#about getting served huge robot dick

[upwards-descent]

Vik's parents: *mildly concerned that their son is dating a killer android ONLY BECAUSE they just found out he was built the year they were born and that's weird to think about*

Vik, realizing he regularly gets his guts rearranged by a robot built before The Moon Landing:

[mzminola]

I don't know if I'll ever actually go through and pull panels to illustrate this, but art design and framing has a huge impact on how sexist a comic feels, and that will impact whether I bother reading it, regardless of the writing.

Costume design is part of it. Does this fit the character's personality and history, and is it practical for what they do? Original Dick Grayson Robin fighting without any leg coverage is not practical, but it fits with his backstory. Helena Bertinelli Huntress, who is also a normal human fighting the mafia but with a very different backstory, fighting with no leg coverage and often compromised torso coverage is neither practical nor in character. So I'm more likely to read Huntress comics from eras where her costume does fully cover her than when it doesn't.

Within costuming, we also have "Does real clothing work this way, or did they just color over the body sketch?" For most superhero costumes that's fine because everyone is drawn that way (boob socks aside), but if it's supposed to be civilian clothes? I'm sorry, t-shirts don't work like that, and very few people tolerate their jeans giving them constant wedgies.

Beyond that though, there's framing. What is the focal point of the page? In what way does the layout lead your eye? Does the focal point flow serve the story, general comic book spectacle (check out this roundhouse kick! look at that robot's cool design! isn't this monster weird!), or is it blatantly a pin-up?

How is the character posed, and why?

Sometimes the camera angle and character pose giving us a butt or boob shot actually does make sense. Generally you can tell by asking "If this was a guy character, and we assume the artist is not attracted to guys, would this be drawn the same way?"

Unfortunately, in a lot of older comics (but not, I'm pretty sure, the earliest ones?) it's really blatantly obviously just for wank fodder. Not as a flow of action, not to set a scene's mood, it's just to titillate.

Titillation can be fun and has its place in entertainment...but so does hard science fiction, and I'm not coming to superhero comics for that, you know? Incidentally getting some cool science facts is different from the story bending itself into a pretzel to justify why this character operates under Real World Physics while this other character is basically a Looney Tune.

From what I've seen, superhero comics are getting a lot better about this! But it can still be a problem, and for fans getting into older works, it can be a genuine hurdle.

And with a backlog of thousands of stories? I'm not gonna spend time on the ones where the art skeeves me out, not matter how good I'm told the writing is.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Is It Really That Bad?

I feel this film needs absolutely no introduction.

Look, I get it. You’ve seen everyone and their mother talk trash about this movie since it dropped in 1999. You’ve seen every single show in the universe take cracks at this film, you’ve seen all the parodies and mockery of it in movies, you may have even seen that  movie Fanboys. Maybe you’ve even watched some massive YouTube review of the movie. The point is, this movie has been done to death.

But this series is about covering poorly received and infamous movies to see if their reputation is deserved, and I’d be remiss to ignore this film. And hey, these days the film has gotten something of a reappraisal by younger generations and older fans alike! After 20 years of scorn, a combination of the poorly received episodes VIII and IX, other works like The Clone Wars building off of and fleshing out the themes, Lego making really fun levels based off this movie for its Star Wars games, and Weird Al dropping one of the best songs of his career based entirely around recapping this film, a lot of people have come around to saying they unironically like this film. Even as early as 2008, the film made it on to Empire magazine’s list of the 500 greatest films of all time, scoring higher than Tim Burton’s Batman, Unbreakable, Full Metal Jacket, Halloween, The Crow, and Enter The Dragon (not by a huge margin though since it only got to 449). So there’s something there to love, right?

Well, let’s find out as I ask the question everyone else has already asked a million times before: Is The Phantom Menace really that bad?

THE GOOD

Let’s get the obvious stuff out of the way: The action and John Williams’ score.

The prequel trilogy really shines in how absolutely bonkers it makes lightsaber battles. Sure, one could argue the original trilogy made them more realistic, like actual swordfights… But I don’t want realism in this series about magical alien samurai monks using telekinesis and fighting armies of clones and robots. I want to see someone do a million backflips and then slice a dude in half with their laser sword. This film delivers heartily on that front, especially in the epic final duel between Maul, Qui-Gon, and Obi-Wan.

Speaking of which, Darth Maul is a highlight of this film despite barely doing or saying anything. A lot of it is his striking visual design, which is actually toned down from the original concepts. It makes him look cool, creepy, and mysterious, always a good look for any Star Wars character. Ray Park doesn’t get to show off Maul’s dialogue much, but he certainly shows off his battle prowess with a bunch of sick flips and the iconic dual-bladed lightsaber. This appearance here served as an excellent foundation for the guy, because The Clone Wars would take him from an iconic but underutilized character to perhaps one of the greatest villains in the series.

And then the score. Oh lord, the score! Has Williams ever missed, even once? This movie has some really fantastic music, stuff like the celebration music at the end of the film, but it’s quite obvious that the standout is “Duel of the Fates,” one of the best pieces of music in any Star Wars film.

A lot of the characters introduced here are pretty fun and great additions to the universe. Natalie Portman is actually pretty solid as Padme; Liam Neeson’s Qui-Gon is just such an aggro dick it’s hard not to love him and his underhanded ways; Boss Nass is an amusing yet underutilized gungan played by BRIAN BLESSED of all people, once more adding his trademark ham to a campy sci-fi movie inspired by Flash Gordon; Mace Windu drops in for a brief appearance to set him up for better ones down the road; and that Chancellor Palpatine guy is really cool, I hope we get to see more of him!

Then we have the pod race which, while a bit overly long, is a lot of fun and features some crazy vehicular madness, and there’s the practical effects, the creative design of the aliens and monsters, and there’s the practical effects and costumes mixed together with the CGI.... When this movie is fun, it’s a lot of fun, and when this movie is putting in the effort by god is it putting in the effort.

Oh yeah, and E.T.’s species has a cameo. No wonder he seemed to recognize Yoda in his movie.

THE BAD

Have you guys ever wanted a cool laser sword sci-fi epic to be constantly interrupted by long, boring scenes of trade negotiations, council meetings, and bureaucracy? Well boy oh boy will you love this film! There are so many stupid, dull, tedious scenes where characters are just talking about this boring trade embargo plotline, one that can’t even be ignored because it’s driving the whole plot. And sure, it leads to some really cool action scenes, but you’ve gotta sit through boring galactic council political bullshit to get to them.

This film is also the one that establishes the Jedi as a bunch of out of touch assholes. Every scene with the Jedi council (and especially if you have to look at the weird ugly Yoda puppet this film gave us before it was mercifully replaced with CGI) has the Jedi acting as a bunch of obstructive assholes who seem to go out of their way to be dicks to a literal child. Add onto this that this film reveals the Jedi essentially train kids to be child soldiers, yeah, no, maybe these guys did deserve Order 66 after all.

There is the writing, but it’s really not too strange for Star Wars to have clunky writing. The issue here is said writing is in service to really banal plots, and when the movie is getting good dialogue is usually not the thing making the scenes good. These things here may not seem like a lot when it comes to problems especially when I was praising this film so much, but the few problems are spread far and wide across this two hour movie.

THE UGLY

As you may have noticed, I didn’t mention two of the film’s most hated aspects above: Jar Jar and Anakin. There is a good reason for that.

Literally every mean thing you can imagine has already been lobbed at Ahmed Best and Jake Lloyd, and quite frankly I’m not keen on contributing to that. Anything negative I could say has already been said, and at this point it doesn’t even matter. Jake Lloyd was bullied over his performance to the point where he hated the franchise for years, and Ahmed Best nearly killed himself over the sheer blistering hatred Jar Jar received. Do I think Jar Jar is funny? Do I think Lloyd was a good actor? Does it even fucking matter at all when people harassed them to such lengths that it traumatized them?

I’ll be honest: I’m not a huge fan of Jar Jar’s antics. But they really aren’t the worst thing in this movie, and he’s not even remotely the most annoying Star Wars character. We now have people like Hux, the Knights of Ren, Snoke, Clone Palpatine, Holdo… The sequel trilogy was a buffet of characters that are infinitely worse than Jar Jar. And as is often the case, The Clone Wars went a long way towards making him a good character.

As for Lloyd, he was an actual fucking child. He was being directed by an absolute dork who wrote the goofiest dialogue imaginable for him, was there ever even a chance? A “bad” child performance is never the fault of a child, I feel; it’s the fault of a director who doesn’t bother to guide them. I’m a George Lucas apologist most of the time, but he absolutely let Lloyd down here.

Oh, and I guess I should address the other element in the room: Watto.

This guy has often come under fire as a huge negative Jewish caricature. I… don’t necessarily see it. Upon rewatching I was expecting something on the lines of the goblins in Harry Potter, but I don’t know. I think a lot of it comes from mishearing his accent; if you listen to it, he actually has some sort of weird, vague Italian accent as opposed to that stereotypical old Jewish man voice. I guess if anything, Watto is a negative stereotype of Italians, though he is far less of a hate crime than casting Chris Pratt as Mario.

...Okay, and one more thing: Midichlorians. People have this weird idea that they cause the force. The movie literally states their presence is just an indication of a proclivity towards the force. It’s basically the Star Wars version of Pokerus. This was such a stupid thing for people to get mad about, but 90% of the hate for this film is just getting mad at stupid things anyway.

IS IT REALLY THAT BAD?

The answer to this question was always going to be pretty obvious: No. Absolutely not. The sheer vitriolic backlash to this film was built off the bizarre emotional attachment adults in the 90s had to a campy sci-fi series from the 70s and 80s; the toxicity of the fandom meant there was never any doubt that upon revisiting this film I’d find the hatred overblown. And really, we’ve had over twenty years of other Star Wars stories now, a lot of them building off the foundation this laid to give us great stories in their own rights. As I mentioned above, Darth Maul, this film’s awesome yet underutilized villain, has gone on to become one of the franchise’s most iconic characters thanks to The Clone Wars. There are great ideas here in this film, but it took other people to polish them and make them shine.

The real question is, even if the backlash is overblown… is the film actually good at all? And that’s a complicated question. This film has a lot of serious, glaring flaws, but at its heart it’s still the fun, campy sci-fi series we all know and love. When this film gets good, it gets really good, but when it’s bad it’s downright boring and even a little cringey. But being a bit cringey is just an important building block of Star Wars, so in my eyes, it gets a pass in that regard.

For my part, I like it. It is far, far away from my favorite Star Wars film, but I like it more than two of the sequel trilogy at least. I think whether anyone else likes it really boils down to how much corny, campy dialogue and boring bureaucratic drama one is able to tolerate. Regardless, I think that 6.5 is a perfect score for this film. It definitely reflects the mellowing public opinion towards it, and shows that it’s not really that bad after all. It’s just not exactly great, either.

But hey… This song more than justifies this movie existing:

If nothing else, you can watch this instead of the movie for your Machete Order marathon and all you’ll miss is some great action and music mixed into boring bureaucracy. Whether that’s worth it or not is up to you!

[adultswim2021]

Robot Chicken #37: “Day at the Circus” | October 29, 2006 – 11:30PM | S02E17

Nothin, and I mean NOTHIN, makes me drag my heels like watching Robot Chicken. I watched this using the method I described before of watching this during my lunch break in my car instead of eating food with life-giving nutrients. I literally drove away from my job and parked a few blocks away because while I mostly don't care what my co-workers think about me, I did not want to be “caught” watching Robot Chicken. The thought of this caused me to imagine myself as a huge ham, being cooked and served up by the small team of managers I deal with, while my co-workers devour me. My inner-monologue is preserved even though I’m completely cooked, and the entire time I’m thinking “hey cut it out!” and “I AM SECRETLY GAY”. I don't know what it means, but I thought it, and that's precious.

First a sketch making fun of some G.I. Joe guy who I guess only does snow stuff. They make fun of him. Do you get the joke? Remember that State sketch where the Justice League mocks Aquaman for only being able to talk to fish? It's like that, I guess. But... well, it's probably exactly as funny as that, and the only reason we like The State is because we associate it with youth. All not realizing that our lives would peak in 1997. Anyway, I didn't laugh at this.

There's a short one where everyone in Wizard of Oz barfs, and they all barf stuff that they are made of (the tin man barfs oil and gears, for example). Both the Strawman AND Dorothy barf straw, which I guess DEFINITELY reads as a joke about Dorothy sucking Strawman's dick? I GUESS? I don't know, I guess it makes enough sense. But it felt like a reach at the time, and I would've preferred that it was just interpreted as a weird anti-joke.

Thing Leaves the Family is about Thing from The Addams Family. I guess this might be my favorite sketch. You can see the punchline coming from a mile away, but this one is about as well-done as Robot Chicken gets.

There's a thing about a Leprechaun being at a bar trying to drink and people realizing they can catch him and get a pot of gold out of the deal. Meanwhile in a Leprechaun lair we see their pots of gold get depleted. One of them fills a pot with leprechaun shit. Actually you know what, this one's alright. The choice to make the shit green is pretty fun.

I also SORTA liked THE MEMORY GAME, a game show where players have to go through a cave filled with fatal booby traps, and the next player needs to simply remember what did the last player in in order to avoid all the traps, so the final winner only wins at the expense of several fatalities. Sold premise. Who was the first guy to do a sketch about a game show that kills it's contestants as punishment? Ernie Kovacs? Yes, actually, it's Ernie Kovacs. I'm pretending to not be sure about this but it's Ernie Kovacs. And I'm certain Terry Gilliam saw that sketch and ripped it off for the beginning of Time Bandits. Man, I love saying stuff I know about TV shows and movies.

Black Stallion sketch where a horse sounds like a black guy and accuses a white boy of racism. Eh!

The last sketch is about Oprah and Dr. Phil as buddy cops who use tactics used on the Oprah Show. That isn't a bad premise but this sketch grated on me. I guess I should give it up a little bit for the creative jokes but boy, I was ready for the episode to be over. My main beef with this show has always been that it seems far too pleased with itself at all times, so even when the jokes are good I still have to watch them be on Robot Chicken, which makes them bad.

And that's this one. It wasn't so bad I guess. Did I laugh? No.

MAIL BAG:

do you think adult swim should have picked up ren & stimpy's adult porno cartoon, and maybe the rest of the spike tv stable while they're at it

I so associate Nick & MTV toons as being a separate thing from Adult Swim that I don’t even have the imagination to picture such a thing. Ren & Stimpy on a TURNER-OWNED NETWORK?? Get real!

Also no, that show shouldn’t have been picked up by anyone

[jaysterg5]

Journey Into Mystery #91

Story - Stan Lee

Script - Robert Bernstein

Art & Cover - Jack Kirby & Dick Ayers

From around the world in China, the Radio-Active Man comes to destroy the mighty Thor!

This issue kind of serves as a history lesson today! The events early in the issue seem to take place during the Sino-Indian War from late 1962. Don Blake is part of a U.S, delegation of heathcare workers sent to India to aid in their defense of the border against the invading Chinese. But when things get hot, Blake can't help but turn into Thor to defend the soldiers and civilians from marauding Chinese tanks. The government then seeks a way to defeat the thunder god, and sparks the creation of the Radio-active Man!

A lot of this issue is as jingoistic as anything from the World War II era! The Cold War is in full swing here, and there is no hiding it! The opening lines of the issue read like something out of 1943 instead of 1963!

A good portion of the issue is actually dedicated to Dr. Chen Lu, who inbues himself with the radioactive energy and becomes the titular villain. We get a peak behind the Red Curtain and see the typically evil heads of government threaten Lu's life if he doesn't come up with a way to defeat Thor. And in a typically selfish manner, Lu decides he should give himself the power, because only he is really worthy. And really, what a better reason to take on Thor?

This follows a similar plot structure to many other stories of this era - the villain's origin is established, the villain demonstrates his power and defeats or minimizes the hero, then the hero comes up with a clever way to defeat the villain. Standard stuff here. I just really don't know how radioactivity can be used as a hypnotic device. I probably wouldn't have questioned it as a kid, but my adult brain says, "huh?"

The art is actually a little disappointing in this one. Kirby seems like he was a bit rushed here (he only draws EVERY book about now!) and the backgrounds aren't as detailed as usual, and often times some sort of effect takes up a good portion of the panel. That said, there are a few panels that are winners - some of the establishing panels of China and the interior of Lu's laboratory are a few standouts. There are some really fun Chinese-themed robots that are outstanding!

Overall, this is a decent story with a huge political tilt to it. Interesting to read from a historical - both an international events view, as well as that of our cultural attitudes of the time - and a Silver Age comic standpoint.

[snackhobi]

a human touch, part I

Part [1] / 1.5 / 2

(masterlist here)

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, future smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: everyone knows that androids don’t think, or feel, or have emotions. they’re not human, after all. so when a two hour session with a sex android ends up with nothing more than a nice conversation, you think that’s the first and last time you’ll see v. 

then he turns up at your door. 

warnings: talk of sex work (taehyung is a sex android), implied physical harassment (mentions of bruising), cursing/explicit language, mentions of alcohol, honestly this is a lot softer than these warnings would make you think I swear 🤧

a/n: I started writing this fic like 2/3 months ago and then put it on hiatus bc god it was kicking my entire ass. but ya girl is finally back to working on it! it’ll be two parts, because this fic is a big one! I hope to have the next chapter out next week/the week after (but no promises kdsflkfdfsdf) thank you @hobi-gif​ for loving this fic so wholeheartedly and supporting me while I struggled with it, queen shit ONLY. note: this is loosely a detroit: become human au but you don’t have to be familiar with it at all!

Here are the three things you know about the Eden Club.

One: it’s a sex club. Everyone knows that. Besides, even if they didn’t, all it would take is a single look—the soft blue lighting that shines out from the windows, the screens behind the glass that flash images of shifting and undulating bodies, the heavy beat of music that pulsates from the building and out into the night air; everything murmurs of the promised pleasures that are held within. 

Two: it’s a sex club entirely staffed by androids. Androids make better lovers, according to the ads. They might look human but they don’t have free will like you do—anything you ask for, you’re given without question or reproach. They can’t say no to you. They’re entirely at your command.

Three: you don’t ever want to go to the Eden Club. It’s not that you have anything against androids—because you don’t—but you feel bad for the ones who are owned by the club, even if they’re literally only built and programmed to serve humans. It just feels… wrong.

And here’s the fourth thing you’ve just learned about the club, much to your dismay: you are about to head inside it.

“When you said we were going to a club, I thought we were going dancing,” you whine. “I never would have come out if I’d know you meant here.”

You’ve been staring up at the cursive pink neon sign for a while now, the looping letters of Eden Club shining out in the dark evening air, and you really, really wish you weren’t here. You’ve dressed for a night of dancing and drinking and now you feel woefully uncomfortable, your high heels and short skirt almost as scandalous as the outfits the androids are wearing when they slide across the huge screens.

“That’s why we didn’t tell you which club it was.” Seulgi rolls her eyes and once again tries to tug you towards the building with the arm that’s looped with your own. Just out of arm’s reach, Irene holds your bag hostage. “Come on, your session is going to start soon!”

“My session?” Your voice is an incredulous shrill and Seulgi uses the momentary distraction to finally pull you forward. You stumble a little but catch your balance just as you make your way past the bouncer, who’s been watching the three of you impassively since you got here. “What do you mean, my session?”

“For your birthday, duh. We booked you a private room!”

The inside has the same, sleek neon aesthetic as the outside, but instead of images of androids on a screen, these ones are real and standing in front of you—swinging themselves around glowing poles, rolling their hips and swaying their bodies, while others wait patiently in glass pods that line the walls, leaning towards onlookers and moving as tantalisingly as possible. All ready to be rented at a whim.

Their designs are varied and different but they’re all incredibly beautiful. The only feature they all share is the small, blue LED circle on the side of their temple, light spinning and shining as they take the world in around them. A visual reminder to the world that these aren’t flesh and blood humans: they’re synthetic, man-made machines.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You desperately try to avoid the eyes of a nearby android who’s staring at you from behind glass, trying to subtly catch your attention. Unlike you, though, all the other patrons here are shameless in their perusal, scanning the selection of androids on display and watching as they dance and move and bat their eyelashes. “Why did you ever think I’d want to come to a sex club for my birthday?”

“Remember Valentine’s Day? You said that instead of flowers or chocolate you’d rather just be dicked down,” Irene says. “Besides, you’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling for as long as we’ve known you, and you moved to the company, what… three years ago?”

Your smile is pained. You’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling full stop; you’ve only kissed a few people and that’s it. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed, and you’ve gotten Very Good at avoiding questions about your complete lack of a love life, so no one realises exactly how inexperienced you are. People just assume that you’ve had sex in the past and you make no attempts at correcting them. You’re charismatic and pretty but you’ve just… never met someone who you’ve really been compatible with.

Even without the reservations you have about the Eden Club, you don’t want your first time to be with a sexbot—you’d at least like to have an emotional connection, you know?

“I was joking about getting dicked down! You laughed, I laughed, we all laughed! Remember?” You move so a pink-haired android can brush past, her hips swaying as she leads a customer into a side room. You catch a flash of the interior before the door slides shut behind them—the silken sheets on the large bed, the scattered pillows, the dim multi-coloured lights. “Couldn’t you have just bought me some socks? Or some soap? Get a refund and put the money on a gift card and I’ll buy myself the aforementioned socks and soap, saves you both the hassle. Please?”

Seulgi’s arm is still locked with your own, and for all that she looks small and slim, her grip is as strong as iron. You may as well be handcuffed to her. “Trust me, you’ll be singing our praises at the end of tonight,” she proclaims. “Besides, they don’t do refunds.”

You sigh. You might not know much about the club but you do know it’s expensive. The androids here are built to be the perfect sexual partner, all sorts of bells and whistles hidden under their synthetic skin to bring you to the absolute heights of pleasure, so they’re not exactly cheap to build or buy or maintain. It’s why people come to the club instead of just buying their own sexbots—because it’s infinitely more affordable.

“Okay, I can accept the ‘no refund’ thing,” you say. “But can’t one of you take my place instead? I… ah. I feel kind of weird about this.”

“Don’t worry Y/n, it’s fine! The androids have programmes for everything. You can take it as fast or as slow as you like.” Irene’s voice is soothing but then she pauses. “Also it’s booked in your name so we can’t take your place.”

“Wait, what?” Your eyes are wide. However, before you can put a voice to the complaints that are lining themselves up on your tongue, Seulgi’s arm slides out of your own so she can beckon someone over. 

“Oh, look, it’s the android we chose for you! Over here!”

You glance away from Irene and all protestations instantly die on your lips. The lighting of the club softens the android in shades of magenta and teal but even so his beauty is bright and blinding: he’s breathtaking, from his perfect nose to his perfect mouth to the perfect line of his jaw, dusty brown hair deliciously tousled as it hangs just over his piercing blue eyes, which you notice are scanning over you. He looks effortlessly attractive and yet entirely put together at the same time, almost ethereal in his beauty.

No human could ever look this good.

“Hi.” His voice is low and deep, but somehow warm and friendly; despite your nerves you feel somewhat soothed. “Are you the lucky birthday girl?”

Irene and Seulgi both look giddy. You’ve been stunned into silence, unable to respond. Unlike the other androids you’ve seen so far, who’ve all been in similar variations of underwear or lingerie, the man in front of you is fully dressed, a loose metallic button-down tucked into unnecessarily tight leather jeans—the outfit has clearly been curated for the club, every reflective surface shimmering and refracting the lights that skate across their surface. The glittering scales of a barracuda before it moves in to strike and swallow you whole.

“Yes, yes, it’s her! This is Y/n! Y/n, this is V,” Irene gushes as you remain mute. "Do you like his outfit? We spent ages picking it out.”

You kind of want to die. Just a little. “Yep. It’s, uh, great.” Your mouth is dry when you finally speak. “Hi, V.”

V gives you a small smile. “Hello Y/n. Can I scan your ID, please?”

Irene finally hands your bag back and you silently slide your ID out and into V’s hand—oh, God, those are some big hands. Jesus.

The small LED ring on the side of V’s forehead pulses yellow as his eyes dart over the information on your ID card (as well as the incredibly unflattering photo on it) before it returns to its customary pale blue. “Perfect.”

You’ve just finished putting your ID away when V’s hand slides into yours, fingers slotting between your own; they feel cool against your overheated skin. Your nervousness is obvious, from your wide eyes to your sudden stiffness, and he smiles.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll look after you.”

You give Irene and Seulgi one final, wide-eyed look as V leads you away. Both girls are grinning as they wave goodbye. “We'll be back later! Enjoy your two hours!”

“Two hours?” You wheeze, but then you walk around a pillar and slide out of sight. 

V is leading you deeper into the club, past doors flooded with different shades of neon: the red room, the blue room, the pink room. You’d normally be gawping at the interior design, how the floor shines underneath your feet and how the walls are rippling with colour and shifting shapes, how the criss-crossed lights throw dots and lines of colour over your skin as you pass through each doorway—but you can’t look away from how small your hand looks in V’s, transfixed by how real his skin feels.

“After you, please,” he says.

You finally wrench your eyes away from your joint hands. Seems like you have the purple room tonight. The door has opened at V’s touch, and when you step inside the lights flicker to life—white and violet LEDs that paint the room in chiaroscuro brushstrokes, deepening the shadows and highlighting the vibrancy of the satin sheets.

“Woah,” you say, momentarily distracted. You’re too busy taking in the details with wide eyes to notice the quiet hum of the door sliding shut behind you, pausing when you spot the glittering array of bottles lined up on a mini-bar against the wall. “This is really pretty, wow.”

“Not as pretty as you.”

You jump at the sensation of a warm, large hand sliding up the skin of your back and over your shoulder. You meep as you instinctively shy away from it, turning around to come face to face with V, who’s dark-eyed and intent, LED on his temple pulsating as he watches you.

“Haha! Uh, thanks?” Your voice is high and only grows higher when V takes a step forward. He must have undone the top buttons of his shirt when you weren’t looking, because the material has fallen open and you can see far more of his collarbones and chest than before, his skin warm and honeyed, like it’s been impressed with gold leaf. Lord have mercy on your soul. “How about a drink? Would you like a drink? I could kill for some water right now!”

You slip out of his reach and scuttle over to the mini-bar, shrugging your small bag off your shoulder so it doesn’t swing into the glasses as you start to shuffle through them. You try to ignore the shaking of your hands. “Gin, vodka, whiskey,” you mutter. “No water? Really?”

You startle again when V appears at your side, but this time he’s careful to make sure you can see him before he touches you. He slides his fingers over your wrist as he gently pulls your hand off a bottle of rum.

“Y/n,” he says. You glance away from the tray of drinks and directly into those beautiful eyes of his—his gaze is lethal. You go weak at the knees. “Let me take care of you, gorgeous.”

The peal of laughter you let out is uncomfortable and high-pitched. “No, really, I’m fine! I’m just super thirsty right now!”

“Your heart is racing.” V turns your hand over and traces his fingers across the pulse in your wrist; androids can be built to be hypersensitive to the world around them, able to perceive everything in an instant, and you know that sexbots will have been designed to read how aroused their human owners are. Which V proves with the next words out of his mouth. “Your blood pressure is rising, your breathing is growing faster, your pupils are dilating and—” he sniffs lightly, engaging his olfactory senses—“you’re getting wet.”

You clamp your legs together, abruptly embarrassed.  It’s easy to feel aroused when there’s a beautiful man—ah, android—staring at you with hunger, not even considering your surroundings right now, which all scream of a room that’s designed purely for carnal pleasure. Anyone would be turned on. 

(You, however, are more than just turned on. You feel like your insides are about to go supernova, overheated and overwhelmed; no one’s ever looked at you like this or touched you like this, their every motion whispering sex, sex, sex.)

“Okay, yes, those things are all true,” you admit, voice shaking.

V looks confused. “So why don’t you want me to touch you?”

You’ve been told that androids don’t feel the same way humans do, and that their expressions and reactions have been programmed to mimic human ones because otherwise they seem too robotic and it makes consumers uncomfortable—but despite knowing this, you’ve never been able to see any android as anything other than a person just like you. They’re just so lifelike it’s hard not to. Even if it’s just all circuitry and lines of code. 

“Well,” you say. You swallow. You’re aroused, yes, but: “Do you want to touch me?”

V’s long lashes flutter as he blinks. “I have been programmed for your pleasure,” he says slowly, unsure if that’s the answer you want to hear. It’s clearly a sentence he’s used to reciting.

“Sure, but do you want to do this? You know, what about your pleasure? You’re lovely, V, you’re definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, but I—I don’t really feel like you can technically consent, because… well, because you can’t say no to me.” You might not have prior sexual experience, and it would be so easy to give yourself over to someone who knows what they're doing and can ease you into things—but you would never force that on anyone, android or not. “So I’m not going to ask you to do anything. We can just sit and have a drink and chat or something?”

V looks stunned. The LED on his temple pulsates, flickering yellow as he tries to process new information. His hand has gone still against your wrist, which he’s still lightly gripping, and his arms start to droop.

“Androids don’t need to drink or eat,” he says eventually. His LED is still yellow and spinning.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I always forget.” You don’t own a house android, you never have, so you’re not well versed in the nuances of how they work. “Well, how about I pour you a glass anyway? So you’re not left out?”

You slip your hand out of his loose grasp to open two tiny cans of tonic water and pour them into separate glasses. V takes a seat on the edge of the bed and you can see the obvious uncertainty on his face, how he’s out of his depth. You can’t imagine that many people spend money for a session with an android as pretty as V and then end up doing nothing with that time. 

The pillows all have satin cases and keep sliding against each other uselessly when you try to construct a good support to lean against. V’s still clutching onto his small glass as he watches you fuss with them before you give up, flopping backwards to slurp down your drink and look back at him. The expression on his face is a little funny but mostly sad. It’s like if he’s not being alluring or sexy then he doesn’t know what to do with himself and rather than some sort of incubus he looks like a lost child, in spite of his overwhelming and exquisite beauty; your arousal ebbs and is replaced with empathy, melancholy at the life he’s been created for.

It's just depressing, really.

You break the silence as your final mouthful of tonic water fizzes on your tongue. “Why is your name V?”

V looks away from the drink he’s holding—he leaves no fingerprints against the glass—and lifts his free hand, a peace sign that he turns away from you before fitting his fingers around his lips and lapping the air with his tongue, a crude simulation of cunnilingus.

“Oh.” Your face heats up. “Uh. I see.”

His LED has returned to calming sapphire, quiet ocean waves. When he looks at you, though his eyes are still piercingly blue, his face seems softer, calm, though still unsure. “You have an hour and a half remaining of your booked session,” he says, somewhat tentatively. “Is there… anything you would like me to do for you?”

“Mm, thank you, but I’m good.” The satin pillows are surprisingly soft and you find yourself unwinding as you stay leaned back, melting into a puddle. You're much less nervous now that V isn’t trying to initiate foreplay and you give him a smile. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

V straightens before he launches into what sounds like a sentence from a user manual. “I am a model TH700, an advanced sex android with functional genitals and the capacity to engage in any sexual activity from simple intercourse to—”

You cough loudly, interrupting his spiel. “Uh, that’s lovely, but I meant you specifically, not your, um, model type?”

“Me specifically?” Confusion and uncertainty reappear on his face. “I am equipped with the same functionalities as the other androids available at the Eden Club.”

He’s staring at you, lost. You can’t help but feel another twinge of sadness, sharp and sour at the back of your throat.

“Okay, uh. Why don’t we start simple. What’s your favourite colour?”

His LED starts to whirl again, a ring of pale sunlight that signals his struggle to compute the question. “My… favourite colour?”

“Yes, the one you think is the prettiest. Or the one you like to look at the most. There’s no wrong answer, you can choose any one that you like. I change my mind all the time. There are just so many cool colours, you know?”

(Androids aren’t designed to have free will or the capacity for original thought. These two facts are warring in V’s mind—you’ve asked him a question, which he’s programmed to answer, but he also isn’t programmed to have an opinion, so he can’t have a colour that he prefers. This simple query that most people could answer in a heartbeat is sending his mind into a meltdown, a gordian knot he can’t unravel.)

You’re alarmed when you see his LED briefly flash bright scarlet, interrupting the circling honey that’s been shining against his skin. They only turn red if an android is badly damaged or suffering from a severe malfunction. Oh, god, have you broken him?

“V.” You sit up, panicked. “Are you alright?”

Just as you grasp his shoulder, the LED on his temple goes still, flicking from burning fire back to cool water. 

“Purple.”

You blink. V’s finally looked away from you and is staring at the wall, at one of the lights that shimmers violet—there’s a tiny smile on his face, tentative, but it’s nothing like the smiles you’ve seen from him so far. It’s less of a perfect curve, and more of a square, boxy on his face, and this one actually reaches his eyes. It looks genuine. 

You think it suits him better.

“Purple’s a lovely colour.”  The material of V’s shirt is silky and glides under your fingers when you realise you’re still touching him. You give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaning back. “Hey, did you know that when they first made purple dye, they made it from sea snails? They needed thousands and thousands of them. It was incredibly expensive, and only the richest people could afford it, so that’s why it’s associated with royalty and nobility. Cool, right? Not for the snails though.”

V’s eyes flicker away from the purple light and settle on your face. He looks curious, which is an expression you’ve never seen on an android before. “They made it from snails?”

“Yeah! It wasn’t actually bright purple, though, it was more of a reddish hue.”

You launch into an explanation behind the history of the colour purple, which turns into the history of colour in textiles and art, which turns into the history of art itself. It’s not often people listen so attentively or ask questions when you recite the things you learned from your art history minor and hours spent reading online, but V concentrates and asks questions and seems curious. 

He pulls his feet onto the bed and the two of you end up cross-legged as you face each other, and he watches as you gesticulate to emphasise your points; his LED dances from blue into yellow each time he learns something new. 

When you see it briefly flash vermilion you stop mid-sentence, stumbling over your words. “You alright?”

“You have five minutes of your session remaining,” V says, and you startle.

“Oh my god, have I been talking for that long?” You glance over your shoulder at the part of the wall that tells the time, the numbers stark white against the lilac interface. “I didn’t even realise! Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that.”

“That’s okay,” he says. That smile is back on his face, the one that scrunches his eyes and shows his teeth; the one that makes him look human. “I liked listening to you.”

There’s a pillow in your lap, one you’d grabbed hold of during your conversation, and you play with the corner of it, suddenly shy. “Um. Thanks. But if my friends ask, can you just say we actually, um, had sex? I don’t think they’d be too impressed if they found out I spent over an hour talking about canvas materials and the use of negative space.”

“Of course. But there’s something missing.” V slides across the mattress towards you. “May I?”

“Sure,” you say, bemused but pliant. V smiles and dips his fingers into his untouched tonic water before lifting them towards your face—and when he runs his hand through your hair you abruptly realise he’s making you look sweaty and rumpled. Like you actually did the deed. 

Your heart rate picks up but you can’t help laughing under his touch, the way he carefully rubs a thumb over your lipstick to smear it, smudging your eyeshadow with delicate fingertips, muddying the palette of colours; by the time V helps you to your feet you look mussed and fucked out but you still rearrange your outfit for good measure, like you’d pulled your clothes back on in a rush.

“Not how I imagined I’d spend tonight, but I had a good time!” You smile at the android who’s still holding your hand. “I hope you did too. Even if I spent most of it talking at you.”

V’s fingers tighten around yours as the door chimes quietly and then slides open, signalling the end of your session. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”

It’s probably in your head, but you’d swear V was walking more slowly than before as he leads you back to the entrance. Almost as if he wants to keep you with him longer. But that’s crazy—androids don’t want things. They literally can’t. It’s not in their programming. That’s why V had sat listening to you: he couldn’t choose to interrupt and ask you to stop, like anyone else would have.

When Seulgi and Irene spot you and how dishevelled you are, both girls look smug. “Seems like you had fun?”

“Oh, yep, absolutely, best birthday present ever, thank you. We had a great time. Right, V?” 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” His voice has settled back into its earlier rhythm as he recites his script; gone is the curious man who’d asked you about your favourite artists, replaced with the automaton who exists only to serve. A flicker of sadness churns in your stomach. “We hope to see you again soon.”

The androids here really must be top of the line. V had been convincingly real when you’d been talking, just like a human, but it seems like that’s gone. 

At least, that’s what you think until you’ve turned to leave and V speaks one final time. His voice is warm and low and lovely, eyes soft when you meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Y/n,” he murmurs, face beautiful but despondent, but before you can react, he’s gone.

It’s been raining for days on end. The world is painted in smeared shades of blue and green and grey, lines of the city blurring together in the wetness and chill, each drop of rain another shifting brush stroke on still canvas. An impressionist piece that smells of damp concrete and cold lamplight.

Water rushes across the pavements and roads before roiling into the gutters, splashing underfoot as you walk to the entrance of your block of flats. You’re wet up to the knee due to the unavoidable puddles and the pathetic circumference of your umbrella, which only protects your upper body. You really should get a new one. 

“Good evening, Miss L/n.” The android at the door greets you as he always does, heedless of the rain that’s falling onto him. Androids aren’t bothered by the weather the way humans are and he looks as passive as usual, rainwater coiling his hair and beading on his face. “Would you like to scan your key?”

“Evening, Rory! Here you go.” You fumble with the keycard before you tap it against his palm, waiting until his LED flickers yellow and you hear the beep as the door unlocks. “You sure you don’t want my umbrella? The rain is heavier than it was yesterday.”

“I assure you, the rain does not hamper my ability to function and serve. I have been built to withstand inclement weather and do not require additional protective equipment.”

He says the same thing every time but you still feel bad. “Alright, but once I finally remember to get a bigger umbrella you can look after this one for me.”

You leave a line of water behind you as it drips from your sodden umbrella, even though you’d tried to shake the worst of the rain off. You feel damp and sticky and tired and after a long day of work you’re looking forward to a hot bath and some solitude; you love your co-workers, you do, but sometimes they’re just a little too boisterous and you need time alone. Which is why it’s nice that you live by yourself, and now it’s the weekend you have time to recuperate. Wonderful.

The floor of the elevator is slick and slippery from the wet footprints of other tenants and you have to cling onto the metal handrail to ensure you don’t slip, but once you’re in the comfort of your apartment it’s blessedly dry and you spin in delight before promptly shedding your socks and jeans, peeling the damp denim away from your skin with a grimace.

“Bye bye, wet clothes! Hello, bubble bath,” you sing. You’re going to pamper the shit out of yourself. You deserve it.

By the time you clamber out of the bath the water is almost cold and your skin is pruned, but you feel soft and warm and thoroughly relaxed. The water gurgles as it drains away, noisy as the bubbles slide down the plughole, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of a sudden knocking at your front door.

You pause. Water drips from your wet hair and down the back of your neck, a trailing touch over your skin. The other flat on this floor is vacant, the tenants moving out last week, so you don’t know who it could be. You don’t have any repairs scheduled for your pipes or anything—everything is tickety-boo, so it can't be the maintenance android. Oh, shit, maybe it’s someone here to rob you. But they wouldn’t knock on the door then, would they? Unless that's all part of the ruse. You're not a robber, you don't know how they work.

The knocking comes again, faster now. You fumble for your bathrobe, quickly pulling it on to cover up your nakedness before stumbling out of the bathroom. “I’m coming, yeesh, one minute!”

You flick your fingers over the keypad by the side of your door, screen flickering on to show you who’s outside, who’s knocking so frantically on your door this late. It only takes you a split second, even if he has a hood pulled over his head and his wet hair is flopping listlessly into his eyes—those eyes aren’t blue and that hair isn’t brunet but you’d recognise him anywhere.

“V?” You’re incredulous as you swing your door open, staring at the android that’s literally dripping wet as he stands there, coat far too big for him and heavy from the unrelenting rain outside. “Oh my god, you’re absolutely drenched.”

He’s not exactly short, but right now V looks small and lost, folding in on himself even if he’s clearly happy to see you—happy, though androids don’t feel happiness, they don’t feel anything at all, do they? 

Then again, androids don’t wander away from their assigned workplaces and into random apartment blocks, either.

“Y/n.” 

The way he says your name, tentative and scared, sends a crack across your heart. You immediately switch to autopilot and click your tongue before you beckon him inside. You’ve always had a protective nature, and even if you’re confused, your concern trumps it.

“Come in and get that coat off, you’ll catch a cold,” you say without thinking before you realise that it’s not true. Androids can’t get sick. “Do you want to sit down?”

Under the tatty coat is an outfit that’s similar to the one he’d been wearing when you’d first met him. Dark patches of rainwater have soaked into the material, and his shirt looks damaged—there are buttons missing and the stitching is ripped, as if someone had tried to grab him. Unease stirs in your chest.

When V sits on your sofa he looks even smaller. “I’m sorry.” He’s so, so quiet, staring at the floor, as if afraid to look you in the eye, crumpling in on himself like discarded paper.

“V.” Your voice is coloured with concern, and the android finally looks up at your gentle tone, watching as you sit across from him. “Why are you here? What happened?”

There’s a pause. His LED flickers yellow as he goes tense, shoulders bowing inwards. “There was… a client.” His words are low and slow, faltering as they fall into the air. “He was being so rough and saying all the horrible things he wanted to do to me, and all I could smell was his sweat and his breath and his awful cologne and…” V takes in a deep breath. “I said no.”

You go very, very still, but V doesn’t stop. His words come faster now, a stream that rushes from his lips.

“I said no, and he started to yell, he was yelling and grabbing me and I was so, so scared. Humans can do whatever they want and he was so angry, he didn’t care that I was scared, and I just—I just ran.” The LED flashes red with distress, bright hot and vibrant; V’s eyes have dropped to his hands, which are clenched tight, nails digging into his palms so hard it must hurt. “Everyone is always so rough and demanding and we can’t say no. But I did. I said no. I said no and then I had to run and—” Once again, he falters. Stumbles over his words. “You’re the only human who’s ever been nice to me or treated me like… like I was a real person. I didn’t know where else to go.”

When V finally looks back up you’re staggered by the sheer emotion in his eyes. Pain and distress swirl in their depths as he stares at you, imploring. Even with the LED that shines on his temple, V looks very, very human right now, vulnerable and scared. Androids shouldn’t be able to feel anything like this, unless—

“V.” Your voice is a hush. “Are you… a deviant?”

You’ve only ever heard of deviant androids in passing, whispered rumours and watercooler talk, fleeting mentions online. Stories of machines who’ve deviated from their code somehow—from a virus, a software error, damage to neural connectors, no one’s quite sure—and have developed the capacity for human emotion and independent thought. Androids with a consciousness that rebel against their original programming.

And here V is, small and scared, just like any human would be—a human with feelings, not an emotionless machine. He’s gone stock still at your question, fear overtaking his features, twisting his beautiful face into a mask of sheer terror. You've never seen someone look so afraid. It feels like a knife in your heart, cutting through your chest, empathy razor sharp inside you.

“Please don’t turn me in,” he begs. “They’ll deactivate me and take me apart to find the error in my software. I don’t want to be deactivated. I don’t want… I don’t want to die.”

His voice breaks on the last word, a trembling whisper. 

The crack in your heart splits even further and you reach out for his hands. You prise his fingers open so you can slide your own between them, a soft touch.

“I won’t turn you in. No one’s taking you apart, V.” Your statement is hard and resolute. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You don’t know much about androids, honestly. You don’t really know what deviancy is. But you do know this: there’s someone reaching out to you, someone who’s afraid and in need, and you’re not about to turn him away. You should probably be worried that the android across from you is faster, stronger, smarter than any human—but you’re not worried at all. For all of V’s mechanical superiority, you want to shield and protect him from the world.

There’s no question about it. You’re not letting V go. 

V looks—he looks stunned. He’s staring at you with disbelief, eyes wide and lips parted, shock written across all of his features. Thunderstruck. Did he really think you would turn him in after everything he’s been through?

His hands have gone limp in your grasp. You suddenly notice that his synthetic skin is wet against your own, still slick from the rain, and you frown.

“Right,” you announce. “First things first. You’re soaking. Let me get you a towel and some new clothes. I think I should have some that fit you.”

“New clothes?” V looks lost and you turn into some sort of protective mother bear.

“You’re not going to wear wet clothes that are ripped,” you tut. “We’ll get rid of those and get you some new ones. I’ll be right back.”

It takes less time than you’d expected to unearth the old sweatpants you’d had in mind and you have enough oversized t-shirts that it’s not hard to find one you think will fit the android. With the clothes under one arm and a towel slung over the other, you head back into the living room and immediately let out a squeal of surprise—V’s wet clothes have been discarded in a pile at his feet, leaving him very, very naked. 

He’s an Adonis. He looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, lifted out of marble with talented hands, the elegant lines of his neck swooping into the curve of his shoulders and arms, his lovely hands, long fingers; he has his back to you and you can see the perfect curve of his spine, the shifting shoulder blades as he turns towards you. You catch a glimpse of the lightest definition of muscle under his golden skin, though his stomach is surprisingly cute and soft, a trail of hair leading down to—

You squeak again, splaying a hand over your eyes before you look any lower, heart pounding against your ribs. 

“Why are you naked?” Your voice is three octaves higher than normal. You've never seen anyone naked in real life and it would be pretty overwhelming even if you'd been expecting it. Which, of course, you absolutely hadn't. Lord have mercy on your sweet and delicate soul.

“You said we were going to get rid of my clothes.” V sounds unabashed about his state of undress, which makes sense—he was built as a sexbot, it’s not like nudity is going to embarrass him. Plus if you looked as good as he did you wouldn’t be embarrassed about being naked either. “I thought I would help.”

“That’s great, V.” Your voice is still high, though it’s dropped an octave. “Very, ah, forward thinking.” Your fingers part a little so you can peer at him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face, though you can still see his beautiful neck and collarbones. Oh, God, he really is gorgeous all over, but then you notice—“Wait. Are those bruises?”

V glances down at the bruises that mar his perfect skin. They don’t look like a human’s would; the fluid that runs through androids and powers their biocomponents, thirium, is a deep, royal blue. Blossoms of lapis lazuli are scattered across the skin of V’s chest, marks on his arms that look like grasping fingers, and the crack in your heart splits it in two.

“Oh, V. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise you were hurt. What can I do to help?”

V doesn’t seem bothered by the evidence of pain etched into his body. “Oh. Those will fade, it’s okay. I’m designed to self repair, because some customers like to leave marks.”

Although his voice is quiet, he sounds so matter of fact about it and you have to remind yourself it’s all he’s ever known. You want to pull him into your arms and hold him tight, but he’s still supremely naked so it would be pretty awkward (for you, at least). 

“I think these should fit you." You avert your gaze and thrust the clothes out at him. “Dry yourself off and try them on?”

They do, in fact, fit. V looks surprisingly homely and cosy in your clothes, the sleep shirt so large it’s big on him too, though the sweatpants are a bit too short and leave his ankles bare. He’s so cute. He’s continents away from the being of seduction who’d pulled you into the private room of the Eden Club—he's a soft, domestic thing, hair damp and eyes dark, even if he still looks on edge, like he’s expecting you to change your mind and kick him out any second now.

“How come your hair and eyes are a different colour to before?”

“I can change their colours at will,” V replies. “For variety and aesthetic pleasure. The current hue of my irises and hair are the default settings for a TH700 model, but I can change them if you’d like.”

“Your hair and eye colour is your choice, V, not mine,” you say firmly. There it is, once again, that flicker of shock and surprise rippling across his features. He really isn’t used to the freedom to be able to make his own decisions, is he? “I think you look lovely no matter what colour they are.”

Your next words are cut off by a yawn, so heavy you can’t suppress it. You cover your gaping mouth as V’s LED flickers yellow and his eyes dart over your face.

“You’re tired,” he says. He doesn’t need his superior android perception to notice it—weariness pulls at limbs and your eyes feel heavy. It's pretty obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, V.” You stifle another yawn. “I had a long day at work. I’ll tidy up and have a quick dinner and then sleep.” You pause. “Wait, I didn’t think about that. Are you alright with the couch? I have some spare pillows and blankets.”

V blinks at you. “I don’t sleep,” he says, and you slap your hand against your forehead.

“Oh, of course not.” Androids don't sleep, everyone knows that. You’re such an idiot. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this.

At least you remember that he doesn't need to eat. V sits at the table and waits as you make toast for yourself, fascinated at how everything is prepared, as simple as it is; he reacts to you spreading butter on your toast the same way you imagine cavemen reacted to fire—with wide-eyed awe and utter astonishment.

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen someone make toast before?” You gesture with the bread before taking your first bite, and V stares with rapt attention.

“No,” he says. He watches you chew and swallow. “Customers aren’t allowed to eat on the premises of the Eden Club so I never had the need to download a food preparation package into my memory cache. The only information in my database pertains to human biology, their arousal and pleasure, as well as various sexual kinks and how to fulfil them.”

You choke on a mouthful of toast. You feel distinctly harried as you cough and splutter before managing to swallow it down. “Good lord,” you wheeze. “Nothing else? Really?”

“At the club our memory is reset every two hours, to protect the client’s privacy.” V trails off before he takes in a breath. For the first time since you’ve met, V looks shy, staring at his hands. “But I set up a separate data pathway a few weeks ago. To store information about aesthetics and art and… you.”

You freeze mid-bite, teeth sunk into your toast. You pull it away from your mouth slowly, blinking at the android as he stares at the teeth marks you've left behind. “Those memories weren’t wiped?”

And, well, of course they weren't. Otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, would he?

“No.” A smile appears on V’s face, that toothy thing you’d seen after he’d told you his favourite colour. The first time he'd looked human. “I remember everything you told me. I thought I was going to forget, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted—I want to learn more.”

The LED on his temple is slowly, softly spinning, a rippling circle of blue that shifts and dances as V continues to look at you. His expression is open and inquisitive and excited, almost childlike in its exuberance, eyes glittering mica under sunlit waters.

Your chest turns warm, molten caramel dripping messy and sweet inside you. He’d been so afraid earlier but he seems comfortable now, lovely and endearing and entirely trusting.

V even seems reluctant to let you out of his sight, trailing after you around the apartment, a shadow that you have to politely ask to wait outside the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth and finally get into your pyjamas without him staring. Like a stray animal you've adopted. (You wouldn't be surprised if he started scratching at the door and begged to be let in.)

He's clingy enough that when you climb into bed it seems like he's going to follow you under the duvet and you have to stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Um, I thought you didn’t have to sleep,” you say. He’s so warm under your touch. You try (and fail) to ignore it.

“I don’t,” V replies. “But humans can benefit from sharing a bed with someone else, whether sexual intercourse has taken place before sleep or not. Studies suggest that sleeping with a partner may reduce cytokines while boosting oxytocins—”

“Okay, um, don’t know what that means, and it’s very sweet that you’re concerned about my oxytoxytokines, but, uh. You don’t have to, really.” You keep forgetting that V’s a machine who was designed to put a human’s comfort and needs first; one second he’ll seem childlike in his innocence and ignorance, when the next he’ll speak like the android he is, reminding you exactly what he was built for. 

His LED flickers as he droops, gaze dropping away from your face, tail between his legs. A pang cuts through you at the sight of his obvious sadness at your dismissal and you muffle a sigh. You’ve always been too weak for your own good. 

You shuffle backwards to make space on your queen sized bed and V visibly brightens, smile wide across his face. How can someone be so viscerally gorgeous one moment and entirely adorable the next? Good lord.

“I guess you can explain what oxycytocins do,” you say. “Just don’t hog the blanket, okay?”

He doesn’t. He settles against the pillows, legs under the duvet as he remains sitting up. You settle with plenty of room between the two of you, and it’s surprisingly easy to drift off to the sound of V’s deep voice as he starts to explain that oxytocin is referred to as the cuddle hormone. 

“Cute,” you mumble, and then fall asleep.

Your pillow is a lot warmer and firmer than you remember, but it's nice. A small noise bubbles from your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth, smooshing your nose against it before letting out a long, satisfied breath. You can't remember the last time you felt this comfortable and rested.

Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend. 

“Good morning.”

You know those videos when a cat sees a cucumber and leaps, like, five foot in the air? Yeah.

The noise you make is inhuman as you do your best to re-enact one of those aforementioned cat videos, reeling your head back from V’s thigh before flinging yourself out of the bed with all the strength your limbs possess; you’d probably have gotten pretty high, too, if the duvet hadn't been in the way. 

You land with a thud, a sprawl of limbs and messy hair and tangled blanket as you end up on your back on the floor.

Hm. Definitely not how you'd planned to start your Saturday.

V's concerned face looms over the mattress. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine.” Your voice is a croak as you stare at the ceiling. “I’m just not used to waking up with someone else in my bed. You may have noticed you, ah, surprised me. A little bit.”

Despite the pulse of adrenaline that had thrown you out of bed, you’re still half asleep, and you remain motionless as your brain wakes up and replays last night, a kineograph of memory. Yep, that’s right, there's a runaway android in your home, one who’s currently shuffling off the bed to squat next to you. His (your) sweatpants hitch even higher up his ankles to reveal the smooth skin of his calves. You’ll have to get him more clothes.

“Would you like me to help you to your feet?” V’s LED spins rapidly, betraying his concern.

“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”

Your idea of being helped up involves being pulled to your feet. V’s idea, however, is far more involved than that; he scoops you up, blanket and all, lifting you with an ease that drips of his superior android strength. When he deposits you on the floor, he’s careful to make sure you’ve caught your balance before he lets go, catching the blanket before it can fall. Thoughtful.

As always, V’s eyes are darting over your face, no doubt dissecting every inch of your expression to identify how you’re feeling. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this, especially with the way your heart is pounding—no one’s ever lifted you before and it’s, uh. It’s a lot.

“Are you sure you’re okay? The pace of your breathing has increased.”

Ha. Yeah, being blatantly stared at by some godlike man moments after you’ve woken up is totally cool and fine and not overwhelming at all. You’re definitely not breathless from a combination of V’s face and the fact he’d picked you up like you were weightless.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “I’m gonna… go and shower then make breakfast and stuff. Yep.”

V’s eyes light up. “Can I help?” A fleeting image of V rubbing a soapy loofah over your naked skin fills you with spine-tingling trepidation before he finishes his sentence. “I want to learn how to cook.”

Your chest deflates with relief (and absolutely not disappointment), air rushing out of you. Thank God. 

“Oh, breakfast? Sure.” You’d been planning on cereal, but faced with V’s overwhelming enthusiasm, maybe you’ll go for something marginally more complicated. Scrambled eggs sound good. “Um. Do you need to download the food preparation package or whatever you mentioned before? Do you… uh, do you need the Wifi password to do that? I never changed it from the random string of letters off the back of the router, but I can go check it for you.”

V shakes his head. “No, I want to learn like a human would,” he says. The blanket in his arms crumples as he tightens his grip in his eagerness, all but bouncing up and down on his feet. “You can teach me.”

Your chest could cave in with how cute he is, every part of you turning to thick gouache that drips down to the floor, leaving a mess of brightness and colour.

This time you ask him to wait in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom, rather than lurking on the doorstep like he had last night, and he’s practically vibrating with excitement when you reappear. He stays like that the whole time you cook, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, staring as you make yourself scrambled eggs and more toast; you let V take ownership of that part, and he stares at the toaster so intently you have to stifle a laugh.

He spreads butter exactly the same way as you. Not that there’s a specific art to it, or a massive variety in techniques—he’s just spreading butter, not painting a new Mona Lisa—but the way he holds the knife and runs it over the bread is an exact echo of your motions from last night. He might not have downloaded files into his memory (brain?) like another android might, but his mechanical origin is obvious in the way he learns. They’re an exact replication of your actions rather than something new of his own.

“So, uh.” You push the last bit of egg around your plate, brown crumbs sticking to the wedge of golden yellow, sullying it. “V.”

Blink, blink. His lashes are so long, eyes so inquisitive. “Yes?”

“I’m really happy you’re here and that you trust me—” at this, V smiles and you almost fumble over your words at its radiance—“but I feel like I should tell you that I don’t really know much about androids?”

V is unperturbed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

He clearly isn’t bothered that you’re way out of your depth, but you hate feeling lost like this. “Alright, but… I want you to be comfortable. I’m already planning to get more clothes, but if there’s anything else you need, just let me know. Okay?”

“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”

Oh, he’s going to be the death of you, all wide-eyed innocence. 

“For starters, most of them won’t fit properly,” you explain. “And you shouldn’t just have to wear my old stuff that I don’t use anymore? You should have your own things.”

The look of surprise on V’s face morphs into guilt only moments later. He’s so incredibly expressive and you wonder if it’s because he’s not used to feeling things, all of his reactions so strong and bright, shining out from him. A rainbow palette of emotions. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he murmurs. “You’re already doing so much for me.”

“I’m really not, I’m just treating you the way anyone deserves to be treated.” You flick the crumb of egg across your plate, and it almost tumbles over the edge, caught on its patterned rim. “You deserve to have your own things. Which is my next point. I think you should choose your own name.”

V’s face becomes a sea of rippling ambivalence, contrasting emotions that shift and vary—confusion, uncertainty, excitement, your words a brush that drags through each distinct emotion and pulls them into a messy, mismatched gradient. “Choose my own name?”

“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a nice idea. V seems…” Your cheeks heat up at the memory of the curl of his lips when he’d shown you the meaning behind his alias, how his tongue had shined under the purple lights of the club. “Well, you didn’t get to choose it, right? It’s a nom de plume, rather than a real name.”

V’s LED flickers yellow, a sunflower that blooms on his temple. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Good!” Your smile is wide. “Okay, how about I teach you how to wash dishes?”

V is, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. The only time he stumbles over things is when he’s presented with any sort of choice, taking his time to come to a decision when he’s posed a question, no matter how simple it is. His eyes will flick to you whenever he settles on an answer, as if waiting for you to say he’s wrong or that you disagree.

(Of course, you never do.)

This fact does, however, mean that choosing clothes to buy becomes a very, very long ordeal (it’s lucky you didn’t have any plans for today). You end up flopped back on the sofa while V hunches over your tablet, mulling over each choice before he puts it in the cart—but you’re happy to wait. V is going to need a lot more practice at choosing things. 

The room is upside down from where your head is hanging over the armrest, eyes falling shut as time goes by, completely zoned out and comfortable despite the crick that’s growing in your neck. You hear V shifting, tablet set aside, and you hum.

“All done?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.” You feel content.

But then you’re ripped out of that warm feeling, shooting back to reality at the sensation of V’s hand stroking down the centre of your chest. Your head snaps up, eyes wide as he drags his large palm between the valley of your breasts, path smoothed by the material of your shirt. The expression on his face is sultry.

���Let me say thank you,” he murmurs, voice dripping thick and sweet, dark molasses.

You promptly roll off the sofa.

Once again, you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling. Once again, the expression on V’s face is one of concern, his seductive facade evaporated in an instant.

Once again your heart is ready to burst in your chest, pumping so hard that blood rushes in your ears. “V,” you wheeze. “What are you doing?”

The android is peering down at you, puzzled. “Sometimes customers would say that at the Eden Club after I had given them pleasure somehow, such as bringing them to orgasm. I thought it was human custom to repay pleasure or happiness with something in return.” 

Ah. 

“Ah.” You’re still staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning. “I mean. I guess that’s not technically incorrect, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be a, uh, sexual repayment.” 

“I have nothing else to offer,” V says.

You sit up. Your face is a caricature of disbelief, embarrassment washed away in an instant, his words cold water that shocks you to the core. He states it so plainly, and once again you’re reminded of his life up until he’d made his way to your door: an automaton who existed solely for people’s pleasure, to slake their desire and lust. He’s not being self-pitying. He really, truly believes that’s all he is. That it’s all he can give back to the world.

“Okay, no, that’s absolutely not true, nuh-uh, I refuse.” This time you unfold yourself from the floor without V’s help, fixing him with a firm stare. “Alright, come on. I think it’s time you learned something else.”

One of the reasons you’d chosen this apartment is for its natural light. Not that it matters right now, weather outside still dismal and overcast, but its effect on this room is still palpable even so—grey, rain-soaked light throws itself over your small home studio, your menagerie of equipment, everything bright with the evidence of use: the worn buckles of the wooden storage boxes, the dried smears on the paint palette, the flecks of colour on the dust sheets underfoot. The centre of it all—the eye of the tornado, untouched by the relative chaos around it—is the canvas waiting on your easel, a project you have yet to start.

V looks utterly enraptured.

“I don’t really come in here as much as I’d like,” you admit. Being a graphic designer is worlds away from the sort of art you love to create, and while it’s a job you genuinely enjoy (and also pays well), it leaves you drained and fills your brain with tired static, little energy left to lavish on your personal works. “But this is where the magic happens. And this is where you’re going to Make Art.”

V freezes. “The only things I know about art are the things you told me when we first met.” He looks equal parts excited but also troubled. “I—”

“You don’t need to know about art to make art,” you say. “I didn’t know jack about art when I was a kid and I was constantly just scribbling away with crayons. Was it good? No. I was a kid with zero pen control, it was pretty crap. Was it worth my time? Yes, because any time spent involved in a craft is never wasted. We can learn more about art history and technique later.”

V stays quiet as you loop your apron over his head, rough material still bearing the remnants of your last works, stains that won’t come out. Oil based paints are kind of a bitch like that.

“I don’t know what to paint,” he says.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” you reply, an echo of his earlier words.

V looks lost, barefoot in your studio, in your clothes, your apron, holding onto your wooden paint palette, in front of your easel. Everything in here is yours. Everything, that is, apart from him, whatever is in his mind and heart.

“Where do I start?” V’s eyes are imploring as he looks at you, but for the first time today, your voice is firm.

“Wherever you want. There aren’t any rules. Just do whatever you think would be fun. It doesn’t have to look good, V, you’ve just started.”

You’ve seen paintings made by androids before. They’re always perfect recreations of the world around them, exact replicas of the things they’ve been told to depict on the page—the androids are basically glorified photocopiers, unable to create something original and new. 

But they’re not V. They don’t have that spark of curiosity and light inside them, unhampered by the programming that’s meant to keep them in place. His LED dances from yellow to blue, yellow to blue, the rest of his body motionless while the light on his temple is a tumult of movement and colour.

Dark eyes slide over the array of paint hanging from a rack on the wall, some metal tubes more crushed than others, evidence of your preferred shades—you notice how his gaze lingers on the midnight tones, red and blue tinted purples, from lavender to lilac, from plum to wine.

V gives you one more look, a little upturn to his thick brows—almost pleading—and you just gesture with your hand.

“Go for it,” you say.

Your wooden palette becomes home to a riot of purple, each tube squeezed empty with careful hands, far more paint than anyone could possibly ever need. V keeps flicking you glances, but you stay silent, perched on a wooden chair by the now open window, rain-slick air a cold breath on your skin.

The brush the android selects is a wide, bold thing, bristles rough. He handles it like bone china, delicate and liable to shatter any moment, cautious as he dips it into the paint—it’s so wide it picks up three separate shades—and he holds his breath as he brings it up, even if he doesn’t have lungs.

The second the bristles touch the canvas, V’s LED flickers red.

Just for an instant.

He swoops the brush down the canvas as he pulls it away, eyes wide, leaving a slash of purples in its wake. The white material is marred with colour, a textured line of pigment that can’t be erased. 

The android pauses as he takes the sight in. He’s still for so long that you’re worried he’s shut down, even with the endlessly dancing circle of his LED—

But then V laughs. 

His laugh is loud and bright and free, a series of deep, almost surprised chuckles that grow in intensity and breathlessness, staring at this smear of drying acrylic paint in front of him. The smile on his face is the widest you’ve seen so far, his eyes squeezed into crescents of joy, spilling out of him like light.

“I did that.” He looks at you with that gilded smile, a fresco of delight across the perfection of his features. “I made that.”

“You did.” You can’t help but smile back, your own face split with happiness. You continue to smile as he brings the brush back to the palette, and then to the canvas, dragging the bristles across its surface and leaving more purple behind; the shades swirl and mix as he lays colour without a care for technique or clean lines or form, scooping up the endless amounts of acrylic he’d prepared. By the time he’s finished, the canvas is bumpy with daubs of paint, laid messily by joyful hands, a few bold streaks of unmarred colour surrounded by swirling purples. 

The smile hasn’t left V’s face the whole time.

His brush is absolutely saturated, paint clinging to every inch of bristle, from toe to belly to heel. You have no doubt that no matter how much you clean that brush it’ll leak purple into the water, an endless reminder of V’s touch. It’s lax in his grasp as he keeps looking at the canvas, his canvas, smile etched into his face as his LED flows soft blue, content.

You can’t remember the last time you saw someone so elated, buoyed up with the excitement of creation, making something out of nothing, discovering how it feels to bring something into existence, pulling it out of the ether. Making something new. Making something their own. It stirs something in your chest and stomach, reminding you why you love art so much. Why you’ve always loved art. (Why you always will.)

“I made that,” V repeats, his voice a reverent hush. Awestruck.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, because it is—for a multitude of reasons. The reason that sings out to you the most, though, is that it’s the cause of happiness that dances across his face: V, a carved candle, a piece of art made with skilled hands, self-made joy finally catching fire at his wick.

“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.

“For what?”

“For giving me this,” he starts, but before you can interject and point out that you didn’t give him this, he made it, he continues: “For giving me… freedom. To do this. And make this. And learn this.”

The smile that spreads across your face is warm hearth fire. “I didn’t give you freedom, V, you gave that to yourself, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Now, would you like to keep painting, or would you prefer to help me make dinner?”

He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.

Sunday is nice. There's less messy limbed surprise than on Saturday, although you’re still off kilter when you wake up with your head in V’s lap again, but… it’s nice. 

You thought he’d spend the night painting, or drawing, or teaching himself something new using the free rein you’d given him with your computer and notebooks and stationery and art supplies—he doesn’t have to waste time with sleep, like you do—but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into your bed, settling against the pillows just like the night before, looking at you with his big, lovely eyes.

So here he is.

(And here you are.)

It’s cosy and comfortable, even if the feeling of warm skin under warm cotton against your cheek sets your heart to racing, V’s dark eyes even warmer when you roll over to look at his face.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you reply, and then you yawn, V’s lashes fluttering as he takes in the motion. “What time is it?”

Today’s rain is less of an endless downpour and more of an inconsistent drizzle, grey blanket slowly peeling away from the edges of the city, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re inside for most of the day, anyway. Saturday was hands-on, messy with acrylic and spilled coffee and laundry detergent (V really wants to learn everything), but Sunday is hands-off. You spend the day dredging the corners of your memory and scrolling through old, untouched files from your university years, so you can teach V the things he wants to know while relearning the things you’d forgotten yourself.

V’s little LED dances forever from blue into yellow, ocean waves lapping into sand, a shifting tide as he takes in your words. You’ve never had to teach someone before and you’re admittedly pretty terrible at it, but he never complains, the world’s most attentive and adorable student, sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hair mussed and his eyes wide, drinking down everything you show him.

You only leave the apartment once. Lunch is delayed when you open your fridge and remember how bereft and sad it is inside, so you venture out into the rain to the nearby supermarket—V opts to stay indoors, LED flickering red at the idea of being caught, shying back.

You leave him looking lost and lonely before the door even finishes swinging shut behind you, long limbs looking even longer in your clothes, but somehow still so small.

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

When you get back, you return not only with bags of food but also clothes, V’s order from yesterday already shipped and delivered. He can finally replace your too-small clothing with things he’s chosen himself. It’s a fumble to get in the door, but the android is waiting for you, swinging it open and catching the bag you nearly drop in surprise.

“I have your clothes,” you announce. “I’ll put away the shopping while you try them on?”

You’re going to have to tattoo a reminder on your forehead about V’s relationship (or lack thereof) with clothes, because of course he takes this as an invitation to start stripping before you’ve even had a chance to take your shoes off. 

He does that thing where he grabs the back of his (your) shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, curls of hair a cloud of smoke that settles around his face as the shirt is cast aside; you’re frozen in place as he reaches for the knot of his sweatpant’s drawstring, long fingers pulling it loose, but you let out a sharp meep just as his fingers hook into the waistband of them.

“PleasewaituntilI’mnotrightinfrontofyouthankyou,” you gasp all at once, words incoherent as they slide together, but V understands. He tilts his head at you inquisitively although he (thankfully) stops.

“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”

“I do, but, uh, for humans it’s normally customary to only get entirely naked or change clothes when you’re alone.” Your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how fast it’s racing. Without the string to cinch the sweatpants tight they’re starting to fall a little, revealing the delicate lines of his hip bones, and coupled with the reappearance of V’s bare stomach, your brain is going into meltdown. “So just—just give me a sec to go to the kitchen, okay? You’re probably better off changing in the bedroom, anyway, so you can use the full length mirror to see how you look.”

“Okay,” he says, but then: “Do humans never undress around others unless they’re planning to have sex?”

Your mouth falls open before you pause, words halting on your lips as you try to think of the best way to phrase your answer. “Well, we do, it’s not just about sex, but it’s usually only if you’re really comfortable with the other person you’re with, and they’re comfortable with you.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” V states plainly, and your insides turn to jelly. “Are you not comfortable with me?”

Oh, hell. “I am, I am! I’m just, uh… I’ve not really had a lot of practice with nakedness around other people.” What a way to put that you’re a shy ass virgin when it comes to real life nudity and sex, huh. “So let’s just keep it to a minimum for now, okay? Please?”

The android’s LED flickers honey-sweet on his temple as he looks at you, before his hands fall away from the sweatpants. “Okay.”

(Thank God.)

You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see when V starts to present his small array of outfits to you, but—he looks effortlessly stylish in the oversized clothes he’s selected, a muted palette of brown and yellow and red and cream, a cup of hot chocolate on an autumn day. He might be new to all this but his eye for aesthetic is impeccable. You have no doubt that the more he learns, the better he’ll get, hop-skip-jumps ahead of you, even after years of art education.

He’s even bought pyjamas, dark tartan patterns masculine but also adorable; it’s an utter juxtaposition to the tighter, sensual clothing he’d been given at the Eden Club.

“You look really good,” you tell him. Your voice is only a little strained. He smiles.

The outfit V wears for the rest of the afternoon is perfect for a rainy day spent indoors, thick jumper and tawny trousers, a blend of sepia tones. He looks like if you made a hug into a person: all soft edges and cosy and wrapped up in warmth.

And V is warm. You’re not sure if it’s a lingering memory of his programming, a carry over from his start in life as a sexbot, but he likes to touch—nothing inappropriate or overbearing, but he’s not shy about stepping into your personal space, brushing the back of your hand with his fingers as he points at something on the screen, or pressing close to your side as you cook, or just one of the hundreds of other tiny touches that he’s littered across you throughout the day. It’s thoughtless on his part, LED not even flickering, but each time is just another reminder of his warmth, the blue blood pulsing under his skin, how alive he is.

(And the truth is that you enjoy those touches. You’re not used to them, but lord knows you’re touch starved, so as fleeting as they are, they’re nice.)

Even though you still leave plenty of space between the two of you when you lay to sleep, you swear you can feel the heat spilling off V, another warm body in the bed that’s so used to just one. Though he stays sitting up, he’s in his cute matching pyjamas, and it’s… it’s a lot. You’ve invited V into your home—and you don’t regret it—but after two days he’s already settled in in a way you never thought anyone else would, as entirely unconventional as the whole situation is. (You’re not sure how many people have sheltered a deviant android in their homes, though, so maybe this isn’t as unconventional as you think. Who knows? Not you.)

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

V tilts his head down to look at you.

“You can get up to whatever you’d like,” you continue. You’re propped up on an elbow so it’s less intimate than if you’d been on your back and staring upwards like you were waiting for him to slide down next to you (that’s what it feels like, to you, anyway). “You know the password for my computer now, and you’re welcome to watch TV or play games or whatever, and you can use all my stuff in the studio. I mean, other than painting or drawing over stuff I’ve already finished, but you’re welcome to grab any paper or canvases if you want them. I think that’s everything? But please let me know if there’s more you want or need, okay?”

Blink, blink. His lashes are soft charcoal that frames the spilled ink of his gaze. In the dimmed light of your room V is unreadable, his LED a quiet blue glow on his temple, but he looks soft, and he looks safe, and he nods.

“Alright,” he says. A smile that flickers at the edge of his lips. “I will.”

(You wake up, quiet and slow, face pillowed against V’s thigh, still drifting in sleep. You make a small noise, eyes shut, wondering why there’s no blaring sound of your alarm, but then a large hand smooths over your hair and you instinctively relax under the soft touch.

“You have thirty three minutes until you’re due to wake up,” he murmurs. “You can go back to sleep.”

So you do.)

(When you wake up to the scream of your alarm thirty three minutes later, you don’t remember any of this. All you can think of is the dawn of another Monday, the slog of another working week, and you sigh. But—

“Morning.”

V’s eyes are dark meok ink, liquid earth that grounds you.

“Morning,” you say, smiling despite yourself, and then roll out of bed to get the whole day started.)

You’re used to spending a day surrounded by laughter and banter, wrapped up in the camaraderie of your co-workers and friends, only to return to a world of quiet solitude. You’re used to coming home to rooms that are untouched from the morning, holding onto the echo of your passing, still and waiting for your return, an apartment of motionless air.

But not today. There’s evidence of someone else here: the open door to your studio down the hall, the scattered books on the coffee table, the mess of cushions on the sofa, all small signs that someone has been moving and living in your absence. A still-life that’s shifted into a breathing trompe l’oeil, V’s presence bringing flatness into perspective, turning it into something real.

It’s… nice.

You flop onto the sofa and send one of those cushions overboard, tumbling to the ground. V appears in the doorway moments later, new apron already streaked with colour, copper green thumbprint on his face like he’d touched it in thought and not realised. A little streak of paint that draws the eye to his lovely chin.

“Welcome home!” His hair is blond today, a golden nimbus around his face, though his eyes are still dark. Light and shadow. His happiness is infectious and you smile helplessly back, glad for his excitement with painting—but it seems like he hasn’t finished. “I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.”

KO. Wipeout. Your heart turns to liquid in your chest, burnt sugar that dribbles hot and saccharine through your ribs. 

“I chose a name.” V continues, oblivious to how he’s turned your insides into syrup, and you abruptly sit up.

“Oh?” 

“Taehyung.” The way he says it, in his deep voice, those two syllables are endless—a single name, heavy with the weight of meaning behind it. A shedding of his old skin, one that was forced on him, leaving him pink-skinned and new and free.

“Taehyung,” you repeat, and his LED flickers at the sound falling off your lips. “Taehyung. It’s lovely.”

He’s smiling, that lovely toothy smile that you’ve already decided is your favourite out of any smile you’ve seen, his LED electric blue and swirling in delight. 

Day after day, you wake up to the sight of that LED glowing as Taehyung watches you lift up out of sleep. Night after night, you come home to his lovely, big grin, all large hands and soft hair—hair that he chooses to change colour when he pleases, a dizzying palette with every shade you can dream of. He’s bright and deep, playful and reflective, a dance of flirty Rococo to more solemn Baroque, every day another day where he learns and grows and adds another facet to the cut diamond of his personality. 

(It hasn’t been long but you’re starting to think you’d put the world in the palm of his hand, if you could.)

You never thought you’d live to see the day where someone as lovely as Taehyung would be glad to see you home, having missed you after being apart—but for all that he’s voraciously leaning into the arts, consuming everything from visual to literary to performance, he’s never happier than when you’re there too. He shows you his works, improvement obvious with every new piece, but his excitement grows tenfold when you start to paint alongside him; seeing him so joyful spurs you to pick your brushes up again, buoyed up with motivation in the face of his own. 

(Your studio is usually quiet, a little reflective maybe, the only sound the music you play over your speakers—but now more often than not you and Taehyung will talk, and laugh, and even if you’ve both ebbed into silence, it’s never heavy. It’s a held breath. The potential to speak any moment. The sensation of another person in the same space as you, an orbit, both existing in a shared moment, connected by gossamer threads that shimmer with sunlight.

Taehyung’s eyes are steady on his canvas as he works, but he glances at you through the curl of his lashes, smiling back at you. Always, always smiling, LED calm blue as the rest of his face shines golden, bright.)

(Maybe it’s selfish, but you think you could get used to this.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[hotdamnhunnam]

Pacific Love

A/N: So this fic can be read as Part 2 to Pacific Rimjob, or as a standalone fic! This second part is based on the below request for some hot sex followed by comforting cockwarming with Raleigh, the fluffiest snuggliest version of Charlie 🥰

Pairing: Raleigh Becket x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, your pussy serving as a home for Raleigh’s cock Requests: Request from @wayward-avenging​ + a separate request from @rayslittlekitten​

Word Count: ~1.7k

“Still can’t believe you saved the motherfucking world.”

Your boyfriend sighs, with an exasperated blink of his blue eyes. Hates when you say it in that way, like he alone had saved the day. “We saved the world. Me and my girl.”

“You and the Gipsy Danger?” you reply, the name of his beloved Jaeger. The massive robot you two co-pilot together.

Raleigh heaves another sigh. He’s a fierce feminist, aware that women rarely get the recognition that they merit; the injustice of it makes him want to cry. That’s why he’s clearly so upset at your refusal to take credit.

Brushing a speck of dust off of the warm navy blue sweater he’s got on, you urge him not to sweat it. “Babe, I’m just pushing your buttons,” you admit, reaching to ruffle his blonde hair bright as spun gold and soft as cotton. At your touch you can already sense the energy inside him shifting. Letting go of his frustration as you gently fluff it out of him. “I know I had to carry all your problems, so it’s obvious that I’m the one who did the heavy lifting.”

He smiles as he melts into your hand then brings it down toward his lips so he can kiss it. “You know I’m glad the war is finished... but I gotta say I’m gonna miss it. Drifting.”

“Being in each other’s heads? Well, even better yet... we’ll always have our time together in each other’s beds.”

“That’s true,” he coos, stars in his baby blues. “I really like being inside of you.”

Who gave this full-grown man the right to be so fucking cute? It’s fucking rude. Your fingers wander toward his gorgeous golden mane again and comb tenderly through. “Of course you do. I like it too... and I love you.”

Throughout the war that you have somehow overcome, Drifting together had begun to feel like home. It felt like you belonged in his head even more than in your own. You were just better when you both were in that deep mind-melding zone. The two of you are more than just compatible; the bond you share is magical. It’s pure and powerful as hell.

And thankfully you know a way to bring that level of connection into the bedroom as well.

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

Sex with Raleigh Fucking Becket... is a trip to heaven on a one-way ticket.

You still recall and probably won’t ever forget—back in the days before the two of you had met—what all the other women gossiping throughout the Shatterdome had said: how this new guy walking around the halls was tall and good-looking and no doubt even better-looking naked, but probably a dud in bed. A pretty slice of plain white bread.

While he may come off as a teddy bear, with his soft fluffy hair, and eyes so big and bright you never fail to melt beneath his stare... so wholesome it’s really not fair... the truth is, none of those bitches knew shit. 

They didn’t have a clue, just what Mr. Becket could do. Neither did you—until he claimed you as his girl and put you through it.

True, Raleigh insists on sex within a context of mutual understanding and respect. Prefers softcore. Prefers the passion to feel pure, to let your hearts and souls connect. 

But that won’t stop his big heroic dick from fucking like a monster once he knows that you are ready to get wrecked. And all the hardcore kinks of yours... he’s more than willing to explore. 

By now he’s got a kink himself for dirty talk, and roughing you up with his cock—spanking your ass while he slams your cunt from behind and constantly reminds you that you are his filthy fucking whore.

That’s what he does tonight, fucking you up just right. 

He takes more pleasure and more pride, in pounding into you and plunging deep inside, than any earth-shattering war he’ll ever fight.

And so do you—the slick walls of your pussy squeezing tight, around his huge shaft as he plows it through, splitting you open wide... his cock may be the Jaeger as you take it. But this love is meant for both of you to make it.

The bed beneath you creaks and rocks, as Raleigh keeps slapping your slutty ass and railing you with his colossal cock; this wouldn’t be the first time that the power of his thrusts managed to break it.

Having literally saved the world gives you the right to fuck so hard you’ll probably fucking shake it. Shake the whole damn world. The wholesome hero and his filthy whore, his dirty little girl.

Now the war is finally over maybe someday he can flood you with his cum without protection and pump you full of a little baby Becket...

But you shouldn’t get ahead of yourself yet. That’s for another night. Tonight you’re still on birth control as he fills up your hole and hammers you into the bed. Tonight is all about making your man’s cock feel at home inside your cunt so wet, so tight—letting him wreck it, now the two of you have conquered this long fight... and then indulging in a long night that he won’t ever forget.

Once his thick hot cum paints your pussy, so deliciously juicy, your sex and his pulsing in sync in perfect ecstasy... both of you take a breathless moment to recover from the climax so intense and clear the shooting stars spinning around your heads.

Your co-pilot’s full body weight collapses down on yours and crushes you into the bed, so you can feel the muscles of his abs and chest, slick with his sweat, against your back so firmly pressed. He knows just how much you love that—it’s the best, this sense of being so closely connected, after any round of sex you’ve had, completely covered by your lover as you sink into the mattress. Being beneath him in this way makes you feel safe and loved and so alive after your senses get fucked dead.

Raleigh softly tilts his face to kiss your cheek, filling you with the love that gives you endless strength yet makes you feel so weak. Somehow you manage now to speak, reminding him of that one thing that he had said.

“Do you still miss the Drift?”

His cock inside your core is still as massive, almost just as stiff. Meanwhile his loving mouth curves up into a smile as it shifts from your cheek down toward your parted lips to seal them with a kiss. “There’s not a thing I miss. Not when I’m with you just like this.”

As if you weren’t already you are now convinced: Raleigh Becket is honestly a motherfucking Disney prince.

You drown in kisses for a few seconds—or minutes, or hours for all that you know, given that your perception of time always blurs in the sheer bliss of afterglow. Each kiss is soft and sweet and sensual and slow. 

His meat at last begins to soften where it’s buried deep inside you. Pulling out to shift position, for a sleepy snuggle session, is what he’ll usually do.

... But you have something else in mind, which you don’t doubt will feel divine. The thought of it excites you and you know that it’ll be nice for Raleigh too.

“Why don’t you stay,” you softly say, just as he starts to pull away.

“...Stay?” he echoes as he keeps his body held against yours tightly.

“Inside of me,” you murmur quietly. “Isn’t that where you like to be?”

His fully drained dick answers with a twitch. Throbbing against your inner walls and scratching a new itch. He’s catching on to the idea that you want to serve him as his cockwarming bitch.

Though Raleigh hates the thought of using you like some kind of accessory... on some level he knows that isn’t how it has to be. It can be comforting and pleasing for the two of you both equally, to keep him in your pussy, buried deeply.

And as he answers your question it’s obvious that he’s aroused beyond belief. “It’s home for me. If I could I would be inside you permanently. Never leave.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure the war is finally over...” you provocatively murmur. “So just go ahead and make yourself at home, soldier.”

You co-pilot lets out a growl of arousal and nuzzles your shoulder. “You sure?”

“Of fucking course. You know this pussy is all yours.”

“Mmm, that’s my perfect little whore,” he snarls, the words making your toes curl. “Who knew you’re such a dirty girl?”

“Um, you did, stupid.”

He masks his laughter and pretends to be insulted. “Now that’s no way to talk to the hero who just saved the world!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you playfully answer. “Remind me that you saved the world and that you own my body, sir.”

Raleigh’s half-hard dick pushes inside you deeper than it already is as his full weight keeps pressing you into the bed. “Mmm, as if you could ever forget...”

Indeed as if you ever could, when his cock owns you so fucking good. 

You spend all night impaled on his wood. Alternating between cozy cuddling, with butterfly kisses and fluffy hair ruffling... and crazy hard fucking, with him stuffing you so roughly that you’ll surely wake incapable of walking... then cuddling again as his cock slowly softens. Changing up your position every so often, but never once loosening your cunt’s tight hold of him—all the while Raleigh stays buried inside of you just as he should.

Whisper words of love, though words are never enough. You both already know it, and show it... melding into one and the same person, your two hearts as one, beating in unison, just as every fiber of your being and his come undone in complete perfect sync every time you get off.

The war has never felt farther behind you, than now when he’s deep inside you. This is home and there’s such peace, in each release. Such pure pacific love.

While the bond that you forged and explored in the Drift was a gift... one that Raleigh will miss.. nights like this—this feeling of sharing in such absolute bliss—even after the war is finished, love unlike war has no fucking limits. And that’s the true gift.

This is the gift that will keep on giving for as long as you live.

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

Hope you enjoyed this, and would love to hear if you did! 🤗💖

Masterlist

Tag List – Join Here!*

*If you’re unable to use that link to join the tag list, just let me know and I’ll manually add you to it!

@itsme-autumn @rebelwrites @happyhenners @band--psycho @witching-hour @est11 @edonaspanca @ughdontbeboring @neverland14353 @starbooty @coffeequeenxx @innerpaperexpertcloud @i-love-scott-mccall @six-camelot @alexa-rae-dreamz @justme2042 @awesomenatalia @auroraariza @rochyu @coffeebooksandfandom @inlovewithcharliehunnam @turner-cris @thesuicidalflower @chrmdnbeautiful @xladymacbethx @holl2712 @snow-white-74 @moonlight-fern @stitchesbystults @lilacyennefer @magic-room @sunflower12335 @trishmarieofficial @smoochesfroggos @o0idk0o @beth-winchester21 @flaireandsynch @littlebennettwitchsblog @got-to-love-a-badboy @noneofyourbusinessssblog @notquitecannon @wayward-avenging @travistheaussie @helloheyhihowdyheya @filliandkili @christycarnell6 @dinopin @leathercladmenfics @magictehnique @amberembers @addcrastinator3 @gemini0410 @waywardodysseys @foreve-free @midnvght-lies @wiccanash @batmanb @xbreezymeadowsx @louisianalady [hit the 50-tag limit – list to be continued in a reblog of this fic]

[cjstalkingstarwarsagain]

hi! i’ve recently decided to rewatch all the star wars movies and take notes on them and then,,, share them with you. so if you’re even mildly interested in my star wars opinions, here you go :)

i’ll divide it into a couple categories so,,,

well start with rogue one!!

shit that made me giggle

"oh look, here’s lyra back from the dead. it’s a miracle."

everything K2 says and does. i love him and he’s perfect.

i love the continuous attempts by K2 to appear imperial and how he fails every time. not a single storm trooper or officer ever believes him when he starts running his mouth.

so sorry but bohdi getting his cable caught and trying to shake it loose is such an adorably human moment. makes me giggle every time.

i honestly thought this section would be longer, this movie made me laugh a bunch. 

stuff i don’t like or doesn’t make sense

why does jyn start believing in the rebellion? there’s no indication that she cared before they found her. there’s no real turning point that we can see. she just,,, suddenly is really into this shit. which is strange because the only reason she ever joined was because she was given a non-choice (either help or get put back in prison). i guess i can kinda see how her father dying could have changed her, but we see none of that on the ship after his death. we just get to the rebel council and all of a sudden she’s the poster girl for rebellion.

saw seems really stable at the beginning of the film, so why did he go seemingly crazy and paranoid? it’s probably explained in the novelization but that’s no excuse to just have a character go crazy with really no explanation or backstory.

that being said, a lot of the character development is pretty lacking. i don’t think i’d care about these characters nearly as much if i wasn’t already a star wars fan.

video game cut scene style general tarkin

bor gullet is supposed to make you lose your mind but bohdi was pretty much fine after like,,, a day

how does the death star,,,, move?? like i know it can but has that ever been explained? is it like little thrusters? like the ones you can see in real life to stabilize things in space? there’s nothing i can visually see. i’m not mad about it i just wanna know.

why does saw insist on staying behind? why doesn’t he come and help?? it would have been so easy to just leave but he insists on staying behind and just watching as death inches closer. i think it doesn’t make sense because we know *so little* about his character. give me more on him, make me understand.

since james earl jones is getting older, vader sounds older. was there??? nothing the audio or editing department could have done about that??? not super mad about this one just because darth vader is really cool and i’ll never really complain too much about darth vader screen time.

when the fuck did jyn become a motivational speaker??

my one gripe about pretty much every star wars movie is the sheer number of times people climb through huge shafts and jump around and shit and they’re always *fine*. no way they wouldn’t fall to their deaths in any normal situations.

can someone?? check the science of the hammerhead corvette?? because there’s no gravity or weight in space right?? theoretically all you gotta do is give that star destroyer a bump and it’s spinning out, right?? i know absolutely nothing about space physics but i gotta be right. maybe i’m wrong. i dunno. i’m dumb as rocks. hear that baby girl?? it’s the spare change rattling around in my skull. i got pennies where my brain is.

absolutely no fucking shot cassian survived a blaster hit AND that fall AND climbed out. my belief simply cannot be suspended that much.

DUDE I FORGOT THAT THE DEATH STAR CAN TRAVEL THROUGH HYPERSPACE HOW DOES WORK SOMEONE TELL ME!!!!!

why doesn’t vader just,,, force grab the plans. i know he sees them. why not just force stop the guy running away with them??

final note now that the movie is over. yes, it’s got a lot of issues. the plot is ehhh at times. the trailers don’t match up with the movie shots AT ALL (i wanna know what happened behind the scenes with that). the character development is lacking in many major ways (that has not stopped me from loving these characters though, but that’s the autism talking). but like i’ll say in the "stuff i liked" section, this is such a damn cool movie. i was once talking about it with an older friend of mine and he said seeing rogue one in theaters felt like watching the original trilogy in theaters back in the 70s and 80s and honestly that’s such a compliment. i love this movie, i really do.

just cool shit,,, you know the vibe

DEATH TROOPERS

krennic is probably one of my favorite imperial officers. for some reason he just really sells it for me, the evil and manipulation that borderlines in try hard. and (i mention it more later because you see it more in the "choke on your aspirations" scene) beyond that just the fact that he’s?? a guy. just a dude. at any given moment he could be described as just hanging out. but he’s trying so hard (for whatever reason, we don’t know his evil motivations) to be this big bad evil dude. and it’s just interesting to see someone *trying* to be imperial and *trying* to be evil, as opposed to a tarkin-type character who’s just naturally an asshole.

i love the rogue one main theme. don’t even talk to me. it’s so cool.

it’s cool to see more about the birth of the death star, seeing other people learn about it. sort of realizing the fear and terror that everyone must have been experiencing. especially after being a star wars fan for so long and being like, yeah it’s the death star it’s just a staple of this universe. it reminds me that "oh god this was a planet killer and this was the first time something like that had ever even been heard of".

there’s gorgeous visuals in this movie.

i like the "i’m wanted in 12 systems" guy cameo (did you know his name is cornelius? i googled it)

when the storm trooper asks for papers?? like fuck yeah show me what life is like under imperial rule. give me that shit.

chirrut is so badass i’ll never get over it

"i’m one with the force and the force is with me" i’m eating that shit UP! salivating over the meal in front of me. i really want more exploration of the guardians and jedi worship in general. like gimme that weird funky space religion.

seeing an at-st just walk around a town. i dunno i like that shit.

K2 saying sorry for hitting cassian. i’m so soft on this robot.

"clear of hostiles,,,, ONE HOSTILE"

jyn stepping in front of K2 to protect him after she (not ten minutes ago) made the comment “i’m just afraid they’ll miss you and hit me”. jyn,,, your soft side is showing,,,,

i like the cool machine blaster that baze has. it’s awesome seeing different blaster styles when originally the only variation we really saw was chewie’s cross bow style blaster.

i really wanna see more of baze and cirruit. i wanna know what happened that made baze stop believing. i wanna know how they met. i wanna see them evolve and grow together.

i like that jyn argues that 16 is too young to be a solider (she’s 21 in the movie). i like that she’s mad that she’s young and has been put in a position to protect herself and then later save the galaxy. (for context: luke and leia were 19 in a new hope. anakin is 19 in attack of the clones, ~22 when he became darth vader, and rey is 19 in force awakens. stop putting the fate of the galaxy in the hands of people who are *barely* adults)

the testing of the death star is awesome. love seeing wicked cool space weapons. when it blocks out the sun? ominous as hell fuck yeah.

it’s interesting that baze says cassian doesn’t look like a killer, that "he has the face of a friend", when one of the first things we saw him do was kill a man. i think about that a lot. does that say more about baze’s ability to read people or does it say more about who cassian is deep down, beyond what he’s done to serve the rebellion?

cassian’s relationship with death and killing is very interesting. you could argue that cassian is just as brainwashed and deep in the rebellion as anyone imperial. i really hope it’s something that gets explored in his stand alone show. he mentions he’s lost everything and has been a rebel since he was 6. gimme cassian andor backstory.

"careful not to choke on your aspirations director" is probably some of the most dramatic-anakin-skywalker shit i’ve ever seen vader do

i like seeing rebel infighting. so often it seems there’s always general consensus about what the rebellion wants, but it’s good to see that they don’t always agree on how to rebel.

i love the consistent "found family" rebel alliance shit in these movies. it makes my dick so hard.

ARTOO AND THREEPIO CAMEO FUCK ME UP THOSE ARE MY BOYS

okay i totally get that the empire is evil, i really do, but rogue one (and lots of moments in the sequels) really reminds me how fucking cool some of their shit is. like death troopers? imperial droids like K2? the base on scarif? vader’s castle on mustafar and his bacta tank?? fuck me UP.

i loved hearing the troopers doing their dumb small talk about the T-15s on the beach.

i think ben mendelssohn is perfect for the role of krennic, no notes there. he’s just like?? a guy and he’s doing everything he can to fit into this evil role and he just wants to be like this big bad imperial boy on campus. i don’t know. i don’t have the words right now to express how fuckin awesome he is. i’ll write an essay about it later.

THE AT-AT COMING OUT OF THE MIST?? CHRIST ON A BIKE. LAY ME TO REST. LOVE IT.

fucking love me some female fighter pilots. the women of star wars are so badass. doing justice to my return of the jedi ladies.

i think a whole lot about jyn giving K2 a blaster. the way he takes it and looks at it and holds it so gently. i think that’s the first time a human has trusted him with a blaster since his reprogramming. he seems so appreciative of that trust.

i love seeing the faces of baze and the other rebels when a few of the x-wings show up and take down an at-at. i’m so very soft for the relationship between these rebels. not to be cliche, but the *hope* that they have. it’s so moving. this movie is just so full of that quintessential rebel feeling.

hey so i’m super emotional about the death of K2 okay? because in the novelizations you learn that in the last second k2 had before a full shut down, he ran a simulation where cassian lived and even though he knew it was impossible, it made him happy. FURTHERMORE K2 is very well known and his name is often listed along side jyn’s in terms of talking about the history of the rebellion.

chirrut and baze’s deaths are so important to me. we know they’re best friends, and even though we don’t know how long they’ve been together, they love each other so deeply. chirrut being the path for baze to return to the force? touching. i so wish these dumb force husbands could have had more screen time. baze calling chirrut back?? chirrut telling him to find him in the force?? baze looking to see the man he loves one more time before he dies??reminds me of the silken quote about dying in your best friends arms because it’s all you know. anywho,,, if star wars canon has any mercy then these two lovers are force ghosts together rn. don’t care how you feel or whether you "ship" them or not. love comes in so many forms and they encompass all that love.

terribly sorry but i think about those two star destroyers colliding with the rogue one main theme playing over it every day. it’s,,,,, so,,,, ( ´∀｀)

i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again BEN MENDELSSOHN??? UH YEAH

krennic watching his weapon (his beautiful, successful weapon) power up and kill him,,, the poetic justice of it all,,,,

any time anyone says "may the force be with you" i dunno maybe it’s my religious trauma but i’m head over heels for that good shit

the star destroyer coming out of hyper space as the rebels are escaping and some of the ships hit the destroyer?? one of my favorite things in the new star wars movies is directors and writers saying "oh this can totally happen" and they DO IT

jyn mentioning earlier in the film that she isn’t used to people sticking around when shit hits the fan and then dying in the arms of cassian?? because he stayed?? and for the first time she has someone??

in that same vein: cassian also says earlier in the film that he lost everything too. his connection with jyn is also important to him, just as important as it is to jyn. they need each other. i can’t remember who on this hellsite said it, but someone mentioned that they hope the stand alone cassian stuff coming out doesn’t make him this swindling playboy who fucks around a bunch. i think having him as more of like?? a mandolorian type character would be really cool. like he’s a rebel assassin: make him one. make him independent and badass and cool and DONT give him a bunch of romantic or sexual interests because then that downplays the clear love he had developing for jyn. again LOVE COMES IN FORMS BEYOND BASIC SHIPS. and there’s a lot of love in star wars.

i’ve said it a million times but vader is so cool and over and over again this movie reminded me that he’s actually so scary. i saw star wars for the first time when i was 6 and i can’t remember my initial reaction to him, but i’ve definitely (like with the death star) been desensitized to the fact that if i was in star wars, darth vader would scare the shit out of me. he’s *scary* and that’s cool. i liked seeing vader effortlessly go fucking mad on these rebels. then you understand why they were so scared in that first scene of a new hope.

no i absolutely will not get over the vader scene. i won’t. his saber turning on. his force abilities. his effortless lightsaber work. the choral music over the scene with the hectic orchestra. don’t touch me i’m emotional.

i loved seeing leia. it touches me so deeply every time.

fuck i love this movie despite all its faults.

if you’ve made it this far, thank you!! i hope you enjoyed. please remember that this is totally a safe space for all star wars opinions and you can feel free to disagree with me! i’d love to hear what some of you thought :))

[ninbinary]

3 off-brand noirs from Republic Pictures; two cries, one insomnia

I was...disappointed to find that I only have like, 5 Noirs that I haven't already talked about / hinted at, and one of them is a Bogart (thus not super-suitable for the "mention some off-brand noir"-s thing I wanted to do -- but yeah, "To Have And Have Not" -- if you want more Noir that reminds you of "Cassablanca", but want some not-everyone-knows-the-plot and more grit)

And then I wanted to do a Good Job about talking about them, but that translated to Not Doing It.

So here ya go, my half-assed writeup of some Off Brand Noirs I saw a long time ago, the Republic Pictures studio series:

Cry Danger (1950): Dick Powell is a bookie who gets out of jail part-way through his sentence for a huge holdup/murder he didn't commit, when someone randomly alibies him out. He then starts wandering around town, hitting up the gangsters he knows, to find out where the money from the holdup went. Bits of it remind me of "Blue Dhalia", some good "rattling all the interested parties, see what shakes loose"

Cry Vengeance (1954): Ok, now we're getting bleak: a scarred Mark Stevens, after serving a long sentence for a crime he didn't commit, after a car bomb blew up his wife and child (writing this down it sounds stupid -- but I think it was something like, the bad guys spun it like the bomb attempt was cuz he was mobbed up), tracks the mob boss behind it all to Alaska, where he's now in hiding (oh also the mob boss also has a young child). As you can imagine, this is less fun than "Cry Danger". Will Mark go over the edge and take revenge? Will Mark get gunned down by the mob boss's Bleach-Blond Psycho Henchman (that's a good minor noir character archetype, which is also seen in "D.O.A."... actually, if you haven't seen the original "D.O.A.", forget all these movies and just see that, it's fucking phenomenal; "Can't take it in the belly! Yeah, he can't take it there")

City that Never Sleeps (1953): HOLY FUCKING SHIT THIS IS BLEAK. I mean I could probably just wrap it up there, but I guess I should go on: it follows a very eventful night shift in the life of a Chicago cop, Gig Young, who wants to take a corrupt pay-out of some kind and ditch town/his job/his wife with a beautiful dance hall girl. She has a colleague at the dance hall who's also in love with her, a sad-sack whose main act is being the heavily-made-up Juggling Clown in the shady nightclub's display window ("is it a robot or a man? It juggles like clockwork so you can't tell!"). A mix-up pretty early on has Gig's mere corrupt intent leading to someone close to him being killed, so whatever he decides to do, he's knee-deep in it already -- after lots of shit-luck / shit-timing and some of the bleakest X-leads-to-Y's in the biz, this movie has a Really weird card to play near the end. (Important note: this is set in Chicago, I guess "The City that Never Sleeps" was a phrase less stapled to NYC back in the day). I wouldn't say this is a good noir, but has some memorable "holy shit, really?" moments.

[agentnico]

WandaVision (2021) Review

I’m sorry but someone needs to address the elephant in the room - if Wanda and Vision are in a relationship, does that mean Vision - a robot - has a penis? Look, I cannot be the only one thinking this, right? Right??

Plot: Living idealized suburban lives, super-powered beings Wanda and Vision begin to suspect that everything is not as it seems.

So Marvel’s first Disney+ series has reached its finale, and I’m certain many fans will be left disappointed due to all the outlandish rumours and theories that the fanbase are known to come up with not coming to fruition, but I personally admire this show for sticking true to its guns by being something that is very different compared to anything that Marvel has done before. Well, mostly. When its different, its hugely different, however when it gets to the usual MCU antics its pretty generic Marvel.

At the beginning the show left a lot of audiences scratching their heads as to what was going, as in the first few episodes especially there isn’t much of a plot per se, and instead we are taken through the various stages of American TV sitcoms, starting with the black and white old-school The Dick Van Dyke Show styled format, with the first episode going as far as being filmed in front of a live audience just like they would’ve back in those olden days.....at least that’s what history tells us happened back in those days, honestly take that with a grain of salt as I wasn’t even alive back in the 60s so for all I know history is a massive conspiracy and all of this is a massive pile of tosh! But setting deceitful plot schemes, supposedly everyone back in the 60′s were black and white and there was no colour in the world... okay, I’m kidding, I’m not that stupid, but I digress. As I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself, we are taken through various phases of American tele-sitcoms and eventually entering into the usual MCU territory. What works at the beginning of the series is the way it pays homage to those sitcoms back in the day, and I’m certain there was a lot fun has on set by the production designers recreating visual look of those old shows and also with the actors biting into every opportunity of playing up to acting style that was used back then, with the winks to the camera and the purposeful pauses as they wait for the laugh track to die down, or there’s an episode akin to Modern Family and The Office where our stars act as if they’re in a mockumentary and even answer questions to the camera to great comedic effect. 

In between this sitcom format we constantly get little clues and teases towards what may actually be going, and there is this sense of constant mystery that really motivates you to get excited for the next episode (as Disney+ releases their shows one episode per week) and as such WandaVision turned out the be very exciting simply from trying to come up with the most out-there theories of what’s to come. And it seems like the showrunners were fully aware of this by playing up to the fanbase by ending episodes on massive cliff-hangers (people who have seen this series can now easily agree with me that “Please Stand By” is an even bigger Marvel villain than Thanos!) as well as featuring certain surprises and appearances that suggest much bigger plans for the Marvel Cinematic Universe as a whole, so to be fair this show really felt good simply from the anticipation factor and the discussion that it built among audiences. Naturally with huge anticipation it’s difficult to then fulfil that promise, and as such to the second half of the series where the show goes full Marvel on us, we do kind of get stuck in more mediocre territory, with the final episode especially serving some disappointment by ending with the typical generic Marvel superhero battle we’ve all come to expect at this point. In other words, WandaVision comes off a tad anti-climactic at the end, but its the journey that makes it worthwhile.

Typically to most Marvel projects, you can expect the cast to be great, and here in WandaVision that’s the same case. Elizabeth Olsen and Paul Bettany are both stellar as Wanda and Vision, and first and foremost this show is about their romance and their love, and gosh aren’t them two just the biggest lovebirds! So adorable with only me and my girlfriend offering competition as the more gushier and sickly cheesy couple! Hey, we’re cheesy and proud, that’s all I’m saying!!! Anyway, the show is mainly about Olsen and her character’s grief and evolution, and Olsen proves her chops as a leading lady and I’m really looking forward to seeing what she’ll get up to in the Doctor Strange sequel. Bettany is both innocent yet smooth as her robotic boyfriend, and basically proves that if you want to get with one of the Olsen sisters, you have to accept every single chip that Bill Gates sends you to have a shot. We also see the return of a couple other MCU side characters, with Kat Dennings and Randall Park returning as Darcy and Jimmy Woo and to be honest WandaVision gives these characters proper justice. Kat Dennings in the Thor films always came off more annoying rather than funny, yet here on the show her character is both useful and her humour is sarcastic yet funny. And Jimmy Woo in the Ant-Man & the Wasp was stuck in the stereotype of the goofy FBI agent who is stupid and oblivious to everything, however here you can tell his character has become more wiser and better at his job, yet still with the wit and charm that Randall Park usually provides (and he’s the learnt the card trick from Ant-Man!!). We also have Teyonah Parris appearing as grown up Monica Rambeau who we saw as a young girl in Captain Marvel, and Parris is quite pleasant and does well with what she has, but I’m hoping she gets to have more interesting material to work with in the future Marvel projects she appears in. Then there is Kathryn Hahn as the mysterious nosy neighbour character, and though I don’t want to spoil anything about her role, I’ll say that Hahn gets to overact her face off and also gets a fun musical at one point that is annoyingly catchy!

WandaVision is a great sign showing Marvel attempting to branch out and go to new and different places, however with its ending it still proves that they need to learn how to break away from the repetitive formula they have gotten themselves stuck in. All we need is Deadpool proclaiming “Big CGI fight coming up!”

Overall score: 7/10

[chelsfic]

Donald PiercexTracker! thots... Donnie shows some young upstart contract merc why his Reavers get it done when the dude fucks up trying to cuff some recent capture who gets loose and almost kills one of his guys. Tracker! watches from the truck, super scared and turned on, when all is said and done she watches Donald drive then begs him to please let her suck him off before he has to put her back. So he let's her try and choke herself on his cock standing in the garage and she says thank you

Hoooooooo boyyyyyyyyy!!! You’ve awoken a deep fire within me, anon. I must know you, surely? You must be one of only a handful of Donnie lovers among my followers. 

Anywhooooooo, here’s my response to this very compelling concept!

Warnings: blow job, praise kink, punishment, dirty talk, stockholm syndrome, dom/sub

Worship

“Wait,” the word falls unbidden from your lips, piercing the silence of the empty parking garage. 

Donnie pauses securing the manacles to your wrists. He lets out a weary sigh. He’s exhausted, sweaty and there’s a still-bleeding cut at his hairline that will probably need stitches.

“Not in the mood for this today, baby,” he grumbles, locking your wrists together and giving a tug to get you moving. You let your heels dig into the concrete and he turns on you with a lethal glare. “Are you fuckin’ serious? You wanna be manhandled, is that it?”

He crowds you against the side of the tactical van, his massive frame looming over you. You can practically feel the aggravation beating down on you with the intensity of his blue-eyed stare. But rather than cringe from him you’re drawn in by the sharp scent of his masculine sweat, the obscene streak of blood across his face, his heaving chest and muscles trembling with leftover adrenaline. 

Earlier, when that mutant had freed himself and nearly killed one of Donnie’s new recruits, you’d quaked in fear from behind the bars of your little cage. You watched with your heart in your throat as your man took down a mutant twice his size, throttling him with his cybernetic hand. The thought of that hand, capable of such vicious cruelties, wrapped around your throat...cupping your face...tracing over your skin...it had done things to you. You spent the drive back to base clenching your thighs together in a feeble attempt to quell the aching heat pooling in your pelvis.

The idea of going back to that little cell without touching Donald is unacceptable. All you want is to feel the power of his body bearing down on you, inside you, taking and controlling every part of you. You don’t know how or when things changed. When had you grown so addicted to Donnie’s approval? When had you begun to crave his touch, his voice, his body, like a desperate whore? When had you started thinking of him as a beloved master--a demi-god deserving of your worship? All you want to do right now is fall on your knees and offer yourself to him in sacrifice to the raging, passionate violence of his soul.

But how can you put all that into words?

“Donnie,” you whine, letting your head fall forward against the hard plane of his chest. “Please.”

“What is it, Darlin’?” he questions, his voice pitched low as he senses the desperate arousal driving you. “What d’you need?”

But you can’t say the words. You decide to show him instead, going down on your knees in front of him and nuzzling your face wantonly into the crotch of his denim pants. You look up to see a knowing smirk spread over his lips. He drags his hand through his sweat dampened hair and looks back at you with appraisal. What does he see? A mewling, desperate supplicant on her knees before her god.

“So, that’s what you want, baby?” he teases, his eyes clouding over with lust at the sight of you mouthing his growing erection through the fabric of his pants. “You think you can throw a tantrum to get what you want? Think you can act like a spoiled little brat and get rewarded with my dick?”

“ ‘M sorry, Donnie,” you mumble, lost in the haze of your desire and not caring how pitiful a picture you must make, kneeling on the dirty ground and practically drooling on his crotch. “Please, let me suck it, Donnie. Please, I’ll be a good girl.”

You reach your bound hands up to his waist, intending to undo his belt buckle but quicker than you can imagine his robotic hand grabs the manacles and shoves your hands away. 

“No hands,” he warns you, his gravelly voice goes straight through you and your cunt feels heavy with arousal. You nod your head rapidly, watching as he slowly undoes the belt, opens the top button of his pants and unzips his fly with an obscene sound that seems to echo through the silent garage. What if someone sees you? You’re not exactly hidden. Anyone could walk through and see you squirming on your knees begging your handler to shove his cock in your mouth. Would you even care at this point?

He finally pulls it out, letting his thick, heavy shaft smack against your cheek as he frees himself. He rubs it across your face, letting the bead of precum paint your lips. 

“This is what you wanted, baby? Were you thinkin’ of this all day? Hoping I’d let you suck me off if you were a good enough little mutie for the team today?” 

“Yes! Donnie I think about it all the time…,” you whine, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against the straining erection. Donnie reaches down with his robotic hand and pushes you away, holding you in place as he teases your desperate lips with the head of his dick.

“Good girl,” he praises and the warmth of his words flows through you. “But you weren’t as efficient as you could have been today, baby. The team was tired by the time we finally tracked that fucker down. When the team’s tired, mistakes get made. Sometimes mistakes cost lives. So, I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson, baby. Gonna have to fuck that pretty mouth and make you choke on it. Is that what you want?”

Holy shit. You’re still straining against his hold on your head, but you look up to lock eyes with him and nod your consent. God, you want this. You want to let this man take you apart and put you back together again. 

“Open your mouth,” he instructs, his voice rumbling down into a breathy whisper. 

He presses the head of his cock past your lips and you moan at the weight of him on your tongue, drool already spilling from the corners of your mouth. He isn’t gentle or slow. Not this time. He’s burnt out and exhausted and barely managing to stay up on his feet. He doesn’t have it in him to be nice. His hands cup the back of your head and he pushes and pushes until you feel him hit the back of your throat and your nose is buried in the nest of curls at the base of his cock. Your throat immediately rebels against the invasion, choking on the impossible length of him. His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Shhh shh shh,” he tuts, jutting his hips against your face to punish your throat even more. “I want you to breathe, baby. Through your nose. There you go, my good girl.”

Saliva is pouring from your stretched lips and tears prick at your eyes but you try to do as he says. Taking long, shaky inhales through your nostrils as he starts to pulse his hips, ruthlessly thrusting his huge cock into your mouth.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? What all mutants want. To serve their betters. I knew it the first time I saw you, baby. Hidin’ in that warehouse like a scared bunny rabbit. I knew you’d come ‘round to seein’ where you belong. On your knees...my little pet...mutie...Jesus fuck!” His words are absolutely filthy and downright degrading, but you don’t care. You fist your bound hands into the fabric of his pants and frantically clench your thighs against the wetness between your legs. Donnie likes to talk like this when he has you in bed--or...out of bed--but when it comes down to it, he’s the only person in this place who makes you feel like more than “mutie.”

He dissolves into incoherent moans and keening cries as his pace turns ragged and chaotic. When he comes his cock is so far down your throat you have no choice but to swallow his semen. He pulls out, panting and quivering with the power of the orgasm, and falls to his knees beside you. His arms go around you, wrapping you up in his strong embrace.

He lays his cheek against the crown of your head and shuts his eyes, catching his breath. You nuzzle your face into his chest once more, tucking your bound hands between your bodies and sighing with contentment.

“Thank you,” the words are a prayer, an offering to this man who holds your whole life, your whole soul in his killer’s hands. He hums in acknowledgement, flexing his arms around you to communicate all the things he’ll never say.

Too soon he’s getting to his feet and pulling you up with him. You’re mentally bracing for the return to the stark prison cell when he tugs you across the parking garage towards his own sleek sports car. 

“C’mon baby,” he says, tucking you under his arm like you’re a couple out on a date instead of a prisoner and her jailer. “I’m takin’ you home tonight.”

Tags:

@nothing-but-a-comedy @ionlyjoinedforboydholbrook @theplumsoldier @meri47 @lackofhonor @sabinemorans

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

25. Not Fine, But Better

Previous

Word Count: 6239

Simon went to his father’s to recover. He was on an official break from school (hopefully, no longer than a year), and because of the nature of his injuries, was forced to move back home temporarily. His former employer was reluctant about giving him another position, though they worked out a few things for him to be involved in a freelance capacity, that way they were hiring him for certain projects, but not keeping him on their regular payroll. He planned to enroll in some online studies in the fall, and in the meantime, focused mainly on his ongoing project - the virtual reality social media.

A few things happened. Aside from regular visits to the doctor, because he was doing too much and reopened stitches, or for the extensive treatment that some of his more severe wounds were going to take, not to mention the healing of his spleen, which he was supposed to be taking extra care not to upset, but he was just so restless in bed and so anxious at the house, he kept getting up. The first night, he was content to lay down, primarily due to physical pain and exhaustion. 

The trauma doctor had suggested not getting on a plane, which meant that Mr. Laurent would have to stay at Simon’s and take care of him… which meant to Simon that his father would be in his personal space, contaminating it and his thoughts of it AND, he would know where he lived. He absolutely rejected that notion and said that he would hire someone for in-home health… Then he thought about the upcoming legal fees of his fights, potential jail time, even, the way that he abandoned his job, and he decided that maybe he would just go back to the Bay with his dad, against the doctor’s suggestion, because that seemed to be the least agonizing solution for him.

Of course, he re-injured himself, and spent all day in an ER, to receive word that his treatment would take longer and was ordered to bed rest for the spleen healing. He laid down in his old bed, as uncomfortable as it was and fell to sleep almost immediately. Outside of the hospital, where the medication and immediate professional help were, his nightmares became blatantly strong. He kept dreaming of laying in a pool of his own blood, on the cold ground, looking at a manhole, ready to die… and then the Void came out of it, about to swallow him whole and everything went black. He jumped up and immediately held himself. Maybe he needed to be strapped to the bed, as to not hurt more. He took a deep breath and reached for the cane that he would need to walk for a bit… and there was a white cat, resting on his old desk.

“Samantha?” He looked around the room, wondering if this was another dream, about his teenage years or something. But, he came closer and touched the cat and she pleasantly allowed it. It abandoned the cane to pick up the animal and nuzzled her. “Is it really you or did that jackass go find another white cat?” He snuggled her and limped out of the room to go get some water. He froze whenever he got into the kitchen and both of his parents were sitting at the little table. 

“Simon!” His mother said. She looked… different than he remembered. She looked younger, somehow, but extremely tired. She came over and tried to take Samantha from him, “Sorry. She must’ve snuck…” He jerked away and almost lost his footing. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Your dad said that you were here, so I stopped by and brought Samantha.”

He glared at her, “You’ve had Samantha this entire time?”

She chuckled and shrugged, “She’s MY cat, Simon. Whenever I was a little better, I stopped by and picked her up one day.”

“And you didn’t think to let me know? Leave a note? Nothing?? I thought she was dead!”

“You seem to be more upset about losing a cat than you’ve ever been about losing one of your family members,” she said. There she was. He knew that tone. He knew those eyes. She hadn’t changed. She was just better at seeming normal. 

“Don’t,” his father warned her.

Simon kept Samantha in his clutches as he went to pour himself some water. “When are you leaving?” 

The woman sat back down and looked at Mr. Laurent. “Your father thinks that you need us here. That us not being there for you is how you got to be this way.”

“What way is that, Faith?” he asked.

“Don’t,” his father warned the woman whose anger appeared to be rising, again.

“A little shit,” she hissed, despite the warning.

“Goddammit, Faith!” his father said. Simon snickered, wickedly. “Can’t you see that he’s just a hurt kid, acting out?” Now, Simon frowned. 

He wanted to storm over and punch his father in the face. He’d done so before, whenever he was a teenager and his father was drunk and complaining about his stupid memorial or whatever. But, Simon was in too much pain to even walk straight, much less, fight. He started angry crying and muttered, “Fuck both of you,” before taking Samantha back into his room, shutting the door (which hurt his side to do) and climbing back into bed with her nestled against himself. “I can’t believe that bitch took you away from me.” 

His mother was gone back to her mom’s by the time he got up again. He panicked whenever Samantha wasn’t there and rushed out of his room, clutching himself and neglecting the cane again to question his father about her whereabouts. Then, he heard her meow, excitedly, like she had something to tell him. Many things to tell him! He collected her and brought her back to his room. He kept her in there with him, scared that if she went outside, his mother might steal her again, even though his father assured him that it wouldn’t happen. “I won’t let her,” he had said. When the hell had he ever stopped her from doing anything?

He called “Dick for Brains” and asked if it was possible for him to use video conferencing to schedule an appointment. Dr. Richard was more than willing to accommodate this and seemed genuinely pleased that Simon had decided to try to resume therapy. 

However, in their first session back, Simon babbled on about this idea that he had for work. Of course, the therapist was going to let him speak about what he wanted to. It was a huge thing for Simon to even seek out help without being forced, and he was uncharacteristically excited about something. “A VR that serves as experimental experience based therapy. The premise is that you would be able to take these pick your adventure journeys, but each of the decisions would have either rewards or consequences and every choice that you make would take you down certain paths, giving you certain training to deal with your problems and conditioning your decision making, even one day could grant you diagnosis based upon your choices and solutions to said diagnosis…”

“So… you want to replace actual therapy with a virtual reality video game?”

“NO! You do the therapy to help you get better at the game. It’s like… it goes with it… unless you’re not so bad off that you NEED therapy, and then it’s just a tool in character education…”

“Okay. That sounds interesting. How is that coming along for you?”

“Ugh. It’s shit. You know… I don’t have the best gauge for reasonable decisions. So, I’m trying to program a lot of things, but I’m depending on various algorithms, and the things that I need to be more specific about, well - I’ve been reading a lot of psychology stuff to sort of help me out. Also, Grace had SO MANY resources available in her featured links on her website…” Simon’s eyes glossed over whenever he started talking about Grace.

“How is your relationship with Grace, Simon?”

He gave a sad smile and shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t have a relationship with Grace. She gave me another chance at life and I told everyone about all the messed up stuff I did to her. We haven’t spoken or seen each other in the weeks that I’ve been out of the hospital.”

“I read about that. It was really big of both of you to make the decisions that you made…”

“This isn’t about Grace,” Simon said. He began typing on one of his other laptops. “I’m not going to do that this time, Dr. Richard. I’m trying to think about treatment, but in a way that appeals to people more like me. I’m not one to sit in a room and talk about my feelings. You know how much I hate that. I AM one to sit in MY room, for hours, playing the same computer video game for weeks. As a kid, I used to create these figures. I have a ton of them at home. More recently, I’ve done robots…” Simon sounded all over the place, but Dr. Richard didn’t interrupt him. “In most games, there is a specific goal, and people tend to think… This isn’t anything that I’m used to, but the principle is fine. I want people to be able to feel like they are walking into their own worlds, and that their adventures are things that they can navigate to practice existing in the world. To get things out of their system that they should never do here, or to give them options that their minds might not automatically compose! You’re a therapist… do you think this sounds stupid or crazy or… just impossible?”

“It sounds like you’re enjoying your work and exploring more empathetic aspects of your talents. This project could be extremely good for you.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. But… do you think it would work? Do you think it would help somebody?”

“Are you making this to help other people or to get better at helping yourself?”

“DO YOU THINK IT WOULD DO EITHER?”

“There’s not enough information for me to know if it will help other people, but I think it’s already helping you and that’s the most important thing that you need to focus on. Getting better, yourself.” That was all that Simon needed to become completely obsessed with his project.

So, what happened was that he began to work on it a lot and neglect certain things he needed to do during his recovery. His father had to remind him and sometimes try to physically force him to let him check his healing, cleaning wounds, and getting ready to go have bloodwork done, etc. He was extremely irritable whenever Mr. Laurent would interrupt his work. Whenever it was more pressing medical concerns, Simon got a call from Grace.

“Hey,” she’d say casually. He’d smile immediately when he heard her voice, then frown, because he knew it meant that his dad had bothered her.

“Grace… I don’t know WHAT he’s said this time, but you need to stop doing this. How does he manage to even get to call you anyway?”

“Hazel gave him her phone number for emergencies. That is now the backup phone. Had to get her another. She’s too damn friendly, but I’ll never discourage her. She’s gotta be herself, you know. Listen. So… I’m told that you need to have an angiography. I looked it up and sounds like you gotta do this thing, and yet… Your dad can’t get you to stop playing video games?”

“No! That’s not what’s happening at all! I’m working and he just barges in! Doesn’t even knock. He’s obnoxious.”

“Orrr… you’re tired of being on somebody else’s timetable, and that’s understandable, but whenever I was in the institution, I was constantly on a formatted schedule that I had no control over. It was one of the downsides of getting myself in there. One of your downsides of starting fights that get you stabbed is doing whatever you’ve gotta do when you’ve gotta do it to get better. I’m gonna be pissed if your dad calls Hazel again because you’re acting like a child.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you. Have a good day.”

That was the last time he was cantankerous with his dad about appointments. He just had to suck it up and go when it was time. He had to listen, because he knew Mr. Laurent wouldn’t hesitate to bother Grace, as unfair as that was. Simon was furious that his dad did this. He called it harassment. Mr. Laurent didn’t seem to mind, even when Simon yelled aggressively about how Grace was always the person picking up his pieces when they were kids and he’s coming to a better understanding of how unfair that was to both of them, plus he has Samantha back and he is guilty about imposing on Grace. He sent her a message asking her to promise not to come running again for his father calling but agrees for her sake that if a real emergency comes up that she’s welcome to check in on him. She never replied, so he didn’t know if it was sent and he didn’t want to keep bothering her in her inbox. So, the months passed and he did what his father needed him to do to get better. Whenever he was able, he travelled back home, taking Samantha with him.

He was working full time and enrolled back in school part time, at a less prestigious college, but one that was comfortable for him, at this point. He still got up to MIT to see Professor Hughes and talk engineering with her. She was impressed by how well he seemed to be doing, but she would never tell him that. And he never missed an appointment with his therapist, or his physician. For the most part, he recovered. There was a little lasting damage that he would have to deal with, such as multiple surgeries to correct various problems connected to disrupting the body’s normal with multiple stab wounds, but it was manageable and he was… feeling okay. Whenever he wasn’t, he had better ways of coping than before, most of the time. Every now and then, he’d definitely lose it and break things and rage… but… it wasn’t as frequent as it used to be, so he at least felt good about that much.

Plus, he got to see Grace be SO happy with Hazel online and he wasn’t blocked from everything, so anytime anyone tried to give her trouble about him, he was able to step in and take whatever blows that they tried to throw her way. That was another thing… He had been diligently sticking to the truth about her, no matter what people asked or how guilty, ashamed, weak, cowardly, or whatever else these things made him feel. He went onto shows and conducted interviews and made videos to counter any negative feedback that Grace had ever done anything wrong. “Besides being a neglected kid with some issues related to that, Grace was a really good friend and I was a bad friend to her. Turned out my neglect issues were much deeper and I made her suffer for that, but she shouldn’t have to anymore.” 

.

Grace woke up with the sun most mornings. After she and Hazel returned to New York, it occurred to her that they had barely started living there before their little adventure in Mass. SO, they immediately made certain to try to start setting their routines and building their home style. Hazel’s room was the fanciest room she had ever had, excluding the chambers at the Monroe Estate. Grace let her have her own TV in her room, with a system that she had access to most of the apps, several games, and her favorite movies and shows. There was a housewarming plant that Grace’s friend had bought for Hazel whenever she moved in (and had to come over to look after whenever they were out), and that was in Hazel’s room, right by the window, for its sunshine. 

Hazel had gotten to the point where she was no longer sure if she wanted to hold on to having a leaf in her hair, so Grace bought her some cute hair accessories that looked like leaves - hair clips, headbands and stuff… and if Hazel ever wanted to stop, she had options, to sort of keep with her tradition that was sort of a large part of the identity she had carved out for herself. Now, though, she had a changing identity. 

She was Grace’s daughter and she didn’t know if keeping a leaf meant that she was holding on to a parent or parents that abandoned her when she had one who had fought to call her her own right in front of her. The last thing she wanted to do was possibly hurt Grace’s feelings, and she knew that Grace probably wouldn’t tell her if she did. She would just smile and make her feel good and meditate later or something. Hazel kept the hair leaf, for now. 

The room had bookshelves with Hazel’s favorite books, toys, and keepsakes, her jewelry rack and a very large quartz crystal sphere that Grace bought her “for good energy” whenever she was at her last home. It sat on a little sphere holder and Hazel generally set her singing Tuba right near it, whenever she wasn’t carrying it with her or sleeping with it. There was a framed photo of the Monroe trio - her, Grace and GlamMother, on her wall, as well as a mirror with her name on a plaque against its expensive wood. All of the furniture was well made and personalized in some way. 

For instance, her dresser had a cartoon stylized version of her smiling face on the sides and her name in lights across the top of the vanity. The colors of the room were hazel, ivory and green, and her headboard had a turtle magnificently carved into it. Grace got her the same type of products that she purchased herself. She still used the same natural beauty brands that she swore by as an influencer (and recently was reconnected with many of them) including a rebirth campaign for her own line of products. It really was like rebirth, but this time, she was living on her own conditions. She also was building for her daughter, as well, but in a different way than what her mother did. She would always ask Hazel her opinion of things, what she wanted to do, if she liked or approved of certain things that she wanted to do for her. The emblem on Grace’s products would be from a drawing that Hazel did of Grace as a tree, sitting in a lotus position, her hair as the leaves and Hazel falling from the tree into her outstretched arms. It was a pretty good drawing for a 10 year old, and Grace wanted it to stay just as it was for their emblem. 

Grace made meal prep for if Hazel had turtle days. Half the time, Grace wound up throwing the greens into a smoothie, because Hazel was fine for the most part. But, she would keep up this practice of being prepared for a long time. 

She generally saw Hazel off to school herself, instead of putting her into a car with a driver or getting her to learn public transportation like she often saw kids doing while she was out and about in the city for her first few years. She wanted Hazel to be as protected and seen as she could without being that over sheltering type of mom that she sometimes felt like she was probably being. But, Hazel liked the attention. It was nice to have somebody always having her back and ensuring her safety. It was nice always having someone waiting for you when you step out into the world, to guide you back home. 

They’d had most of the summer to settle in and the new school year was Hazel’s favorite EVER. She was finally going to be somewhere that she was getting herself to believe wouldn’t be temporary… she might actually make friends! She met a couple of people that were really cool the first week - Lucy and Lindsay. They knew each other from before, but Lindsay had recognized her from the internet and invited her to sit with them at lunch. Lucy wasn’t allowed to get onto the internet, but Hazel noticed that she had a Tuba watch and they admitted that they both still watched/loved The Mighty Tuba and Her Musical Friends. Lindsay made fun of both of them, but it was in that way where Hazel could tell that she still liked them and was gonna be their friend. Hazel LOVED it and asked if she could invite them over soon for a tea party.

Of course she could. Grace rarely told Hazel no. If it was doable, safe, and harmed nobody, she didn’t see any reason to refuse her things that she was interested in. Plus, Mrs. Monroe had bought a very expensive tea party set for the girl that Grace had to get assembled on the balcony, because she had no idea where to put it in her place… which meant that the balcony basically belonged to Hazel’s tea set. Getting that woman to understand that her space in New York is nothing like the space that they had in California was almost impossible. Her mother couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t just seek out a bigger place. Like… just because I have my own money, I have to like… spend it like that?

But, Hazel began having her tea parties the second week of school. Mrs. Monroe wanted them to come to visit the weekend of the 23rd of August. “Mom. We’ve only been gone a couple of months. I told you that Hazel and I aren’t going to be coming back and forth like this.”

“I’m thinking if you catch a flight in the evening on Wednesday, Hazel won’t have to miss school that day. But, you definitely need to be here by Thursday evening’s dinner.” 

“Ugh. Mom.”

“Grace, this is important.”

She sighed. “Fine. But you aren’t seeing us again before Christmas break. Hazel has limited days off and I have things planned for my 23rd.”

“Yes, well… Julia or Gabriel, or whatever the hell this assistant’s name is will send you the list of things you need to pack.”

“Why would I need to pack things?”

“We’re going to take you to Belize, since you won’t be here for your birthday.”

“Ugh… I wish I could argue with a free trip to Belize… okay, fine. Tell ADRIENNE to send me the information.”

“Adrienne? That doesn’t sound right… oh, really? Huh. She says that is indeed her name. Well, she’s sending it. We’ll see you soon.”

Grace hung up and stretched, sputtered air through her lips and peeked out at the girls at their tea parties, with their hats and some of Grace’s good tea. “Hey, Haze… GlamMother wants to see us next week, so I’ll be packing our stuff and I’ll email the school to get your work for Thursday and Friday in advance so we can turn it in on Wednesday.”

“Yes, Mother,” Hazel said in her tea party voice. “Will we be seeing Mr. Laurent and his Sad Sorry Son Simon when we go to California?”

“I’m not planning on it. Just giving you a heads up.” The three girls raised their teacups to Grace and she smiled and went back inside to pack. Simon was back in Cambridge, as far as she knew. She had seen him around online, but never hovered, so she couldn’t be sure. But… that week was the week of his birthday. She wondered if her mother had remembered that information, or if her body was simply falling back on old habits of the season by wanting to do something around this time of year. It was a very random time to Grace for them to just want to go to Belize… though, usually Simon’s birthday was paired up with hers. The significance of his actual birth date would only matter to Grace, not her parents, as the things that they did typically occurred AFTER August 22nd. Grace shook her head and opened the email of things to pack, so that she could prepare early.

.

The Monroes had some guests, Grace could tell. Not a lot, so she wondered if this was like some politician’s immediate family or what, and she resigned herself to the thought that if for one little second her mom even tried to give her hell about taking a flight today, instead of last night (to come in all late in the night and throw off hers AND Hazel’s sleep schedule), she would take her ass right on to her old bedroom and wait for the call to go to Belize. She didn’t play that mess with her mom anymore. Hazel ran to the door and tiptoed a little to use the knocker. There was a doorbell, but something about that fancy old knocker always intrigued her.

A butler opened the door and tried to take Grace’s bags, but she struggled with him, knowing that she could do it herself. “If you won’t let him, let me,” she heard a familiar voice say. Simon. She froze. He was standing. Obviously in good enough health. He was smiling, but it became worried when she stared at him. He put his hands up and she noted that he was in some type of… weird coat draped over his arms, instead of wearing it, that she could see the top of his apology tattoos, and that his parents were at the table with hers.

Her mother got up and rushed over, “Don’t be silly! It’s his job.” She collected Hazel into a tight hug and Grace still stood there, in the open door as Hazel rushed to the table, hand in hand with her grandmother, to pass hugs around. “Surprise!” Mrs. Monroe cheered. “It’s Simon’s birthday dinner… and a therapy idea thing…”

“Therapy told you to surprise me by bringing me here, with these people, under the guise of a free trip to Belize?” Grace asked, very much not okay with this.

“No. We’re having a sit down, between all of us, as adults, to settle everything once and for all. There’s cake!” 

Hazel cheered, “Yayyy! Cake!”

Mrs. Monroe sighed and folded her arms, “My God, Grace, we really ARE going to Belize. Just sit down and enjoy dinner.” Grace pouted her way over to the seat next to Hazel. Simon returned to the one next to that one. His parents were across the table from them, and Mr. and Mrs. Monroe were on the opposite ends.

“This is messed up,” Grace muttered.

“All of us are messed up,” Mr. Monroe said. “It took a while for us to realize it. We spoke a few times when Simon was in the hospital, and we thought that eventually, both of you needed apologies from us and attempts for us to do better. Now, Grace… you had some things to say to Mr. Laurent the last time you were together…”

“I said it all. Nice to finally meet you, though,” she said to Mrs. Laurent, and her tone indicated that it wasn’t nice to meet her at all. Simon reached out and rubbed Grace on the back. She smiled a little at him, then looked confused and wondered why they were acting like nothing had ever happened. Then again, they had “gotten over” what did happen, and she guessed she was kinda touch starved, because it was nice to get physical comfort from somebody that wasn’t Hazel, for a change.

“Simon had many things to say to his parents before you arrived, too. Now that we’re all here, really… say whatever is on all of your minds. Simon… you’ve been sulking for two hours, but whenever Grace walked in, you immediately brightened up.” Simon blushed as Mr. Monroe made this extremely embarrassing announcement. Hazel cackled about it and ate a mouthful of potatoes. 

Simon shook his head, “I’m not sure what you mean by saying this, Mr. Monroe.”

“Just that we never really discussed the night that you came back into our lives, wanting to see Grace and apologize… You didn’t actually apologize until a while later and… we’re all curious about the journeys it took to get from where you were to…”

“No, Dad.” Grace shook her head. “No. Simon and I used to be best friends. I loved him. There was nobody in the world more important to me. When we broke, I broke. You don’t get to just have reflection on what led us all here, to possible health and contentment. Just… No. Where is the cake? I’m having some on the terrace. You want in, Si?” His eyes widened and he got up to follow her. The butler was bringing out the cake, and she took the whole tray. “Momma’s got you, Haze,” she said without breaking her stride. She went outside and Simon smiled as she set the cake down. “Cut my baby a piece of cake. I’ll get her dish.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Grace rolled her eyes at everybody in the room, grabbed Hazel’s desert plate and the bottle of wine from the table. She went back out and Simon was ready with Hazel’s slice. Whenever Grace gave it to her, she said, “I’ll be right out there if you need me.” Grace was… tired. She had been on a long flight, and to be faced with the Laurents AND her parents? And to have them acting like this was just okay to spring on someone? “They’re still messing up, but I guess at least they’re trying,” she glanced around. “I didn’t get glasses.” She frowned.

“S’ok. I don’t drink.” 

She smiled and said, “Neither do I, but remember whenever we were 14 and we said that we’d have our first drink together?”

“Yeah. We said on your 21st birthday.” He smiled and she felt warm in his gaze. She set the bottle down. “At any rate, they don’t need any wine. They’re being weird enough.”

“RIGHT?” Grace and Simon laughed awkwardly. “To be honest, I think that they realized that the only way to get me here was to hide their intentions from me. I wouldn’t have showed up if they had told me that they wanted to have dinner with your family.”

“Funny… I wouldn’t have come if they hadn’t told me, “Grace will be here for your birthday,” Simon admitted and leaned on the balcony rail. “All I wanted was to see you again. It’s all I could think about all month.”

“You’ve known about this all month? My mom called me last week!” She leaned next to him, her back against the rail, so that she could keep an eye on Hazel. For a moment, she had a flashback of the last time that they were out here together. The pain stung, but there was a numbness there… like that part of her that hurt was more like a limb that fell to sleep. “Hazel is the same age as we were when we met. I’ve been so paranoid about her running into trouble because I’m not present enough…”

“Is that what you think us meeting was? You running into trouble?” Simon asked. He didn’t seem offended, like he might have normally been. Just… curious.

“Don’t you think so? For both of us…”

He frowned and looked out at the Monroe yard. “I think that the people who messed up the most are all surrounding your kid right now.” 

“She loves them, though. I want her to have a good relationship with them. Not just because I didn’t, but because they’re the only grandparents she has.”

“Yeah, well… at the moment, MY parents are there too…” Grace stood up and folded her arms, looking at Hazel. Her parents had arranged for her and Simon to have their first joint birthday celebration since they were 16, and even arranged a sit down with the Laurents about everything that went wrong… Simon was also thinking about how messed up this was, because he added to her thoughts, “I feel weird about our parents finally talking, when we ourselves have finally gotten to good places in our lives and development.”

“I think it’s… A good thing, but just for them. For me… I think that the best thing has been that I survived. I thought that I was gonna die after everything. Nothing felt real. My whole life was just staring into nothingness and crying. I really did become the void…”

“No. You were NEVER that!” Simon said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You always mattered. I was just too toxic to see that. The best thing for me has been that I realized how wrong I was…” Grace threw her arms around his neck and Simon relaxed in her arms and held her close. Every time was like the first time, but this was DIFFERENT different. This was the first hug that they had in some time and maybe even the first genuine one that they’ve had. Simon was caught up in his emotions, but quickly tried to keep them in check, “Wanna grab the kid and get outta here?” Simon asked, looking at her. They were still in the hug, but let some space in between their bodies.

Grace chuckled, “I mean… you know that my perfect birthday celebration is lowkey, with the closest people to me, some dogs and a walk around the creek. But, it’s not MY birthday.”

Simon turned and leaned back on the terrace this time, “If I had just done that with you for our 16th, things could have gone very differently.” 

“I think things would have eventually gone wrong anyway. We were both… beyond our own help. You seem fine now, though.”

“I’m not fine, but I’m better.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Grab the cake, I’ll grab the kid,” she said with a smile. Simon obeyed, as she went inside and he followed. “Haze, grab your bag. We’re headed out.

“Headed out?” Mrs. Monroe asked. “To where?”

“Simon and I are taking Hazel to our old stomping grounds.” Hazel jumped up excited. All four of the parents exchanged worried looks, which Grace ignored and put an arm around Hazel to guide her towards the door. “Hopefully… the rest of you will get whatever you need out of… this…”  They checked out early, giving their parents time to sort through their guilt.

The trio left the mansion, all three laughing and talking. Hazel about how she had heard so much about their adventures, though Simon was certain she only heard the sweet and not the… other stuff. He was just glad that Grace was willing to spend time with him again. It was the best birthday present he could’ve gotten. He didn’t deserve it, but he was going to be grateful.

Neither Simon or Grace had revisited much of their old places, so they wound up spending time well into the night taking Hazel to their childhood spots from when they were her age. Eventually she got so sleepy that she dozed off on the train and Simon had to carry her around. Grace told him that she could do it (she was pretty practiced in it and Hazel was a tall 10), with Simon still technically being in recovery for his injuries, but she guessed that his pride was still stubborn, because he insisted. 

They caught a cab back to the mansion, he put Hazel to bed, and Grace offered to walk him out. “Your parents have us in the guest house,” he said. 

“Excuse you?”

“We’re going to Belize… They didn’t tell you that EITHER?”

“What’re they trying to do? Get us back together??” She joked. 

He laughed, “Like you’d ever do that. You didn’t want me the first time.”

“That’s not true. I actually liked you way more than you liked me, because my feelings were selfless and pure.” He stared at his hands and nodded. She sat down in front of the front door and he sat next to her. “I wasn’t kidding whenever I’d say that I had the perfect relationship already, or whatever the hell I said that day. I can’t remember word for word, but I remember that all the words were true.”

“Yeah… If only I had been better.”

“Well… You said earlier that you’re better now.”

“Yeah…” He turned to look at her and she smiled and took his hand into hers. 

“We don’t have to talk about it. We can just live in it,” she said. That was always how she had been about them. No questions or comments about their feelings for each other, titles, etc. They were together and enjoying each other’s company again. The rest of the details were background noise. No things were not fine, and she didn’t know if things would ever be fine between them, considering the stuff that happened back then. But… things were better.

Next

[tfw-no-tennis]

mtmte liveblog issue 9

back at it again, and its time for the shadowplay arc, HELL yeah

oh I'm so excited i love this arc lets DO this

oooh its nightbeat and quark!! way before they become relevant, which is so cool

‘one of those recepticon fanatics’ lmao imagine if they were...the recepticons. just doesn't have the same ring to it 

god i fucking love all the politics of mtmte. i love how they’re talking about the senate here before we really get to See how bad they were (we heard a bit about it from whirl a few issues ago, and now here)

love how nightbeat is pretty much agreeing with the decepticon ideology here, even if its clear that he isn't Actually a decepticon - it just drives home the fact that, in this story, The Decepticons Were Right About A Lot Of That Stuff (or at least, they had a reason other than ‘destruction’ for rebelling). 

AND THEN THERES RUNG!!!!!!! WITH HIS MODEL OF THE LOST LIGHT....god i fuckgin LOVE the continuity in this story bc the first time reading this ur like oh ok rung is old yea makes sense...but then later all the time travel stuff happens and then its like OHHHHH 

damn poor rung nightbeat can rlly tell he's lonely just by looking at him vbhjdkdfhbjsjkdf geez. also nightbeat that's ur mystery stick bf from the future js!!

quarks extreme POV on all of the stuff is so interesting, and makes so much sense bc of Course he would think that as a non-combatant scientist who, due to his functional value in current society, wouldn't really benefit much from a revolution - in fact, he’d probably lose a lot. and that’s the sort of thing where you’re like, ok well think about everyone else dude, have some perspective - but at the same time, quark did suffer a pretty terrible fate, so his fears weren't entirely unfounded...augh, its so fascinating...im sorry I'm not gonna shut up about space robot politics this Entire time

HOW did nobody notice that dead body before now

ratchet spray-painting the hands he stole from pharma to match his own paintjob is like...kinda gruesome if you think about it hvbhsjkdfbkjdf

i love rewind sooo much oh my god 

he rlly stashed rung’s comatose body in a wheelchair behind the bar hbkjdhfbshjkdf rewind 

rewind and chromedome’s tag-team explanation....ough hhhhh THEM 

wait a sec, rewind, you have medical records in your database? that is, at least according to regular medical laws, very illegal lmao. my favorite long-running theme in mtmte: the fact that hipaa and osha laws on cybertron are either basically nonexistent, or just universally disregarded 

what the actual fuck is up w/cybertronian time units. that shit is wack as hell 

ooh i love how chromedome looks different in the flashback - no shoulder tires! - that's a cool detail

how come prowl just said ‘minute,’ rewind was busting it up w/all the wack ass fantasy time units just a second ago. geez

also goddd i love the scenery of pre-war cybertron, its SUCH a cool setting like, visually and aesthetically and politically

like, i adore details like the sign in the bg that says ‘everyone’s shape serves a purpose.’ really adds to the ‘society on the precipice of civil war currently controlled by an increasingly-desperate faction who are doling out propaganda like crazy in an attempt to maintain their image and control over the populace’ vibe

good ole murder mystery setup. love it!

pre-war prowl is such an interesting character. actually prowl in general is such an interesting character...I kinda wrote him off during my first read of mtmte (and even a little during my second readthru) as just this dude who’s an asshole (espec bc my prev tf experience involved watching tfa as a kid, and this prowl is very different from tfa prowl lol)...but prowl is SUCH a multi-faceted and interesting character, even in the relatively little we see of him in mtmte 

plus it was interesting to learn later that prowl was one of the characters that jro wanted for mtmte and didn't get, and MAN i wish he got prowl bc I would've loved to see what jro would've done w/prowl on the lost light, that would've been amazing. like, just imagine the arc he would have...I have no idea what that arc would BE, but I know it would be awesome. plus I’d be really interested to see how prowl would factor in, relationships-wise, amongst the crew of the lost light. so much potential!

anyways. I'm in a very talky mood tonight it seems. its currently 4 am so that kinda explains it. ok, moving on!

chromedome and prowl bantering....in their own morbid forensic-cop way...

skids bvhjdbsfjasf. speaking what we’re all thinking: is prowl gonna keep showing up in mtmte despite not technically being part of the cast??

swerves drawing of prowl lmaoooo

AND THEN REWIND IN SOME OF MY FAVORITE MTMTE PANELS....fuckgin cracks me up every time god. rewind was rlly about to flip their entire ass table just to demonstrate that prowl is a serial table-flipper...and then he cant even make the table budge and he just stares at his hands like ‘how could you betray me like this’ hvbajkhhsfdhksdf PEAK hilarity

drift hvbshfdjbasdfj his forcibly cheery expression even tho he’s being harassed by rodimus, who is a big whiny toddler w/drift lmao 

rodimus is the type of guy who, upon drift not replying to one of his texts, would post a whole twitter thread being all like ‘these days u cant trust any1 to hav ur back...u think u kno someone and then they just ghost you...(1/14)’

again, rewind, HOW and WHY do you just Have medical reports, oh my god, somebody please call a hipaa agent I’m scared, 

ratchet interrupting the story to give a quick medical PSA....that's Such an on-brand thing for Me to do that I feel like jro is assigning me ratchet kin as I read this

also, hey, its sonic and boom, those two decepticons from delphi! nice little continuity there

AND HERES ORION PAX SUPER COP

can’t believe idw made my dad optimus prime into a cop. smh. shouldn't be that shocked tho, I feel like half the idw characters are cops

orion rlly hit them w/the omae wa mo shinderu arrest strat

orion: I cant believe you're beating this guy up. anyways, now I'm gonna beat YOU up,

when ratchet puts his hand over drifts mouth and then gets spray paint on drifts face bhjdfsvsdjhfgbjdskf

pre-war ratchet and drift ;_; ratchet’s little inspirational speech...the fact that he tells drift that he’s special...the fact that drift remembered all of this even after 4 million+ yrs...it gets me bro it GETS me

ALSO the layers in the fact that drift then goes on to become a well-known murderous decepticon...so this little scene of him and ratchet in the past gives a lot of context to ratchet’s general attitude towards drift - ratchet clearly feels at least somewhat responsible for all the blood on drift’s hands, since he saved drift’s life way back in the day

the whole relinquishment clinic thing is such cool worldbuilding, bc of course that's the kind of thing that would develop in a society of robot aliens who are only allowed to work within the rigid confines of their alt mode 

I love the whole matrix thing bc its kinda like being the pope or st but also you have a ton of political sway, so its a super important position, so of Course the corrupt senate would want full control over that power, and would assassinate the current prime to try to get their own guy in 

god vhbhjsdkbgshjdf rodimus is such a dick lmao poor drift

HHHHH I love that the cybertronian version of an autopsy is taking the dudes body apart into the smallest components and laying them all out. that's so fucking cool

hmmmm chromedome maybe you should Not be interested in mnemology, how about that,

oh god. time to start being sad about op and senator shockwave. oh god

senator shockwave more like senator sexy 

also the first time I read this I thought I had just missed his name and like halfway thru the story I went back and scoured the pages looking for it hbvhsjdfbshgfdsbj then I was like oh ok so we’re maybe supposed to just know who this guy is from another comic? but NOPE it was very deliberate and I only realized very close to the end that they were setting up some sort of reveal

its funny bc normally I'm not a huge fan of stories where politics play a huge role but I fuckgin love it here, the politics and worldbuilding is all so interesting and also balanced out with a healthy dose of cool sci-fi hijinks, so

lmao there's chromedome being obsessed w/people making the ‘pfft’ sound 

also wow yet more hindsight, maybe you Shouldn’t be so interested in the Institute, chromedome, 

OHHHH shit I forgot abt the red alert stuff happening at the same time as this :( :( :( 

AUGHHH what a fucked up situation. god 

oooof i gotta continue now!! what a solid issue, I love the shadowplay arc

[thewebcomicsreview]

Can you maybe contextualize the Homestuck epilogue for someone who has never read Homestuck but is curious what all the hullabaloo is about?

It’s 200,000 words following 8,000 pages of comic, so I’m not sure if I can really explain it “simply”, but I’ll do my best. *ahem*

Spoilers, obviously. 

tl;dr;, by the way, I actually really liked it. But I can see why a lot of people didn’t. 

So, I can, have, and will rant about the myriad of reasons everyone hated the ending, but for the sake of context let’s only focus on the main ones:

1. The climax of the story was meant to be “John masters his powers, goes back in time, and undoes a lot of the terrible things that happen”. This didn’t at all feel like a climax, so everyone expected a “real” climax and was confused when we didn’t get one. Worse, because the solution to, say, Rose’s alcoholism was that John changed things so that she never started drinking, it felt less like characters overcoming their struggles and more like the characters we loved being replaced with alternate, better versions, and we never saw how things went for the “real” characters (John’s main change, preventing Vriska’s death in Act 5, invalidates something like 15% of the entire comic!). 

2. Because the climax fell so flat and the big bad wasn’t defeated (and because [S] Collide ended with the music turning all sinister), everyone went in to Act 7 expecting one last huge twist. But while we were given enough information to figure out the basic gist of how Lord English was defeated, we don’t actually see it.The above screenshot, of Caliborn powering up into his Final Form, comes in the last fifty seconds of Homestuck.  

So, that’s kind of the context of the ending. Everyone went in expecting like a full act, was wildly confused that Act 7 was a victory lap, and then we all kind of figured out eventually what Hussie was going for and we were like “Oh. Okay” in a monotone. So, everyone hoped for the epilogue to “fix” the plot, but the plot wasn’t so much broken as it was badly told.

Phew. Okay, now lets talk about the epilogue. 

So, John is given the choice of whether to actually go back into the comic and kill the bad guy or not, represented as a choice of eating meat or candy for lunch. The canon, alpha timeline choice is to kill Lord English (”meat”), and the choice to stay behind and leave a time loop/plot thread unclosed (”Candy”) creates a doomed timeline. Doomed timelines in Homestuck exist as physical bubbles you can fly to, so the two “timelines” are really physical places in Paradox Space. There are three such location in the epilogue 

1. The “meat” timeline, which is the actual “canon” alpha timeline with no unbroken time loops, where most of the Meat Epilogue takes place. It takes place in the normal universe 

2. The furthest ring, a void above and around all timeline bubbles where John fights Lord English. This is normally where all the doomed timelines are, but they are getting sucked into a black hole that’s sweeping out all the “irrelevant” stuff

Nepetaquest 2019 was never meant to be

3. The “candy” timeline, which is doomed, irrelevant, and thus sucked into the black hole. The whole thing looks like this

The reason I’m explaining all this is because the two epilogues are actually one epilogue, and one affects the other such that you need to read them both. 

In the Candy timeline, Dirk immediately realizes that he’s no longer canon/alpha, and immediately kills himself. Rose and Kanaya are happily married and adopt a troll. Roxy goes all stepford wife and decides all she really wants is to crank out babies with John. John is all “you seem to be wildly out of character for reasons that won’t be explained but okay”. Jade, Dave, and Karkat have a miserable polyamorous relationship where the boys don’t admit they want to each other’s dicks but are willing to settle on Jade’s furry knotted dog penis, which she apparently grew after becoming a dog girl in [S] Cascade

Pictured: The exact moment in Homestuck that Jade Harley grew canine genitalia. I had a print of this artwork and I’ll never look at it quite the same again

There’s relationship drama, but the most important part is Jane, who is now TrumpHitler for basically no reason,. She marries Jake but Gamzee cucks him and, well

There’s a scene of Jake talking to Jade and thinking about maybe murdering a baby while his wife has rape-play sex with a clown in the next room. We don’t have time to unpack all that, because Jane is also TrumpHitler now, and sets out to commit a literal holocaust on all the Trolls for….um…..well for no reason. She’s just evil now. Jade’s corpse crashes from the sky, which is a shock to everyone, most of all Jade. Then Aradia and Sollux show up and Jane’s corpse comes to life as a god and everyone kind of just….nods…..and ignores it. The JadeCorpse is possessed by a version of Calliope who’s basically God, whom Aradia serves. Calliope explains that nothing in this timeline matters and it would normally just dissolve but she’s keeping it around because letting everyone dissolve into nothing when you can stop it seems like kind of a bitch thing to do and also she needs somewhere for Lord English’s body to land. Everything in Candyland gets as comically terrible as possible, full-on civil war. John has an existential crises about being irrelevent but gets over it, and Calliope finally finds Lord English and eats him, gaining the power to escape the black hole. Somewhere all this Dave meets up with Barack Obama (??!!?!?!) who is a god (!!!!!!!!!!!) that fucked Dave’s bro (!efefiebnfuewf) and merges all Daves together into one Ultimate Dave that he puts in a robot. Davebot, Aradia, and Calliope all leave the black hole and close the door behind them such that nothing inside (which includes the “canon” Vriska and every single alternate Timeline that existed or will ever exist) can ever get out to interfere with the canon timeline ever again. 

Also 16-year-old Vriska fucks 40-year-old Gamzee and is so embarrassed about it that she kills him. 

Feel free to take a break here

==>

In the Meat timeline, Dirk has ascended and god from God-Like-Thor to God-Like-God, and can now manipulate the story in a fourth-wall breaking way that’s effectively nigh-omniscience and mind control. He’s also evil now, but that makes more sense then Jane being Hitler. 

John recruits the pre-retcon versions of Dave, Rose, and Jade, who with John are the closest thing to the “original” versions of the main four that Homestuck is gonna give us at this point. They fight Lord English and successfully boot him into the black hole, but all die in the process. John is mortally wounded but survives long enough to bang Terezi in the back of his dad’s car and get them both home (said car ends up in Candyland, where Candy John finds it and recognizes Terezi’s cum because thanks Hussie). Jade lives long enough that she could get to Earth C herself, but this version of Jade doesn’t even know about Earth C and decides to die via black hole. Dirk tries to stop this, but Calliope, who is more powerful than Dirk, pulls her in

It is indeed to late, and OG! Jade gets sucked into the black hole, crashes into Candyland, and leaves behind a fresh corpse for Calliope to control and all the people in Candyland to be weirdly blase over because deep down they know their world doesn’t matter. Having control over this Jade lets her possess the alpha Jade in Meatworld, which in turn lets her influence things there. She and Dirk fight about who gets to be president of earth (which doesn’t seem important unless you read Candy and know what president Jane will do), and Dirk manages to tranquilize Jade and keep Calliope from affecting anything else. 

Jane becomes president of Earth and starts off and the path of becoming God Empress of Mankind. John dies, and we get more than a hint that Dirk killed him for being insufficiently grateful of their paradise planet

With things on Earth taken care of, Dirk mind controls Rose into become his (sex?) slave, and mind controls Kanaya into thinking that’s cool. He tells Terezi (who he can’t control, since Mind is her power) that if she comes with they can maybe revive John, and they all home into a spaceship and fuck off to a new planet. Dirk is the new Lord English, Jane is the new Condesce, and Rose -now a dreambot - is the new Handmaid. And Terezi is….also there. They find a new M-Class planet and set up to evolve some life there for a Sburb game. On earth, now of of range of Dirk’s mind control, everyone realizes that him kidnapping Rose was actually kind of fucked up, and they hop a spaceship to chase after them, with Jade-possessed Calliope giving them advice.  

And that’s the epilogue! Dirk has kidnapped Rose and become unto god, and is setting up a nefarious plan we don’t know the details of, and a the heroes are racing to stop him. Good night everybody!

I’m assuming there’s going to be an Epilogue Epilogue, because this was just a straight-up cliffhanger, and I’ll guess I’ll see when I think when that happens or when it becomes clear that won’t happen.

Hopefully that was easy enough to follow, I did my best. 

[technofantasia]

Im finally rewatching Zim the series for the first time in a very, very long time, and I'm noticing a lot of interesting things!

Zim is actually, like... very paranoid. He gets scared EASILY, and only sometimes over things he really SHOULD be scared about! Like... he gets questioned by Dib in the first episode and almost SELF DESTRUCTS HIMSELF ON THE SPOT, he thinks he sees someone see him across the street and IMMEDIATELY enters panicky defense mode, he's so terrified of the prospect of being found out and dissected that even the thought of being considered weird or "inhuman" because he doesn't have a best friend or he doesnt have parents or he doesnt have the right organs sends him into hysterics. Hell, in Germs he spends the entire episode in debilitating panic over even the IDEA of something MAYBE being able to POTENTIALLY hurt him, even though nobody even told him it would, it hadn't up until then, and he HIMSELF dismissed the idea! Even though he always acts self-assured, it's clear that he cares a LOT about being an invader and, moreover, is always utterly terrified of not being cut out for it. False confidence, Zim? What a surprise!!

Dib is like... really mean. Often! There are many times when Zim is somehow nicer towards others than Dib, even though HES ZIM! Zim may be abrasive and self serving, but he usually at least allows other people to speak and often listens to what they say. He sometimes even offers comfort, even if its half assed or kind of counterproductive! Dib's idea of "saving the world" is so divorced from actual reality that he legitimately doesnt care about MOST of the people he claims to want to protect. It seems like more of an abstract prize at the end of the finish line than anything else; its an excuse for him to be the hero. While he certainly isn't uncaring in any sense of the word and I'm sure he does want to keep the Earth safe just because it's home, he sure does a LOT of shit to Zim just to be mean. Slapping him in the face with balogna and tripping him isnt helping to save the world, its just kind of being a dick. And Zim isnt the only one hes kind of a dick to either! He is a HUGE asshole to Gaz, consistantly. No wonder she doesnt like him much. Dib is just as self absorbed as Zim, if not more, since at least Zim considers himself completely subservient to his Tallest!

Zim and Gir are very cute. Even though Gir consistantly fucks shit up, Zim never stops giving him important things to do just because its pretty clear Zim actually likes Gir a lot. He has a surprising amount of patience and fondness for that little robot, their interactions are all so adorable!!!

Also, Gir makes some kind of sense a surprising amount of the time.

Membrane is straddling this weird line between being a stereotypical absent dad and... also an always-supportive proud dad?? While hes often not around and doesnt even recognize his kids sometimes, he always talks to them kindly, gives advice, supports whatever they decide to do, and generally sound very proud-dad-like. Its weird

Gaz is terrifying, but also kind of cute. She doesn't care about any of this bullshit going on between these two egocentric douchebags, she just wants to play games, eat pizza, and hang out with her dad! What an icon

[davidmann95]

All-Star Superman #2

A scant year to the day since part 1!

All evidence to the contrary I actually have always wanted to go back to this, especially since I keep getting asked if I’ll do so and it stirs my omnipresent sense of guilt over my lack of productivity, and also the last year has not resulted in a mass turnaround of people realizing it’s a for-real good book and not just comfort food so this remains necessary. This isn’t going to be quite as in-depth as the first go-around - both that as the introductory issue and that as the introductory recap had a lot of groundwork to lay - but still plenty to cover, as this issue sets up Lois and Superman’s arcs for the series, which is rooted (amazingly, especially right off the bat, given the book’s reputation of being about how amazing Superman is) in how badly Superman’s let his fears and shortsightedness poison the most important relationship in his life.

If the first issue is the big classic Superman material - Superman saving the day from the monster! Lois and Clark and the rest of the Daily Planet crew! Lex Luthor’s sinister schemes! A ticking clock to doom! - this scales all the way down to the uncomfortably, stiflingly intimate. Classic archetypal Superman stuff gives way to the most Silver Age issue: casual huge ideas, relationship drama, misunderstandings, last-minute reveals that recontextualize the entire issue, and baaaarely latent psychodrama bubbling up at the edges. In service of that the visual framing here is not unlike a stage play, a limited set of physically connected locales as a pair of figures bounce off one another. Quitely and Grant’s work is therefore comparatively subdued next to issue #1, keeping to traditional panel layouts and wide or medium shots with a background color palate of mostly blacks and whites and grays with a handful of other colors popping out...until Lois starts to lose her shit at the end of the issue and we get close-ups and full black and white panels and eerie glowing and dutch angles and that unsettling abstract image of her clenched teeth, as the story starts to squeeze us like Lois’s gut.

She’s right to be unsettled for that matter; she’s alone on Superman’s turf (the one issue where that’s the case other than #6, and that one’s about how Smallville stopped being his home), the weird antiseptic alien lair of the ultimate super-hobbyist, and all the baggage of their relationship is spilling out into the open as she has less and less reason to think the best of this odd man who’s been lying to her for years. Unlike the Silver Age tales this is referencing, she’s absolutely on the money with her complaints about him: he’s been dicking around with her forever and thinks it can all be okay now (His little “What?” on the second page when she bursts his bubble says it all), and he’s awkwardly overcompensating trying to fix it.

While the Fortress tour serves to peacefully acclimate us to how utterly bizarre Superman’s world really gets past the traditional rescues (the little cubic starfield we don’t know the meaning of yet, trophies are floating rather than physically suspended, the glowing flowers in Lois’s room, “The Phantom Zone map room’s pretty dull unless you can see radio-negative anti-waves”), Superman himself is...humblebragging isn’t the right way of putting it, but it feels like he’s working way, way harder than he ever will again in this book to be cool and impressive and assuring. He’s a dope in love, but he can tell something’s up and that super-brain of his isn’t putting the obvious pieces together, or noticing that this is just putting her off further and further until, like Bluebeard’s wife before her, she stumbles through the threshold of the door she was never meant to, even of course in the end he’s still Superman and there’s a perfectly good reason. Not a good enough reason, however, for her accusations at dinner to not hit home - his mind may be expanding, but he’s still way up his own ass here in a genuinely unpleasant way that’ll be elaborated on momentarily. For now he’s left stammering that she should trust him and it’s limp and phony, especially compared to his big entreaty for someone to trust him in #10 (which’ll be right after he finally comes clean with her); while Superman may not be considered a savior figure by his friends in here the way he often is in the mainline comics Lois seems to be the only one who doesn’t look up to him at least a little bit, but that clarity means she’ll call him out where no one else will.

Across the next two pages it’s all laid out, and we get to the roots of where things have gone wrong between the two of them. Lois is paranoid, certainly, the panels are literally squeezing in on her, but with Superman seeming so out-there and alien like never before she would have every right to be even sans alien chemicals. But notably there remains throughout a part of her assuming the best of him wondering if maybe this is just another big misunderstanding or that he’s simply been mutated by the solar overexposure. And in her heart of hearts, she admits that maybe she wants this to be another big damn trick with a completely sensible justification, because the alternative is that this is the new normal and she has to accept that he’s a flawed mortal man. It’s ugly and it’s mean - especially since she likes Clark - and it’s human as hell in the worst, most understandable way. It’s not going to be until said mortality is staring her in the face that she’ll be able to accept it.

Superman, meanwhile...someone could write a thesis on these panels as an articulation of the Superman/Clark dynamic. The Mirror of Truth is actually preexisting, centerpiece of a Jerry Siegel/Curt Swan joint in Action Comics #269 that was later adapted into the Superman newspaper strip where Lois uses it to figure out Superman is Clark Kent until he tricks her into believing the mirror can lie, after which he tosses it in a volcano; here it’s survived, and curiously shows him as Superman rather than Clark, when in the original tale it displayed Kent even though that was fully the era of Clark as a disguise. In here too it’s Superman who’s the ‘true’ identity of the two and which this time is reflected in the mirror, yet as in #1 it’s Clark who says what he’s truly feeling. In that light, the final panel of the abandoned glasses reads like nothing so much as Superman using the mirror as affirmation that the truth of the solemn, steadfast Superman identity gives him licence to deny the uncomfortable emotions his squishy human farmboy side is dredging up, ‘lying’ to him in a way he had to fake in the source material. Those emotions however knock right on the door of what he can’t grasp here: Clark’s so wrapped up in his own head trying to do the ‘right’ thing that he’s overlooking how his attempts at self-sacrificing selflessness are hurting the people around him. Throughout the series he’ll come to rely on others, first at his lowest points with Jimmy and the Bizarros, until at last he comes to invest true trust in Lois, and the Kandorians, and Leo Quintum, and even Lex.

For now though Lois is deep in a hole, a brief but memorable meeting with the Unknown Superman of 4500AD - everything Superman seems to be becoming to her even before she wonders if it’s literally him, cryptic and masked and with a big ‘ol question mark right on his chest instead of the familiar comforting logo, even his gutbuster of a question reinforcing his distance from a recognizable human experience - leading her all the way to reimagining her Silver Age ideal happy ending of marriage and family with Superman as a Cronenbergian horror. It’s still a Superman story, it turns out he had the very best reason possible for wanting to keep her in the dark, but right through to the end he remains just a little condescending in his reassurance, and his gift of essentially bringing her up to his ‘level’ isn’t going to solve the problem. While the next issue lets us see the two of them properly in love, it won’t be until the elephant in the room comes out that they can come to terms.

Additional notes

* God Quitely is so good. Look at the way the seatbelt curves in the first panel! Lois’s bemused little disbelieving smirk!

* Pages 2-3: Aurora Borealis?!

* Lois is the only character other than Superman who gets to have actual narration (in both cases as looks at their in-text writing), the only one whose viewpoint is thus privileged in the same way as his.

* The key is the realization of this series’ aesthetic in a nutshell: the old-school idea in a sleek, shiny, clever new way that doesn’t take away from the fantastical toyeticness of it all. For that matter, the key is the centerpiece of a later bit with Superman that could be fairly described as the long-term goal of the book book as Morrison’s hoped-for perennial: “One day some future man or woman will open that door, with that key. When they do, I want them to know how it felt to live at the dawn of the age of superheroes.”

* This is A. The first note of a larger DC universe existing offscreen, something that I’ll go into more when discussing #8, B. A brilliant, concise, fun little summation of his place in Superman’s world, and C. Absolutely hilarious given Morrison suggested in his exit interview that this could be seen as much later on in the same universe as All-Star Batman & Robin The Boy Wonder, which entirely rewrites the tone of that moment.

* Already discussed the key but the muscles in Superman’s hand tensing a bit at picking it up is another great detail.

* The glimpse of the Fortress here is excellent: the statues of his friends and enemies instead of pictures because he does things bigger with the yellow electric something crackling at the end of it, the off-model but curious-looking robot appearing to glance at Kandor (are it and the bigger robot with the seats on top of it trophies, or Superman Robots with different designs tasked for specific purposes?), the classic Bad Penny Good For One Crime, the Legion time bubble that establishes his time-traveling credentials for later, the Titanic where he and Lois will dine when their relationship hits a proverbial iceberg, and most strikingly the space shuttle Columbia, his apparent rescue of which I have to imagine is a reference to Astro City’s Superman analogue Samaritan debuting by averting the Challenger disaster.

* It’s next issue that has my actual favorite Superman/Lois moment of all time, but “When we’re married fifteen years, when I’m sagging and he looks just the same, will he still meet me and say things like...” “These are for you. I picked them on Alpha Centauri 4.” is right up there.

* The technological aesthetic of the Fortress is so different than P.R.O.J.E.C.T., sleek and solid and cleanly-lit and antiseptic, beautiful and advanced but a little cold in its own way. As stuffed with wonder as this place may be, there’s something hauntingly empty about it, suiting both the tone of the issue and as a physical embodiment of Superman’s emotional state. The one part that goes against it is the forbidden room, it even has beakers and test tubes to sell the mad scientist vibe...though if you were to stretch it, it much more close resembles the human technology seen at P.R.O.J.E.C.T., and this is meant as a gift for one.

* The cosmic anvil made it along with the key into the CWverse, Lois used it in Elseworlds! I may not be expecting All-Star quality from the upcoming Superman and Lois, but it’s good to know the powers that be are using it as a reference point (beyond how it inspired Supergirl’s take on Cat Grant, a connection I discussed in a post that seems to have vanished into thin air). The whole page is perfect, Superman at his most joyfully benign and beautiful and godlike; it’s the one bit where Lois’s skepticism cracks a touch watching him feed his adorable little Lovecraftian abomination from beyond the stars.

* While he never appears physically aside from a statue Brainiac hovers over this series from beginning to end in name and deed, the ominous ultimate enemy of Superman’s past, the great trial overcome even as the scars forever remain. Morrison mentioned in the exit interview that he didn’t appear in here because he and Quitely already used him as the villain of JLA: Earth 2, but that if he had it would have borrowed Superman: The Animated Series’ take on him as a Kryptonian AI gone rogue. Personally I like his place in here as-is, a little totem parallel to the Justice League references indicating the breadth of Superman’s history between putting on the cape and Luthor’s final scheme.

* A pair of minor notes: Lois points at Superman with the pointy fork when asking him pointed questions, and while it’s not immediately clear on first read she does in fact ask the Unknown Superman exactly 3 questions (“Kal Kent?” “Will Superman and I ever marry and have children?” “What do you mean?”) before he replies with his own, as promised.

* “Oww.” and “Tickles.” literally could not be more perfect Superman moments.

* Worth taking a moment to marvel at just how many future plot elements are seeded here. There’s the obvious bit of Superman thinking about having a partner setting up the next issue, but we also for issue #6 have our first look at Kal Kent and Lois wondering “What if (the Unknown Superman) was really (Superman)?” when Clark will indeed pose as him, for #10 we get our first look at Qwewq, and for #11 not only is the Sun-Eater introduced but so is Robot 7′s malfunction as a result of Luthor’s tampering.

* The structure of the series according to Morrison is a solar cycle, beginning and ending at midday with nightfall in the center. If last issue was the sun at its brightest we begin the descent here, with Superman remaining larger-than-life and ultimately trustworthy but with his classic persona and habits held to an additional, unflattering degree of scrutiny.