but it hasn't really helped me yet. I can't play Street Fighter 6 off my friend's Steam family-share library because if I get put in the corner and don't tech the throw twice in a row I just have to turn the fucking game off, I alt-f4 out of it immediately, I can't stomach failure and victory only even feels like a reprieve from loss. I realize this is so much more pathetic than just being bad at games. In fact a guy who's bad at games and a good sport about it is probably the best thing you can be, because whenever anyone says "wow you're bad at this" you can just be like "Yeah I was too busy going outside and having sex and stuff." But I haven't been!! I've been here, sitting at my fucking desk, playing video games!! I should at least get Fortnite wins and not just in those first few games after you haven't played in a while where the whole lobby is bots, I mean I should be able to out-snipe any zoomer in the world with my 20 years of Counter-Strike experience or at least I fucking tell myself that, even though I've never fucking practiced the game or its particular flavor of sniping, or when I have it's just for like 5 flaccid minutes of not challenging myself because my ego is too fragile to actually let me!! I mean I'll tell you up and down the fucking block that battle royales are a literal cancer that caused "good map design" to be amputated from the modern multiplayer first-person-shooter genre and that actually is true but you'd never know it because I'm such a fucking bitch who fucking cries over never winning in Apex Legends even though I like Titanfall 2 way better but I can't fucking play that either because I get too fucking mad and competitive and hard on myself to enjoy it unless I'm playing absolutely perfectly!! Like what the fuck!?!? I'm 30 years old!! If I went back to my 10-year-old self and said "this is what you grow up to be, little guy" he would start downing shots of bleach right there on the spot!!! But I don't know how to change!!! My ego, my wavering sense of self completely dominates me and prevents me from enjoying my life and my so-called passions!! And it really feels like there's no way to fix it short of just tripping on so much acid I completely forget my current personality!! Even then what if it just comes back!!

The one who deposed Kuteci and reigns to this day is the former baroness, Scucutk Raspboats, whose true goal is to create a great work of art. Throughout her life, she has written eleven pieces of literature, but she only bothered to name six of them: Errors In the Keep, her first. The Journey Into Scucutk Raspboats, her third. The Truth About the Decapod fourth, The Wizard'S Guide to Creation sixth, Discourse on Pagesnarling (named for her barony) eighth, and After Genius tenth. Her last book, untitled, was writen in 163, and just 5 years later she would seize the throne in Bronzeskies and thus the throne of all decapodia, aided by Rerrr Crazyletter, the baroness of Gorgelearned, and Rerrr's daughter Cecichi Springchannels, duchess of Diamondtangled.

Legends Browser 2 seems to not like how many mods I've got running, but it doesn't look like we're missing too much. Besides their positions of significance in The Axe of Glaciers, they are mostly unremarkable women - all unlucky in love, but who isn't?

Why does any of this matter? Because it's clear Scucutk cannot write her true masterpiece from where she sits. Caravans are sent out all the time in search of a better location for a true grand library, one where she might finally create the artifact that has eluded her for all her life. Because I've never actually played a cold-weather biome, and it sounds both fun and more manageable than whatever the fuck Blackfaint ended up being. Because playing as lobsters and crabs sounds really funny

So at the northwestern tip of the world, we'll try it again. Unlike in other video games, it's very fun to lose in the greatest simulation game of all time Dwarf Fortress, I've talked at length about that already. So why don't we try to make the greatest library Of All Time in possible the least hospitable environment Of All Time?

What could possibly go wrong?????

[irenedubrovna]

A post regarding Euphoria for the benefit of myself and basically no one else

So, it really bothers me when people say Euphoria is groundbreaking, progressive media. Here’s a dissection of why I don’t think it is, because this is what I feel like doing at work:

The character of Rue is objectively great. She by far receives the least overt sexualization, and is treated neutrally in terms of active sexuality. She’s treated like a normal teenage girl with mental issues and an addiction to drugs. She falls in love with a girl who she pines for and places on a pedestal. The reason I think she is written this way is because she is a Sam Levinson proxy. She written with gender ambiguity and with little regard to the experiences she’d go through as a black gay female, probably because Sam Levinson has no insight to that aspect of life. Her performance is heightened of course by Zendaya, who breathes unique life to the Sam Levinson’s artistic extension, and without her performance this show would not get even half the acclaim it gets. Attribute that to Zendaya of course, because the director has done little to deserve this acclaim.

The rest of the females, sans Lexi, are pornified to a disgusting extent, not only due to the fact that they are supposed to be underage, but also because their existence as people is treated as being absolutely secondary to their sexual appeal. They are foremost presented in terms of their relation to sex. Cassie, Maddy, Jules, and Kat cannot be removed from their sexuality without disrupting the plot or their journeys in relation to the plot. Why are the females so intrinsically linked to uber fetishized versions of female sexuality, or uber fetishized versions of blossoming female sexual identity?

Maddy is presented not only scantily clad 90 percent of the time, but also dressed in a precariously unattainable sexual fashion. At any given time she is styled to look straight out of, simultaneously, a high fashion editorial, and a “barely legal” porno. She is airheaded and profane, and promiscuous, her mannerisms dictated by the adult films she’s “studied” in order to project an image of perfect hyper sexual femininity. She’s complacent in becoming a prototypical housewife because it will earn her a comfortable place as a trophy wife. She has no aspirations beyond that. So, let’s unpack all of that. Maddy’s role in the show is mostly passive. The most active thing she does in the plot is revenge fuck a man in the pool of a party. Nearly everything else she does in the show that is plot relevant is of someone else’s volition. Even less of what she in the show is related to anything other than a man. She is abused and then pressured into framing another man for said abuse. She has no agency as a character. The only notable difference to this rule is when she takes drugs at a carnival, knocks a pot of chili over, and calls her ex’s mom a cunt. Removed from her active sexual life and carefully cultivated aesthetic, she’s a trite stereotype of an unambitious girlfriend who gets treated poorly. I see people call Maddy iconic, but if she wasn’t gorgeous and well dressed, I doubt anyone would even think twice about her, let alone create fancams and Instagram pages dedicated to her. She exists as a plot device, and as pretty set dressing to build up the shows aesthetic. Her emotions are not well explored, her motivations are sexist, and she is often there to be demeaned, objectified, or to say a bad word. The most damning part of her involvement in this show is her episode where it is stated that she, as a fourteen year old girl, lost her virginity to an adult man, and it is stated she was in control of the situation. This is a dangerous thing to say about a character, to any audience, but especially a young one. To imply that a precocious young girl was in control during her first sexual encounter with a much much older man implies things that frankly border on rape apologist ideology. This show states this unflinchingly and with no further elaboration. If there’s one thing that tells you that Euphoria is a bad show, let it be that. Also, if there’s one thing that tells you about Sam Levinson as a person, and the way he views girls and women, let it fucking be that.

Jules is a young trans girl. She also likes to have sex with men as a means to “conquer femininity”. Scratch that, she likes to have degrading sex with older men in order to “conquer femininity”. This mindset is shown to be toxic, of course, but I think the problem with this idea in general is that there’s no deeper exploration for what this mindset means. It implies that she believes women are the sum of their intrigue and degradations. This mindset I can only assume would be a cultivation of dysphoria and internalized misogyny, which this series is absolutely not prepared to address in a tactful manner. Jules is a teenager with mental illness, trauma, and is undergoing an identity crisis. There’s something powerful in her character, something worth saying, however we only get trimmings of those meaningful things, and are ultimately left with a hurtful depiction of a trans girl because all of her musings on womanhood and identity are incomplete, and they fail to reach beyond the surface of their thesis statement. She wears colorful clothing, is overtly feminine and artistic in her presentation. Everything about her screams insecurity over her own womanhood. That is the crux of her character. Now, I think we should ask ourselves, is trans person who is insecure about their identity peak representation? Is this what trans people deserve? Is it “groundbreaking “? If this show was run by someone else, I might be inclined to say that there’s nothing insidious about this, but this is the guy that made Assassination Nation, so I think we know what he thinks of young women, the way they should be portrayed (that is, for the capitulation of a man) and realize his inclusion of a trans woman in his cast is no more meaningful than the inclusion of any other woman. Women to him are made to be categorized and should, at the end of the day, be easily palatable for the capitulation of a man. The device of having Jules being interested in older men and rough sex for identity reasons is transparent. Trans women are exploited and objectified with a similar fervor to cis women, the caveat being that they are “a forbidden fruit” of sorts to straight men. Jules is sissified, her presentation fetishistic. Her role in the plot is more involved. Her relationship with Rue is sweet, though toxic on both sides. She is ultimately betrayed, blackmailed, and snowballs into something of a manic episode, all well portrayed by Hunter Schafer, but I don’t think her inclusion in the show absolves it of any of its many sins.

Let’s talk about Cassie. Cassie is the Eurocentric beauty standard exemplified. She is the blonde haired blue eyed girl next store, and her boobs are of course always on display. She is notably promiscuous, something I say right off the bat because that’s how she’s introduced, as a so called slut through the words of the devil (Nate Jacobs). She is a girl with daddy issues, which we are all familiar with at this point. Her sexual boundaries begin and end at the whim of her partner. The terms of her consent are much like the terms of consent of many young girls brainwashed by society and the rising tide of degradation porn: everything is alright as long as you provide them comfort and affirmation afterward. You can touch them roughly without asking, you can use them as a tool to affirm your masculinity. This is the way men prefer their women now: just broken enough to say yes to anything they want. It’s become a joke at this point. Men like girls with issues, but only the ones that will feed their own desires. Cassie Howard is meek. Her inclusion in the plot I suppose ties to themes of drug addiction and how it divides and destroys the people you love. It doesn’t show what it does to her beyond shaping her sexual encounters, which is no surprise. Overall I’d say Cassie is in this roster of females as the most traditional categorically, in relation to how men view women and further how they sexualize them. She has a relationship with someone who doesn’t really love her. That mostly what she does here. Gets used. Doesn’t drive the plot or conflict much. More pretty set dressing. More aesthetics. How this show consists of so many women but is driven so much by men is unsurprising, and, again, very enlightening in the grand scheme of things.

Lastly we touch on Kat. I’d like to begin with the fact that self actualization through sexual exploration, in a show run by a man, is just a cloak for a woman to gratify the audience with her sexuality. Regardless of whether or not she is plus sized, this is overt objectification. She is on this show to be sexy. Beyond that, the fact that a minor using sex work as a form of liberation is disgusting. Whether or not she is portrayed as “owning” her sexuality is negligible, and speaks to the same mindset discussed with Maddy. Minors cannot fucking consent to sex, sexual acts, or anything within the confines of such. It’s crazy that this occurs with two different characters in such a similar way. It has echoes of “Well, she looked older..” and “Well, she wanted it..” or “She’s advanced for her age”. Never, not once in the events of the series is there meaningful introspection on what doing this kind of thing does to a minor. Moreover, these acts are explicit, and made clearly for sexual gratification. None of these things are absolved by the fact that she’s plus sized. If anything, her body type is fetishized in this context. It’s also another case of a “good girl to bad girl” transformation, which are archaic and, of course, sexist. With the rise of adult websites targeting minors for explicit content, this is even more reprehensible. Once again, in terms of representation, is this really what speaks to you as progressive? Groundbreaking? A girl gains control of her own narrative by having sex with lots of men. She gains control by being sexy. She gains control by dehumanizing and objectifying herself. No she doesn’t. Media controlled by men will tell this story to you thousands of times, don’t listen because she’s bigger than a size four.

ALL OF THESE CHARACTERS ARE UNDERAGE. ALL OF THEM HAVE EXPLICIT SEX SCENES, EVEN THE SEXUAL ASSAULT IS MADE CINEMATICALLY PORNIFIED. THESE SHOTS ARE MADE TO BE OBJECTIVELY SEXY. THIS IS NOT A CASE OF SOMEONE CREATING SOMETHING FOR THE SAKE OF REALISM. IT IS ABOUT MAKING SCENES THAT SPEAK TO A MALE AUDIENCE. THAT CATER TO THE MALE GAZE. ARGUE WITH THE WALL.

I won’t go further into the plot, other characters, or the structure or the episodes for sake of brevity, but I felt compelled to air my thoughts on this to the void. I can only hope I was critical enough that Sam Levinson will one day see this and cry because another bad feminist thinks something that he made sucks

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 12: Capsaicin

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Maybe he wrote her address wrong.

The odds of that happening are pretty damn slim; Mulder’s had it down by heart for years, but he’s grasping at all possibilities right now.

He had sent the letter through the postal service in an attempt to keep himself from stressing out over its delivery, but that plan backfired the minute the envelope left his hands.

He dropped it in the mail on Saturday evening. It’s now Wednesday, and Scully has made no mention of it. There’s been no indication in her demeanor at all to suggest that she’d received any revelatory mail-pieces.

He might live the rest of his life in this horrific limbo, a purgatory of his own construction. He’s been on pins and needles all week, filling the basement office with nervous energy, furtively glancing at Scully in attempts to read her facial expressions. Did she get the letter and throw it out? How is she so calm? Maybe it got stuck in one of the sorting machines…

Before he knows it, Scully’s bidding him a friendly “goodnight” and shutting the office door.

Say what you will about anxiety, but it sure spices up the workday.

Mulder drives home in a fog; he’s exhausted from the mental exertion of thinking in circles and jumping to conclusions. Inside his apartment he flops down on the sofa and calls for takeout from the Thai place down the street that has his order memorized.

The next time he confesses his undying love to somebody, he’s going to use e-mail.

A knock on his door shakes him from his reverie.

“How much do I owe-” he begins as he opens the door, then freezes.

Scully is standing at his doorstep, a high flush on her cheeks. She looks somehow startled, as though he surprised her by opening his own front door.

“Scully,” he says, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Mulder,” she replies, voice cracking on the edges. Her big blue eyes are full, ready to spill over her lower lids.

Oh.

“You read it,” he says softly. He feels his chest tighten into a tight knot of anxiety, and he swallows hard.

She nods. “Can I- I need to come in.”

He stands aside, ushers her into his living room.

She’s vibrating with nervous energy. Mulder motions to the couch. “Would you, uh, like to sit down?”

“I’d prefer to stand, thank you,” she says, voice tight. She grips her elbows.

“Well, I guess I’ll sit,” Mulder says softly, lowering himself to the couch. “Scully, I-“

She holds out a hand. “You got to say your piece, Mulder, now it’s time for mine.” Her lower lip crumples slightly, and he wants to get up and hug her.

She takes a deep breath, pulling herself together. “Mulder, when I received your letter today…” She blinks back tears. “I was completely overwhelmed. I’m not even sure how I managed to drive here,” she admits. “And I appreciate that in it you acknowledged the inopportune timing of your confession. Things just keep piling up,” she says. “But now I just want to know, need to know… why the hell did you wait so long?”

There’s pain in her voice, and he aches in return.

“I didn’t know how you felt,” he says simply, “and then Mark happened.” It’s so insufficient, but it’s all he has.

“I wish you’d told me before,” she says. “I wish I’d known. I dragged you into this mess with him, and the whole time you… you felt that for me.”

“Scully,” he says slowly, “If I had told you I loved you, would you have still gone out with Mark?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and his heart falls into his stomach.

“How can you ask me that?” she says, voice a rough whisper. “What do you want me to say?”

Say no. Please. “I’m only interested in the truth, Scully. You of all people know that by now.”

A tear spills down her cheek, and she wipes it away roughly. “I… I don’t know. Do you have any idea how long and hard I worked to not feel? I’d wake up every damn morning thinking about you. I’d scrub myself raw in the shower so you couldn’t smell me, sense how much I wanted you all fucking night. I’d come to work and turn my heart off, bury my feelings so deep that even now I can barely scratch the surface of them. I did it for years, Mulder.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “So when my mother introduced me to a nice man with a little girl, I decided to go for it. And I almost forget how to really feel something. But you… you never let me forget. And the rational choices cease to make sense.” She sniffs noisily. “You turned my entire world upside down.”

He hangs his head. “I’m sorry-” he begins.

“No,” Scully interrupts. “No, Mulder. I don’t want your guilt, or your pity; I don’t need it. I want you, and me. I want us to be the two broken people we are, healing. We can’t keep hurting each other with misguided attempts to protect each other.”

“What do you mean, then? How do we stop?”

“By being honest,” she says, coming around the coffee table and perching on the edge of the couch. “We start here. Right now.”

“I-I don’t know how much more clear or honest I could possible be,” Mulder stammers. “The letter spelled it out. My cards are on the table.”

“They are,” she agrees, “But you wrote under the assumption that I wouldn’t reciprocate. You left no room for alternatives.”

“Alternatives being…”

Scully’s eyes are pleading. “Mulder,” she whispers, beseeching.

There’s a knock on the door.

Mulder glances over his shoulder, startled out of their moment. “I ordered Thai,” he explains. “If you’re here, then that must be the delivery guy,” he says.

Scully nods. “Likely.” She gets up from the sofa and crosses to the desk, fetching the tissue box there. “You should-”

“Answer the door, yeah,” Mulder agrees absently, standing and feeling his pockets for his wallet.

The bored teenager on the other side of the door holds the bag out. “Sixteen forty-nine,” he says.

“Give him a twenty,” Scully instructs from the living room, blowing her nose.

Mulder digs a bill out of his wallet and hands it to the delivery guy. “You and the Mrs have a good night,” the boy says, stifling a yawn as he shoves the money into the pack on his waist.

“That tip was what, twenty-five percent?” Mulder grouses, setting the bag on the coffee table.

“Oh, so you can do math,” Scully says, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “So what’s your excuse for being a lousy tipper, then?”

“Spoken like a former waitress,” Mulder mumbles.

“You’re goddamn right,” Scully says. “Best IHOP server in San Diego.”

Her bravado contrasts sharply with her puffy eyes and watery voice, and Mulder wants to pull her into his arms and never let go.

“You want any of this?” he asks, pulling steaming cartons out of the bag. “There’s plenty for both of us, and if you don’t eat I’ll feel like a crappy host.”

She sits back down on the couch, setting the tissue box on the coffee table. “If you don’t mind sharing,” she concedes.

“I’ll grab you a fork,” he replies, giving her knee a squeeze.

They eat quietly, passing cartons between them, migrating together until they’re shoulder to shoulder in the center of the couch.

“So,” Mulder says, “Before the food got here, we were talking about something pretty important.”

Scully nods, turning her fork to wind noodles around the tines. “That we were,” she agrees.

“About honesty,” he prompts. “Alternatives.”

Scully sets her fork down, closes her eyes. “This… this is difficult for me, Mulder. It’s surreal; I didn’t expect this outcome for us. For you to… to feel the way you do,” she clarifies.

“On the contrary,” Mulder says, “I feel like this was always going to happen, from the day we met. Somewhere deep in my mind I knew I was going to fall in love with you.”

Scully looks at him then, eyes wide.

“Th-that’s the first time I’ve said that aloud,” he says in realization, eyes not leaving hers.

Scully nods. “How’d it feel?” she asks softly.

Mulder licks his lip. “Kinda depends on how it felt for you,” he responds, voice low.

She takes a deep breath. “Call me crazy, but I think I need to hear it again.”

He nods, then on impulse leans in until his mouth is next to her ear, strands of coppery hair tickling his cheek. “I’m in love with you,” he murmurs.

Scully reflexively grips the edge of the couch cushion. “Don’t,” she warns, voice husky and breathier than he expected. “I’m not ready.”

He draws back. “Ready for what?” he asks.

She smoothes her hair behind her ear. “You,” she says simply, looking him up and down out of the corner of her eye. She picks up her fork and takes another bite of noodles. “I’ve spent so long in denial, Mulder, I feel… flammable. Like the smallest spark could just…” she motions to herself. “Destroy my equilibrium, or something.”

“Is this the official medical terminology? Because I’m not familiar,” he quips.

She huffs a laugh. “No, Mulder. What I’m trying to say is that I think we should go slow. Whatever ‘going’ means, in this case.”

“But we are a we,” he clarifies.

“Yes, I think we are,” Scully says tenderly, facing him again. “I… I want to be. But I’m processing things, so I need you to give me time.”

You can have my whole life. “That’s fine by me,” he assures her. “So you think we have a spark, Scully?”

She licks her upper lip, nodding. “Oh yes,” she says, eyes flicking down to his mouth. “Yes, we do.”

He leans back into the couch cushions. “Well then,” he says, eyeing her lazily, “When you feel like starting some fires… I’m your boy.”

[moonbeambucky]

Hey Neighbor (Part 21)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3841 Warnings: fluff, angst

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: Here we are... the aftermath.. Feedback is always appreciated!

HEY NEIGHBOR PART 20 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

Sunlight streams down, shining in between gaps of the branches of the large tree you’ve nestled under, keeping cool under the shade as you turn the page of your book. The crisp spine cracks as you adjust your grip, taking a break to sip an iced coffee. You rest it carefully beside you, in the groove of the large root breaking up from the surface.

Central Park is active for a late morning, the chatter of people passing by, the carefree laughter of children playing in the distance. You wish you were as carefree as them. The book you’re attempting to distract yourself with is not working but still you force it, needing anything to take your mind off the events of the past weekend.

Normally you would be at work but an early email from Tony Stark alerted you to him being called away for the day and generously granting you a paid day off to “enjoy the weather.” You wish you could have appreciated it, having the chance to sleep in but doing so would mean you might run into Bucky and you couldn’t have that happen.

Instead you left for work as you normally would, stuffing a tote bag with a large book and a blanket. You treated yourself to breakfast, stretching the time out as much as you could before grabbing an iced coffee and finding a large tree to plant yourself under. You check your phone for the time, making sure you wouldn’t be late for your internship but no, you weren’t; in fact time was moving so slow you thought you gained an extra hour.

It isn’t fair that Tony Stark was so generous. You’d rather be working and had you known in advance you could have possibly rearranged your schedule with Elena but you weren’t the only intern so you had to wait.

And wait...

and…

wait.

A text from Wanda distracted you for a moment, though it really didn’t. Asking how you are only reminds you that you aren’t okay. You spent Sunday night crying your eyes out in her arms, wondering why you were so stupid to think Bucky could actually like you. You weren’t special, you were just a stupid girl who thought she could actually change someone; that somehow Bucky would veer from the path he’s always been on just for you!

What a joke. You cringe when you think about how pathetic you are. It was just sex, nothing more. Wanda was right, he’s probably wanted to fuck you from the start. The Music Man was an apt nickname for the man that played you like an instrument, knowing the perfect keys to hit, the chords you thought were opening your heart but really opened your legs.

Friendship never mattered to Bucky, no– James, the man who hid himself from the start, a dollar store recorder masking himself as a flute, whose only goal was to get laid.  

Coming home that night your eyes were so swollen you could barely see. You huffed up the stairs not wanting Bucky to hear the ding of the elevator as it opened on your floor. You even separated the key to your apartment so the jingling didn’t alert him of your arrival home. The last thing you wanted to do was see him.

You turned your phone off long ago, not wanting to even see Bucky’s name flash on the screen let alone hear any of his excuses. He probably wanted to smooth things over just enough to keep things peaceful between you, hoping that if you were dumb enough you would forgive him and fall in line with the rotation of other women he fucks.

Well you weren’t going to be like any of them. Desperate women, running over the moment Bucky texts before they lose their chance. Throwing themselves at him, hoping he’ll change their mind and love them just like you thought he could love you. But there is no room for love in Bucky’s cruel black heart.  

The following day at work you tried to hide your emotions. With makeup you camouflaged the swelling and painted on a smile but you couldn’t hide the truth from Steve. He sat with you over a tear filled lunch as you told him everything, making him swear to you that he would not talk to Bucky.

There may have been some guilt tripping involved reminding him how you wanted to confront Lillian after she cheated on him but you didn’t because Steve asked and trusted you not to. He suggested speaking to Bucky. “It doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.” Steve’s voice echoes in your head. “He’s your neighbor, you’re going to see him eventually. Wouldn’t it be better to work this out?” Steve might have a point but you’re not interested in hearing it right now.

He invited you to stay for dinner, and that night he and Peggy helped keep you distracted for a few hours. Only they and Wanda knew what happened and you wanted to keep it that way, not wanting to cause friction within the group. Thankfully Sam was working an overnight shift on Sunday because had he been there things would have escalated.

Sam is persistent and though he always means well you knew he would have tried to patch things up between you and Bucky on the spot. Knowing how you are you would probably have lost two friends that day, lashing out at their “help” so thankfully it hadn’t come to that.

You’re not even sure why you’re keeping this a secret. For all you know Bucky may have blabbed to everyone about what happened, and if he didn’t yet he probably would soon enough. For now, you decide not to share it with anyone else, burying what happened into the back of your mind, sealed by the iron door that should have been there to protect your heart.

The book holds your attention by gossamer strings as you reread the same lines over and over, lifting your gaze up to stare comfortably at the brightness of the world around you; bright green grass with pops of yellow and white dandelions sticking up, a cloudless sky that in no way reminds you of someone’s eyes. Looks like it’s time to go back to reading.

You ignore the sound of a guy yelling– nothing unusual especially for New York, but as the sound of his voice grew closer you decided to look up. Your eyes widened with shock as it was just in time to see what he was yelling about. It was too late to move so you braced yourself, the book dropping as a giant brown pitbull jumped into your lap, its bright pink tongue wildly licking your cheek.

“Get back here!” the owner huffed, finally catching up to the dog, grabbing the leash he had accidentally dropped. “Groot! I said get back here.”

He pulled the playful dog off you, sternly telling him to sit. “Groot, sit down, I mean it.” The dog stared back at his owner, tilting his head with innocence. The man rolled his eyes quickly before kneeling in front of you. “Are you alright? I’m so sorry about that.”

His eyes were as green as a picture perfect meadow as he stared back at you, with soft pink lips that turned down into a worrisome frown. He was handsome, sun kissed skin and golden brown hair, with the hint of dark stubble peppering his sharp jaw.

“I’m okay.” You choked on your words, finding it hard to stop the smile that was pulling at your cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I know he looks intimidating but he’s a sweetheart, I promise.” The man smiled, looking back at his dog, panting with its mouth open. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

Your name floated from your lips to his ears and Peter smiled, a boyish grin that flashed pearly white teeth. “And you’ve already met, but this is Groot.”

The sound of his name made the dog perk up and rush forward towards you. Peter caught him in time before he could assault your face with his tongue again but he couldn’t stop Groot from spilling your coffee.

“Aww Groot! Come on buddy!” Peter whined.

“It’s okay,” you laughed, picking up the overturned container. “He wanted to say hello again.”

You stuck your palm out low so Groot could easily sniff it and quickly his jaw fell open with a grin, his wide tongue soaking your hand as he lapped at it. He nudged your hand with his large nose asking to be pet and you happily complied, scratching under his chin as his tail wagged back and forth.

Groot nuzzled into your lap, his heavy body rolling onto you in a plea to be pet more. Peter huffed in frustration, looking to pull his dog off you but the smile you gave him said you didn’t mind. Both hands worked on making Groot happy, scratching his ears and rubbing his chest. Peter joined in too, rubbing Groot’s belly and softly slapping his side. Your fingertips touched briefly, electric tingles racing up your arm.

Peter cleared his throat of the nervous lump that settled there, tugging gently on Groot’s leash to get off you. When he saw you began to get up Peter offered his hand. There was little hesitation when you took it, feeling his slightly calloused palms against yours. You looked away from him when you were standing, brushing off some dirt from your thighs.

“I’m sorry, again,” Peter grimaced, your clothes were dirty thanks to Groot’s dirty paws. “I feel terrible, can I buy you a cup of coffee… to make up for what Groot spilled?”

Maybe it was Peter’s big doe eyes anxiously awaiting your answer or Groot’s beaming smile but you said yes, picking up your things and walking with them a few blocks to an outdoor cafe. On the way you learned that Peter was a firefighter and looking at him you didn’t doubt it. He was tall (taller than Bucky), with a broad frame (bigger than Bucky) and large bulging biceps (also bigger than Bucky’s, though his came close).

You shake away thoughts of Bucky because you do not want to think about him. And why should you have to? Not when a very cute firefighter with an even cuter dog was pulling out the chair for you to sit down as you got to know each other.

He grew up in Missouri, raised by his mom up until she died from cancer. He was eight at the time but the slight crack in his voice he tried to clear away as he talked about her let you know how much she still meant to him.

“She called me her little star lord ‘cause all I talked about was that one day I was gonna be a space pilot.”

“So how’d you go from space to fighting fires?” you asked, smiling at him as you leaned in closer on the table.

The wait for an answer was interrupted by the server bringing your orders, another iced coffee for you, coffee with a shot of espresso for Peter and a big cup of whipped cream for Groot. Peter held the cup in his hand as Groot swiftly lapped away at his sweet treat.

“There was a fire at my grandparent’s house. I was about fifteen, sixteen at the time. I helped them get out and ran back to grab my mom’s old walkman. It’s all I had left of her.”

Peter paused, almost anticipating a comment about how stupid it was to do that but you were quiet, listening without judgment and understanding. He lifted his lips with relief and explained that after that happened he knew what he wanted to do, hoping he could save people and the homes that hold things dear to them.

“Plus my grades could probably never get me through the door at NASA,” he joked.

You and Peter spoke for the next hour, telling him about your jobs and interests. He was really easy to talk to, with no lulls or awkward silence in your conversation, and he made you laugh a lot which is something you sorely missed these past few days.

When it was nearing time to leave for work you exchanged numbers, giving Groot an enthusiastic petting and letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of Peter’s arms for a big hug goodbye.

You were surprised to find yourself thoroughly distracted the rest of the day, with Peter in the forefront of your mind, your heart swelling with joy as you read a message he had sent while you were working.

Peter: Hey Y/N it was really great to meet you. I have another day off before my shift and was hoping we could talk again… maybe even see each other. It’s for Groot’s sake really.. I think he likes you.. 😉

A smile reached your ears and you were quick to respond. Yes, you think you liked Groot as well…

Messages exchanged back and forth on your way home and throughout the dinner you were preparing yourself. Your phone buzzed with Peter calling, preferring to talk as Groot decided to lie on top of him like a log, and it was hard to reach around him and type. You spoke until well past midnight and for the first night that week you fell asleep with ease.

Peter stayed in touch throughout the next day and asked you out to dinner. It was last minute but you didn’t mind, the less time you spent at home the better. You decided to meet at a casual spot for burgers. The place was small with limited seating but you managed to grab a table on the end of a long row so you didn’t feel completely claustrophobic.

You didn’t mind sitting close to Peter, apologizing when your knee kept banging into his under the table, getting to see his big smile up close as he told you not to worry about it. He looked great, removing a sanguine red leather jacket for a form fitting dark t-shirt, smelled even better, like almond blossoms in the rain.

Peter was scheduled to work tomorrow, a typical 24 hour shift so he ordered his burger without fries not wanting to feel weighed down by the extra calories. The golden steaming potatoes tempted him from your plate and even though you offered him to have some he declined.

“I feel bad since you’re sticking with water,” you remarked, as your drinks arrived, his water with lemon looking a little boring compared to the iced cold beer that was brought for you.

“Don’t, it’s fine,” he said. Leaning closer the words fell from his lips in a low purr, “Besides I can always taste it from your lips.”

Fire erupted on your cheeks and luckily you were with the perfect person to extinguish the flame. You saved making out with Peter until after you left the restaurant; standing outside of your building with your hands scratching through his hair as his tongue caressed yours.

His lips pulled away with your soft moan still lingering on them, and as much as he wanted to continue this Peter knew he had to get some sleep as did you. Without any haste your hands let go of each other’s, fingertips still gently grazing as you pointed your hips towards the front door. Before you lost contact Peter grabbed your waist to pull you in for another kiss, because a few more wouldn’t hurt.

The elevator carried you upstairs even though it felt like you were floating and as you reached your door the bubble you were in burst immediately as Bucky’s door creaked open. You couldn’t open your door fast enough so you were stuck having to hear him call your name, a desperate sounding cry that reeked of insincerity.

“Can we talk?” he begged.

Through a narrow eyed glance you turned to face him, lips pursed tightly as you looked him up and down. Bare feet stuck out from the bottom of dirty sweatpants, his t-shirt was worn and wrinkled, and if you were being honest he didn’t smell great. Bucky’s hair was an unkempt mess with strands sticking up wildly in all directions and a thick shadow of stubble on his face.

For a moment your heart broke for Bucky until you remembered it already broke because of him. Ice set into your veins again as you stiffly replied, “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

The vibration of your phone in hand rescued you from a conversation you didn’t want to have in the first place. Seeing it was Peter your face softened with a smile that was once reserved for Bucky.

“I gotta take this,” you said, opening your door without giving Bucky the chance to say anything else.

His shoulders slumped, sighing defeatedly as Bucky trudged back into his apartment. It didn’t help that he could hear you through the wall, your voice light and bubbly. He crawled back into bed, past the instruments left untouched for days because the thought of creating something was hopeless; a daunting task that required Bucky to give part of himself but there was nothing to give.

Part of his soul died the day you walked away from him, not letting Bucky explain the horrible coincidence of running into a person he never intended going on a date with in the first place. You ignored his calls, didn’t answer his texts and probably rappelled up the side of the building into your apartment to avoid running into him.

If you did answer, Bucky would have told you the truth, that he did make that date long ago, that he made a lot of dates he cancelled because no one was you. He would have told you how he stopped setting up dates, that he cancelled all the ones he remembered before deleting his dating app, how it had been almost two months since he had sex and how none of that mattered because all he wanted was to give you his heart.

Everything he said over the weekend was true and he hates the fact that you won’t give him a goddamn second to prove how much he means it. Bucky rolls over, pulling the blankets above his head. He clutches a pillow close to him, a poor comparison to the way your body fit perfectly against his, shutting his eyes tight as he hopes sleep will come for him.

Friday passes slowly, the hand of every hour moving at a half-dead snail’s pace. Bucky waits to hear you coming home, having missed the opportunity to speak to you in the morning because as the sun was rising in the sky his eyelids were finally shutting. He anxiously waits for the ding of the elevator, rushing to his door to open it ajar.

His heart races as he hears the sound of keys jingling closer, pulling his door open with all his strength he’s surprised he hasn’t ripped the hinges off. But instead of seeing you approach Bucky shrinks, deflated and embarrassed to have Shuri, the teenager that lives at the end of the hall with her family, see him looking disheveled. He smiled, giving a half wave, swearing he could hear her call him a “broken white boy” under her breath. He shut the door only to wait again.

When Bucky did finally hear you come in it was late and he was a second too late, opening his door as you shut yours. He sent a text hoping you would respond to no avail. He heard you through the wall, the sound of your closet opening, the creak of the mattress as you get in bed. Bucky’s palm presses against the cold wall. It hurts knowing how close you are and yet you’ve never been further apart.

It’s a beautiful Saturday but Bucky can’t enjoy it. He paces the hallway in front of the elevator and stairwell; he is not going to miss your arrival. It’s nearing the time you normally get home from Metro-General and he prays to anyone listening that you aren’t making any stops along the way.

He needs this. He’s desperate to tell you what happened, so you could see the truth flow from his lips, the tears fall from his eyes as he begs for forgiveness of the misunderstanding.

The elevator soon grants his wish as the doors open revealing you, like the lustrous pearl of an oyster and Bucky can’t help but smile. You on the other hand were not expecting to see him. Bucky was in the same clothes, his hair a little greasier, with stubble that had grown in more. The brighter lighting of the hallway did him no favors, accentuating the deep purple bags that settled under his eyes.

He starts off right away, begging for a moment to hear him out but you strode past him, ignoring the way Bucky ran up beside you like a lost puppy looking for a home. Realizing you weren’t going to stop Bucky ran ahead, blocking your door with his body as he implored you to listen.

“No!” you barked sternly. “Get out of the way Bucky.”

He didn’t move and both of your frustrations grew. “You need to listen to me Y/N, you’ve got– ”

“Don't tell me what I need to do Bucky. You need to get out of the way.”

Not only did Bucky not move but he tried to grab your hand. You snapped it away, gritting through your teeth about how serious you were. You didn’t want to raise your voice and cause a scene with your neighbors if you didn’t have to.

“I just want to talk.” His voice was tight and Bucky fought hard to stop the tears from burning their way to his eyes.

“Well I don’t want to. Move. I have a date to get ready for.”

You stood firm, wondering if you would have to resort to having Clint come down and make Bucky leave, or worse, Natasha, but Bucky stepped aside, letting you enter your apartment without another word.

The slamming of the door masked the sound of the bubbled cry he let out, tears streaking down his cheeks. Hours later he heard a voice at your door, devastated to know you were telling the truth about your date, and dying inside at the sound of lips smacking together. He gave it a moment and opened his door quietly to see you walk hand in hand with some guy down the hall.

Bucky goes back inside, back to the safety of his bed, where he swallows Benadryl and soaks his pillow with tears as he falls asleep.

He dreams of better times, of your smile, of your touch, of all the days you spent together because in his dreams is the only place he’ll have those again.

He’s lost you.

PART 22

[beastars-takes]

Zootopia Takes: Darker’s Not Better

The Shock Collar Draft

So, it sounds like people are largely positive on me doing some Zootopia posts on this blog, and I wanted to talk about this tweet I saw the other day:

I’ll punt on explaining why Beastars isn’t “Dark Zootopia”--that’s a great topic for another post. But I would like to talk about why this popular yet stridently uninformed tweet is so, so wrong. Why the shock collar draft was not better, actually.

And obviously, I’m not writing several pages in reply to a single tweet--this is a take that’s been around since the movie came out, that the “original version was better.” It’s been wrong the whole time.

Let’s talk about why!

Part 1: “Because Disney”

Let’s start with this--the assumption that the film’s creators wanted to make this shock collar story and “Disney” told them to change it.

That’s not how it works.

I try to keep stuff about me out of these posts as much as possible, but just for a bit of background, I’ve worked in the animation industry for about half a decade. I know people at Disney. I have a reasonable idea of how things are there.

There is this misconception about creative industries that they’re constantly this pitched battle of wills between creative auteurs trying to make incredible art and ignorant corporate suits trying to repress them.

That can happen, especially in dysfunctional studios (and boy could I tell some stories) but Walt Disney Animation Studios is not dysfunctional. It’s one of the most autonomous and well-treated parts of the Disney Company.

The director of Zootopia, Byron Howard, isn’t an edgelord. He made Bolt and Tangled. He knows what his audience is, and he’s responsible enough not to spend a year (and millions of dollars in budget) developing a grimdark Don Bluth story that leadership would never approve. It wouldn’t just be a waste of time--he would be endangering the livelihoods of the hundreds of people working under him. Meanwhile, Disney Animation’s corporate leadership trusts their talent. They don’t generally interfere with story development because they don’t need to. Because they employ people like Byron Howard.

Howard and the other creative leads of Zootopia have said a dozen times, in interviews and documentaries, that they gave up on the shock collar idea because it wasn’t working. They’ve explained their reasoning in detail. Maybe they’re leaving out some of the story, but in general? I believe them.

But Beastars Takes, you say, maybe even if Disney didn’t force them to back away from this darker version, it still would have been better?

Part 2: Why Shock Collars Seem Good

I will say this--I completely sympathize with people who see these storyboards and scenes from earlier versions of the movie and think “this seems amazing.” It does! A lot of these drawings and shots are heartbreakingly good, in isolation.

I love these boards. They make me want to cry. I literally have this drawing framed on my wall. Believe me, I get it.

But the only reason we care this much about this alternative draft of Zootopia is that the Zootopia we got made us love this world and these characters. You know what actually made me cry?

Oh, yeah.

So let’s set aside the astonishing hubris of insisting Zootopia’s story team abandoned the “good” version of the story, when the “bad version” is the most critically-acclaimed Disney animated feature in the past SIXTY YEARS.

“But Beastars Takes!” I hear you say. “Critics are idiots and just because something’s popular doesn’t make it good!”

Fair enough. Let’s talk about why the real movie is better.

Part 3: The Message (it is, in fact, like a jungle sometimes)

This type of thing is always hard to discuss, in the main--a lot of people don’t want to feel criticized or “called out” by the entertainment they consume, and they don’t want to be asked to think about their moral responsibilities. But it’s hard to deny that Zootopia is a movie with a strong point of view. Everything else--the characters, the worldbuilding, the plot, grows out from the movie’s central statement about bias.

And the movie we got, with no shock collars, makes that statement far more effectively.

To dive into the full scope of Zootopia’s worldview and politics (warts and all) would be a whole post on its own, so I’ll just summarize the key point of relevance here:

Zootopia's moral message is that you, the viewer, need to confront your own biases. Not yell at someone else. No matter how much of a good or progressive person you consider yourself to be--if you want to stand against prejudice you have to start with yourself.

That’s a tough sell! For that message to land, we need to see ourselves in the protagonist.

Judy’s a good person! She argues with her dad about foxes. She knows predators aren’t all dangerous. She’s not speciesist. Right?

Ah fuck.

Let’s fast-forward to the pivotal scene of this movie. In an unfortunate but inevitable confluence of circumstances, Judy’s own biases and prejudiced assumptions come out, and she shits the bad.

Nick, who’s already bared his soul to her (against his better instincts), is heartbroken. But not as heartbroken as he is a minute later when he tries to confront her about what she’s said, and she makes this face:

Whaaaat? Come on, Nick. I’m a good person. Why are you giving me a hard time?

People like to complain about this scene. That it’s a hackneyed “misunderstanding” trope that could be easily resolved with a discussion. They’re wrong. Nick tries to have a discussion. She blows him off.

This isn’t Judy acting out of character, this is her character. Someone who identifies as Not A Racist, and hasn’t given the issue any more thought. This is not only completely believable characterization (who hasn’t seen someone react this way when you told them they hurt you?) it’s the film’s central thesis!

Yes, Nick somewhat provokes her into reaching for her “fox spray,” and her own trauma factors in there, but she’s already made her fatal mistake before that happens.

(As an aside, people also make the criticism that the movie unrealistically deflects responsibility for racism onto Bellwether and her plot. It doesn’t. All the key expressions of prejudice in the film--Judy’s encounter with Gideon, her parents’ warnings, the elephant in the ice cream shop, Judy’s early encounters with Bogo, Judy's views on race science--exist largely outside of Bellwether’s influence. She is a demagogue who inflames existing tensions, she didn’t invent them. Bogo literally says “the world has always been broken.”)

So, anyway. But we love Judy. She’s an angel. She also kinda sucks! She’s proudly unprejudiced, and when her own prejudice is pointed out to her she argues and doesn’t take it seriously. This is bad, but it’s also a very human reaction. It’s one most of us have probably been guilty of at one point or another.

Look at Zootopia’s society, too--it’s shiny and cosmopolitan, seemingly idyllic. Anyone can be anything, on paper. But scratch too deep beneath the surface and there’s a lot of pain and resentment here, things nobody respectable would say in public but come out behind closed doors, or among family, when nobody’s watching. It’s entirely recognizable--at least to me, someone who lives in a large liberal city in the United States. Like Byron Howard.

Wow, this place is a paradise!

Wait, what’s a “NIMBY”?

Part 4: Why Shock Collars Are Bad

So, with the film’s conceit established, let’s circle back to the shock collar idea. Like I said, it’s heartbreaking. It’s dramatic. It’s affective.

It also teaches us nothing.

If I see a movie where predator animals are subjected to 24/7 electroshock therapy, I don’t think “wow, this makes me want to think about how I could do better by the people around me.” I think “damn that shit’s crazy lmao. that’d be fucked up if that happened.” At a stretch, it reminds me of something like the Jim Crow era, or the Shoah. You know, stuff in the Past. Stuff we’ve all decided couldn’t ever happen again, so why worry about it?

The directors have said this exact thing, just politely. “It didn’t feel contemporary,” they say in pressers. That’s what it means.

If anything, the shock collar draft reifies the mindset that Zootopia is trying to reject--it shows us that discrimination is blatant, and dramatic, and flagrantly cruel, and impossible to miss.

And...that’s not true. If you only look for bias at its most malicious and evil, you’re going to miss the other 95 percent.

The messaging of this “darker version” is--ironically--less mature, less insightful, less intelligent. Less useful. Darker’s not better.

Part 5: Why Shock Collars Are Still Bad

So what if you don’t care about the message? What if you have no interest in self-reflection, or critical analysis (why are you reading this blog then lmao)? What if you just really want to hear a fun story about talking animals?

Well, this is trickier, because the remaining reasons are pretty subjective and emotional.

The creators have said that the shock collar version didn’t work because the viewers hated the cruel world they’d created. They agreed with Nick--the city was beyond saving. They didn’t want to save it.

The creators have said that Judy was hard to sympathize with, not being able to recognize the shock collars for the obvious cruelty they were.

Fuck you, Judy!

But we haven’t seen the draft copies. We haven’t watched the animatics. We have to take their word for it. Anyone who’s sufficiently invested in this story is going to say “well, I disagree with them.” It doesn’t matter to them that they haven’t seen the draft and the filmmakers have. The movie they’ve imagined is great and nobody is going to convince them otherwise.

But the fact remains that the shock collar movie, as written, did not work. And, if behind the scenes material is to be believed, it continued to not work after months and months of story doctoring.

There’s even been a webcomic made out of the dystopian version of Zootopia. It’s clever and creative and well-written and entertaining and...it kind of falls apart. The creator, after more than a little shit-talk directed at Disney, abandoned the story before reaching the conclusion, but even before then the seams were beginning to show. How do you take a society that’s okay with electrocuting cute animals and bring it to a point of cathartic redemption? You can’t, really. The story doesn’t work.

Does that mean people shouldn’t make fanworks out of the cut material? That they shouldn’t be inspired and excited by it? Hell no. This drawing is cute as hell. The ideas are compelling.

But I suppose what I’d ask of you all is--if you’re weighing the hot takes of art students on Twitter against the explanations of veteran filmmakers, consider that the latter group might actually know what they’re talking about.

See you next time!

[hngrylikethewoolf]

London Calling || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol and Ratigan have a discussion in the middle of a crowded London café. 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None that I can think of

Backdated:  July 25, 2021

@professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL:

Errol was a werewolf. 

No, the irony of that statement was not lost on him. 

The first thing he'd done upon being bitten and treated was limp his way back to his hotel, blood burning in his veins, a fever hanging over him, and passing out in the rented room, clunky gauze and bandages catching the blood that sluggishly seeped from the closing wounds. He had been explicit when they worked on him, told them to wear proper gear, didn't care that he wasn't their boss, he took the pitch of Ratigan's voice and used it to his sluggish, half-advantage. He burned everything when he awoke, a new sense of being shifting around in his chest, a secondary something there that hadn't been before. 

He had been debriefed about Shifters, knew of them from his work overseas and from a former Army Ranger he'd befriended that had been bitten by a lone wolf during a mission, at least a decade ago now, maybe more. They still kept in contact, and he was the first person Errol had called, the beast shifting around in his chest, testing out the cage. They needed to learn how to work together while he figured out his next steps. 

The conversation he had with his friend helped, if anything, to calm the tidal wave of emotions he could feel tugging at him. The wolf was with him now. Panicking about it would make the transition all that more difficult. 

Errol had also just been shot, had a man digging around in the meat of his thigh to close an artery that would have killed him if not for the help of the bite. It was still there, still healing, but it wasn't deadly. He deserved a few days of recuperation, to wrap his head around it all. 

Pedram Ratigan was a werewolf. 

Somehow that information didn't surprise him as much as it should. It had saved his life, after all. The other information he had received that day was telling, but it made no difference to him at this moment. Pieces of things he'd observed, things that now made more sense, he would keep tucked away. Could examine later, once he had a more firm grasp on his wolf and the place they now had in the world. 

Errol had information to hand over, after all. He had no time to wonder, though he wanted to. He'd barely scratched the surface of who Ratigan could potentially be. He would focus on what he knew, what they both were now, and go from there. 

That started in a nondescript café at the heart of the city, surrounded by people in a way that created the perfect veil of anonymity. Errol had a feeling they would need it. 

RATIGAN: 

Clean up of the situation had been taken care of. Bodies disposed, blood mopped, evidence picked up. Had anyone entered the warehouse they would never have known of the violence that had taken place there. 

The ambulance had been left elsewhere, also cleansed of any evidence linking back to the three people who had been inside it last. 

One would think that was the worst part of it, the clean up. Having to make sure that nothing had been left behind for even the smallest chance of being caught. Ratigan had shared the same sentiment as soon as he realized he was now somewhere in the system. Back when he’d been nothing there had been no fear, no need to wipe his prints or panic when his blood had been left behind. There had been no way to find him, no place to follow his growing trail back to. 

It had been a flaw in the system and Ratigan had used it on his campaign to the head of the table. Anyone within his network would have access to cleaners. (They had quickly become, without a doubt, the biggest source of income.) 

But there were still loose threads to deal with— one of them being the sheriff. 

Ratigan had returned to a safe house and contacted Fidget who had not done as he was told. The sheriff had walked free and was roaming the streets of London. All that work and now he was having to rely on word alone that he would be given what he wanted. 

He met where the sheriff wanted but planned ahead— best not to leave anything to chance when he did not have to. He was already seated at a table when the sheriff arrived, a cup of tea sitting in front of him. His attention was on the crossword puzzle of the newspaper he was leaning over. It wasn’t until the other man was seated that he spoke. 

“Fine choice, this place.” His tone was light and conversational. It matched the tables around them along with the clinking spoons against the sides of mugs, fingers striking keyboards, creaking furniture as someone shifted in their seat. “Do you have the information you promised me?” 

ERROL: 

The fact Ratigan was already there when Errol showed up wasn't surprising. 

The sheriff took a second to reorient himself, eyes scanning the coffee shop as he unwound his scarf from his throat, considering all the exits and number of bodies in a matter of moments. All the noises and all the smells swirled around, heightened by the wolf. It was a tinge uncomfortable, having to adjust to it, but Errol barely let a flicker of it cross his face. A slight widening of the nostrils, a tilt to his head, but nothing more. 

He still had a job to do though and, now, a debt to repay. 

Errol sat casually, mindful of his leg, smiling like they were having a grand time, and nodded his head with a little laugh. "Mmm, aye. I do." An arm slung across the back of the chair beside him, and he shifted sideways, allowing himself to see the door in his peripheral vision. A gun sat, a heavy weight, just above his left hip. Where no one else but Ratigan could see; if he was looking--which he was,  Errol already knew--then he would catch it. Gauze and bandaging wrapped around his thigh beneath his clothes, unnoticeable but a necessary addition until his leg entirely healed. 

There were still people that were trying to kill the bastard, after all. And Errol never liked to leave anything to chance, especially when it came to someone's life, especially when it was someone that he knew. 

At this close a proximity to the other man, the scent of his cologne was sharp in Errol's nose, both familiar and foreign. It was distinctly Ratigan, and it made the wolf perk up its head, interested for the first time all morning. The sheriff bit the inside of his cheek, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as the beast stretched, waking. He breathed in deep to calm himself but it just pulled the scent further into his lungs. It made the wolf whine, and Errol grit his teeth, acknowledging it with a barely-there shift in his seat, a ploy to get more comfortable. 

See, they'd reached a bit of an understanding back in his hotel room, over these last three or so days. Errol knew he had him now and the wolf knew he was attached. They couldn't change it, could merely work around it, and they would. First, Errol just needed him to calm the fuck down about the person across from him. The pressure in his chest, now, was uncomfortable, a testing of bonds and an attempt to move closer. If Errol moved any closer, he'd be vaulting the table and sitting on the man. 

Just another werewolf, perhaps? Or the insane, but possible, notion that Pedram had been the one to bite him? 

Instead of saying any of that, Errol leaned down and pulled a folder from the old Army kit he'd slung to the floor upon arrival. He aligned it on the table, neat, straight corners, before pushing that and two others with it across the table. His smile turned crooked, almost amused. 

"'S t' extra I told ye about. It's all on the drive, too, but I wrote t' access information down. Figure ye'd want proof 'fore I jus' gave ye a drive." 

The wolf tested its bonds, found them to be solid, and Errol shifted in his seat again, ignoring the discomfort, focus never wavering from Ratigan's face. 

RATIGAN: 

He placed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, waiting. All of this was so tedious and annoying. He did not want to be there but of course there would have been such a great tantrum thrown had it not been him the information had been passed off to. At this point he knew that the sheriff did the things he did simply to spite Ratigan because, well, he must have nothing better to do being a police officer. It’s just what they did. 

The looming subject of what had taken place in the last moments of their previous encounter was ever present but Ratigan didn’t care whatsoever. It did not concern him whether the sheriff was taking well to his new normal or whatever (no doubt ridiculous) questions were at the ready to be asked should he give some sort of sign of acknowledgement. He refused. Whatever the sheriff was looking for he would not find it. 

“Thank you,” he said politely and even smiled. Finally. At least this massive headache will have been worth something in the end. Ratigan placed the files at the edge of the table. Seconds later the waitress passed by, picking them up. Neither acknowledged the other as she breezed by. 

“Well, now that that’s out of the way, we should address the elephant in the room, shall we?” He reached for the cup of tea to take a sip. There was no rush in his movements, he was the picture of leisure. “I fully intend to return to Swynlake and continue my life there. You’ve proven yourself to be— puerile when it comes to some of your choices in how you go about things. I implore you, sheriff, to not continue this trend as far as your knowledge of me goes. You are only alive now because I allowed it. I can just as easily change my mind should you get the idea that I am someone you can ruin.” 

He shrugged. “But then, where would the fun in that be? If you attempt to take away what is important to me then rest assured I shall do the same to you. The only difference being that I will be able to rebuild— the same cannot be said for you. Or your family.” 

ERROL: 

Ratigan was smiling. Wasn't that a terrifying thought, given the circumstances? It was a nice one, though. Errol couldn't help but glance toward it, a brow ticking upward just as the edge of his mouth curled, rueful. 

It wasn't pleasant, but he thought it could be. Ratigan had a nice smile. 

Errol dipped his head in acknowledgement, eyes following the waitress for a moment as she tucked the folders beneath an arm. The Irishman snorted, amused. Of course Ratigan had people here. Errol would have too, if he could. He settled in to listen instead, head tilting to the side in curiosity. 

A bark of laughter escaped when Ratigan started threatening, a delighted little sound that curled around his eyes and lit up his smile. He knew the man was deadly serious, and something dark and dangerous and ugly flickered in the sheriff's gaze once his family was mentioned, but the amusement still clung to him, a shroud. 

"Ah, luv, ye dunne 'ave tah worry. Ye might fink 'm stupid, but I ain't. 'Ve got no reason tah say shite. What hurts ye, hurts me. 'S cute ye fink I might, though. Threatin' a diff'rent man's family might nah've ended yer way, but I like ye." He leaned forward, wide, sharp smile on his face, studying Ratigan's own. "So 'm jus' gonna tell ye once. They're mine. Leave 'em be."

He doubted the man took him seriously, but he should. Errol saw in him much of what had driven himself, still did. 

Ratigan was right about one thing, though. Errol was only alive because he'd allowed it, because he had needed the information Errol had. A moment later, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat, drawing out a flash drive. He tsked, tongue clicking against the backs of his front teeth as the wolf squirmed, pushing the drive close across the table. "That'd be t' rest. It's got t' information fer everyone 'at came tah t' extraction an' yer mutineers." 

Errol grinned, sweet as pie. He had a copy of all the information. 

RATIGAN: 

He sighed, an eyebrow raising because no, he did not think this man was stupid, he knew this man was stupid. The evidence stacked against him was substantial and nothing he said would prove otherwise.

The laughter almost made him want to do something more to prove his point, that nothing about this was funny or amusing or some sort of game the sheriff seemed to believe the world was. 

“Please, sheriff, no pet names. We are in public and I think we are past the need to make me blush.” And perhaps that may have sounded different to the average eavesdropper but here it was another threat. This, above all else, irked Ratigan more than anything else— it was as if the man thought there was some sort of rapport between them, like he was allowed to address him as anything other than his name. Even the wolf recoiled against it, his emotions so heavy that it was pulled away from the excitement of the newcomer in order to protect what was important above all else. 

He gave a nod of understanding, as if he understood the concept of family on a personal level instead of just an observational one. “I do think that’s rather the point. They’re your family, and if you want them off the table then I suggest you do not partake in this game.” 

Ratigan reached for the flashdrive, placing it in his own pocket. 

“I will give you the opportunity to leave it be. This is no longer your concern, and to be honest it never was. If I were you, I would forget any of this has happened and return to your life as it was.” His fingers laced together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “This is more than I would ever give someone of your—” His eyes flickered over the man, disgust coming and going over his expression but never leaving his voice, “—profession. Do not be ungrateful.” 

ERROL: 

Ratigan sighed and raised a brow and Errol followed the movement, mirroring it with one of his own. He'd leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed across the other at the knee, arm slack across the back of the chair beside him, a picture of repose. 

See, what no one else understood, Ratigan included, was that Errol had no reason to be afraid of him, not personally. Yes, he threatened his family, and the sheriff believed him when he said that he'd harm them if he thought it necessary, but Errol never had any intention of making it so. He knew the professor thought he was stupid, he claimed he did. 

But, then, that begged the question of why he had been used in the first place. Errol almost wanted to ask, except he knew it would do him no good. 

He focused on the droll looking the other man gave him when he asked not to be called by a pet name, that they were 'past the need to make him blush.' A few choice thoughts skittered across his mind, then, each of them worse than the last. Mirth colored his eyes for a second before it disappeared. As he had before, Errol dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement. 

"Noted, sir." There, should stroke his ego well enough. He dutifully kept away from the always-endearing moniker of "professor." While that was equally as neutral territory, it gave something away. The former did not. If he could hedge a bet, however, Ratigan wouldn't like that one, either. 

Refraining from saying anything smart or rolling his eyes at the heavy-handed threat, Errol reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet and a pocket knife, the latter of which he showed to the other man before setting it on the table, engraving up. He continued to exude nonchalance as he thumbed through a few bills, the Elvira winking up at him from the table. 

Perhaps such threats worked on his underlings, but Errol had dealt with people at Ratigan's caliber, and worse, for two decades. Granted, they were far less intelligent, but they were no less driven or full of themselves. 

This wasn't a game, even if Ratigan thought he believed it to be.

The quip about his profession did earn a grin and another nod. He understood. Hell, Errol often felt the same. It was why he'd clawed his way to the top in such a short time. If anyone could call a decade or so short. He didn't like being forced to take orders, orders he would disobey or orders that might not be entirely ethical in the sense of the job (his own personal ethics notwithstanding) so it'd made sense to become what he had. 

If you could become the head, you didn't have to cut yourself off at the neck. Had people who could protect you if someone tried.

Cocking his head to the side, Errol's eyes assessed Ratigan's face, his voice suddenly, deathly serious. "It was never a game. What I did 'fore all o' this...ye say anyfin' an' yer dead. 'S t' same fing 'ere, more or less." 

He flicked the pocket knife toward the other man, then, and nodded at it. 

"'Ere's yer promise. Type 'at intah t' military database an' ye get yerself a bit o' an easier access tah me redacted files." 

RATIGAN: 

Ratigan’s temper was running thin. This man had no idea what he was talking about— he had only had eyes on this for so long. Ratigan had been at this for years. This was not even a scratch at the surface, it was barely a brush of a finger against it. There was nothing that could be said here that would be able to convince Ratigan that this man, the same one who had gone into a situation with no back up, no plan, and every intention of dying with the way he had been trying to fight his way out of the corner he had basically walked himself into and sat there, waiting to see what would happen and then continued to press his back against the walls as he was attacked, knew what he was talking about. 

He gave the knife a brief glance as that was all it was good for. 

“That’s very generous of you, sheriff,  but if you think that I don’t already know everything that the government has on you then I think that says enough about your role here.” 

It had taken longer than Ratigan had been happy with, but he had been able to find the files the sheriff thought were protected. The government may have had the best in the business, recruiting those from criminal backgrounds in order to fight back against those wanting their information, but Ratigan had better. 

All that to say, Ratigan was not very impressed by what he had seen. Again, his dog’s record outshone him. If anything, it irked Ratigan all the more. Police were bad but the military was worse, in his opinion. 

“Enough of— whatever this was supposed to be.” He gestured to the knife with a flippant hand, eyes widening briefly with perfectly placed annoyance. “What is it that you want?”

Because surely he must have wanted something. Everyone did. Otherwise he would not have shown up. (Even if it was something as simple as to sate his naïve curiosity.) 

ERROL: 

Errol's grin was triumphant this time, self-satisfaction evident. He'd managed to get the confirmation he wanted. It did not surprise him. As he had quickly started to learn, Ratigan was well-prepared for everything. He didn't take things at face value, yet he tried to make it seem like he did. He was contradictory yet made it seem like all his ducks were in a row. 

It was fascinating and strange and something that Errol wanted to poke and prod at and toe the line of until he found it all out, even now. Saddled with a new burden and threatened, nearly killed. He had been truthful before when he said he liked the other man. For all his prickly, sharp outer edges, Errol did like him. 

A small sigh escaped and Errol tapped his knuckles against the tabletop, chewing on his lip, trying to think of a way to get the other man to understand. He didn't know if he ever could, to explain why the knife was important. Why it meant something, the one sliver of a show of loyalty, of acknowledgement that he could give. 

Maybe it was playing with fire, but Errol had never minded being burned. With the way things were shaping up now, he was very aware of the fact he couldn't stay in the job he was in, had already begun to spin the yarn that would allow him to leave it behind. It had been something he had been considering but this last nail had formed his coffin, driving the point home. 

Errol heard the annoyance and flicked his gaze up to Ratigan's face, brows lifting toward his hairline, a silent question. Does this bug you so much, just having a conversation?

Even if the conversation was layered, laced with threat and code and whatever other secrecy he could pack in then bubble wrap it from the outside world, it was still, to Errol at least, a decent one. He had always been comfortable in hostile situations, though. 

He didn't turn his smile charming, like he would with anyone else. Didn't try to coat his words with honeyed pleasantries or spin a yarn. No, Ratigan was too direct, so Errol needed to be, too. 

"Wanted tah talk tah ye. Wasna lyin' when I said I liked ye, before." Threats and all, actually, but that was neither here nor there, and something Errol could keep tucked very, very far away. "An' if ye fink I was givin' information about yer life tah someone else, ye woulda been wrong. 'S why I insisted, 'cause 'S important." To me, to you, whomever you want to believe. "Fer what 'S worth, anyway." 

He still hadn't figured out how to explain the knife. It sat in the middle of the table, heavy. Errol wasn't going to take it back now, though. He knew Ratigan didn't think he was smart. Knew he believed he had gone into that alleyway and warehouse without a plan, backup, or a care. Except he had been wrong. Though he hadn't been one hundred percent certain, Errol had known the person he needed the information would have kept track of him, possibly would have followed him, and he had been right.

Sometimes he forgot he wasn't a soldier anymore, that he couldn't just waltz into a hostile zone and expect to make it out mostly alive because people had his six. He wasn't that man, not entirely, not anymore, but he could also never make it go away. He'd done it for too long. 

"An' I wanted tah know how long ye've dealt wif --" he paused, wasn't going to say it. Errol was very aware of the secret they were both hiding now, what it did to people. But he was curious about the way the wolf was acting, curious to know if it was because Ratigan was another wolf or because they somehow knew. "I figure ye ain't gonna say anyfin', ain't gonna 'elp, an' I ain't askin'. Jus' that. No details, I don't wanna know how it 'appened or why or where, jus' that." 

Errol could say more, could mention wolfsbane or ask about shifts, but he knew no answers would come. Yet, this asking, it was easier, somehow. It wasn't curiosity (though it almost certainly was, he'd already shown more than enough of his hand, but that had been a calculated risk). His body language was calm, nothing defensive about it, all of himself open, head tilting to show neck, even, but a stare that was unwavering. 

RATIGAN: 

Curiosity it was then. 

Well, wasn’t that rather disappointing? Unsurprising, but with the display he had given so far Ratigan had thought that maybe— but no. He was just like all the rest.

And just like all the rest, he was going to try to appeal to what humanity he may have thought was within Ratigan. Perhaps he thought this because he had seen Ratigan as the university professor and the volunteer theater director and the everyday, normal citizen who lived in Swynlake. That was only a part that he played, the cover he had been giving the most time to. (There were countless others, but this was the one he lived most every day dedicated to.) Whoever the sheriff deemed to like was not real, only a costume he wore to fit in among the rest of them. He wanted to speak to him as if he was still that man, he could see it in his body language, showing Ratigan his vulnerability in the hopes he would be rewarded with the same.

The problem with this approach was that Ratigan did not have any humanity left to communicate with. There was no empathy or sympathy or emotion that could be tugged upon to be given any sort of opening. All of that had been purged from his person until he had become what the family had needed him to be. A weapon— unperfect but efficient. His brain, built to learn quickly and at the whole, had taken this in after it had been taught what would happen should it disobey and there the lessons had stayed through the years as it had led to his survival thus far.

Everyone always wanted something, and this man thought he was owed the answer to a personal question. Simple as it was, as easy as Ratigan could have lied, he didn’t want to put in the effort of it. As much as this man may have been truthful in his word to keep from asking any more questions Ratigan knew better. If he was curious enough to ask this question, one that had an inherent selfish wish behind it, then an answer may embolden him to ask another, may lead him to believe that Ratigan wanted to converse. He did not. He did not want this man to know anything about himself that could potentially help him in the future nor did he care to hear about whatever it was the sheriff wanted to say. People had a tendency to spit out the things they wanted people to listen to instead of what Ratigan wanted to hear. It was easier to find that information elsewhere so that he did not have to endure the torture of conversation.

“That is worth nothing to me.” He didn’t care for favors or pity or the like and that is what that seemed the sheriff was presenting, acting as if Ratigan should be so flattered at a gift like that. He didn’t need it. Even if the sheriff had been feeding information neither Ratigan or the network needed the help of someone like him. “And you would be correct. I promised you your life and you have it. You can expect nothing more from me— you may consider it a birthday gift.” 

He lifted his cup of tea to his mouth to drain the remainder of it. The ceramic touched back down against the table top before he pushed his chair back from the table, turning in it as he prepared to stand. “Thank you for wasting my time, sheriff, as always.”

Ratigan smiled and did stand then, buttoning his suit’s jacket. Before he left he reached over to pick his pen back up but left the newspaper behind, the crossword finished. True to his word, he offered nothing more to the sheriff and left the cafe. There was still work to be done. 

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

hello hi! if ur ever looking for ideas/prompts for spidey stuff i have an idea i've wanted to see but havent really yet: i have a sensory processing disorder so i personally always really connect w spidey when fics talk about him kind of having sensory issues, but they almost always only talk about getting too much sensory input. which is super valid! but a lot of people also have issues w not enough sensory input (i have issues w both! its gotta be a balance). (pt. 1 bc i talk to much)

(pt. 2 bc i talk too much) not having enough sensory input still needs grounding techniques and stuff! i know for me i'll start kind of pulling my hair, scratching too violently, etc. and then my service pup will lick my face to replace harmful sensory cravings with safe ones! i just feel like this might be interesting to see w peter and the avengers trying to give him safer/better sensory input bc it might be cute. totally no pressure though! just thought i'd yell this idea into the void

Oh god never apologize for talking too much! I love this idea, thanks so much for the request. Funny story, as I was reading I was just like...wait not everyone does this??? So...thanks for helping me realize things!

Just Right

Read it on Ao3

Warnings: descriptions of a meltdown, sensory deprivation (kinda), some self-injury

Pairings: none. found family is my shit

Word count: 2667

If you could see Peter’s lab in Stark Tower or the Avengers Compound, you’d wonder if it’s some mad-scientist abomination or a storage room gone crazy.

There are screens upon screens upon screens, little things scattered across almost every available surface, and even ones that aren’t technically available. There are haphazardly balanced books and sheets of metal and overflowing trash cans and more random trinkets scattered around than you can think of. And yet, Peter knows precisely where everything is.

Organized chaos. Entropy. There’s some scientific explanation for it.

Peter works in a state of 'a lot.' There's a reason for that, and a reason it's a bad idea for him to not have that.

If you could see Peter’s lab in Stark Tower or the Avengers Compound, you’d wonder if it’s some mad-scientist abomination or a storage room gone crazy.

There are screens upon screens upon screens, little things scattered across almost every available surface, and even ones that aren’t technically available. There are haphazardly balanced books and sheets of metal and overflowing trash cans and more random trinkets scattered around than you can think of. And yet, Peter knows precisely where everything is.

Organized chaos. Entropy. There’s some scientific explanation for it.

Even Tony, the resident doer-of-so-many-things, is baffled when he walks in to see Peter looking at three separate screens, two sets of earbuds—one in each ear—texting as he calls out things for FRIDAY or KAREN or EDITH to help him with. Sometimes he’s talking to all three at once and texting.

“Kid,” Tony says, coming up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder, “you know you gotta pay attention to the stuff you’re doing, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I’m doing things!”

Cue an impressive rant that even Tony struggles to keep up with in places, all the while Peter’s fingers fly over his keyboard and beat out rhythms on his crossed legs. He looks up at Tony with a bright smile and sometimes, sometimes Tony wonders what goes on in that head of his.

Because if he’s only seeing the little bits that manage to make their way out of the kid’s mouth…god.

Can you blame him for giving Peter a technological playground? Kid lights up better than an arc reactor.

Tony just shakes his head and says: “Kids these days.”

It’s not an uncommon sight to see Peter doing his work with screens scrolling and music blasting over his earbuds. It drives Steve nuts, his mother-hen instincts trying to make sure Peter’s paying enough attention that he won’t hurt himself.

“I know, I know, Pete,” he laughs when Peter glares at him, “I know you can do it, and I trust you, I’m just…”

Peter softens the smallest bit, dropping his project to scurry over and hug Steve. “I know. You worry.”

Steve smirks, running his hand through Peter’s hair. “Gotta make sure you’re in good enough shape for our walk this weekend.”

“Are we gonna do just the anti-homeless benches or are we doing the ramp bars too?”

“We’ll see how fast we can run, hmm?”

“May wants pictures too.”

“Ah yes, for the Baby’s First Act of Civil Disobedience book.”

“Steve!”

“Nope, that’s what she called it. She sent me a photo.”

Peter’s fine. And Steve told the truth, he does trust Peter. They all do. Kind of a side effect of the whole superhero gig, you learn to trust your people.

Doesn’t necessarily mean you understand them.

It’s been a long day. They’ve had to do some interview with this-or-that news station about their stances on some issue that is ‘complicated on both sides.’ Long enough that even Steve’s—frankly impressive—public service mask is slipping. Natasha gave up trying to masquerade as someone who cared ages ago, glaring daggers at anyone who so much as suggested something unreasonable. Tony shoos the last of the day’s worries out the door as Clint flops down on the sofa.

“Why,” he groans, “did we have to do that?”

“We’re role models,” Steve recites, even as the slump of his shoulders says ‘no’ in every possible way, “it’s our duty.”

“Yeah well, I never signed up to be a fucking role model.”

“Clearly.”

“If you dare tell me off for cursing I swear—“

Bucky just smacks Steve upside the head before he can say anything.

“Ow!”

“Don’t, Stevie,” Bucky warns, “just don’t.”

“Peter?”

Everyone turns around to look at Sam, crouched in front of Peter. He’s hunched over, almost curled up completely in his chair. His curls bounce back and forth, small muttering sounds coming from under them.

“Peter,” Sam calls again, “Peter, can you look at me?”

Peter’s head raises slowly and Sam’s glad for the training he’s had that keeps him from reacting visually. Peter’s face is a mess, thin red lines, and tense muscles everywhere.

“Hey, Pete,” he says softly, “you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Peter shuffles. “Need something.”

“Okay. You hungry?”

“No. Need something.” He starts beating out a frantic rhythm on his legs, hard enough to make Sam wince. “Something, I gotta—“

“Where are your earbuds, Peter?”

“Counter.”

Tony tosses them their way without even hesitating. Sam hands them to Peter and almost immediately his hands fly to plug them in, jam the buds into his ears. The room waits, no one willing to move until Peter takes a deep breath and his shoulders slump. After a few seconds, he starts tapping his fingers again, this time much less frenzied. Judging by the pattern, it’s probably to the beat of the song.

“…sorry,” he mutters after a few moments, “sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sam says, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You wanna talk about it?”

“Uh…not really, not right now.”

“Okay. Is that a ‘you don’t wanna talk about it at all’ or a ‘you wanna talk about it later?’ Either is fine,” Sam says quickly when Peter shifts nervously, “I just wanna understand a little bit more so we can help.”

“M-maybe later.”

“Sounds good.” Sam stands up. “You want us to leave you alone or are you fine if we hang out?”

“Stay,” Peter says, “please.”

“Sure thing, kid.” Sam makes his way over to the others, shaking his head when a couple of them shoot him curious looks. He glances back over at Peter to see him doing some motion that involves all four of his limbs. It’s…oddly mesmerizing, actually.

“I think he’s doing a music exercise,” Natasha murmurs, “eighth-notes, quarter-notes, half-notes, whole notes.”

Bruce stares at her. “He’s doing what?”

Natasha eases her way onto a stool, her left hand tapping along with Peter’s left. “This hand,” she says, still staring, “taps out every quarter note. One, two, three, four.”

“The right hand,” she says, tapping twice as fast with her right, “does the eighth notes. One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and.”

“Then the feet do…one…three…one…three.” She starts gently tapping her feet in time with Peter’s. “And one…one…one…one…”

Steve just shakes his head slowly. “That’s…complicated.”

“It’s a good way to immerse yourself in music,” Natasha murmurs, smiling slightly, “helped me too.”

“What’s it for?”

“I think our Baby Spider is trying to ground himself.” Natasha gives Peter a smile when he catches her doing the same motions. “And it’s fun.”

His other hand never missing a beat, Peter plucks out one of his earbuds and holds it out to Natasha. She smiles and joins him, sitting by his side and carefully inserting the bud.

“Ooh,” she says softly when she figures out what song it is, “nice choice.”

“Thanks.”

They sit like that as the others bustle around quietly, getting all the interview stuff tucked away and Steve starts the cooking for tonight. He shoos Tony out with a spatula as the genius pouts, quickly picking some innocuous bickering fight that makes Bruce roll his eyes and take the book Thor offers him. Bucky and Sam crash onto a nearby couch, Bucky half-heartedly trying to copy Peter and Natasha for a few moments before laughing and giving up. The dinner passes in relative quiet until Peter sighs and plucks out his earbuds, collapsing onto Natasha’s shoulder.

Natasha barely flinches, reaching up to ruffle Peter’s hair. “Hey there, Baby Spider. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs, “sorry.”

“Told you,” Sam says easily, “you got nothing to apologize for.”

“No, I…I should’ve told you.”

“Peter,” Steve chides gently, “you’re allowed to not tell us things if you don’t want to.”

“But it’s also important that I tell you things,” Peter says stubbornly. “It’s not fair to you guys if I don’t tell you what bothers me and then you can’t do anything about it or it takes you by surprise.”

“That’s fair, Peter.” Natasha leans her head onto his. “Do you have something you want to tell us, then?”

“Yeah, I, uh…” Peter twists his fingers together, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Actually, uh, do you mind if I…have my earbuds in while I tell you? I’ll—I’ll play it on low volume, I’ll still be able to hear you, I just—“

“Shh,” Natasha hushes, “you don’t need to justify your needs. Go ahead.”

“…thanks.” A few seconds later and Peter visibly relaxes, running his hands through his hair as he sits up. “So, I, uh, I have a sensory processing disorder.”

Most of them nod. He’s not the only one. Bucky and Bruce in particular make some gesture of solidarity.

“But I, um…mine’s weird.”

“Weird how,” Sam asks.

“Uh, you know how most people get overwhelmed from too much sensory input?” When he gets an answering nod, Peter takes a deep breath. “I have, uh, I have the opposite.”

“…yours is triggered by having too little sensory input?”

“Yeah. That’s why I have…all the screens going all the time.”

Tony huffs. “Little bit of an understatement.”

“I-it’s easier for me to think!”

“It’s okay, Pete, I don’t mean anything by it,” Tony says instantly, raising his hands in surrender, “just wanna make sure this old man can still keep up with you, that’s all.”

“He admitted he’s old!” Clint throws his hands up in triumph. “All hail Peter Parker, the One Who Got Tony Stark To Admit He’s Old.”

“Alright, alright,” Thor says when it looks like Tony’s going to throw Steve’s salad across the table at Clint, “that’s enough. Peter,” he says, turning back, “how do we help?”

“H-help?”

“Surely it can’t come as a surprise that we wish to help you,” Thor chuckles, “now come on, out with it.”

“Uh…you did good today,” Peter mumbles, “getting me my earbuds and stuff.”

“Is that what we should do, then?”

“Yeah. Just, um, get me stuff that’ll occupy my sense. Optimal levels of arousal and all that.”

“Does that include physical contact,” Steve asks, “or no?”

“…sometimes? I gotta ask for that though.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Steve smiles and reaches out to squeeze Peter’s hand. “Thank you for telling us. I’m proud of you.”

“Ah, jeez,” Peter mumbles, his cheeks flushing, “do you have to say it like that?”

“Like what,” Steve asks like he obviously doesn’t know.

“Like—like that.”

“Steve, you’re such an asshole.”

“I agree with Bucky.”

“Both of you hush or there’ll be no dessert.”

The cry of protest that goes up around the table is enough to make Steve almost fall out of his chair from laughing too hard.

It’s pretty easy after that. They all keep an eye on Peter during functions where they’ve gotta sit still for long periods of time. Often they’ll hide Peter in the back and one of them will reach down, let Peter play with their hands, or sneak some new piece of tech in for him to tinker with. They always keep his earbuds close by and there’s never a problem if Peter needs his earbuds in while he’s at dinner with them or watching a movie.

Then May texts Tony one day when Peter’s scheduled to come over.

May: Peter’s earbuds broke.

Immediately, Tony sends it out to the others. They’re all on high alert, scouring the floors for where they may have been left, if they’ve got extras Peter can borrow, just for a little, come on Tony, you run a tech empire, what do you mean you don’t have headphones?

They’re all so busy looking that they completely miss Peter’s arrival.

Peter’s been floating ever since he got on the bus. Everything feels like it’s happening behind a whine of static. He’s floating in this weird bubble of a fish tank and he can tell there are things beating on the glass outside but he can’t do anything about them. He’s floating and he hates floating. He can’t feel anything. Can’t feel anything.

Something, something, he needs something.

Does he still have a body? Does it still feel? He doesn’t know as he stumbles down hallways and through doors. The walls don’t feel like anything. His hair catches on a catch and it feels. It sends a zing down his spine and he can feel. So he does it again. Feel. Feel. Feel. Feel.

His nail catches on his cheek as he raises his other hand to his hair and there’s a bright flash that shudders his body. It’s warm. He likes warm. He likes to feel. Feel. Feel. Feel. Feel.

He can’t feel his arms. So he moves to his arms. The flare spreads. Feel. Feel. Feel. Feel.

Where else can he feel?

He should be able to feel everywhere, shouldn’t he?

Feel.

Feel.

Feel.

Feel.

He can’t feel his hands but he can tell his hands are making him feel.

It’s stopped being a word now.

Something tangles in his hand, at least he thinks it does. Something tangles in his other hand. They squeeze. Oh. Oh, he can feel that. He can feel his hands. He can feel…he can feel a lot.

He hears the gentle whine of metal against metal, feels the hardness of a claw in each of his hands. He blinks and looks up.

DUM-E and U are holding his hands, squeezing them gently the way he does to them. When he murmurs their names, DUM-E lets his hand go, leaning down to start stroking his forehead with his claw. Peter watches, trace the parts of DUM-E’s machinery, mapping it out in his head, grounding himself in the expansions of wires.

It’s better now, it is. U still sits there, patiently squeezing his hand, even as DUM-E whistles and chirps. Peter starts mumbling back that he’s fine, thank you, he’s okay now, can DUM-E move a little to the left, please?

“Peter?”

“Uh, h-hi, Fri,” Peter mumbles, “I, uh, guess you should tell them I’m here.”

“They’re on their way, Peter.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Steve will stumble in first, Natasha hot on his heels. Steve won’t be able to hide his shock at seeing the red lines drawn harshly on Peter’s skin, even as he tries to smile and call out for him. Natasha will look him over and softly ask permission to patch him up a little.

Tony will praise the bots as Sam and Bucky rope Peter into some inane fight that pulls him out of his head. Bruce and Clint will offer him their earbuds as they’re the only two who’ve managed to find some. Thor will offer to carry Peter for a little while.

But for now, Peter will sit here, on the floor of the lab, while the bots kiss his face, and feel.

It’s just right.

[radishtears]

lay me down (on a bed of roses)

If you found yourself facing your younger self, what would you do?

aka the kids (no, not those ones) have an interesting day.

... ... ...

wangxian, yunmeng bros, time-travel?, blood, violence

... ... ...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305264

... ... ...

Jiang Cheng and his fellow students are milling about, relaxing after their lesson, when an ominous bell begins tolling. A brief hush falls, followed by curious murmurs. Jiang Cheng exchanges a glance with Nie Huaisang even as some Lan Sect disciples hurry over and begin corralling the crowd.

Ah. It’s a warning bell. An intruder. Someone has forcefully entered Cloud Recesses, breaking through the carefully cultivated barrier.

“How can that be?” Nie Huaisang clutches at Jiang Cheng, sounding equal parts impressed and terrified. Even the Lan disciple acting as their shepherd looks concerned.

They walk a few steps when Jiang Cheng suddenly freezes.

“Jiang-xiong?” Nie Huaisang tugs at him. “Hey—!”

Jiang Cheng only pauses long enough to toss out a succinct explanation before taking off towards the edge of the forest.

“Won’t be long,” he yells back to the Lan disciple he barrels over.

... 

“Wei Wuxian! Where did you go off and die this time?!”

Jiang Cheng lets out an irritated huff of breath. His shixiong really has the best timing. Just the best. Of all the days to go explore the mountain. Again.

If he trips on a branch and ruins his clothes, he’s going to steal all of Wei Wuxian’s and let that asshole go naked for a week, he vows.

...Wei Wuxian probably wouldn’t care, actually.

Tsk.

“Hey, where the f—?!”

The shink of a drawn sword steals his attention and Jiang Cheng is immediately high on alert. He barely has time to focus when the sound is followed by a loud crack. A tree?

Suddenly, Jiang Cheng is thrown onto his back, completely winded. He didn’t see what hit him. The flora around him creak back into place, swaying in the aftermath.

“What just...?”

He scrambles to his feet, uninjured but winded. A heavy, sickly feeling lingers in the air.

Vengeful energy?

...In Cloud Recesses?!

There’s no way...wait...unless...? Oh well it really is his lucky day, huh?!

As proud as he is, Jiang Cheng is no idiot. He’s not Wei Wuxian. That energy he just felt isn’t anything he can stand against on his own.

Heart pounding, holding his breath, Jiang Cheng backs away slowly.

“Stop...! W-who...?!”

The voice that reaches his ears is barely audible, faint and choked. But it’s enough to send a horrified chill down Jiang Cheng’s spine. As if he could mistake that voice anywhere.

His feet spring to action a beat before his mind registers it.

It doesn’t take a second before Jiang Cheng is bursting into a clearing, Sandu drawn and ready, heart in his throat. And there they are.

There’s a sword — Suibian — skewering him to the mess of a tree behind him and there are hands around his neck. His shixiong had chosen a light lilac uniform today, perfect for early summer weather. Perfectly contrasting the crimson spilling down his side.

He must be seeing things, he must be.

His heart stumbles but thankfully his body does not hesitate, years of training serving him well. A haze of red colours his vision, sharpens it, because this is simply unacceptable.

Dimly, Jiang Cheng wonders what happened. Was it just a coincidence? Was Wei Wuxian just at the wrong place, at the wrong time? Or did he run towards the danger? But Jiang Cheng knows, really, that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t do that. Not when it mattered.  

“Get off him!”

Surprisingly, the assailant — the intruder — listens, letting Wei Wuxian slide to the ground, limp and silent. The man turns and Jiang Cheng stares into bottomless scarlet eyes. Coldness creeps up his arms.

“You’ll regret saving him.”

Jiang Cheng’s head feels woozy and, pumped full of adrenaline, he can barely think straight. The maniac in front of him looks disconcertingly like Wei Wuxian. Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“Who are you? How dare you attack Yunmeng’s head disciple?!”

But it can’t be him. Wei Wuxian is right there bleeding out behind him. The torn and bloodied black robes flow and drape off a skeletal frame, so unlike the practical outfits his shixiong favours. It lets Suibian — and his good looks — shine even more, Wei Wuxian likes to say.

The corpse-like pallor and blood-red eyes of this stranger fill Jiang Cheng with a muted sense of horror. Beyond his face, there’s nothing similar at all, Jiang Cheng thinks.

The stranger only laughs. It’s a soft and broken sound.

“Leave now, Jiang Cheng. You can pretend you never saw anything. Pretend...he never existed.”

Rage boils under Jiang Cheng’s skin. He doesn’t have time for this, not when his idiot of a brother is lying, unmoving, on the ground. And yet this maniac is spewing some kind of nonsense.

“Bullshit! Who the fuck are you, even?! You think I, the future sect leader of the Jiang Sect, will stand by and let you attack one of my own people?”

For a split second, Jiang Cheng thinks the stranger might cry. It’s a bewildering thought. He’s never seen Wei Wuxian cry.  

“It’s better this way. Trust me, please. Just this once.”

Suibian’s blade flashes, still wet with blood. Sandu rises.

Jiang Cheng’s mouth opens in a silent scream. He’s too far. He’s too far.

A ripple of energy rips through the clearing. A clean strum of the guqin.

“Wei Ying!”

Jiang Cheng has never heard that voice infused with such panic. But it’s not enough. Lan Wangji buys them a fraction of time but Suibian is still descending, falling like an executioner’s final blow.

“No, please...”

The clearing explodes into blinding light.

As soon as Jiang Cheng’s eyes adjust a little, he cracks open a slit, just in time to see a tall silhouette pull the black-clad figure into his arms.

Even from afar, it looks intimate. Jiang Cheng wants to look away, but he doesn’t. He sees the silhouette lean down to whisper quiet words. They are pleading words yet they are filled with a steady and firm conviction. They are not for him but Jiang Cheng hears them anyway.

“Come home, Wei Ying. Come back to me. I am waiting for you.”

The world collapses into nothing.

“We are all waiting.”

... 

Wei Wuxian wakes slowly. It’s like floating up from deep, murky waters and finally breaking the surface to bask in the sunlight above.

The last tendril of the dream releases his mind from its grasp. He blinks open heavy eyelids.

“Wei Ying.”

A deep, familiar timbre rumbles next to his ear and he instinctively tries to shift closer.

“Lan Zhan~”

He burrows into a warm embrace.

“Mn. I’m here.” His husband shifts and pulls him into a sitting position, still comfortably arranged in his lap. “How do you feel?”

“Never better. What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Wei Wuxian plays absently with a strand of Lan Wangji’s hair and doesn’t answer.

He remembers the conference. It’s why they’re here in Yunmeng, the first time in an official capacity. Hanguang-jun and his cultivation partner. Surreptitiously, he glances around the room. Indeed, they haven’t left. He recognizes Lotus Pier’s style of furnishings.

And then what?

Oh, yes. The beast. Its poisonous talons.

Some young upstarts had smuggled it in using a qiankun pouch of all things. They’d wanted to...what was it? Reverse an unnatural, undeserved rebirth and set the world to rights? Have their names etched into history through this noble deed?

Something like that.

Wei Wuxian scoffs.

But as uncoordinated as the effort had been, it almost succeeded. Wei Wuxian had been far too unguarded, far too comfortable in a place he used to call home. All it took was a turned back, a split second of divided attention, and the last thing he saw was Lan Wangji’s widening eyes before he fell into darkness.

The wound itself is barely a scratch. The bandages Wei Wuxian can feel around his arm are definitely overkill.

He presses a kiss onto his husband’s cheek. An apology.

“You must’ve been worried.”

Lips brush against his temple. Arms tighten around him.

“Mn. I was.”

They bask in each other’s presence for a good few minutes. Lan Wangji isn’t one to fidget, not at all, but sometimes he likes to run his fingers through Wei Wuxian’s hair, thread their fingers together, press gentle kisses down his neck...remind himself he’s really here. Wei Wuxian knows it all too well.

“Your dream?” Lan Wangji asks.

Wei Wuxian sighs. He doesn’t really want to think about it but he knows he should. And Lan Wangji makes him braver.

“It was just after Nightless Sky. Shijie had just...” He swallows. It’s never easier. It never will be. “And I...I don’t know why. Maybe I was just thinking about it, wishing, so hard that...well. It was a dream anyway.

“So suddenly I was back. Standing in front of Cloud Recesses. Those barriers didn’t stand a chance against the Yiling Patriarch. Heh.”

“Wei Ying...”

“I know! I know. It’s stupid but I...I guess I thought it was a good idea. At the time.”

He remembers the dream more vividly than he would like.

He remembers the screams, the blood, the emptiness. He remembers all of it falling away and then a glimmer of hope and desperation burning into his chest.

He had been given a chance. A chance to reset, a chance to erase the pain.

It had been such an easy choice. It made so much sense. Everything would have been better.

“Do you still think that?”

Wei Wuxian startles. The voice came from the door and sure enough, it’s the one person he doesn’t want to see right now.  

“...Ah, Jiang Cheng. You’re here.”

Lost in memories, Wei Wuxian didn’t notice him arriving. He frowns.

“Well?” Jiang Cheng presses, the picture of impatience.

“I...”

Lan Wangji’s chest is a solid warmth against his back. Wei Wuxian can’t help but slide his hand into his husband’s. He squeezes tight. Jiang Cheng scrunches up his nose in his typical disdain.

“No. No, I don’t.”

Wei Wuxian stares fixedly down at his and Lan Wangji’s joined hands. The silence drags on so long that he thinks Jiang Cheng might’ve left. But then...

“I’m...glad to hear that.”

The admission is quiet but the words are enough to stun Wei Wuxian into stillness. Jiang Cheng looks highly uncomfortable.

Wei Wuxian takes one look at his face and laughs.

... ... ...

 Extra:

“Wei Wuxian!”

The young Sect Leader Jin skids to a halt in front of the Yiling Patriarch and his husband.

“Hanguang-jun,” Jin Ling adds, making a hasty formal greeting. He pauses, taking a moment to look Wei Wuxian up and down. Wei Wuxian returns his scrutiny with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re awake.”

“...Indeed. Is there a problem?”

“Yes!” As if suddenly reminded, Jin Ling jolts in place and wastes no more time dragging Wei Wuxian away.

“Uncle is about to kill those rogue cultivators!”

“So what are you coming to me for?!”

“Ah, whatever! Just come already!”

... ... ...

Was that confusing? Is it a bit ooc for JC in the end? Maybe. But I couldn’t help it. No regrets.

Anyway, the idea was basically, WWX got scratched and poisoned and fell into that dreamscape, as his younger self, right after Nightless Sky. The way to save him was to enter the dream via an “antidote” and pull him out. Very cliche, I know.

Why did Jiang Cheng get there first? Well, he strongly insisted by stealing the only dose of antidote as soon as it was ready. Poor Hanguang-jun was quite livid.

But why did Jiang Cheng not appear as his adult self (and didn’t know he was in the dream)? It’s because Wei Wuxian’s consciousness didn’t recognize him strongly enough. Their connection wasn’t strong enough. Not then, not anymore.

But no worries, they’ll get to a good place again, eventually. I am adamant about this.

Also, did anyone catch the title reference??

... ... ...

Ko-fi | Drabble Commissions

[smolbeandrabbles]

Music - Martin x Reader (Untogether)

@happyskywhale @wltz-bby​ #MendoTagSquad. GIF CREDIT: X

Sequel to I’ll Name The Dogs

Author’s Note: @mandy23b​ - For reference, I chose “the nearest surface in one of your apartments” 😏😏😏

This one feels like its been in the back of my head a very long time but just needed the right kind of push to put it onto paper! Or mix of ingredients... either way I found them all!

Here’s another pops up on shuffle when writing and immediately latch onto it song! (Until I had a last minute song change but decided to keep some of the original lyrics!) Music - Kelsea Ballerini Losing Sleep - Chris Young

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the writing and the reader (and the dog OC I suppose!)

Premise: ‘What’s the best record you’ve ever had sex to?’ An interesting question, with undoubtedly an interesting answer. Should Jake, Martin’s newly adopted puppy, allow you to test it for yourselves...

Words: 5155

Warnings: Swearing / Sexual Banter / Sinday/Sunday Smut

_____ Feels like the radio when your tires roll into my drive Then my heart stops, like a beat drop It's a symphony when you sweet talk Make this quiet town, feel electric, loud When the lights going down Every word out of your mouth Is like music When you look at me like that I lose it My name on your lips, wanna replay your kiss When I wake up, and lay down, and stay up and make out We're not saying nothing But it's feeling something like music Before I knew your love Even with the volume up, it was silent then And now you're walking in the room all kind of smooth, like a violin Everybody else is white noise So talk to me, cause your voice Is like music Your song on my skin is like Ah-ah-ah-ah So play it again just like Ah-ah-ah-ah Your song on my skin is like Ah-ah-ah-ah So play it again My whole heart's listening to your music ---     You know That I love you, let me show you We don't need to dream at all Baby so Fall into me Let me breathe the air you breathe I can take you anywhere you want to be When it comes to us Every single touch is something special... Yeah we're winning, we're losing When we're losing sleep --- You could already hear Jake’s excited barks as you pulled up to the front door of your boyfriend’s house. And yes, you did officially get to call him that now. Martin still came down to volunteer with you, and as frequently as before – so you were glad to see it wasn’t just your influence working there. You managed to keep it at least semi-professional, but it was also fairly obvious that you were a couple; and it was commented on often. Still, once other people working with you got wind that he was a painter – if they didn’t know already from seeing him work around here – his schedule was suddenly filled up with “Oh! Martin! Could you just do this!” and, given his charm, he got pretty well paid for it. Everyone loved him, and missed him when he wasn’t around almost as much as you did. It was all good for him, and you thought considering his previous relationship much needed. Also, as if the entire shelter wasn’t enamoured with Martin’s presence alone, last week he’d come jogging up to the counter and wanted to run a plan past you – “Do you think my band and I could throw a benefit concert-!?” “A what-?!” You raised an eyebrow, head tilted. “A benefit concert.” He indicated around, getting a little more excitable, “For the shelter-!” You only chuckled at that, “Martin, you’re such a babe!” Of course you thought it was a great idea, only that he should probably talk to the owner about it to get the go ahead. (No doubt she would say yes – but you were happy he was getting back to his music. You were happy to listen to him write every weekend if that’s what he wanted to do.) To which he grinned, and was about to sprint off to find her, before you pulled him back, leaning across the counter for a kiss. That was strategic, he’d only been here 30 seconds and already a couple of girls hanging around the front desk were making eyes at him. Martin’s enthusiasm only gained confidence with that, “Later Y/N!” You let him go with a smile and wave to match his; “Don’t forget there’s the big charity dog walk next week.” “Oh I know! “BYOD-!” He laughed, calling back as he ran through the reception door; “You know Jake is my secret weapon-!” That much was true. If it wasn’t everyone fussing over Martin, it was everyone fussing over Martin with Jake. You chuckled, leaning on your hands to watch him go; still in those tight white shirts, you could see those well-defined shoulder muscles and the curve of his back. You sighed gently and your eyes flicked to the girls still watching him – you couldn’t help your triumphant smirk, because it didn’t just happen here, you’d seen girls give him the same looks as you wandered hand in hand through town. An extraordinary thing to watch, in all honestly; you weren’t sure if you’d ever been with anyone that elicited that response. Martin had the look, and the style, and the attitude for it though – he never wanted the attention, but the way he was demanded it. Plus it shouldn’t surprise you, cute guy with a cute dog…? And he was yours now! You exited your car about the same time Martin opened his front door, and Jake scurried across his driveway; “Go get her!” Was said with a laugh “Oof! Okay, okay!! I missed you too!” You giggled, his paws up on your legs immediately, stooping to pet Jake before he ran back at Martin’s whistle, “How are my favourite trouble makers!” “A’right! Waiting impatiently for you!” He grinned, greeting you with a kiss, “You’re a little late.” “Ah! But the traffic was bad, and I brought treats.” “For me, or the dog!” “Uh, both of you!” You nudged Martin playfully at the very idea that you wouldn’t bring them both something. “Oooh! What are we so honoured with-!?” “Donuts!” “Fuck off-! Seriously-!? Did I ever tell you you’re the best!” He threw his arm around your shoulders, closing the door, “JAKE! We’re getting donuts!” Jake yapped excitedly as you walked through into the living room. “Coffee?” Martin enquired, as Jake tailed him through into the kitchen, leaving you to settle down and unbox everything, “That’d be nice, thank you.” “You’re welcome…!” He called. Then two seconds later, and more hushed, “Yes! Yes! I know! C’mere!” “Are we walking into town or--?” You barely finished your question before you were met with loud excitable barks, “Hush! Not yet! Calm down. Go sit with her. I know, it’s very exciting-!” Silence for a moment, “Go on, go sit with Y/N!” Then louder and to you, as Jake padded back through and sat up on the couch patiently waiting to be smothered in cuddles, “Don’t say that word-! He goes nuts!” “Noted!” You giggled, scratching Jake behind his ears, “He’s a good boy-!” Martin wandered back through, with a sigh, “He’s taking my spot!” You laughed as he set your coffee down and sat next to Jake, “Seriously, man, she’s my girlfriend – are you gonna be my wingman or cockblock me, we talked about this.” The puppy yelped and decided to lick Martin’s face instead, “Ah! Yeah-! Okay!” He chuckled, “I love ya too, bud! But it’s her I’m tryna kiss-!” You covered your mouth but couldn’t help your giggle, “Aw! He just wants love!” “He’d have you believe that I didn’t give him any!! Jake, c’mon, down!” He obeyed, earning a kiss from you; to which you of course received kisses back as you fussed him. With your attention fully on his dog Martin scoffed, folding his arms; “Oh my god, this is unbelievable!” You could only laugh again, then straightened up, “AH! But I love both of you!” “Trust me, he’ll take full advantage-! Jake, come here, sit.” Martin selected a treat as Jake obediently did so, “Good boy!” He held it out for Jake to take from him and petted his head, leaving Jake to wander off to his bed in the corner of the room. Martin beamed after him before kicking back on the sofa with a donut of his own; “AH! My girlfriend is the best, and so is my dog!” For a moment you regarded him, having just been the one complaining about Jake receiving all the attention, but decided to let it go with a roll of your eyes. You sat back with him, cuddling into his chest with your coffee, and watching Jake lie down quietly with his treat, before Martin wound one arm around you. “He is a good boy. You’ve done really well with him!” “Mhm…” Martin took a bite, “Mmm! These are good!” then swallowed, “He’s getting better. You make him too excitable, that’s my only problem.” You scoffed, “I think he has every right; he did get us together-!” Martin looked thoughtful as he ran a hand through your hair. “Yeah I’ll give him that.” Then turned to you with a smile. “However, maybe you’re giving him a little too much excitable energy about me-! They do say dogs are just like their owners!” Martin’s eyes narrowed slightly; “Are you saying it’s my fault!?” “I dunno, dog whisperer…” You took a sip of your coffee, “What’s your verdict?” His next bite was mused for a while, and he kept his eyes on you, “Well, damn, stopping him might be hard-!” Martin leant in, pulling you tight to him, kissing your face everywhere he could reach, whilst you giggled and tried to protest as best you could without spilling coffee all over him; “MARTIN! MARTIN! GET OFF!!!” Jake barked happily from the corner at the two of you laughing, which only made Martin laugh harder, and you thinking you had a case in point, before the two of you settled back into the couch together. Martin patted his lap and Jake bounded back to you, hopping up to lie on him. “Ah. See. What are we even going out for…?” Martin rubbed your back, “It was your idea!” Then you frowned, realising that beyond walking somewhere, there was no concreate plan that you knew of, “Actually, yeah babe, what did you have in mind?” “Oh…” Martin took his hand in yours lacing your fingers, before kissing them, and held the back of your hand to his lips whilst he thought, “There’s a little record shop I always wanted to take you to, even before we were together… I thought we could go buy some records?” “To listen to together?” “Mhm….” He looked back to you with those big blue eyes – puppy dog eyes if ever you’d seen them. Aw, Geez, they really are as bad as each other! “How far is it?” You nodded back to Jake – he had done extremely well, and you knew that Martin was also taking him to training classes. You knew they were helping each other out, and that only made you beam more. “It’s uh… a decent W A L K… He can’t go in, that’s the only problem, but then we can find a nice outdoor café… or park he might like-” You very nearly rolled your eyes at the phonetic spelling but noticed that Jakes ears did perk up instantly at both words “-Then we can come home. Should wear him out. He’ll enjoy not being around the same block or route too, I think.” “Okay…” You cuddled back into Martin for a moment, and he rested his head on yours, “Just let me enjoy time with my boys whilst I finish my coffee-!” Martin laughed; “Y/N! We are literally gonna hang out all day!” *** You were pleased to see that Jake was walking nicely, either at Martin’s heels, or between the two of you – to which you received a knowing look – but he rarely tangled his lead. Martin supposed the only habit he did have was running off to investigate things and sometimes whilst doing that he would pull, but Jake was still a puppy and Martin knew he’d grow out of the yanking – but he’d always be curious, some dogs just were. You made the record store in good time, and Martin found some shade to tie him up in, kneeling down; “Alright Jake, you be a good boy okay, we’re not gonna be long I promise. Sit and be a good boy for me.” Jake did so, tail wagging obediently, and Martin gave him a treat, “That’s my boy!” Then took your hand, “I mean maybe we can trail run this and think about coming back, I…” “Hush…” You kissed his cheek gently, “You’re a sweetie and you care about him, we don’t have to spend hours in the store and we can always come back, don’t worry about it.” Pink dusted Martin’s cheeks, “Well, let’s see how we do right now, huh?” as far as he knew you might have hated the store and never wanted to come back! Martin’s arm curved around your hip and you nodded, reaching out to pat Jake’s head goodbye; “Let’s go!” It was a tiny store, and you’d describe it as cramped, but it worked with the whole aesthetic, and every shelf was neatly arranged. Everything was very easy to find. Although you’d entered together, Martin and you perused the shelves alone. You weren’t sure what you were really looking for, but there was a lot of rare material in here, ranging from the plain obscure to new top 40 records in vinyl form – it was certainly making a comeback. Breathing new life into niche stores like this. As you kept flicking through the records you suddenly smirked, and slid one out, flipping it over to the track listing, biting your lip your smirk became a sly grin. “Hey, Martin!” “Mhm?” He turned back to you from the other side of the store, expression almost unreadable at the mischievous look on your own face. “What’s the best record you’ve ever had sex to?!” Your guess would be something very obscure and Australian – you knew his music taste by now. But you’d let him answer. He immediately spluttered, before laughing; “Well, what’s yours!?” “You’re not gonna answer me-!?” Martin shook his head, still laughing, “Oh God! I can’t believe you-” You flipped the record back to show him the cover, “Woah, fuck, really-!?” “Yeah - you have no idea…” He raised an eyebrow, impressed, “Okay… let me see if I can find… mine…” He pondered around the stacks for a minute, before thumbing through a couple, “AHA. Bingo.” Pulling one out and turning it to you, You couldn’t help but be a little surprised, and laughed, “Oh my god you’re such a cliché!” “OH come onnnnnnnn!” He very nearly whined, but was about to explain why it was undeniable, “This voice? – Baby, you need to try it!” You bit your lip through your smile again, the movement of your head daring him to say it. Martin caught on, and suddenly his smirk became wicked; “Well, should I get it and should we test it out!?” You were cackling before he even pointed to yours, “I don’t mind testing twice!” You left the store two records heavier, but not another word passed between you about it. Although a multitude of giggles did – before Jake started barking like he hadn’t seen either of you in years. “Oh God-! Okay, we’re back!” Martin untied his leash, “Come on, let’s find you a nice park, huh?” He barked again, paws up on Martin’s thighs and pawing at his jeans, “Yes, puppy I know! I know!” He held his hand out for yours and you laced your fingers together, before he pulled you in. Looping his arm around your shoulders, Martin kissed your forehead, “Let’s go-!” *** It was a few more weeks before you actually got to test the records out, but Martin had them balanced on top of his player ever since he’d got home. You were sitting on top of his kitchen counter, listening intently to his record of choice and deciding that cliché didn’t even cover it. Still, it was nice to watch Martin dance around the kitchen making coffee and sing softly to it. You could listen to him sing all day, and often asked him to sing a little louder when he was trying to sing under his breath. ‘Well I don’t wanna bother anyone!!’ ‘Are you KIDDING-!? With your voice-!?’ - this was a popular conversation track when you volunteered together. Nothing really changed. By now you’d been bestowed a key to his house, and you’d been here a little while longer than he had, hanging with Jake. Martin had been out painting all morning, but his afternoon was clear, and he was back. Paint covered pants and all, one clean white stripe across his left cheek that you couldn’t take your eyes off – and he’d allowed you to put a record on, as celebration of his return, whilst he made himself a coffee. The usual small talk passed between you as you sipped your own drink. You couldn’t help your eyes tracing his body – those damn tight white shirts were about to drive you insane and this one seemed even tighter than usual, allowing you to see the outline of the necklace he always wore but you’d never seen, his hair was still a little mussed from being tousled by the wind, he had a soft smile on his face and his eyes were brightly accented by the sunshine streaming in through the window. Ugh; it was almost painful. Martin turned to you, and your look was inescapable – he titled his head inquisitively, “What?” You blinked slowly, taking another sip, and whether it was the music, or you wanted to confess, or just a mistake, you ended up spilling those words from your lips “I just… I’ve always thought you looked really sexy in those pants - especially with paint all over them, and I mean, oh my god can that shirt get any tighter!?” You weren’t sure if Martin was looking at you like that because it was sinking in, or whether he was making sure you knew what you’d just said. He glanced quickly to his record player, and then smirked; sidling over to you he took one more sip of coffee before setting it down behind you, pushing his body between your legs; “Well, I could always just take it off?” His voice was low, and he placed his hands on your thighs. Blush set in on your cheeks and that immediately had Martin grinning again, his eyes looked between yours, before he leant in to kiss you. You couldn’t help but very nearly throw your drink down, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to pull him closer. His hands moved from your thighs to your back quickly, and he slid your body over the counter to get your hips against his. You groaned gently into his kiss - despite knowing it was on purpose - and you instinctively ground against him, running your hands into his hair, arms tight around his shoulders, legs winding around his waist. Martin bit your lip; kisses fervent and a little on the rough side, releasing you to trail them down your jawline and neck. That only made you grip him tighter and sigh for every kiss he planted. Your breaths were already shallow and as you inhaled, all you could smell was his skin; clean sweat, fresh wood and paint, the warmth of summer changing into autumn – and as Martin worked his way back to your lips you couldn’t help but smile again at that streak of paint. “What?” You brushed your lips to his, and your fingers over it; “I think you missed a spot.” “There’s paint on my face?” “Mhm.” He grinned, “Well, that can’t be helped. Is it as sexy as the paint on my pants-!?” You laughed, “Why don’t you kiss me again and find out?” “Oh?” Martin wasn’t about to refuse you that and once again those kisses were fiery; and you wondered why the hell you’d never made-out like this before now. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, faint traces of mint lingered – either from brushing his teeth or the gum he kept in his car for ‘emergencies’; you weren’t sure what he meant by that, but you did know that if you ever asked for any the answer was “NO.” This time you nipped his lip, hands wandering under his shirt and up his back, sure he’d said ‘I’ but why couldn’t you take it off? He growled against your kiss, and in response his hands slid up under your skirt. You came to the realisation that your joke about testing the records out was about to become reality, and you suddenly wished you’d said something about how fucking sexy he was in paint flecked overalls a long time ago. There was a small yap from behind you and you broke apart slowly, making Martin sigh and turn around. You had to tilt your body to see Jake sitting a few steps behind you, eyes wide, looking at you both with nothing but love. Martin looked back to you; “Can you believe this-!? I told you!” You giggled, “Okay, I think now I believe you.” Then again you did remember his comment about cockblocking and almost snorted. Martin gave you a short, chaste kiss and left your legs – the absence of his body nearly had you whining. “No, bud, seriously, I love you but not now!” Stepping around him, Martin walked over and opened the back door. “OH! That’s so MEAN!!” “C’mon Jake, get some exercise outside, boy, c’mon!” Jake just stared at him, making you begin cackling again. Martin placed his hands on his hips; “No, seriously, outside! C’mon, c’mere!” He opened the treat box and Jake was immediately on his feet, “Come on-” Martin stepped out and you heard him run off the decking and onto the back lawn, making Jake bark happily and chase him outside, before you heard; “Good boy! Go get it!” Five seconds later Martin was back and had the back door shut and locked, you were still laughing, “You’re so bad-!” “Oh! You think that’s funny-!?” “It kinda is-!” Martin tsked, “Well, if he lets us get away with this, I’m sure he can have as many rewards as he wants.” “Get away with this?” You were still amused as he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again, harder this time. Your legs pulled him back to you, and your hands were running to his button and zipper rather than bothering with his shirt this time. “You took my offer to test this records out a little too literally, huh, Y/N?” His voice was husky and it drew a shiver delightfully down your spine. “You’re the one who said get away with this.” You smirked, tugging him back to your lips again until you were breathless, his hands back under your skirt and pulling your panties down your legs; “Don’t act like you don’t want it.” “Mmm…” Martin went for your neck again, voice low and growling in your ear once more, “I don’t think you realise how long I’ve wanted it.” That did make you blush, and for a minute you pulled away from him, and suddenly he softened, “…Oh…Oh! I- I’m sorry.” Your mouth was still open a little in shock, and you gasped; “MARTIN! Why didn’t you just say so!!” He laughed, pushing your skirt further up your thighs, and placing your hands back on the opening of his pants you kissed his neck; “Well I just did, didn’t I?!” Martin didn’t have to say more than that for you to shimmy his pants off his hips, as yours hit the floor, before you pulled him closer, hand slipping into his boxers as his tongue slipped back into your mouth. Martin groaned softly as you wrapped your hand around him, moving your fingertips teasingly he released you from his kisses. Hands either side of you he bit his lip, his back bent, body leaning into you – and you didn’t think it fair that your vocalist wasn’t about to be very vocal. You started to pump him, nice and slow, and you got to smirk as you watched the tension through his arms. Martin tried to hide that, lips to your neck again – but his kisses were messy at best, and as your thumb circled the tip he did shudder, and he finally elicited the growl you wanted to hear – reverberating wonderfully against your skin - as his hips jerked against the motion. You couldn’t help your tease of; “Good boy.” and the shot of confidence you felt at the way his cheeks flushed red. You picked up the pace, expertly sliding his boxers down his legs as you did so, giving him a groan of your own. Fuck, was this man built well. You were well aware of the pool of heat now throbbing between your legs – and moaned again as your imagination ran wild. God you wanted him so bad, and Martin needn’t have told you he did – you could see that. His hips jerked again, and this time Martin cursed – and the growl of your name made you grip him a little too hard. “FUCK-! Y/N-!” Both of you shuddered suddenly, and he took to opportunity to gain control again – hands in your hair as his lips caught yours. Tipping your body back meant you had to release him and steady yourself against his counter with a gasp. But he ground his hips into yours, this time deliberately, and it was almost unbearable; the flash of ecstasy making you whimper his name.

This time Martin smirked, he could feel just how wet you were and he didn’t see the point in denying either of you what you wanted the most. Snaking his hand between your bodies he slid one finger tentatively into you, you moaned against his lips again, this time your fingers tangling in his shirt, gripping him so tight he could feel your fingernails digging into his skin. “That’s it, baby…” He murmured, grazing his lips across your cheeks as you buried your face in his chest to suppress your moans – to no avail, of course, and Martin chuckled, because all he wanted was to hear you. You pushed against his body in an attempt to escape his fingers; the pleasure was intense and you didn’t want to climax for him too early; but he’d inserted a second finger and his thumb was now paying close attention to your clit; “Oh-! God. M-Martin-!” He chuckled, “Don’t worry, Y/N, I want you just as bad…” Your hands released the back of his shirt, only to yank him into another hot and heavy kiss by the front of it, less talk more action. Your next sentence was both demanding and breathless; “God, I am begging you! Fuck me to this album on your kitchen counter, or so help me! Martin!” He raised his eyebrows with a smirk, “I thought you’d never ask!” In one quick movement, he withdrew his fingers and pushed into you. You both immediately groaned at the feeling, and your legs latched around him again – you had a feeling you had used the right word; this was about to get very messy, very quickly. Neither of you were going to last very long, but it was gonna feel SO good. Martin kept good pace; fingers gripping your hips so hard you thought he was bound to leave marks, but your body was already singing – and when your lips weren’t locked with his, you were eliciting the most gorgeous little sighs; Martin got to keep all of those to himself. You got to give yourself a little ego boost, thinking of all the girls you’d seen staring at him who wished they’d get anywhere near close to doing this. “AH-!” Your legs tightened around him, moving him closer as every thrust pushed him deeper into you, and he hit your sweet-spot, “Yes-! Martin! Oh! Baby, don’t stop! Please!” He almost told you he had no intention of doing so; opting to nip the top of your ear instead, which sent another shock to your system – senses on overdrive. Your muscles continued to clench around him, and as you got tighter his breaths got shorter; because damn did you feel good. “Y/N-!” he panted it, and more than once – sure, he’d had sex plenty of times before this (and to this album, but not recently!), yet he wasn’t sure the last time it’d felt this good. Not to be so complete with someone – no matter how quick this was going to be. Martin could already feel the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, and your sighs were getting short and sharp – but he wanted you to finish together. He gathered your hands in his, squeezing tight as he threaded your fingers together. “Martin- I-!” He nodded, because he also knew that much just from the feel of you; “Uh huh-!” And so you came together – and you were right, it was hot and heavy. Your breathing was shallow and you had to fight yourself panting too hard, as your body relaxed. Every point of you feeling that ecstatic high. He pushed his forehead to yours gently, breathing just as hard, and not wanting to lose that contact; his body shook and Martin very nearly laughed, before kissing you again – sweet and gentle. “Y/N… I… Geez, I love you, babe.” You could swear that the fact that you felt tears spiking was to do with your high and not his love confession but who knew, in all honesty. “Oh, oh Martin! Baby, I love you too!” You pulled him back to you, for a kiss even sweeter, before pressing a tender one to his forehead and wrapping your arms around him. “Are you cryin’?” He teased, and you could almost have punched him for it. “NO! I’m happy-!” But Martin laughed, his hands rubbing your back soothingly as you nestled your head into the crook of his neck, regulating your breathing once more. He hummed softly to the record again for a few minutes, as you carded your fingers through his hair sitting there in blissful silence, then grinned; “You know, we still have a whole other album left over there, if you wanna go again…” You snorted, still catching your breath, “Oh god, will you at least give me until the end of this one-!?” Then you sat back, unravelling yourself from him; “…Why waste it all at once?” “I suppose you have a point,” He kissed you again, pulling his coffee back from behind you; surprisingly no one had knocked it and spilled it all over the counter. Martin took a sip and put it down again. “Mhm, warm enough.”  Sliding it away from himself he added, “Well worth wasting a cup of coffee for.” “Gee thank-” You paused and fell silent, catching a glimpse of the back door over his shoulder and instantly freezing. “What?” He half turned, still between your legs; “OH. Shit.” He covered his eyes for a moment – of course, sitting there obediently waiting to be let back in, with his tail wagging, was Jake “You don’t think he…” Martin couldn’t finish the sentence without and embarrassed chuckle, “Oh, okay – I’m not living this down.” “Well he can’t remind you of it – you got that in your favour.” “No, but YOU probably will-!” You held your hands up to protest innocence; “I’m party to it, why would I-!?” He shot you a look, swivelling around and then promptly tripping on his pants, now halfway down his legs. Martin steadied himself and you couldn’t help but giggle, he scowled, bending over to pull then up and you bit your lip through your smirk, unable to resist. “You know, again, maybe you just wear really nice figure hugging jeans but – damn you have a nice ass.”  Then Martin tripped again over his own feet, waiting a few seconds for you to get your giggles out, before turning; “You are privileged to see it-!” “No doubt-!” You grinned, but Martin strode back across his kitchen to you, gathering your panties from the floor as he did so, before giving you another harsh kiss – you groaned again, not quite as down from your high as you thought. His blue eyes were intense, but mischievous as he pulled back, and his smile triumphant; “Thought I could shut you up!” “You should be so lucky to hear my voice!” You gave as good as you got, shimmying your underwear back up your legs. “Ah, now that I do know.” Martin smirked, kissing you once more before stepping away from the counter, “Especially when it’s sighing my name like that.” This time you did blush; “Oh! Shut up and let your poor dog in!” --- Thank you for reading-! 😘💙

[voidselfshipp]

Depth Strider

Summary: the team fortress mercs gain the attention of an unlikely diety

Pt2:

Chapter 1:

Depht strider

/~~~~~~\

Was she really going to do it?

She sits there on her motorcycle, as the sun sets, looking at the water that rocked softly against the cliff.

Was she really going to intervene?

She tugs at the hem of the fluffy jackets neck, she was running out of time to make a decision.

Of course she was going to.

She takes off the jacket and stretches taking a run to the water, diving head first with her clothes all draped in water.

The bubbles from her breath Rise up to the waters surface.

The tides come to life as a roar expands in the water like a soundwave.

Her pupils contracts, Forming a reptile like appereance with her emerald eyes, shining softly unbothered by the water.

Her soft thin hands are now deep dark red coloured scaly claws.

Her legs seem of an animal as she strides through the water feeling her wings impulsing her through the dephts of australians ocean.

Oh no, the submarine is already there.

She headbutts it making a dent in the carcass.

Her nose,that became smaller,Like a snout, sniffs something.

Blood.

--Oh fuck!--her voice is distorted, thanks to the water.

She swims under the submarine trying to find a way to claw her way in.

Its a miracle that she hasnt been detected yet.

Her claws dig into the metal exterior holding for dear life as the big submarine impulses through the Ocean.

She can barely hear whats going on.

She needs to find a way in.

Jerico sighs ,when was the last time she attempted this?.

A small jellyfish seems to casually swim towards her, and sticks close to her.

And then the submarine trembles as a huge wave cracked, then the weather Turned badly.

A storm fell on the sea without mercy.

A friendly orca casually helps jerico to jump to an Open hatch.

And as soon as she gets in a mist of evaporated water envolves the room shes in, drying her.

The place is still rocky, her aunt and sister knew how to put up a show.

Everybody in there was freaking out,a perfect moment for her to sneak in the ventilation system.

She needs to Freed them first.

/~~~~~~~\

Hot summer wind hit teufort hard.

That same day,the team of mercenaries disbanded, as their employers died misteriously.

They all went their separate ways, apparently.

Before that however everyone decided to have one last beer togheter

Yes, even spy.

They were being loud, acting as if they all cared for eachother,they did, just they didnt show it to the others.

There,in the corner of a bar, a woman,Drank from her beer while looking at the men in the bar, one of them failed once again to flirt with the female barista.

Jerico felt bad for that guy.

So, she stood up, and Walked over the barista.

Okay jerico, you dads dorky charm needs to work on this Lady.

She cracks her knuckles,leaning over the bar.

The same female barista approaches her.

Jerico returns the smile--Hey,I was just sitting over there--she points with her gaze back at the corner she was sitting-- and couldnt help but just, look at you, I really like how you styled your hair today!

The baristas cheeks turn bright Pink,sttutering over her words-- o oh th thank you!you you also look very cute today!

Jeri giggles, well, im sure youve got more work to do, but how about you give this guy a chance,or if you dont want to, maybe give a chance to me ~

And what do you know?, the barista took some minutes off to talk to the guy sitting with the other men.

--Not only that girl Is a miracle worker but a saint-- a french Man said.

The guy looks at him, and scowls--Go to hell spy...

Jer looks at the men interact from afar,toying with the piece of paper the barista gave her with her number on it.

The old von terra charm never gets old!.

Its now around five pm, and she hears curses from outside the bar as she exists

That same Group of men seem to have some troubles with their car.

--Need help folks?--She asks, hands holding her motorcycle helmet.

--Im sorry --That same guy she acted as a wingman back at the bar said-- I dont see how a Lady like you can know about cars.

'Spy' slaps his arm--scout,thats no way to talk to a Lady

'Lady my ass' she thinks.

--But we'd appreciate the help--the french Man says.

Jerico smiles,that radiant smile of hers is enough to make some of them flustered--Great lemme see--She shoves her helmet to Scouts hands--hold this for me sweet-talker.

She goes under the car, and makes a tiny exclamation sound, then they hear a tiny clicking sound.

--Okay try it now

Spy gears up the car,it sounds as beautiful as it did before

--Mon dieu-- he says under his breath

By that time jer was already standing besides him--Merci mon chéri --the Man kisses the back of her hand while holding it.

Yet he sees nothing but a sweet kind smile, and somehow no blush.

--No need to thank me

She then moves on to the other Mans van.

--mundy is a bit stingy with his van, treat her like a baby -- a Man with a Texas accent said as he opened the vans hood.

--I Will, my dad was a mechanic, so I know what cars can mean to people, altough im alright if he wants to guide me through it, I mean it seems like its very personal so,I dont want to screw thing up

Jerico was indeed a miracle worker because for once Mundy, aka,sniper talked to another human being without sounding awkward

Scout just mouthes 'what the fuck' as the rest of the mercenaries watch their awkward teammate becoming a chatterbox with the misterious Lady helping them.

After ten minutes its all done, and they are good to go

--oi, thanks Sheila--mundy says, scratching the back of his neck.

--Dont mention it--jeri smiles.

--i dont want to sound weird but,whats your name?

--Jerico, jerico von terra

--Thanks jerico--the Man blushes, thank the god that his texan friend decided to help him.

--Come on we gon be late!

--Im coming Dell im coming!

And so the aussie Man, walks to the van and they drive off.

Jer puts on her helmet and drives just behind them,without them noticing.

They peeked her interest.

And what a rowdy bunch they were.

And so for the past months she has been following the other in each corner they went.

Scout,never shuts up.

Spy is a bit too classy.

The texan Man, Dell is very Smart and sweet.

Sniper, seemed awkward, and he was, but while he was on a supply shopping spree she saw the tiniest hint of his good heart.

But then there was this other Man, a cheeky German doctor, who liked to play god.

She remembers when was the first time they actually spoke.

He was still in América, going to a café by himself one day.

She decided to follow him, asking herself if he found it,would he find her creepy?

But as she was, the goddess of willpower, had low tolerance for people who berrated someone or made fun of other people.

She didnt like bullies at all.

The german Man had odd manners and behaviour , jerico wasnt weirded out, after what her family has got going on nothing surprises her.

That day at the café however , her temperamento got the best of her.

A Man taller than the german doctor,who his teammates reffered to him as 'Medic' , pushed Him--You should look where youre stepping, freak

Medic could fend off for himself, but jerico was faster than him.

--How about you say sorry for bumping into him?

Jeri came behind medic with her arms crossed.

--What is he?your boyfriend?--the Bully asked

She chuckles and looks at the german Man with a Sly smile--Hes very handsome, he could be my boyfriend, but you,poor you Will die alone with that assholness of yours

The Man didnt seem to take that too Kindly,he tried to slap her but her hand catched her wrist.

--i May be using a skirt but trust me boy I can kick your ass in more ways than you can imagine,lets make this easy shall we?

Yet the Man didnt want to make nice, he tried to hit her, to break free.

--Ill take that as a no

Medic was too amused so he sat back with a huge grin on his face.

And low and behold jerico did kick the bullies ass.

She twisted his wrist,the german doctor swore he could hear cracking as she did so, quickly positioning behind the Man and hitting behind his knees making him fall, jer still had a strong grip around his wrist,her foot stomped on his back , keeping him down.

--Leave.

Her voice is strong and firm,she lets go and the Man runs away, tripping in the main road.

Medic laughs trying to seem somewhat sane.

--May I repay you zhe favour my dear?

And so they stayed over, sitting in a quiet corner and chatting.

He was very charming,And actually got some giggles out of her.

But of course not everything can be fun and happy.

[missfay49]

Session 1b - I’d Rather Not

This is a retelling, not a transcription.

Word count: ~2,100

Relationships: platonic Moceit

Warnings (may contain spoilers): space, aliens, alien planet, fighting, cursing, disease, venom, exhaustion, mind-control, blood, hostile wildlife (request more tags if needed)

AO3

Last Chapter Next Chapter

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

“Thanks, Janus.”

Janus’ face twists into a cold focus.  He grabs his pistol and starts firing careful, timed bursts and the other fighters still in control of themselves do the same.  The vracinea makes no sounds when their shots hit, but its latex sap starts pouring from the wounds and its vines become frantic.  They all desperately hope that means it’s dying.

A particularly large electrical blast from the android seems to knock the large Lashunta loose, because they gasp and start running.  The creature gives chase but five of them are shooting it now and before it can attack again its smoking corpse falls with a strange flutter and a crunch.

The human walks up and spits on it before sitting hard on the ground.  

“I am so done with nature,” says the android.  Someone grunts in agreement.

Only a few seconds pass before the smaller Lashunta is shaking their head and backing away from the foliage in disgust.  No one says anything to them.  Janus gives them a questioning look, still catching his breath, but they just blink a few times and join the rough circle of people that has formed to rest.  

“Thank you for not letting me die,” Janus says to no one in particular.  He touches the scratches on his neck lightly, wincing.  

“You’re welcome,” says the small Lashunta.  

“I would not wish that fate on anyone,” adds the android.  “To be eaten by a plant… pitiful.”

Janus looks at each of them in turn, these new companions of his.  The human catches his eye and stares back for a moment, squinting hard at him.  Janus’ lips twitch in an aborted smile and he lets his gaze slide away to the next person.

The large Lashunta and the android are studying the plant together.  The android narrates their findings.  

“The plant was not originally part of the structure’s design.”

“Oh, was it not?  I would never have guessed.”  The human scoffed, leaning theirself back against a fallen tree.  The android continues as if nothing was said.

“This obelisk was a watchtower.  Non-magical.  Sargorssk, would you?”  The android looks at the Vesk and gestures.  They- Sargorssk- seems to know just what to do and draws their sword again to start hacking the remaining vines from the structure.  Once the surface is revealed, the android starts up again.

“There is ancient elven script here. “Warning.  You are approaching Loskialua, monastery of starsong, embassy of the spheres, and Temple of the Twelve.  Messengers and other visitors pay respect to the beyond.”  It says something about purity of the mind.”

“So, we should think pure thoughts?”  asks the large Lashunta.

“Indeed,” the android confirms.  “I suggest you think about soap.”

A few feet away, Janus is struggling with his med kit.  He knows it’s in here, he just can’t think right now through all the pains shouting at him.  He startles when the small Lashunta appears beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.  Janus makes to remove it, but a warmth blossoms from the touch and travels up and around his neck.  The cuts around his throat and head tingle and disappear.  It lasts only a few seconds, and then the Lashunta gives him a smile and pulls away.  Their hands part and Janus realizes he had been holding onto them throughout.  He stares as they walk back to their travel pack and sit.

“Oh, we’re keeping that one,” he decides.  

~~~

The group keeps moving.  The kaukarikis glower at the survivors walking through their territory.  They drop rocks on the group when they aren’t looking, but always retreat when confronted.  They’re just trying to be irritating.  

They make camp when the sun sets and the android strikes up conversation.

“How did you survive before…?”

“Things were a lot quieter before you came around.  Y’all are bad luck.”  Janus smirks.  “This is the worst mission I’ve ever had here!”

“That may be true,” Sargorssk chuckles.  “Are you sure you want to travel with us?”

“Well…” he draws it out just long enough to make everyone laugh.  When it dies down, his back is to them and he’s setting up his sleeping bag without a word.

The next morning sees another day of travel.  The infernal kaukarikis keep trailing the group, a hostile presence ever at their back.  Janus sidles up to the android.

“What’s your mission, anyway?”  He asks.

“We’re rescuing a kidnapped scientist,” they reply.  The large Lashunta nods.

“How very heroic!”

“What’s yours?”  The android’s eyes look through him.

“Cataloging species and their populations, but I’m more than happy to help rescue a fellow scientist!  It’s hard out here, we’ve got to look out for each other,” says Janus. 

“You’re welcome to stick with us as long as you like,” says the Vesk.

“Yes,” says the android.  “We could use the firepower.”

The day after that they encounter a creature called a ksarik.  A grey-ish-green four-legged creature with a tail and tentacles that twitch back and forth like a cat.  Everyone’s guns are raised when that thing tops the hill.  It disappears into the foliage, leaving only tension behind.

It appears again and again throughout the day, sometimes behind, sometimes to one side or the other.  Sometimes it moves impossible fast.

“Are there now two?” asks the android.

“Maybe so,” says the small Lashunta.  “They hunt in packs.”

On the fourth sighting, it doesn't run away again.  Instead it walks up to them, examining them, quivering with interest.  Probing.  It gurgles.  Janus is taking notes with great interest.

“Domash,” asks the android.  “Can you speak to this thing?”

The small Lashunta, Domash, squints for a moment.

“Yes, actually, it’s a type of fungus.  Don’t know how I forgot that!”  They laugh at theirself, stepping forward just a bit.

“Why here?  What want?  Me friend.”

“Want... Host...”

It launches a projectile a hundred feet across the field straight at the android.

A scream, a metallic screeching, and the android staggers.  A thorn is protruding from their shoulder, the panel cracked.  

The human takes aim and fires, the rest of the group following suit.  All but the large Lashunta.  They look around the field.  There!  Another creature, coming up on their flank.  Thorns fly from it as well, sinking into the Lashunta’s leg.  Then they flee.

“What the fuck?  Where are they going?” asks the human.  Domash looks at them, alarmed. 

“Their shots hit.  They think that all they have to do now is wait us out.  The spores…”  They look at their companion ripping the thorns out of their leg.

“We have to keep moving.”

Several times throughout the day, the creatures return to check on them, to fire more thorns.  No matter how many times they get shot, they flee only to return without a trace of damage.  The android tries to give chase, but they evolved within this jungle.  It’s impossible.

Janus tends to the large Lashunta’s wounds that night at camp.  It’s unclear if he’s helped, but they seem in higher spirits the next morning.

Another day, another several hours of being followed by kaukarikis, hunted by ksariks, and by the end of it Sargorssk and Janus have both been infected as well.  The other human lowers their gun after the fleeing creature and eyes Janus’ wounded arm.

“Oh, no, not our long-time field medic pal…”  they deadpan.  Janus glares in return.

  ~~~

“Y’all know where you’re going, right?”  Janus asks on the fifth day of travel.

The android stops in their tracks.

“What gives?”

A body is laying on the ground ahead.  Janus looks for signs of movement.

“It’s one of the cultists,” the android explains.  “One of the kidnappers.”  The human already has a gun raised.  

The android steps closer, and the cultist sees them and screams.

“Devourer, stop this pain!  I am ready for you!"  They pull out a gun but their arm cannot lift it to shoot.  Zin moves closer to the bulky Lashunta cultist, examining their wounds.  The human joins them, restraining the person.  It hardly seems necessary.

“They will not last much longer.”

“When did this happen?”  Domash approaches to question them.  They can only mumble, barely coherent.

“Time is… what?  I…”

“Should we, I don’t know, help them?”  Janus gestures vaguely.  The human is patting them down for any more weapons.  

“Or,” they pull out an incendiary grenade out of the person’s bag.  “We could kill ‘em.”

The android gently lifts the cultist’s head to place on their lap.  They speak calmly.

“You heard the man, tell us what you know or we’ll kill you.”

“I’m as good as dead already.”  The hostage’s eyes dart around, landing on Domash.  

“Wait, are you a healer?  Can you help me?!  Please!  I’ll tell you anything!”  They gasp.

Domash kneels, beginning to cast a spell of healing over them as the android begins a line of questioning.  The human backs up and mutters to Janus.

“We should just feed ‘em the grenade before those spores bust out.  This is a waste of time, bet.”

Janus briefly appreciates that Pat isn’t listening to this.

An hour later, the android leaves the cultist’s side.

“Here’s what we know.  She is from the Cult of the Devourer.  There’s no reliable information about the cult on the database.  Her leader is a man named Tommen.  The scientist was with them, but the group left her behind when she was infected by the ksariks.  There are a dozen more members guarding the scientist.”

“Are we gonna heal her just to have to lug around a prisoner?”  The human asks.

“We don’t have to take her with us,” says Sargorssk.

“Then why is Domash wasting its magic- hey!”  The human grunts as the android grabs them.

“They’re back.  There are more now.”

~~~

Pistols and laser fire explode over the clearing.  Janus ducks behind the large Lashunta, patting them on the back.  

“Go get ‘em, champ!”

“Hey, yeah,” they don’t dare take their eyes off the targets.  “That’s inspiring and all, but maybe you could actually do something?”

“Ah, yes.”  Janus pulls out his pistol and fires two shots, each one missing wide.  The Lashunta blinks.

“Never mind.”

The fight ends when Sargorssk throws a grenade at a ksarik, causing the last hostile fungus to erupt and douse everyone nearby with spongy viscera.  The large Lashunta scrubs their face and throws a piece on the ground, stomping it into the dirt.  Domash helps the android knock a panel back into place and the rest of them stand there panting, covered in goo.

“It’s in my hair.”  Janus mutters.  Somewhere behind them, the cultist groans.

~~~

Cleaning themselves up a few minutes later, Domash slaps Janus on the back and smiles.

“Well, you lived this long, maybe it’s time we made formal introductions?”

“Oh, thank goodness.”  Janus leans toward it.  “I waited so long I thought I’d missed my chance.  I’m Patton Nufunder.  You can call me Pat-iyo.” 

“Like the furniture?”

“Never heard that one before.”  Janus quips.

“I’m just teasing.  Domash-eyin.  Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Sargorssk-iye Vint.”  The Vesk walks up to him showing far too many teeth.  

“I am called Zin-eya,” says the android.  Right behind her the large Lashunta waves.

“I’m Veritae-ya Vyon!”

There’s a silence, followed by everyone looking over to their human companion.  The one that’s been with them all along.  They sense the eyes on them and stop polishing their weapon to look up.

“Don’t refer to me.”

“Okay, then.”

“Just do me a favor, eh?”  The human asks him.  “Don’t die.  Fair?”

“Fair.”  Janus nods.  Sargorssk pulls him aside.

“The point is, Pat, we’re gonna be in danger for a while.  Not sure you want to stay with us.”

Janus mentally pokes the sleeping Patton in their mind.  He doesn’t stir.  To be honest, I’m not sure either, but right now this body is sick, probably got a couple infections, and traveling alone like this is somehow still more deadly than sticking with you lot.

“Don’t worry about me, Sarg.  I‘ll be fine.”  Janus shrugs him off.

“Well, then, welcome aboard!  Maybe you’ll actually get to see our ship at some point.”

A scratchy signal coming out of Zin’s head interrupts them.  She’s playing a live message from someone.

“I’ve made it across t-- ravine.  What --- ---- -- with these monkeys?  There’s dead monkeys all ova’ the place.  Why are they tryna kill me?”

“They started it,” she replies in a neutral tone.

Last Chapter Next Chapter

[redonkulousity]

You Can’t Trust Wooloos

Author’s Notes: I’m gonna scream. I’m gonna fucking scream. 2k words for a piece of fluff from a game I can’t play, and I’ve got longfics screaming my name for years now.

I’m gonna scream.

~~~~~~

It had only been a month since you moved to the Galar region, trading the familiar sights and sounds of Goldenrod City in Johto for the quiet tranquility of the farming community known as Turffield. You hoped that it would be smooth sailing after resigning from what had become a stressful job at the radio station.

Had hoped, at least. But after two weeks ago, you had begun to understand one thing: you can’t trust Wooloos.

It had been the oddest thing; the moment you walked into the limits of the town, it was like you could feel a pair of eyes on your back. You turned to find a ball of wool staring back at you, its face nonchalantly gazing back at you. It wasn’t necessarily your plan to have it follow you to your home, but you didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t even know what type of Pokemon it was.

A quick check of the PokeDex revealed it to be a Wooloo, and it seemed to be a mighty friendly one, so you took it home. And it was content for a while, always watching you as you milled about your small house and rubbing against your leg when it wanted food. You took great care of it and loved it. And then it ran off when you let it outside and never came back.

No big deal, it must’ve been wild and enjoyed its’ freedom, right?

Well, then some of your things went missing.

You were an avid gardener, lovingly taking care of your flowers and vegetables back home to the point that you would forget what time it was in the afternoon. So it was a disappointment when you found that your gardening gloves had gone missing from your gardening shed one day after a long day of work.

Then your trowel went missing. And the little foam pad you kneel down onto to work in the flower beds went missing too.

It was strange when, despite you asking anyone in Turffield about the missing items, no one could recall having the same thing happen. So you finally counted your losses, and started keeping the remainder of your gardening stuff inside the house. You also began labeling your things in case someone came across one and decided to return it.

That had been two weeks ago, and it was just the other day that you had made the mistake of leaving your brand new pair of gloves outside while you went inside for a break. The refrigerator door had just shut and you were on your way to relaxing with a glass of water when you heard the sound of something outside. Curiously, you peeked out the back door and spotted a ball of wool sniffing at your gloves. Your Wooloo had come home! It was back and-

You nearly dropped the glass when you saw it clamp onto one of your gloves and try to leave. You burst out of the house yelling, “Drop that glove!”. The poor thing was scared half to death, it started rolling away from the scene of the crime and out the garden gate. You gave chase, bearing down on the Wooloo with all you had!

Unfortunately, you lost the chance to grab it when your foot hit a lone rock in the road and made you face-plant onto the ground. That Wooloo was gone before you could say “scoot”, and you were sore and exhausted. Picking yourself up from the ground, you dragged your feet inside the house, away from the afternoon sun, and got cleaned up for bed.

It wasn’t until the next day that a box had been left at your door; inside was all of the gardening supplies that had been snatched, along with a note that smelled slightly of sweat, hay and Wooloo wool:

“Mornin’ to you, Y/N! I’m sorry if this might scare you a tad, but I think these are yours!

It seems one of my Wooloo has been running off to Arceus-knows-where and nipping people’s belongings. At least, it’s been nipping yours. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he’s been wandering off ever since he came back a little close to two weeks ago-“

Two weeks ago. This Wooloo belonged to someone, and you had just taken it home without a second thought! Shame overtook you as you continued reading:

“-and he’s been coming back with something of yours! I’m so sorry for him causing you trouble like this!

However, I did notice, and I apologize wholeheartedly if I’m being too forward, that it looks to me that you’re a gardener as well! I keep a garden in my free time between work at the stadium and my farm duties. If you’d like, you can stop by the stadium and we can talk tips and tricks in between rounds!”

Whoever this was, they had just barely scratched the surface of her heart. She could never find anyone back home to discuss gardening with! And they worked at the stadium, too. They must have a hellaciously busy work schedule during the challenge season!

“I can’t wait to meet you, Y/N. I know we’ll get along right from the get-go!

Cheers, love!

                                                    - Milo”

If your heart hadn’t soared by the end of the letter, you knew it would when you decided that you would meet Milo tomorrow at the gym.

—————

The next day, you found yourself inside the Turffield Stadium with a case of regret. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, you had thought as you followed a crowd of people into the main arena. It was the middle of the Gym Challenge season, apparently, and the crowd was pumped to watch another match. You heard some people say that the match wouldn’t be much of anything since Turffield was the first in the gym roster and would generally be the easiest to beat, but the Gym Leader’s kind and supportive attitude to the challenge newcomers won the hearts of many fans that cheered their name.

A name that you recognized all too late, as the horn sounded and the crowd cheered:  the match was over, and as you looked up from the letter that was crumpled in your hand, you could see on the big screen that Milo had been defeated. You were surprised to find that most any preconceived idea about Milo’s physical appearance had been shattered the moment you laid eyes on him. Of short stature and bulky build, Milo was easily comparable to an Ursamajor, but his features and personality as a Gym Leader were far more friendly than the bear Pokemon itself. His emerald eyes and freckled face had never once shown any sign of frustration in the battle, and in losing he was well-content with congratulating the opponent in earnest joy for their success. His wide hat crowned an unruly mess of reddish-pink curls, and his uniform was fit for the task of rounding up Wooloo and battling challengers-

“Baaaah!” 

You were snapped out of your stupor by the sound of a Pokemon nearby, and the feeling of nudging at your hand - specifically the one that held the letter! You looked down just in time to see a Wooloo (if not that Wooloo) snatch the letter from your hand and plow its way through the crowd. “Hey! Stop that Wooloo!!” Your cries fell on deaf ears as the sheep Pokemon made its’ way out of the main arena and down the steps leading to the main lobby. Chasing after it, you were surprised to find that the lobby was void of any sign of life, and the damned Wooloo was trying to get past a door that seemed to be stuck open by a smidge of a crack.

You thought you might sneak up behind it and catch it off-guard, but before you could get a grip on it, the Pokemon had managed to squeeze through the gap and was making a break for freedom. The door was surprisingly hard to open any further, but prying it open a tad further gave you enough room to inch in and follow the Wooloo once more.

And judging by the sounds of it, it had to have been cornered at the end of the hall. You’ve got it now! “Now I’ve got you....!” You turned the corner, and saw the Wooloo with the note in its mouth!

And standing in front of it was a pair of beefy legs clad in work boots and green shorts. Dammit.

The look on the Gym Leader’s face quickly shifted from surprise to joy in a matter of seconds. He’d seen the note in the Wooloo’s mouth and had put together the puzzle pieces. “Goodness, is that you, Y/N?”

Your cheeks bloomed red as you felt the door of escape slam shut far out of your reach. “Uh, y-yes, that's me! … You must be Milo then?”

“Yes ma’am! I do apologize for leaving that box and letter out like I did, but when I brought it over yesterday, it seemed like no one was home.”

“No, it’s fine, I just went ahead and got ready for bed after I was outside,” you replied, but quickly noticed something odd about what he had. “Wait.. how do you know where I live?”

This time, Milo’s face gained a pinkish tinge to it. “Mighty sorry about that, but I was afraid to tell you in the letter about it.. I actually followed the Wooloo just far enough to find out which house it had gotten to! But that also means I saw what happened when the Wooloo got away... You weren’t too banged up from falling, were you?” The pink tinge of his cheeks failed to fade away as he tilted his head in worry.

You, of course, couldn't forget that you had utterly failed in getting the Wooloo back and had eaten dirt upon your failure. “Oh, that, I’m fine! I’ve had much worse falls before, so you don’t have to worry about me!” It wasn’t that he remembered your faceplant that made you nervous; it was the look of worry that he wore so uncharacteristically that tugged at your heart strings. This was a man that had too big of a heart for the world. “You did good in that battle earlier, by the way! I never thought you were the Gym Leader for Turffield from your letter.”

Milo’s broad grin returned with a hint of shyness as he picked up the thieving Wooloo. “Well thanks! I figure a lot of visitors to the area are hesitant to talk to me when they find out I’m a Gym Leader.. I guess I just didn’t want to scare you off, so I didn’t rightly mention that. You don’t seem to be from Galar, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. What region are you hailing from?”

“Um, I’m from Johto.. It’s a long way from home at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“Johto?! Very interesting! What brings you all the way over here??” Milo’s enthusiasm about your home region made your heart swell again; it was becoming a feeling you knew darn well you weren’t properly equipped for.

But you also knew that you didn’t really want to go into detail on why you moved to a new region. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just wanted a change of pace for a while! Johto’s great, but sometimes it’s best to branch out and try new places, y’know?”

“I hear ya,” Milo agreed as he fished the letter away from the Wooloo’s mouth. It had long since become half-way mush, but despite that, Milo grinned at the remnants of the note he had hastily scribbled out before returning your stuff. “Sometimes I wonder if I could ever get away from Turffield and Galar, but I’m too rooted here to call anywhere else home! And I bet I’d miss it even if I was able to leave. It’s a very nice place to be!”

You nodded in agreement before an intercom sounded above your heads; “Milo to Leader’s Locker Room, Milo to Leader’s Locker Room! Please prepare for next round, Please prepare for next round!”

Wooloo bleated as Milo scratched the back of his neck, that ever-present grin still on his face. “Back to the arena, I guess! Are you going to stay and watch a few more rounds?”

You shook your head, trying desperately to think of an excuse to not stay. “No, I’ll pass. I think I.. actually need to get some groceries for the rest of the week.”

Your hesitation never caught Milo off guard, and he gave a quick nod. “Same here! There should be a few more left, but it’ll be a good while before I can honestly call it quits for the day. We should really get together and talk again soon!”

“We definitely should!” Your words had betrayed your heart as it nearly leaped out of your chest. “Should I, uh… leave you my number?”

“Yes, let’s trade numbers right quick!” Your body acted against you as you handed the stoutly farmer your number and took his, and before parting gave a handshake between the two. His hands were calloused from working, as were yours by a fair bit less. But his grip was a nice median between firm and soft, and the smell of hay and a faintly sweet scent was gently floating about him. If you stayed any longer, your heart might just bust out and play your hand.

“Until next time we meet, Y/N!” He looked into your eyes, and you could tell that he really truly enjoyed meeting you.

You gazed into his eyes, and you prayed to Arceus that he couldn’t tell just how head-over-heels you had fallen for the kind-hearted farmer in one day. “‘Til next time, Milo!”

He turned to leave for the locker room, with that shameful Wooloo in hand. The infernally cute Pokemon bleated at you as they passed through the doors and left you alone in the hallway.

Nope, you had decided, you still couldn’t trust that Wooloo if you tried.

[ikiruwill]

ok, but what does shinji actually think of his eva? personally, but also aesthetically

OHH omg?? 😭 thank you for asking this, amazing surprise!! mhajsjsj I ended up writing something verrrry long bc my brain kept throwing info at me, so now this a meta I guess rip

For Shinji’s personal thoughts / relationship with Unit-01, there’s extra long detail mainly of Ep1 bc of first impressions / context ( then I’ll try to summarize ). Insight into some tiny details like Shinji’s unspoken thoughts that were maybe missed:

Shinji’s early and personal impressions of Unit-01 is mostly fear if we’re summing things up. The very first scene with it is even a jump scare to emphasize that:

The frame is black, and then after the lights turn on, boom, this:

A GIANT FACE WITH MONSTER EYES THAT GLOW YES I AM LOOKING DIRECTLY AT YOU NOW SON ( with bby framed right in the middle so you know how tiny he is in comparison / and narratively, that he’s also the subject of focus )

.... can confirm scare. Plz no

Much fear. But even before this scene, it’s great to remember that Shinji is already terrified bc he saw Fourth Angel-kun AKA Sachiel wrecking havoc outside, understandably freaked out by its monster appearance / how it was shooting down military planes like they were pieces of paper. Shinji was also directly caught in that earlier crossfire and legit could’ve died just bc everything happening was too close for comfort until Misato finally shows up in her car to pick him up. Best uber But after that they get caught in a huge N2 mine explosion that hits Sachiel dead on but it comes out with barely a scratch / casually just regrows a head or something. Sachiel seems invincible to Shinji by this point and that fact already scares him— as it should.

But back to the Unit-01 scene: as far as Shinji can remember, he’s never seen an Eva or heard of one and he lets everyone know this once Gendo starts pressuring him to pilot it and do the thing to save the world right now plz or else everyone in city dead including Shinji-kun gg

Ofc to Shinji, it’s not a good feeling at all, he’s running through all the sudden facts : Unit-01 is manmade, looks powerful, and it’s supposed to protect us. It isn’t an Angel destroying the city and nonchalantly killing things of military force so there’s no need to hide and run from it— but it’s still alien to me and scary and now my impression of it is even worse because my estranged father and adult strangers are forcing me to get comfortable with it immediately to fight the ‘Angel’ I saw earlier. So I might die after all today.

Fear of death on top of feeling useless / cowardly / abandoned etc is a lot. Then injured Rei scene AKA Gendo’s master guilt tripping plan happens, and it works, but this is also where his impression of Unit-01 changes for the better : There’s a huge tremor, Rei falls off her stretcher, and giant debris is coming down from the ceiling right above her Shinji—

Unit-01 moves on its own does a giant good thing

So this part : It saved him? This robot that he’s only had bad feelings about so far? Shinji is confused af but now feels a strangely positive connection to Unit-01, one he probably can’t put into words, but it ultimately influences his decision on not to run away. bc now it finally feels like there’ll be at least something on his side if he agrees to do this— AKA Unit-01 is the literal “something that can protect / help him”, which we all know is a concept Shinji desperately wants and chases. In this terrifying mess, it’s encouraging to him. And then Shinji says the thing:

Brave bby ( it’s nice to know that he ends up saving Rei again a few eps later, shamelessly serious and gallant / heroic Shinji is underrated don’t @ me )

Fast forward : after that he gets in, syncs perfectly with it, fights Sachiel but almost dies bc he missteps once, starts to panic, but mainly bc he’s never had any proper training prior gg NERV. Unit-01 goes berserk, violently kicks Sachiel’s ass, scares the living hell out of everyone watching etc.

At the end of Ep 2, after Shinji wakes up in the hospital and moves in with Misato, he remembers everything that night, traumatized:

The blood has settled, an already freaked out Shinji turns to see Unit-01 without its cool sci-fi unicorn headplate thing that it shed earlier in battle:

Oh.

Oh.

It’s once again looking straight at him. Oh no this is much scarier than the first time plz no I want the yellow sci-fi Spiderman mask eyes back

Then Shinji understandably screams his lungs out ( and that’s when he probably fell unconscious? ) So now he’s back to fearing Unit-01 bc his Eva is a beast of a robot, on top of now having PTSD from the fight with Sachiel. Unit-01 protected Shinji twice now by going berserk, sure, but it’s also extremely unknown and frightening to him after in ways he couldn’t have expected when he first saw it— the primal kind of fear. ( side note: Primal fear, primal wants, and primal feelings, primal anything in general are a big thematic thing in nge, so it really lingers and comes back even harder in eoe )

Finally for the rest of his personal thoughts on Unit-01, badly summarized bc this is already 2 fucking long thank you to whoever’s still reading LMAOO: Shinji eventually gets used to piloting and tries to push the existential fear of his Eva to the back of his mind, mostly. He always wonders what it is exactly, once admitting that he really doesn’t know anything about Evas while peering into his NERV manual episodes later ( bc NERV is weird about everything and he’s too scared anyone ask past a certain point, ect ). Shinji thinks his Eva smells / feels weirdly calming to him inside despite being scary, but only when his life isn’t in violent danger. Things only suck whenever Unit-01 goes berserk / he loses control somehow / when he finds out certain truths about it. Youknow

On his opinions about Unit-01 aesthetically, I don’t think Shinji has any preferences that make him go ‘YES I totally vibe with this neon genesis green and purple it’s so me’ or anything, he’s just not caught up in the awesome looking giant robot idea at all ( Unlike Kensuke and Asuka ). For example his reaction was just ‘huh? oh... ok. I see?’ at Asuka when they first met when she was showing off shiny and red Unit-02 to him ( which is cool and cooler with a cape ). If you tell Shinji his giant robot is awesome and that you’re in love with the purple paint job, other than demurely acknowledge your praise, he might try to thank you surface level, very awkwardly bc he can’t take credit for that ( also will 1000/10 think that you remind him of Kensuke depending on who’s more intense LOL )

Confused and serious, I guess that’s Shinji’s attitude towards Evas in general ( minus when he’s not freaking out mhajsja ) and it fits the rest of his mild / boring / unassuming personality— like Kaji and Kaworu both said to his face, he can be clueless about his own position as a pilot and how it affects everyone around him. Like the random girls in his class, lots of people think Shinji’s cool for what he gets to do but to him it’s just a thing he has to do, for the most part.

On a sadder note, makes sense bc the only time we see Shinji enjoying something as a hobby is when he’s playing the cello and smiling, even then he just downplays his talent when asked. I think he would be a lot more passionate about music if his circumstances were better. That probably contributes to why he doesn’t care much about Evas in an aesthetic way either. But I think eventually, he’d come to prefer his own Eva just because of how familiar it would look and feel to him, plus his past experiences with it. Many ones.

Unrelated bonus note!! It’s interesting that Unit-01 is the only Eva with a completely different colour scheme when compared to its respective pilot’s plugsuit— in this case, Shinji’s plugsuit being blue and white instead ( as a side note Unit-13 is also purple and green but Shinji and Kaworu’s plugsuits match this time ) But why purple huh? My guess is that aside from wanting the main character’s giant robot to also stand out bc it’s special and awesome, Yui also wears a purple shirt in one of the later episodes showing a long flashback. That screencap stuck with me, idk why. Purple shirt confirmed in nge holy shit mind blown LOL jk in all seriousness we can only speculate. Maybe Yui’s fav colour was purple and Gendo decided to pay tribute to that when they made the Evas. Whatever headcanon hurts us more!

[rana-tiddalik]

Space Whales

(Thanks to @beka-tiddalik for the prompt for this, which was “space whales”.)

The ship was well beyond the Oort Cloud when they found the Space Whales.

Irina had been running the routine diagnostics on the systems when she had picked up some weird electromagnetic interference. She was routing it through the speakers on the bridge to try and puzzle out the source when she heard a strangled cry and the pounding of feet in the corridor. It was her passenger. Vincent Cartwright. The scientist that the ISA had chartered an entire barge to bring to one of their interstellar labs. Him alone. Well, him and whatever was in the black box in the cargo hold.

“That sound… is that live? Where is it coming from?” he said, eyes wild.

“Glitch in the external EM sensor arrays I think. Probably some feedback.” She frowned. “Never heard anything like it though. It’s eerie.”

He wasn’t listening, he had pushed past her to the console and started working the controls.

“OI!” Irina shouted, grabbing him and hurling him back.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, eyes wild as he caught hold of one of the chairs to keep from sprawling on the cold metal floor. “What are YOU doing Terran?” Irina snarled back. Her fury cut through his indignation and he shrank away from her. She jabbed a finger at him. “ISA might need your brain, but you even look at my helm controls again without my say-so, that’s the only part of you they’re going to get.”

Vincent raised his hands “OK.” He said, face pale. “You’re right. I apologise. I should not have touched your ship. But please.” He said, looking pleadingly at the controls. “That isn’t feedback it’s actually something of huge significance, so could you please do a full long range sensor sweep before we lose them forever?”

“Lose what?” said Irina, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck me.” She said, ten minutes later, staring at the screen, jaw slack. The colossal beings danced through the void, their fins fully unfurled, billowing in the streaming solar wind from the distant sun. Their rippling song crackling through the speakers as they called to and clicked at each other in the far reaches of the x-ray spectrum. “I knew it!” said Vincent, laughing uncontrollably. He clapped Irina on the shoulder “Congratulations Captain Miller! We’ve just made second contact.”

“Huh. How about that.” Said Irina, shaking her head, eyes transfixed. “How did you know?” she asked. “Hmm?” said Vincent. “The Whales. No one’s seen them for hundred of years though. Nothing confirmed at least. But you recognised their song in an instant. How did you know it was them?” “I’d recognise it anywhere.” He said, dreamily as he drank in the sight. “I must have watched the old tapes every day as a kid. I always dreamed of finding them again, and hunting for any other life that might exist out here.” He looked at her, eyes gleaming. “Come on captain! Fire up your drones. We’ve got work to do.”

At first there was another argument between Vincent and Irina over whether they should divert from the route to trail them. Vincent’s zeal for this once in centuries scientific opportunity vied with Irina’s concern over fuel and food supplies. This was resolved once they realised that the whales were following them, trailing along in their wake.

“What are they doing?” said Irina, eyeing the readouts suspiciously. “Feeding.” Said Vincent. As they watched, the front end of their main body split open, and a translucent billowing sheet spilled out. It shimmered with a ghostly fire. Vincent smiled. “Do you see that? They’re feeding off the ion stream from our engines.” “It’s beautiful.” Irina whispered, looking at the auroral glimmer. “Optical baleen.” Said Vincent, sighing. “It’s unbelievable stuff. My great many times over aunt did some of the original studies of it back in the 22nd century. She famously said it’s the most complex structure in the known universe.” “That’s a hell of a claim.” Scoffed Irina. “Isn’t that meant to be the brain?” “Oh my word no.” Said Vincent. He squinted at the monitor “That sheet is about, what, the size of a football field? Maybe a field and a half? If you unpacked its effective surface area and laid it flat, you’d be able to wrap the whole Earth like a present and have enough left for the moon. It’s a got such a dense, space filling fractal structure that it can hoover up stray hydrogen atoms from the void. Even photons have a hard time getting through it.” “Gotcha. Very complex.” She scratched her nose. “So. You reckon it’s safe to fire up the pod and see them up close?” Their matching grins indicated that neither actually cared about the answer to that.

Irina changed her tune once they’d gotten closer.

“You’re sure this is safe?” said Irina, peering through the cockpit window. “Yes. Perfectly safe.” Said Vincent. “You sure? What about…?” she gestured. “The tethers?” “Yeah. Those things look pretty grabby.” “We’ll be fine.” He paused “Probably.” He said sheepishly. “If they try to grab us, I’m dumping you out the airlock first.” Said Irina, glaring suspiciously at them. “What a way to go though.” She said. They had been invisible from the ship, nearly a hundred kilometres away, but this close they could see that the skin of the creatures bristled with a forest of prehensile hairs. Vincent pointed out that longer, thicker strands formed the ribbing of the great billowing fins, and the optic baleen, allowing them to move the great sheets, waving them about to give the appearance of drifting in some kind of aetherial breeze.

Irina watched as two Whales drifted close together, and the filaments stretched out to each other, to briefly entangle, or scrape across the other’s carapace. “We think that’s how they communicate.” Vincent whispered. “That and those x-ray clicks we picked up.” The scale of them was also something that had been lost on the monitor. Irina’s cargo freighter was about the same size as its terrestrial sea-going equivalent. It could have fit at least twice over inside any of the Whales. The pod they were currently in could seat 8, and would have barely been a speck of dirt in their eyes. Irina squinted at them. “Where are their eyes?” “They don’t have them.” Said Vincent. “Not a specific organ at least. Actually, since their entire skin is photosensitive, so I guess technically you could say that their entire body is one giant eye.” Irina’s eyes narrowed. “There. On that one.” She pointed at one of them. Its carapace was marked with a striking discoloured band looped arounf its body “Are those… scars?” She asked. “I don’t know.” Said Vincent, zooming the external lens to snap a series of pictures of the markings. The magnification revealed that the band was caused by long deep scratches in the skin. “There are records of similar patterns on members of the first pod.” He mused. They both considered what could have left these deep wounds in the Whale. Irina shuddered.

She activated the launch sequence. The drones flew off, carrying the long range beacons. “You sure those beacons will attach OK, Doc?” Vincent nodded “Standard ship plating should be identical to their carapace in all the ways important for the beacon. So yes, short answer.” “Huh. That’s convenient.” Said Irina. “Well, not really. Ship plating was designed from studying their carapace. Just like the molecular bonders on the base of the drone were modelled after their tethers.” Irina blinked. “Wait, really?” Vincent laughed. “They don’t teach how we came to have this tech in flight school.” Irina shrugged “I guess they were more interested in teaching us how to fly these barges, rather than their history.” “Fair point.” Said Vincent. “But still, considering just how important those things have been to our development, I’m surprised it isn’t better known. At the time of our first encounter with them back in 2104, we had a few space stations and a struggling ‘colony’ on the moon. By the time they left our solar system again 60 odd years later, we’d arrived on the moons of Saturn. The first person walked on Pluto before the 23rd century. It was all because of what we learned from them. Even after all this time, it’s incredible just how much of our tech is still based on our only other encounter with them.” “And how much is that?” asked Irina, leaning back in her chair, monitoring the pings from the drones. “Uh…” said Vincent, scratching his head “Approximately all of it?” Irina glanced around the pod “No shit?” she said. “No shit.” Said Vincent. “The hull plating is designed around their carapace. Our sensors are based on their skin, sensitive to the faintest electromagnetic emissions. Our suit material is derived from their fins, tough and flexible. The reactors and engines exploit the same metabolic reactions that let them turn occasional hydrogen atoms and space dust into enough energy to maintain something that size” he gestured out the window. “Hell, this pod is so like them, they’re probably not bothered by us being this close because they think we’re a tiny, mute calf.” “Wow.” Said Irina, letting out a long breath, watching the tethers of the nearby Whale extend toward them, but they were just out of reach. “Just as long as they don’t try and suckle us.”

They arrived back in the docking bay to the applause of the rest of the crew. As Irina chatted to her quartermaster, Vincent checked over his precious package. A car sized crate, hermetically sealed and heavily shielded. Irina nudged it with her boot. “Please don’t.” Said Vincent. “Why? Is it dangerous?” said Irina. “I told your bosses I didn’t want to ship anything dangerous.” “No. The shielding is blocking all the radiation that could harm us. Our friends out there must be getting quite a show though. To them this ship must be lit up like a lighthouse.” He frowned. “Which might explain why they’ve suddenly showed up after a couple of centuries. Interesting…” Irina frowned. “They’re not going to try and get at it are they? We aren’t carrying their favourite snack or anything, right?” “Oh no. We’re perfectly safe. I think.” Irina sighed and shook her head. “When you’re done, meet me on the bridge. I want to go over the offloading procedures when we get to the station. Want to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

As they talked on the bridge, the clicks of the Whales played through the speakers. They had gotten used to the sound over the last day or two, and found it strangely soothing. All of a sudden, it changed. The pitch shifted higher, and louder, a urgent, trilling call. As they watched, one by one they retracted their baleen, pulled in their fins, and scattered away from the ship, fading away into darkness. Silence fell on the bridge. “That’s odd.” Said Vincent. He squinted at the monitor. The stars flickered and grew dim. “Sensor fault?” he asked. Irina shrugged and sat in the chair to call for someone to check it out. Then ship lurched and pitched wildly, as the superstructure groaned under sudden pressure. Vincent fell to the ground. Irina was strapping in, shouting curt questions and instructions into the comms, and screaming at Vincent to attach his safety line. There was another groan and a number of alarms went off all at once. The ship listed violently from side to side, and Vincent was tossed around the bridge. He registered Irina swearing loudly, and punching buttons, followed by the unmistakable whine of the engines powering up, and the ship vibrated, but no response. Irina screamed and pushed more buttons, but to no avail. Then there was a final crash, and then came the kick of sudden acceleration. Vincent was thrown against the rear wall, cracking the back of his head, and slipping into unconsciousness.

He awoke two days later in the med bay of the ISA station. As soon as he was cleared to leave, he tracked down Irina, to find out what had happened. He found her in the docking bay, staring at her ship. Vincent gaped in disbelief. It looked like something had latched around the rear third of the ship. The plating on the ship was dented and cracked, and marked all around by a series of long thin gashes torn in a familiar pattern all around the hull.

Vincent, Irina and her whole crew were sworn to secrecy over the whole matter, and heavily compensated for their troubles. And silence. The ISA ‘acquired’ the ship for further study. Vincent was provided with the data, in the thoughts that he could help. He couldn’t. Like everyone else he had no idea what had occurred. He spent the rest of his time on the station confined in his quarters, watching the footage over and over again, with the ship’s sensor data synchronised and scrolling on another screen. No matter how long he looked, nothing made sense. All that could be seen was that suddenly something descended on the ship. Something that blotted out the stars and was invisible on every spectrum of radiation the sensors could detect. A roiling cloud in space. When it enveloped the rear of the ship, every sensor immediately died. The thing latched on so hard it resisted the pull of the subluminal engines. The strain had nearly torn the ship in half. Then, out of the darkness, came one of the Whales. The sensor’s picked up its last cries as it tore toward the thing attacking the ship. It shrieked as it came, fins fully unfurled, and strange fluorescent patterns flickering along its tendrils. It rammed into the thing covering the ship, lost in its murky depths in an instant. Then bright flashes of light, and intense gamma bursts pierced through the cloud, illuminating it from with in, and projecting strange shadows that ISA would puzzle over for years to come. The grip on the ship loosened, and Irina had taken the opportunity to go to full burn, and they were free. They ran hot for hours, until the Whales, and whatever new form of life they had discovered were far behind them. Vincent didn’t know why the Whale had done that for them. Perhaps they really did see human ships as small, mute calves. Perhaps it was pure instinct to either drive it away or sacrifice itself to protect the other members of the pod. Maybe he had it wrong, and it was the whales that were hunting the other life form, using their ship as bait. He would never know, but he hoped the Whale had somehow survived.

Vincent, Irina and the crew caught the very first transport back to the solar system. With the compensation money, Irina bought herself a new ship, and secured a loan to buy a second. Enough to start her own freight company. Within a few years her ships zig-zagged all around the solar system. Her company struggled after the new generation drives came on the market (although their release had been delayed when one of the ISA’s deep space research labs vanished without a trace. Most thought an experiment had gone super-critical. Only Vincent and Irina suspected otherwise). She stubbornly stuck to the old reliable drives, and flatly refused to fly in any ship that used them. Eventually, she sold off the company and retired to Mars. Vincent had been offered an tenured position at the station. It was everything he had ever dreamed of: to lead the tracking of the Whales he had marked, and continue study of the experimental drive. He had declined. He would only leave Earth twice again in his life, and never ventured into interstellar space again.