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astroboots · 2 years

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RED FLAGS ║ PART 12

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You get more than you bargained for when you follow Marc out into the night. Or alternatively: 🎵 Fighting evil by moonlight. Winning love by daylight 🎵

Content: Cthulu horror, violence, blood and gore, angst, yikes overall.

Word Count: 6.2k words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

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You’re not thinking straight.

Somehow you’re already at the end of the hallway, pushing the button for the lift and having a staring contest with the red floor indicator, and you don’t even know if you managed to lock up behind you.

The lift is stuck at the ground floor, apparently unwilling to do the one bloody thing a lift is supposed to do and lift itself. You can’t be bothered to wait. Before you even properly register making a decision, you’re already down the five flights of stairs, out the building's front door and onto the street, cheeks stinging from the bone-chilling cold.

Usually, the residual heat from the bustle of city life coupled with fumes from the busy traffic will keep London warm enough even in the dead of night. But now, as you make your way down the cramped street, it’s so cold that your breath is frosting in front of you.

It’s eerily quiet for Central London. The only sound is the one made by your feet carelessly splashing through the puddles of rainwater filling the potholes in the cracked pavement, and it seems to echo off the tall concrete walls on either side of you.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

It would be better, safer, smarter for you to go back upstairs where you could stay comfortably warm under the covers while you wait for Steven to return to you in the morning.

You know all of this, but you don’t turn around. Don’t even hesitate. One foot after the other, you stride determinedly down the narrowing passageway that’s lined with pungent beer bottles and deep fried chicken bones, until you reach a fork in the street.

This is all so stupid.

You don’t know which direction Marc went—right or left—don’t know what his intended destination is or if he even came this way at all. But you do know one thing.

Marc Spector loves you.

His quiet voice still echoes between your ears. ‘I love you too’, he’d said, and it was real.

You chance left into an even smaller alleyway. You don’t know why, other than that the dark tapered alley seems like a more likely place for Marc to have slunk off to in the middle of the night.

There are no street lights here, and the walls on both sides seem to narrow in on you, until you feel like they're practically scraping against your shoulders. Somehow, even though you’ve been more or less living in this area as of late, you’ve not ever come across this path before.

A foetid smell lingers in the air, like someone’s left rotten eggs out in the sun. London’s never exactly smelled good, but the sudden overwhelming odour stings your nostrils, invading your throat in a way that threatens to have you doubled over, dry-gagging.

The rain is coming in heavier now, but it does nothing to help with the smell. Just permeates every single layer of your clothing, until you’re soaked all the way down to your socks.

You’re bloody freezing.

Something doesn’t feel quite right, but you chalk it up to the fact that you've chosen to take a stroll down a dark alley in East London in the middle of the night by yourself. Not your brightest decision ever, but here you are.

A tingling at the back of your neck makes you throw a quick glance over your shoulder, checking to see if someone’s watching you, but there’s nothing there. All you see is the same depressing-looking alley that you just came down. Red-rusted brick walls above a concrete street covered in manky puddles and rubbish, just like every other dirty little alleyway in East London.

Somehow, this does nothing to reassure you.

The skin between your shoulders itches, prickling with uncomfortable heat despite the cold, and it feels like a warning sign.

Despite the fact that you’re wearing sturdy boots and covered from toes to chin, you still feel uncomfortably exposed. Like any minute now something might start nipping at your heels from behind. It’s the same illogical fear you feel when you’re alone in bed at night with your feet sticking out from under the covers. You’ve left yourself defenceless and vulnerable to the monsters under the bed. It’s only a matter of time before something from the darkness will reach out and grab you by the ankles, dragging you under.

You continue forwards, hurrying your pace with every step. It’s irrational, but you can’t shake off the feeling that if you don’t, something will catch up to you.

Some sort of.... clicking starts up behind you, and you slow to a stop. Some lost survival instinct is screaming at you, telling you to freeze. To hide so it won't see you.

The unsettling noise continues, rattling oddly in your ears and growing ever more distorted as it echoes off the walls around you. You’ve never heard anything like it, and you wish you weren’t hearing it now. It’s… strange. Not quite right.

Other.

The noise stops, leaving just the sound of your breath rasping in and out of your too-tight chest. You force yourself to move; fighting the warning siren of your heart hammering painfully hard in your chest, you turn slowly to look over your shoulder at the alley behind you.

There’s nothing there. You're alone.

Slowly, slowly you turn the rest of the way, but there's still nothing. Aside from the usual smattering of rubbish, the only thing in the alleyway is the image of the moonlit sky mirrored on the rain-covered, empty pavement.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding, and force yourself to keep breathing, fighting the stubborn tightness of your chest to take in deep, calming breaths that turn visible as you exhale against the crisp air.

So you heard an odd sound. And what of it? Probably just someone’s ancient radiator clicking up a storm. That’s all. Everything else is just your overactive imagination. Might even have been a bird. Someone’s escaped parakeet doing a strange mating call perhaps. What do you know? London wildlife has always been unpredictable and strange, after all.

You’ve nearly managed to convince yourself, about to turn on your heel and continue on your way when you spot it. The gentle ripple pattern spreading out across the thin sheet of water covering the grey concrete. Not unusual in the least, given that it’s raining. Except it’s a large ripple. Too large to be from the rain.

Despite the freezing temperature, your spine prickles with cold sweat underneath your thick coat.

The noise starts up again. It warbles and clicks-clicks-clicks. You can’t pin where it’s coming from. It’s disorientating. It comes from the ground, rattles off the walls and lingers in the air above. It’s everywhere.

Water splashes on the ground some feet away from you, a small spray going up in your peripheral vision, like something stepped on it. Something heavy. Something large.

But there’s nothing there. And that maddening clicking noise won’t stop.

You can’t see anything in the empty space over the water puddle in front of you. Nothing, not even the smattering droplets of the pouring rain. The water is eerily still which… can’t be right.

You narrow your eyes at the puddle, dragging your gaze upwards, and…

There’s a hole in the rain.

A void of some sort, defined only by the absence of the falling water. Following the empty space upwards, you can see a clearly defined boundary where the droplet starts again. Like the rain is bouncing off a transparent surface.

There’s something there. Something solid. Something big.

A huge eerie shape. As you squint at it, you begin to recognize that the water is outlining crouching limbs and a torso. Your brain keeps trying to pin down what it looks like, but it’s not the shape of any animal you know of. There’s something not right about its form. It's disproportionate; all overly sharp edges and grotesque bulging curves that make your skin crawl. The angles are wrong somehow in a way that makes your brain itch to look at them.

It’s...

It’s…

Not of this world.

You hold your breath, standing motionless, feet rooted to the wet pavement as rain pelts your face so hard it stings.

Click. C-Click. CCCCClick.

The noise rattles closer. Louder now. It feels like it’s burrowing under your skin. Into your brain. But the warning sirens blaring inside your head are louder still. Deafening. Every instinct and nerve ending in you is screaming one thing.

RUN.

You turn and run, one leg leaping in front of the other. You run without looking behind you. Running even as you almost stumble, feet skidding against the slippery-wet concrete. Your lungs burn, but you don’t stop. Don’t dare look back. Eyes fixed on the dim, rain-fogged light at the end of the alley in front of you. You run.

There’s a loud crash behind you. A percussive thunderclap of sound that hurts your ears. The crunch and clatter of concrete being torn apart.

But you don’t stop. Don’t look behind you to investigate. You run.

You run, ignoring the bile pushing its way up your throat. Run, ignoring the shrieks of sound erupting behind you. Running from the sound of a wounded creature, like no animal that you have ever heard in your life. A hellish scream that doesn’t sound of this world, tearing through the thin space. A pain that is born out of pierced flesh and broken bones. You run.

Stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.

Why are you here? Why didn’t you just stay in the safety of your home, tucked up in bed under the covers? The stinging wetness in your eyes blurs your vision as you tear down the alleyway. Does it open out into another street or dead end? You can’t tell yet, but there’s nothing else to do. You run.

You collide with something solid and firm.The impact knocks the wind out of your lungs, and a strong pressure surrounds you from every angle, grabbing hold of your shoulders and constricting around your ribs. You can’t run.

You can’t breathe. There’s something clamped over your mouth and nose. Coarse gauze pressed into your nostrils, suffocating you.

You make a desperate attempt to free yourself, arms trying to push out against the tight hold, hands clawing at whatever you can reach, but your pathetic attempts are no use. The grip only tightens at your resistance. It’s too strong. You can’t get free.

This is it. There’s nowhere left to go. You’re trapped. It’s over.

Still, you can’t stop fighting, thrashing in every direction, trying to squirm yourself loose.

“Stop! Stop!”

You recognize that grumpy, impatient voice. You’d know it anywhere, even muted as it is by the blood thundering in your ears. You register that the solid weight holding you captive is a person.

Marc.

You go limp. Shoulders slumping into his hold. Legs no longer kicking as your feet settle onto the ground below.

“I’m gonna let go of you now. I need you to not fight me. Or scream.”

You nod into his hand, and the pressure finally gives, as does his grip. Then you’re free.

Turning around, the sight that greets you nearly has you screaming and running after all because it’s not Marc at all. It’s…

A mummy.

Layers upon layers of white gauze are wrapped like bandages over every inch of the body before you. Wound around limbs and woven over a broad torso, continuing up to shroud the face.

And the eyes…

Where the eyes should be, the eye sockets are hollowed out. The gorgeous brown you expected is absent, replaced by a white glow that blinds you when you try to look directly at it.

You wobble on your feet, a sick nausea filling your throat.

It spoke like Marc. Used his voice.

Oh god! Is this some monstrous creature that mimics human voices to lure in its prey?

Did it eat Marc!?

Is it going to eat you!?

The glowing eyes narrow into impatient triangular shapes, the shoulders pulling up and back while the feet shift in an almost nervous gesture. An odd sense of recognition fills you.

“M-Marc?”

The eyes narrow further into a scolding glare. Even without a mouth, you can tell he’s scowling at you. The thing growls, but it’s a human sound. And a familiar one.

Marc, definitely Marc.

Only he could manage to scowl behind a hoodie, three layers of mummy bandages and a glowing Halloween mask.

As you watch, the hood and mask recede, evaporating into thin air. White bandages give way to golden-tanned skin, and you’re greeted by the face you know so well. Hard eyes staring down at you above steel-cut cheekbones and a jaw set with displeasure.

“Marc!” Thank god! Relief floods your chest, but it’s short-lived. That thing could still be out there. “We need to go!”

“Why are you here? You can’t be here,” Marc grates out, resisting your attempts to pull him into motion. He’s clearly furious, but right now the two of you have got more important things to worry about.

“We need to go,” you repeat, pleading with him, hands grappling for his, trying to tug him in the direction you were running before, but he resists you effortlessly, like he’s anchored to the spot. You might as well be trying to tug a stone statue.

“Marc, please! There’s something out there! Like a– a–” you fumble, unsure of what to name it, because you don’t know what the hell that thing was.

An invisible monster? A demon? A boogeyman?

“I don’t know what it was! Some kind of… creature. Something big,” Your voice breaks. Your fingers tremble where they’re curled over his arm, and you grip harder. Digging them further into the bandages, trying to get them to stop. “You have to believe me Marc!”

He’s not going to believe you, is he? He’s going to think you’ve lost the plot and need to be sectioned. God, maybe you do.

But the vexation in his face fades as he watches you, his expression shifting into something softer, filled with worry. His hands reach for you, the bandages soft against your cheeks.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” He tips your chin up, eyes searching your face, and if he thinks you are mad or hysterical, there isn’t a trace of it in his gaze. There’s no disbelief. “I know.”

His calm acceptance stuns you.

“What do you mean you ‘know’?”

“I know because I…,”—he hesitates, mouth set in a grim line—”I took care of it.” “You took care of… what? Marc, what–? What do you mean by that?”

Marc falters at that, and runs one gloved hand over his hair. His eyes dart around like he’ll find the answer hidden somewhere behind the overflowing rubbish or carved into the worn brick of the alley wall.

“I…,” He hesitates again, glancing at you and then away, like he can’t make himself hold your gaze. “This is what I do,” he finally spits out. “I tried to keep this shit away from you. It’s not something you were ever supposed to see. I need you safe.”

The unhappy set of his mouth makes your aggravation falter, but you need to understand.

“What do you mean? Tried to keep what shit away from me?”

“I–” He breaks off, eyes darting up and across the wall of the building across from you, high above your head. “Shit. We need to go.”

Oh sure! Now he wants to leave. (Though it’s not like you’re going to argue.)

Marc grabs your arm again, and you do your best to keep up as he hauls you along down the alley.

You try to watch the alley walls and street as you run, searching for any sign of the grotesque invisible creature from before, but you can’t make out anything in the pouring rain this time. You try to listen instead, but you can’t hear anything over the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Marc stops suddenly, and you stumble to a halt as well, crashing into his back and nearly falling.

“Mar—“

“Quiet,” he cuts you off with the low demand, and the quiet urgency of his voice has you freezing instantly. He stares at the mouth of the alleyway, then up where the moon is just barely visible in the gap between the buildings, eyes wide and alert, face rigid with something like fear. It makes your own fear balloon, your pulse screeching in your ears.

Suddenly there’s a scraping sound, and small bits of brick fall from above, skittering down from the wall on your left. You peer at the shadowy face of the building, but there’s nothing to be seen.

Another grinding sound, closer this time. Something large and heavy rubbing against brick. Another shower of gravel and debris, but you still can’t see where the bloody thing is.

Dread curls in the lining of your stomach.

Then it starts again, that otherworldly clicking that seems to burrow right into your skull. You cover your ears reflexively. Would claw them right off if only it would make the noise stop.

Marc reaches for you then. Moving slowly and deliberately, he wraps an arm around you, scooping you close against his chest and taking you with him as he backs away.

You huddle against him, staring up at his determined profile. His eyes are trained on a spot on the building across from you, clearly seeing what you can’t.

Without looking away, he leans in closer to you and whispers, “Get ready to run.”

He’s barely finished speaking when the wall crumbles above you, and Marc’s arms untangle from you, leaving your side.

You think you catch the sight of something moving in the rain, a slight distortion visible as the shape crosses in front of the moon, then you’re shoved to the side, voice echoing in your ears.

“Run!”

You weren’t ready.

Shoes skidding backwards in the slippery rain, you lose your footing, and go down. You land hard on your bum, and can’t seem to get up again.

Everything is happening too fast.

Your chest hurts. Breath stuttering in your lungs, too quick and shallow to let you take in any oxygen. Your heartbeat is pounding so rapidly against your ribs that you’re sure it’s going to rip a hole straight through your chest to the open air.

It’s too bright.

The light from the moon above seems to flood the alleyway, and your eyes throb.

Too loud.

A solid thud reverberates through the air mere feet away from you. It’s the sound of knuckles meeting flesh. A blood curdling shriek rips through the space.

Too much.

Marc's forearm is held up, parallel to the wall, like he’s pinning something that isn’t there. Something large and thrashing. Your eyes are fixed on the bizarre scene before you. You don’t understand what you’re seeing. Don’t understand how the man who folds your clothes in neat squares and makes you lukewarm tea is the same man as the one who stands before you now. Poised and calm in the violence. Holding his own against an otherworldly monster, and winning.

None of this feels real.

His fist slams forward, landing some distance away from the brick. Punching into the invisible air. But there’s a horrifying squelching sound with each landing punch that lets you know something is there that you’re not seeing.

You watch, so focused on Marc and the damage he’s meting out that you almost don’t notice when a damp gust of air grazes against the fine hairs on the back of your neck and sends the soft skin underneath prickling. You fail to take it as the warning sign it is.

Fuck. There’s another one!

You don’t have time to react. No time for anything. Just the sound of glass crunching against asphalt, and something slamming into your back, so forcefully that the impact threatens to crush your ribs.

You land face first this time, cheek kissing the concrete with a painful sting. There’s a heavy weight on your back, and mud in your mouth. Or maybe blood. Everything tastes like pennies.

Marc shouts your name. His voice is raw, panicked. So full of fear it's almost unrecognisable.

You want to go to him.

Anchoring your elbows on the gravelly ground, you try to push up against the heavy weight pinning you to the ground. It hurts. Everything hurts. Your shins are stinging. Cheek too and your forearm where your sleeve must have ripped. Your ribs are one big throbbing blotch of burning pain. But you manage to lift your head up in time to see Marc leaping towards you.

He seems to be suspended in time, one hand pulled back, the other outstretched in mid-air as he reaches for you. Droplets of rain sparkle where they’re caught in his hair, and others seem to trickle leisurely down his forehead above his brown eyes that are wide in blind panic.

You feel it before you see it.

His fingers curl around your wrist, the solid weight of his hand clamping tight around your forearm. Time speeds up again at the touch. You hadn’t realised sound had gone missing too until it returns with a deafening fury.

The suspended rain smatters down all around you. Marc’s other hand impacts the creature pinning you down with a sickening squelch, and a grotesque shriek tears through the space behind you, tapering off into a rheumy deathrattle.

Marc’s face fills your vision, the terror in his expression just starting to shift into relief when some small distortion, barely seen out of the corner of your eye, breaks into your line of sight, and he’s ripped away from you again by some invisible force.

You don’t understand what you’re seeing. There’s some disconnect between what’s happening in front of you and your brain’s ability to process it.

You know that can’t possibly be Marc hurtling through the air, white cape billowing behind him like a white flag of surrender. Surely there’s no need to worry because of course you aren’t seeing his body impact the side of the building with a horrifyingly meaty thud that reverberates in your bones, and then tumble to the ground in a shower of broken masonry

You stare at the pile of white fabric and brick pieces there on the ground for a moment, and your heart pounds so forcefully that you feel lightheaded.

It’s a horrible nightmare made reality, and your brain wants to fight it. To pretend it’s not happening. Tell you that it’s not Marc’s lifeless body lying facedown on the ground in front of you.

But… it is.

You can feel the bitter acrid taste of the truth carving itself into your throat.

You scramble up, ignoring your bloody knees and the searing pain in your side, not stopping until you’re hunched over Marc’s body. He’s terrifyingly still. You grip his shoulder, tugging hard until you’ve managed to turn him onto his back, all the while begging to any deity or higher power who might be listening to please let him be all right; let him be awake; let him still be alive.

Please.

He has to be.

Cupping his cheeks in your palms, you have to swallow the raw sob in your throat at how cold his skin feels against yours.

A pulse. You need to check for a pulse.

You shove two fingers against the column of his throat up under his jaw, trying to find the right place, but the stupid bandages are too bloody thick. You can’t feel anything through them. You tug at them, trying to rip them free or wedge your fingertips underneath to get at bare skin, but they’re hard as steel. You don’t stop though, clawing at them now because you’ve got to–

A heavy, thudding footfall lands on the ground a short distance away, and you jerk your head up.

The creature is there in the alley, right in front of you…

All you can see is the malformed outline, silhouetted by the cascading rain refracting in the moonlight. It turns slowly towards you, feet grinding against the pavement.

Absolute terror swamps you. Every cell in your body is screaming. You need to escape!

RUN!

You scramble to get ahold of Marc, barely managing to wedge yourself underneath him until you can wrap both your arms around his chest from behind and heave, straining to drag his uncooperative body away from danger. You don’t get very far.

Marc is heavier than he looks, and your feet scrape and skid against the wet concrete as you desperately try to drag both of you backwards. You barely manage to budge him at all, gaining at most a few inches before the creature begins clicking again.

You can see the outline more clearly now. If you squint you can just make out mangled tentacles protruding from where its head must be and writhing grotesquely in a way that your eyes refuse to focus on. Your breath seizes in your chest and you have to look away, your body wracked with shivers.

You watch it come out of the corner of your eye, thick limbs advancing on you one torturously slow step at a time. You don’t understand why you’re still alive. The creature certainly seemed capable of ferocious speeds when it had attacked Marc before. You get the feeling it’s mocking you. A giant supernatural cat playing with its prey before it eats, and you’re the hapless dinner.

The thought sickens you.

You tighten your grip on Marc, wrapping your arms around him with renewed determination. Clutching him as close as you can in a futile attempt to protect him from this thing. Unwilling to let it have him.

There’s more loud clicking, closer still, scraping against your brain like nails on a chalkboard and making your spine curl.

You’re out of time. Out of options. Your brain furiously scans through a lifetime of collected memories and information for any shred of useful knowledge. Anything to help get you out of this, but there’s… nothing. No secret escape route. No Hail Mary play.

It’s hopeless.

You wish it hadn’t come to this. That you could somehow save Marc and Steven and yourself. That you had more time.

You wish you had taken the time to eat the breakfast Steven’s made for you with him yesterday morning. That you could have had the chance to taste Marc’s pancakes again. That you had kissed Steven more often (should have done it every opportunity you had), gotten to see that sunshine smile of his light up the room one last time. That you could’ve told Marc you love him in person.

But that’s the thing isn’t it?

You don’t have all the time in the world. You never did. Everything has an end.

You hug Marc closer to your chest. You’re just glad you got to face your end here with him, together.

Searing pain rips into your ankle as cold claws sink into your flesh. The breath you’ve been holding all this time is knocked out of you. Any small shred of peaceful resignation you’d been able to muster in the face of certain death is ripped away, and you react without thinking.

Your foot flies out in a swift kick. The heel of your boot connects with something soft and pulpy that yields with a sickening squelch.

There’s an angry clicking shriek. It rattles your eardrums painfully and vibrates through your chest, like standing too close to a speaker at a club. The monster takes a step back, but the taloned grip around your heel doesn’t ease, dragging you with it.

You kick again. Firm sponginess that makes you think of decomposing flesh. Unnaturally soft for something still moving. You think you might vomit.

The thing screeches but doesn’t loosen its grip. Asphalt and shards of glass dig into your back as it drags you along. You try to cling to Marc, but you can’t. You might as well be a flea for all the hope you have of challenging its strength.

You twist around onto your front. All you see is mute greyness of the alley. The increasing distance between you and Marc as the thing drags you along. You try to claw at the ground but there’s nothing to hold onto. Your watch, somehow miraculously still on your wrist after everything, pops free now, and you watch it disappearing from your sight, growing smaller and smaller as you’re dragged away, and somehow that’s the final staw. You squeeze your eyes shut on a ragged sob, draw in a half breath to scream, and…

Everything stops.

It’s dark behind your closed eyelids. Your throat is raw, burning. Are you still screaming? You must be, but you can’t hear anything anymore. There’s no more clicking. The rain seems to have stopped. You can’t feel it falling onto your skin or the asphalt scraping against your torn clothes.

Are you… dead?

If you are, why do your knees hurt so much?

You crack your eyes open to find yourself staring up at the pitch-black sky lit by a perfectly circular moon.

Something white flutters in the periphery of your vision. A white… flag? No, it’s a long flowing white cape that hovers over your body.

Marc!

Or… is it?

Something’s different.

Tracing the cape upwards, it takes your frazzled brain a second to register what’s changed. This mummy is missing bodyparts! Or… no. His costume is just a different colour. Solid black ink runs up his legs instead of the white bandages that were there before, masking his outline against the black sky above..

Is this someone else?

You crane your neck towards where you last saw Marc’s body lying on the pavement, but he’s not there any longer.

This must him, then.

…Isn’t it?

He’s standing hunched over empty air, a vicious brutality emanating from his entire body that wasn’t there before as he delivers repeated bone-shattering punches to…. nothing. His fists sink into the space that you know isn’t really empty. You can hear the impacts now, even if you still can’t see the creature. The dull wet thud of knuckles connecting with flesh over and over and over again, with almost mechanical precision.

With each blow the same hellish scream you heard earlier rings in the air, but it’s growing weaker, soggier each time until finally it fades all together. And the stomach twisting crunch of bones breaking grows ever louder as his fists sink deeper and deeper into the invisible mass.

Then, finally, silence falls.

Squinting your eyes open—when did you close them?—the first thing you see is his silhouette standing some feet away from you. Right where you last saw him, but he’s standing upright now, towering over you and what’s left of the creature, a now semi translucent mass that glints wetly.

There’s an unsettling calmness to him as he takes a step back, head tilted to the side as his eyes narrow, observing the thing with disdain. One leg lifts, rising above the ground, poised like an executioner’s axe… and then falls.

The creature isn't making any sounds anymore, not even a whimper when that foot comes down, delivering an earth-shattering stomp that shakes the ground beneath you.

There is only a stomach-churning, pulp-crunching sound, of something moist-yet-solid being torn through. You clamp your eyes shut, stomach roiling, trying not to think about what is there that you can’t see. Instead you imagine he’s stepping on a bag of rotten fruit. Repeatedly.

You don’t dare to open your eyes again until everything goes quiet.

But the horror of the moment isn’t quite over yet. He stands still in the same spot, unmoving. His shoulders squared but loose as he stares at the place the creature had been with a disdainful sneer on his features, eyes flat and blank. He eyes it like he’s inspecting a squashed cockroach stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

The hairs on the back of your neck are still standing on end. Your body is screaming out to you that the danger hasn’t passed. Something even more dangerous is standing before you. The scene plays out like some twisted nature documentary where a rabid bear was just ripped apart by a monstrous wolf.

Marc tips his head to stare up at the night sky. Something changes. The whole of his body seizes, shoulders pulled taut, head thrown back like he’s being yanked up by invisible puppet strings.

The linen covering his body slithers down his limbs like receding snakes. Every inch of the primordial gauze disintegrates into dust and smoke, giving way to the much more familiar tight jeans, form-fitting t-shirt, and loose jacket.

As if finally satiated, whatever force had its hooks in him relinquishes control, and he slumps forward, feet still firmly grounded to the asphalt, and opens his eyes.

And then Marc is back. You think…

Marc seems disoriented at first, breathing erratically. His body language is a stark contrast to the one he held mere moments ago, as though the calm callousness has disintegrated with the mummified gauze. Now he’s hunched over, tense, and appears confused, eyes darting around the alleyway until they land on you, still flat on your ass on the concrete ground.

His eyes stay on you as he covers the distance between you in three great strides, his footfalls skidding along the rain-slick concrete before he falls to his knees beside you. You turn your head, trying to look behind you to observe all the damage, but Marc cups your face in his hand before you can see anything.

“Hey. Hey, you look at me,” he says, voice rough but hands gentle as he smooths your hair back from your face. His eyes search your face frantically for a long moment. It must eventually penetrate that you’re all right because the panic in his eyes finally melts into relief, and seems to spread to the rest of him. The harsh line between his brows relaxes slightly, and he lets out a long breath, the tight line of his shoulders softening.

Then he’s cupping the back of your head in one hand, and hauling you into his chest, and holding you there, pressed tight against him. It makes it hard to breathe, your face mashed up against his firm chest, nose and mouth partially buried in his shirt and jacket, but you only want to press closer, have him hold you tighter, for as long as he possibly can, even if it chokes the breath out of you.

“It’s okay,” he says after a long moment, “You’re okay. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to reassure you or himself.

His voice is gentle and comforting as he rests a firm hand on the small of your back and keeps it there. His eyes are soft now, no longer cold and blank, even if they do look sad.

“You’re safe,” he tells you.

It’s not until he says it that it finally sinks in. The rigid muscles in you melt. Your heightened survival instincts dim, your body finally willing to accept that the danger has passed.

His grip around you loosens, and the palm of his hand roams over the top of your shoulder, fingers resting on the pulse of your neck, before ghosting under the place that stings and smarts on your cheek. There’s a tremor to his touch, but he’s still meticulous as his hands run gently down your arms, across your back, stomach, and ribs, inspecting you for injuries, and cataloguing the location and gravity of each.

A long time passes before Marc is satisfied and finished with his examination. Then he lets you go and leans back, shimmying off his jacket—the very one you’d been haunted by when he lent it to you once before—and settles it around your shoulders. Residual heat from his body still lingers in the fabric, instantly warming you and making you aware of just how cold you were before.

You stare up at him, through the rain as the pale moonlight shimmers off the droplets of water caught in his hair. The familiarity of it makes your heart squeeze tight in your chest. Once again the two of you find yourselves in the middle of the rain with Marc’s jacket wrapped around you. It’s a deja-vu you wish you can relive a thousand times over.

“C’mon,” Marc says, holding out a hand and helping you to your feet, “Let’s get you home.”

~ Continue ~

Dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss because I am just very happy I have a friend like her in my life and that I get to share this story together with her.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#oscar isaac #moon knight #marvel #marvel mcu #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfiction #jake lockley #steven grant x you #marc spector x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #cici writes

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hauntedfoxhut · 1 year

Text

Insomniac!Miles Morales x streamer!F!reader

Pronouns: She/her

You as a simple streamer meet the cutest boy in Brooklyn, Miles Morales son of Rio Morales and Jeff Davis, you had meet a couple of times, randomly bumping on the street, neighborhood parties and once time in particular when you found him with a black eye and a bloody nose, so you helped him, after that you became great friends, but you started to fall for him.

English is not my first language so I’m sorry for any writing mistake, hope you enjoy this one shot🫶🏻

⚠️Warnings⚠️

Blood citation, curse words and mention of death

The rest is pure romance

Dialogue colors

Y/N-blue

Miles-red

NY City, Brooklin, Y/N apartment, 02:30am

The live was doing great, I decided to play the sims, a simple challenge, now I just got 4 more subscribers, that really helps a lot, they literally pay my bills, I was planning to cook the dinner but I just decide to buy some sushi, I drank a dr. Pepper, totally healthy.

“ Well guys, thank you for your time, today we ended a bit late but I hope you all enjoyed the live, I’ll cut and post on YouTube for those who missed some parts, bye bye see you next live” I send a kiss to the webcam, and then… it’s over, I needed to stop that live, staying awake till late it’s not good, drinking monster all day, eating junk food, when was the last time that I felt the sunlight, I’m living a bat…

*knock…knock…*

“What the fuck??” I spin the gamer chair to the window, I saw Miles, i get up and open the window for him, the cold wind from the winter entered your bedroom giving you chills.

“Hey mami how you doing?” He hugs you tight, lifting you up and taking your feet off the ground, he simply ignored the cold wind coming from the outside, “Mileees the window!!” “Sorry Y/N” he instantly let your feet reach the ground again and turned back to close that window closing the curtains too, when you focused on his face his nose was bleeding and his right cheek was red almost purple, and he realized that you noticed, he just hide his face under his hands.

“Again Miles? Really? How? What’s the story for today?” “I… got into a fight, with a jock but I…” “I got punched and I fell downstairs, same story from last week so don’t lie to me” “can we just ignore this” he points to his face “ I came here just to forget about all that stuff”

He just lay on my bed, taking deep breaths, he’s been passing through a hard time after loosing his father, getting into fights in school, moving to Harlem now all we got is a couple of hours together once or twice a week, I seat near to him, putting my hand on his head, I start to caress his hair, which was very short making he looks so cute. “You know that you can always count with me right? I’m here for you, ever since the day that we bumped near to the Central Park because I was running to get that dog” “I remember that you started crying because the dog stole your bracelet, was funny” he chuckles “No it wasn’t! I was so sad that day and that dog just made it worse” “I miss you, a lot, all that shit that’s been happening is making me mad, I’m sorry for leaving you, I just couldn’t leave my mom alone”

His eyes, are just like a window to his soul in pain, pure sorrow, I lay on his side holding him to cuddle, my heart beating faster, being near to him like this is good but it still make me blush, “I wish I could have you near me, now I’m feeling lonely at Harlem, you can spend a week there, my mom wouldn’t mind” “Miles i would love it… but…” “but ?” “ never mind haha, I’m free next week, I would love to spend the week with you”

He hug me back and now we’re laying face to face, I only can stare at his lips and same for Miles he just been staring my lips for almost 2 minutes straight, his hand holding my cheek, he looks so hypnotizing, I’m lost in his face, I can only feel his hand is on my cheek, now he’s approaching, so close, so so close, he kiss me, a soft and simple kiss but very meaningful, I just kiss him back, the butterflies on my stomach, “can I stay? It’s too late and I miss you so much” his puppy eyes, staring at me, I can’t resist, “of course you can” “can I sleep with you?” That question caught me off guard, now im the one who hide the face under my hands but his hand that’s on my cheeks try to take my hands off, “c’mon it’s not the first time that we slept together, why are you so awkward about it?” When your face is not covered anymore you can see a slight blush in his cheeks, “I just… like you, that’s why I came here, I was planning to text you but that would be so dishonest, I needed to do it face to face” “Miles just shut up” I instantly kiss him, softly holding his cheeks that are a bit warm, at first he got shocked but one second later he just kiss me back.

We stopped the kiss because we needed to breath, now his hands are around my hips, making imaginary circles with the fingers, “so mister Morales, may you please let me get up so I can get a blanket for us?” “Of course you can my pretty girlfriend” “girlfriend?” I can’t hide that little smile in my face, I’m feeling so happy right now, but I still tired needing to sleep, so yeah, I just loved the idea of sleeping with him. “Yup, girlfriend, or do you want a nickname like, mi vida, cariño, Hermosa, honey, you can choose.” I yawned feeling my eyes getting heavier, “can I choose one later I just want to sleep right now…. Get the blanket please” I can badly keep my eyes open, he kiss my forehead and leave the bed to get the huge blanket in the closet, he come back to the bed and when he realized you’re sleeping, a little shrunk because of the cold, but tight on sight he covered you with warm blanket and sneaking to sleep with you.

That night you sleep so well after almost a week of bad sleep, he made me relax, holding my body with his big hands and long arms, making me fell safe, now that I’m dating him I already have everything that I need, but now I’ll have to move to the Harlem to live near to him.

Translations

Mi vida- my life

Cariño- dear

Hermosa -beautiful

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guess-my-next-obsession · 1 year

Text

Fade Into You, Chapter Two: Holy Ground

pairing: nyc bookstore owner au!ezra (prospect) x f!reader

rating: M (nothing much here really besides reader’s pining and ezra’s charm, definitely ooc ezra but it’s an au so who cares!, talks of money/wealth/privilege, a situationship forming in front of our eyes)

wc: 2.7k

a/n: just as a disclaimer, these chapters are going to range in length. i know some people really love short chapters and some really love long ones, but i’m trying not to focus so much on word count anymore, just gonna try to stop when it feels right (to me)! but i’m sure once we start seeing their relationship evolve, so will the length of each chapter.

series masterlist | previous chapter | FIY PLAYLIST

Mid October

“I feel like these are only ever good straight out of the oven.” Jay was standing in your tiny kitchen, taking a tray of store bought frozen Halloween cookies out of the oven.

“Yeah, as soon as they get room temperature they get hard as a fucking rock,” you agreed, sitting cross-legged on your beat up leather sofa with a bowl of popcorn on your lap. Halloween was queued up on your TV, the big light off with only the orange and yellow glow of the string lights you’d hung on your TV to illuminate the room. As Jay walked over with the entire pan, setting it down on the coffee table, their phone started to ring, the sound of a generic banjo filling the room. “You gotta change your ringtone.”

“It’s for the bit,” they said, tugging their phone out. “It’s Ezra.”

Your head whipped up to look at them, your eyes wide with interest as she pressed her screen to accept the call, putting it on speaker.

“Hey Ez, you’re on speaker,” they said.

“Hey, just calling to see what you’re up to,” he replied.

As Jay filled Ezra in on the movie marathon the two of you had been having since noon, you mindlessly shoveled popcorn into your mouth, watching the screen as though his face would appear if you willed it hard enough.

“Is that the girl you were telling me about?” he asked after hearing Jay mention you by name.

“Yeah, you two need to finally meet,” they said, giving you a wink and a nudge with their elbow.

“Well, I just got back in town and was going to invite you to meet me for a showing of Practical Magic in the park in an hour, but if she’s up for it, she can come and we can finally introduce ourselves properly.” Your eyes widened and head began to shake in a silent plea for them not to accept as Jay turned to look at you with a wide smirk, their amusement over your crush evident in their voice as they ignored your anxiousness and let him know that the two of you would be there before hanging up.

“Oh, I’m gonna puke,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as you let your head fall back against the sofa. “I don’t have any time to prepare myself! I don’t even—what do I even—fuck.”

“Jesus, it’s just Ezra. He’s just a forty-four year old man who’s scared of commitment, not the fuckin’ messiah,” they teased.

“Yeah…you’re right,” you nodded, taking a breath of composure before standing up to walk over to your closet. “Alright. Super chill. ‘Hey Ezra, totally haven’t been fantasizing about you for the last month or anything. Super chill to meet you.’”

“Oh lord. I really do not get straight people,” Jay sighed teasingly, and you gave her a cocked brow as you turned around.

“Who said I’m straight?”

The city had finally started to cool down, the brisk autumn breeze hitting your cheeks caused you to shiver as your navy knitted sweater did its mediocre job at keeping you warm while you walked through a lamplit Central Park with Jay at your side, their pale skin turning pink on their cheeks and at the tip of their nose.

The park was still full of life even in the pale moonlight; lovers strolled together hand in hand to the soundtrack of giggles from children on the playground as their parents looked on, or a few lonely souls sitting in contemplation on the park benches, wondering where they lost that childish joy. You liked to try and imagine their lives, the happiness and the sadness looming in their history weighing on them in a way you could only ever imagine and never feel. Sometimes if you thought enough about these faces without names, you could feel your heart breaking for them and tears would swell in your eyes, but tonight you couldn’t muster the energy to ruminate on anything but your own life—of the anxiety you felt over finally meeting this character you’d created in your mind.

“Oh, there he is.” Jay’s finger pointed at a park bench where a lonely looking man sat scrolling through his phone, the blue light glowing on his face. “Ez!”

Ezra looked up, a smile growing on his face as he stood, tucking his phone away into his back pocket.

“Jay bird,” he greeted them, pulling them in for a fatherly hug. “Missed ya.”

“Missed you too, old man,” they teased, pulling away to point at you.

“Hi,” you smiled, holding your hand out for him as you gave him your name.

“Ezra—nice to meet you.” You felt a stab of insecurity in your stomach as his eyes bounced across your features for a beat, suddenly feeling all-too aware of each flaw you picked apart in the mirror just that morning. “This isn’t a line, but the way your eyes are sparkling right now is making it hard to look away from you.”

“Oh?” was all you could manage, your heart’s quick patter making it hard to think of anything clever to say, Jay’s chuckle finally pulling his attention away.

“Quit it, she’s shy,” Jay scolded, swatting his shoulder playfully.

“Is that right?” he asked, one side of his mouth lifted in a smirk as he turned back to you.

“Unfortunately,” you blurted nervously, earning a deep, crackly chuckle from him that helped to warm you up better than the wool covering your body.

“Hang out with Jay’s crowd long enough and soon you won’t be,” he said, turning to Jay. “Let’s go find a place to sit.”

You walked beside Ezra, Jay on his other side, and found yourself counting each step and breath as his warmth radiated against your arm. You wanted to lean in, slide your arms beneath his leather jacket and hold him so close that you could hear the beat of his heart, but for now, you stuck to counting your steps.

“So fill me in,” he said, his elbow nudging yours. “Who are you?”

You took in a necessary breath and shrugged.

“Not sure yet,” you answered honestly. “I’ll be sure to let you know when I figure it out.”

Ezra chuckled and nodded, a permanent smile on his face as he kept his eyes forward.

“Well, tell me what you know so far,” he urged before pointing at an open spot in the grass in front of the large projector screen.

“Uh, well, I’m a writer—“

“See, that’s good information,” he grinned, shrugging off his backpack to unpack a blanket. “What do you write?”

“Some poetry, some fiction,” you said, watching as he and Jay laid out the blanket.

“I’m going to go get some food from concessions, you two want anything?” Jay asked.

“Yeah, just a beer,” Ezra said, tugging out a twenty and handing it to her. “And whatever our writer friend wants.”

You smiled at him before looking to Jay. “I’m okay, thank you. Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“No, you two get acquainted, I’ll be fine.”

You gave them a subtle look of terror, only earning a reassuring nudge of their head towards Ezra as he took his seat on the blanket.

“So you’re a writer,” Ezra said, his eyes following you as you awkwardly sat down at the furthest corner from him, crossing your legs to take up as little space as possible. “Is that how you met Jay?”

“No, I actually met her in your shop,” you said, finding the courage and confidence to meet his eyes.

“And we haven’t crossed paths yet?”

“Well, we sort of did once—the first time I came into the store, but you were leaving so it makes sense—“

“You must’ve caught me on a bad day,” he interrupted. “Those eyes aren’t the kind of eyes I’d normally forget.”

“Still not using a line?” you chuckled.

Ezra smiled, looking down at his lap before meeting your eyes again.

“Not a line if it’s sincere,” he said, shrugging with a smile as he turned to look around at the crowded park, each group talking amongst themselves like the world consisted of just them, just like it felt with you and Ezra. “Are you from the city?”

“No, I just moved here,” you said, continuing on about your hometown and the stark contrast in environment.

“How are you liking the change?” he asked, leaning back to rest against one elbow.

“It was overwhelming at first, but in a good way.”

“How do you mean?” he probed, full of sincere interest.

“Just…the thought that I could be anybody here—it’s overwhelming but an exciting kind of overwhelming. I’ve just been trying to figure out where I belong in the midst of all this energy.”

Ezra’s smile grew into a grin, his eyes batting fondly at you as he watched you mimic his position, your body now achingly closer to his than it had been just seconds prior.

“What about you?” you asked in a whisper, turning your eyes to face the projector screen that started to glow with the start of the movie.

“Too long of a story to tell right now,” he whispered back with a smile.

“Make room for me,” Jay said as they returned with two beers in one hand and a tray of nachos in the other, nudging their chin at you to scoot closer to Ezra. You obliged with both hesitance and eagerness, once again counting your breath as his arm brushed against yours. “Here, can you pass Ez his beer?”

“Sure,” you said, grabbing the cold bottle and handing over to Ezra who sat on your other side, his warm fingers brushing against yours as he accepted it.

“Thanks, honey,” he whispered, and although the endearment caused your head to buzz, it seemed to be something casual to him, as if he called all of his friends these pet names. A good chunk of you hoped that wasn’t the case.

After the movie, Jay made up some excuse about going over to a girl’s house, leaving Ezra to walk you to the subway, his jacket over your shoulders even though you insisted you were fine (you weren’t).

“So,” you said, breaking the silence between you as you walked through the park to get to the 96 Street Station to catch a subway headed for your neighborhood in Harlem. “Are you from here?”

“I am,” he nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Born and raised. My family is sort of…I guess we’re old money. Or, they were. I’m just a bookstore owner.”

“With more money than God,” you added, earning a laugh.

“I’m trying to get rid of it,” he replied, shrugging.

“You don’t like being rich?”

“I recognize it’s a very privileged problem to have,” he chuckled. “But no, I don’t really care for all of it. I just don’t see why one man with no kids, no family, should have so much while other people are struggling. So, I spend every single day trying to pawn it off on other people, try to help distribute the wealth.”

“How’s that working out?” you asked, your eyes fixed on his profile as you walked, the streetlamps illuminating his skin every few steps, bathing him in yellow glow.

“It’s a surprisingly difficult thing to accomplish, at least with an accountant like mine,” he chuckled. “Sometimes I just settle for not making any more money. I price my books specifically so I don’t make profit, I let people stay in the apartments my family owned rent free. My father’s rolling in his grave, I’m sure.”

“How did you guys get so rich?”

“Prospecting,” he said, glancing over at you. “My great-grandfather owned a lot of land that had a lot of minerals and stones, or…something. I never cared enough to ask questions.”

“What an odd life you live,” you teased, earning a playful nudge from his elbow as you rounded the fence to walk into the subway tunnel.

“Tell me more about you,” he prodded, keeping his body close to yours in a display of protection as a strange man began to stare at you too much for either of your liking. “What are you writing?”

“Well, it started as romance, but then I scrapped that once I started really thinking about the character and what she wanted. I figured it wasn’t love she craved. What she really wanted was to prove to her mother that she was capable of being loved. So, that led me to where I am now, just a story of a mother and a daughter and all the traumatic shit that goes into that relationship.”

“What a beautiful mind you’ve got,” he said, his eyes on you as you looked down at your shoes with a bashful smile. “Do you know how it ends? Do they heal? Or does it stay broken?”

“Well,” you lifted your eyes to meet his, a playful smirk on your face. “I guess you’ll have to wait for me to write and publish it to find out.”

“My best friend owns an indie publishing company,” he shrugged. “Just let me know when you’ve got it finished and I’ll help you get in contact with him.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—“

“I like helping people who are passionate about what they do,” he interjected. “And I can see how much you love what you do, it’s what makes your eyes sparkle like that, even in this shitty subway light.”

“Are you always this good with your words?” you asked, bumping your shoulder into his.

“I sure try to be,” he smiled.

“Well,” you lifted and dropped your eyebrows. “Makes it hard for a girl to tell if you’re just being friendly or if you’re flirting.”

Ezra studied you for a minute with that closed mouth smile that he always seemed to wear, his eyes bouncing across your features even when you looked away from him in a fluster.

“I’m not…a partner,” he said, a careful lilt to his voice. “I don’t believe in…lasting things, at least in lasting love. I can’t be a partner to you. I’m the guy people sleep with until they find their partner.”

“I’m not looking for a partner,” you said, unsure of where you found the courage. “So, if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t. I’m new to this city, to all of this. I don’t want to jump into anything, I just want to…I don’t know…live a little.”

“Well, here,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “Let’s trade numbers and just…see what happens. No pressure, no expectations, just call me when you need a friend, or…something more if you feel like it.” He smiled. “Whenever you feel like it.”

You only grinned and nodded as you typed your number into his phone, feeling as though you’d stumbled onto some sort of prize you weren’t qualified to win. You tried to silence the voices inside that screamed at you for even daring to believe that a handsome, kind, self-aware, rich man like Ezra, with a world of opportunities at his fingertips, would want you. You knew that you had your own value, your own beauty and intrigue—you were a prize, too.

“Can I take the subway with you?” he asked as you handed his phone back. “Not—I’m not trying to follow you home or anything, I just don’t want to stop talking yet.”

“You want to ride all the way to Harlem and back with me? Just to talk?” you laughed.

“If you’d let me,” he smiled. “I think you’re interesting, and hard to read, and…well, I guess the best word for it is captivating.”

“Where does ‘beautiful’ fit in to all of that?” you joked.

“I knew you were beautiful the second I saw that sparkle in your eyes,” he said, his eyes flickering to your lips. “That’s not what captivates me, that’s obvious. What I find uniquely interesting is your mind, your thoughts and where they come from, and especially the way you string those thoughts into words. That’s…that’s captivating.”

With no room to argue and no words to describe what his words meant to you, you offered him a simple smile and nod before the two of you were filing into the subway, that dirty tile floor becoming holy ground in the matter of a second.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #ezra x you #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra x reader #fade into you #pedro pascal fan fiction #pedro pascal smut

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mamapyjama · 2 years

Note

Bkdk is so incredible just for how full of ambiguity it is.

Like, it is so fun to look into these little hidden details and meanings to what goes around these two it's amazing, when many characters have a more straight foward relationship with each other, and bkdk themselves.

Like, Uraraka is Deku's friend, she has a crush, and is trying to figure this out while she has a similar desire to understand her own villain counter part, Toga.

Todoroki is friends with both of them, and he is very sure that he is. He is around them a lot, and is part of the "big three".

We know all these things pretty clearly, but NEVER get the same with bkdk.

Nobody currently describes them as "friends", but they do often point out their status' as "childhood friends", Bakugou is the closest person to Deku. Deku is the one that has chased him his whole life. He is "the guy" Bakugou is waiting for, the one who knows him best. Deku was striving to make ofa his own for him. He loses control of his heart for him. He YEARNS to be closer to him again. And at some point the idea of standing shoulder to shoulder with Bakugou "sent chills down his spine".

Like??? Those you can all excuse by saying it's just strong frienship or fondness but. The actual narrative NEVER said that it was the case.

My first anon ask! But not really an ask 😅.

Yes, it IS fun to look at hidden details, I love it too. I agree, there’s so much of their story that could be fleshed out more, like we don’t even know that much about the nature of their childhood friendship! Please indulge me while I ramble for no reason just because you invoked me.

We have a few single panel snapshots of their interactions as kids, but we never have a full scene/chapters like with the Todorokis, Tenko, Hawks etc. even though their relationship is so central to the narrative! There’s also a massive gap after the river scene and quirk manifestation right up to the final year of middle school—that’s like 8 or 9 years where we have no idea what their relationship looked like.

We know that Deku was often there when Kacchan was playing with his friends, but they’re both unreliable narrators so we don’t actually know whether Deku was part of their group, or if he just following them around. That makes me so sad to think about but it’s a big question mark. I personally think they’re both so dishonest with their feelings for each other that they both misrepresent the relationship in their memories. Maybe they were close but both twisted it after everything went wrong. Who knows! But it’s fun to wonder.

Let’s take the weirdly inconsistent forest scene where they get further away each time they remember it (thanks deleted Reddit user for the almost accurate image);

Ch 9 is Kacchan reminiscing during Dk Vs Kchn 1, Ch 117 is Deku’s flashback in the lead-up to their Ground Beta Fight and Ch 275 is Kacchan thinking while following Deku to lure Shigaraki away from the city (side note how tiny Deku is in this one!).

So each picture represents something:

A) ‘I’ve always seen Deku as behind me’

B) ‘I’ve been chasing/following Kacchan my whole life’

C) ‘I need to keep up, Deku’s not going to leave me behind’. Literally:

Essentially, they have always been each other’s yardstick, the thing against which their own success and value is measured. But the yardstick kept changing length and I think at this point in the manga they’ve both realised that relationships aren’t about who’s ahead or behind.

The panels after the one in 275 are some of my favourites. He remembers their childhood, he remembers their fight, and he GRINS as he finally gets to work side by side with Deku.

Look at that smile! Not for the first (or last) time, he thinks about how he had it wrong and now he’s letting himself just be at the same level. Of course he keeps his typical competitive bravado, because he’s still the same brat we love. ‘Losing’ isn’t losing to Deku anymore though. Based on the context, it’s not absurd to suppose he doesn’t want to lose the opportunity to be by his side, to fight with him, to keep him close. Aahhhh.

I’m gonna stop now, but thank you for sharing my excitement about the lovely ambiguity in the story. 🥰

#deku #bakugou #bkdk #thank you for the ask #honestly we could drop a pin and just riff off any page #pyj rambles #Horikoshi what are you cooking #bakudeku #mha #bnha

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so-susu · 8 months

Text

The Lazaret Excerpt

The wind is cool and crisp as it brushes past him, ruffling his untamed hair. A firm black hat rests upon his head, nearly flying off as the next wave of wind hits. He spots the massive sails billowing in the breeze as the boats lie dormant in the ports. As he enters the city, he notices how eerily quiet it is. Doors firmly shut, only occasionally does he see a group of guards pass by. Each held red ribbons in their pockets, pulling them out and attaching them to door handles. The slimy color sent chills down Asra’s spine. He’d never imagined how intimidating a color could be.

It had been a while since he’d been in Vesuvia — weeks, maybe months — and it was barely recognizable to him, missing the vibrancy and culture he’d known for so long. Asra pulls his scarf to cover his nose, tying his beast close to the edge of the city.

He walks through the desolate streets, the scraping of his boots against the cobblestone adding to his anxiety. The last time he was home, you two had gotten into the worst argument to date. There are so many regrets Asra harbors, things he wishes were never said. Now he could only hope you’d forgive him.

The baker’s stall is empty and worse for the wear, the marketplace seems just as run down. The clothes and tapestries, food, and signs are nowhere to be seen. He shivers, clutching his satchel as he makes his way to your shop. As he turns the corner, he takes another breath, preparing to meet your disgruntled disposition and explain himself. He’d hoped that you guys would have a chat— one that desperately needed to happen. You two had your fair share of arguments you were usually able to talk out...however, this one might take a little more time.

The handle of the door is smooth like usual…but something’s wrong. There’s fabric wrapped around the top of it. Asra’s eyes drag downwards to see a red fabric clasped in his hands.

No.

It’s not possible.

It must be a mistake.

It has to be.

For just a moment everything stops. The breeze breaks, the street lights dim, the water stops flowing, and Asra’s heart stops beating.

Frantically, Asra pulls his bag open, fingers colliding with random trinkets and objects of unimportance. He feels the brassy, smooth texture of his compass and pulls it out. The compass needle rotates furiously, eventually settling in a direction.

It’ll know where you are.

Asra sprints in the direction of the pin, the city around him moving in slow motion. His head is spinning and his heart is pounding against his chest, racing faster than he could run.

No time. There’s no time.

It was his heart against the world.

If only there was more time.

The compass leads him straight to the docks, still fervently pointing forward. Asra gazes toward the pin, locking his eyes on a fevered, scarlet-toned island. Smoke blows from the central building on the small island. The Lazaret. A name the people of Vesuvia had become too familiar with over the past year. Asra feels the screams and the pain and the suffering. He swallows, eyes darting to a tiny wooden boat tied to the dock. He doesn’t even pause before hopping into the boat and untying it. His hand dips into the icy water, releasing magic from his fingertips. The boat propels forward, carrying him across the vast sea. Asra feels his heart palpitating, his mind is cluttered with only one thought. Find you.

The boat hits the island, breaking Asra from his trance. As he stumbles out of the ship, he's suddenly overcome with the smell of smoke and burnt flesh. His skin feels sweaty and prickly, the hairs on his neck standing up. He glances down at the compass again before hurling himself in the direction of you.

It leads him to a barren strip of dirt in front of the central building.

This can’t be right.

He checks the compass again. But the needle continues to spin round and round.

Asra drops to his knees, tears beginning to pour out of his eyes. He tosses the compass hastily, fingers grappling at the soil beneath him. He starts to dig, quicker and quicker by the second. It’s not enough. His tears cloud his vision, sliding rapidly down his cheeks and falling into the dirt. He can’t stop. Not until he finds you. Not until you’re in his arms again.

Hours go by and yet he finds nothing but dirt and ash. His fingers bleed, his nails bust, but you’re nowhere. Nowhere. How could he have let you go?

read the rest of the story on ao3 here!

#asra alnazar #the arcana

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katsumatsu4 · 9 months

Text

Speedrunning

It's a secret santa gift for @fandomsareforlife. Happy holidays!

A couple missing scenes, drabbles and possible interactions between Griffin Turner and other Elemental Masters. This is a little all over the place, but I hope you'll enjoy it :)

Also on Ao3

Being around other people for a long amount of time could get really annoying when all the conversations seemed to drag on for far longer than Griffin logically knew they had. Talking with his Ma was an exception, at least growing up; nowdays, even she began to slow down.

But there was something worse than getting a little annoyed, and that was being bored of course. So when one fateful day Griffin received an invitation to competition for elemental masters, for people just like him, he didn't need to think twice. Or even once, for the matter. More like half, the other half too thrilled for upcoming event to think properly.

With a ticket to Ninjago City in hand, the master of speed suddenly felt like his life was going to change forever. He shrived excitingly.

The room was pretty spacious, bigger than any he ever had. And it was amazing! He could zoom around without bumping into furniture, watch anything he wanted on the big flat-screen on the wall, bathe in the ridiculously oversized bathtub or eat all the snacks prepared on the table.

It even got posters of his favourite band on the wall!

Okay. That was a tad concerning.

He was chilling on the bed when suddenly an intercom on the wall sprung to life with Chen's voice.

A little confused, Griffin looked at the device. Right now? Just like that? Maybe if he was lucky there is already one in this room... Nah, that would be too convenient.

Not wasting more time, he jumped straight into the corridor leading to staircases. Right in the middle of a brawl between three other masters. Urgh.

He threw his punches blindly until he heard satisfying growl of pain. Stepping back, he finally took in his opponents. Gravity, mind, light, sound; not the most offensive powers but it didn't matter if he couldn't locate a blade in time. He threw his eyes around, cursing his poor eyesight. These four had to be fighting for something!

There! Someone in dark clothes was walking down the stairs, barely shuffling forward, where just a floor below- A jade blade in the vase!

Grinning, he threw his opponent away and rushed downstairs before - What was his name again? Eh, nevermind. - earth guy made a grab for it.

"Ha! Too slow, rocky boy!" Griffin giggled, easily outrunning him. The ninja looked so pissed of! Serves him right for not taking the competition seriously!

He raced toward the main lobby and put his jade blade in assigned place on the central statue. Looking around, Griffin noticed with satisfaction that he seemed to be the first. Hell yeah, baby!

With time other masters filled the room. Orange one, gravity, Jacob, shadow, purple one, lightning, Garmadon brat, Ash, Tox, shadow, mind, nature...

One blade appeared out of thin air, startling him. So Mr. Pale passed as well. No surprise here.

He couldn't help but whistle when earth master staggered inside, clutching his stomach with one hand but with a blade raised in the other. Honestly, he didn't know what that said about the other contestants that that guy wasn't last.

Just one remaining.

And then, when he thought he was going to die from boredom already, the doors opened and metal master proudly strode in. Finally! He joined in the cheers that quickly turned to confusion when one of big guy's gauntlets suddenly fell on the floor, the last jade blade falling with it. Unseen until this point, fire ninja jump out from behind Karloff's back, grabbed the blade and run towards the statue with a self-satisfied smirk. And a screwdriver.

Well, he'll be damned! Griffin didn't expect dirty tricks this early in the game, but he could respect the drive. At least until it wasn't directed at him.

Karloff, who retrieved his weapon already, slumped and whined something about fairness.

Fairness? Come on! They were there to show of, not to philosophize. Really, some people...

Griffin yelped when the floor opened under Karloff, who ended up falling in with a scream. What was that?

"As you can see, lose and you are out. Break any rule, you are out. Never bite the hand that feeds you Master Chen delicious noodle!" Chen announced. "Now rest up. Tomorrow the tournament will recommence."

On the way to his room Griffin had time to recollect himself. Looking with a clear mind, leaving the competition via trapdoor shouldn't have been as shocking. Everything Chen did so far was flashy and almost theatrical; it's only logical that he had something special prepared for the loser.

What happened to him after though?

He shrugged it off. Most likely it was nothing to worry about; probably the worst that awaited Karloff was being a little battered from the fall, getting laughed at by the stuff and being thrown of the island in a shitty boat. Chen was a pretty influential man, but even he couldn't get away with disappearing over a dozen people.

Besides, he thought as he settled under the bedsheets, today was the most fun he had in a while!

Well that kind of sucked.

Griffin turned on his bed. If you could even call that stiff board with a shoddy blanket thrown on a bed. He sighed, thinking back to the nice, warm, soft pillows in his room.

Stupid bed, stupid Chen, stupid competition and, most of all, stupid ninja! If they didn't want to fight against each other, why did they enter Crush Everybody Else And Win Tournament! It's not like they were forced to be here!

And now they were all paying for their stupidity and bleeding hearts. Sure, it was Chen who changed the matches at the last moment, but they should have expected something like this would happen sooner or later. Were they this stupid?

(He needed to stay angry. Staying angry was easier than thinking back about how desperate earth and lightning ninja looked during the battle. How much Chen controlled everything like it was his own private playground. How devastated the winner was, as if losing meant something more than dropping out of a competition. It was easier than remembering their screams of anguish.)

He turned over. Stupid ninja.

"I can't believe you actually fell for their bullshit. You don't look all that smart, but that's just another low."

Griffin felt his hand itching to punch Shade in the face. He took a calming breath.

"You heard what the ninja were talking, it all kind of makes sense. Chen clearly has it out for them; maybe they are telling the truth and they did discover something he doesn't want anyone to know!"

Shade rolled his eyes.

"Sure, and they conveniently didn't tell us that until one of them was in a major trouble during the competition."

The worst part was, Griffin did agree a little. The timing was suspicious; it was clear ninja would have held their distance even longer if the deck wasn't so stacked against them. But even then...

("We don't have to keep fighting each other," Green ninja said with an unprecedented confidence. "We can all win.")

The brat really has a way of making me want to proof him right.

"Why can't you just believe that there is something stinky going on here? It reeks!"

"'Kind of makes sense', 'maybe', 'just believe it', do you even hear yourself? Their story has more holes than a plate full of cheese!" Shade looked almost angry at this point. "If anything reeks here, it's them; from the beginning they acted like they were better than us and now suddenly they want to team up? For me it just looks like they realized Chen wasn't going to let them play their way so now they are trying to make the rest of us give up."

"Neuro confirmed that they were telling the truth about the spell. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Ah yeah, the spell. The one that he learned about from Clause's mind but, again very conveniently, doesn't know what it's for." Shade crossed his arms. "If you are fine with being strung along and getting tied up in someone's scheme, be my guest. But keep me out of it." He turned around and gave Griffin a nasty side-eye on his way off. "I came here to win. I'm not going to give that up just because the rest of you lack any common sense."

Griffin stood there even after the other disappeared behind closed doors, fists clenched in anger. He wasn't a fool for believing ninja, Shade just... couldn't see a full picture. That's all.

With a sigh he finally relaxed his grip and let his hands fall to the sides. He probably should get going, the next meeting would be in a few minutes.

When will all this shitshow be over?

For the record, Griffin hated asking people for favours. Which was exactly why he was still standing outside the shop for longer than it took him to get there in the first place.

It was stupid idea anyway. Nobody spotted him yet, there was still time to turn back and leave. Yeah, he could just...

He groaned and hid his face in his hands. What was he doing? He was an adult, that's some middle school level thinking. Just ring a damn bell!

Griffin sighed and finally pressed the button. Then waited. Then pressed again and again, until he heard an annoyed voice from inside the building.

"Coming, coming, jeez! Don't you see the sign, we're closed- Oh, it's you." It seemed Cole was the one send to open the door. "Uh, hi?"

"Hey man, it's been a while! I would have called buuut, turns out we didn't actually swapped numbers after the Chen thing? And I heard you had quite an uproar recently."

Cole made a face.

"Don't even remind me. Lloyd's still has trouble sleeping..." He shook his head. "Anyway, come in I guess? Want something? Coffee, tea? Something to eat?"

"Thanks but I won't be long. Is Jay around? I actually came to talk with him."

"With Jay? Yeah, he's upstairs. Sit here, I'll come get him."

Griffin plopped down on the sofa Cole pointed and waited, eyes wandering over inside decorations. Not bad, but why did they had to have so many snakes?

He looked up upon hearing a patter of footsteps on wooden floor and was met with annoyed look on the lighting ninja face. He was probably pulled away from something.

"What do you want?" he started unceremoniously.

Griffin rolled his eyes and patted empty space next to him.

"Don't look at me like that, it's going to be quick, I promise."

Jay took a seat. "So?"

"Okay, here's a thing. Remember those anacondrai warriors? How they totally beat all of us, powers or not?"

"Well, they were hard to forget." Jay shivered. "But what does it have to do with anything?"

Griffin played with his thumbs for a few moments, silence slowly growing awkward.

"It's embarrassing," he finally said. "I know i could do better. They weren't as fast as me, just really really fast. I've never fought someone like that so I just... kind of froze when one managed to grab me. Like, no one ever did before! I didn't know what to do! So... yeah." He stepped from side to side. "I have an idea how to work on that. Will you help me?"

Jay winced, no doubt also remembering how close that fight was.

"I get it man, I do. But what do you want from me? You don't even like me! Why would ask me for help?"

"I think you're pretty annoying and obnoxious, that's not the same!" The ninja puffed up like an angry bird. Kind of cute. "Besides, you guys and your spinning stuff is like, the closest thing to my speed I can find that won't kill me! Probably." He pointed finger guns at Jay, who looked more red by a second. "Aaaand, you can throw lighting at me! So I can learn to dodge at high speed." Damn, he looks mad. Urgh, he didn't plan to vex him, that's no good. "And you can train with somebody who doesn't need to run in circles to keep up with your kicks, it's a win-win!"

"Ex-cuse me? Like I would need training to deal with someone like you! But fine, I guess I can make some space in my extremely busy schedule." Jay pulled out a notebook from one of his many pockets and skimmed through it. For what Griffin could see from here, all pages were completely blank. "Thursdays after 15 sounds good?"

"Sure does! Thanks dude!" He pumped his fist up in the air. "See you then!"

And before Jay could say another thing, he sped out, giggling slightly. Mission accomplished!

“And that’s why I don’t use coriander anymore.”

Griffin almost spitted out the drink. He snapped his head around, looking for the source of the scandalous declaration. Finally, his eyes landed on Zane, in the middle of some casual talk with Neuro, Tox and Pale.

He chugged the rest of his soda and run towards them.

"Hey hey, what's going on here? I was summoned by the heresy of the highest order."

They all looked at him confused. Griffin let out a big sigh. Humanity truly was doomed.

"What do you mean you don't use coriander? That's like, the coolest spice!"

Zane eyed him incredulously.

"It does have interesting taste, I'll give you that, but you can't be serious. It goes well with almost nothing, not to mention that the aroma is so intense it can ruin entire meal!"

"You can't be serious!" Griffin started gesticulating. "It goes well with so many things, like soups or cooked vegetables or cheese-"

The argument went on, Zane shooting down most of his arguments, but Griffin found out he hardly minded. It quickly became clear the other was almost as passionate about cooking as he was. It was fun!

"I can't imagine not adding a couple of leaves to dinner."

“If you can’t even phantom enjoying a nice meal with a balanced taste palette then I really don’t see how that’s my problem.”

"Listen, I don't care how much you don't like coriander, there is no good curry without-"

"Guys? Guys! Can you slow down a little?!"

He blinked a few times before the comically slow sentence made sense in his head.

"What are you talking about?"

"That's my line!" Tox gestured between Griffin and Zane. " You were blabbering so fast my ears started bleeding." What?"I think even Jay wouldn't keep up!"

Zane let out a short chuckle.

"Ah, we must have gotten ahead of ourselves. I'm sorry, I didn't want to make your all feel excluded from the conservation."

Ah. So that's what happened, no wonder talking seemed more fluid than normal. Oooops.

"Yeah, sorry guys. But," He turned to Zane. "we have to hang out more. That was the funniest talk I had in ages! Even if your taste in spices is goddamn awful."

White ninja smiled at him

"Sure, I also enjoyed this. But if you are trying to tell me my spices are atrocious when yours-"

Griffin felt the grin forming as all people around them groaned.

"Bullshit."

"I'm just saying; your powers are kinda redundant. I could get anywhere at least as fast as you."

Griffin stuffed the desire to just go and punch Shade through the wall, if only to wipe off his shit-eating smirk.

"That's not the same, you can't even interact with stuff on the way!"

Shade let out exaggerated regretful sigh.

"Ah, you're right. I just can appear practically anywhere I want to without anything stopping me on the way." He looked up at Griffin. "I guess running pretty fast is so much cooler."

Aurgh, you little-

"Race me then jackass."

Shade raised his brow.

"Excuse me?"

"You, me, right here and now. Let's see how 'redundant' my powers are after I kick your butt!" He leaned over the other man. "Or are you all bark and no bite?"

Shade's eyes sparked.

"Bring it on."

Of course it couldn't be exactly right here and now, but nevertheless it didn't take long to organize the race track and some cheerleaders- I mean, spectators and objective judges.

With a few minor setbacks.

("Hey, will you be our referee?"

Jacob turned to him with an expression of pure disbelief. Shade facepalmed.)

But otherwise everything was ready.

Griffin was stretching on the start line, eyeing Shade by his right. Noticing the staring, master of shadows send him another shitty grin.

"Good luck, speedy."

"Eat my dust."

"Guys, everything's ready!" Ash shouted from the side. "Remember, the first one on the finish line wins! No tech, only powers allowed!

Ready!

Set!

Go!"

The last sound didn't even end and Griffin was already rushing forward. Of course he would win, but no point in giving Shade extra time at the start!

Speaking of the man... He glanced around before spotting him.

Griffin gritted his teeth. His opponent was off to the great start too, but unlike him, he didn't need to worry about uneven terrain and sidelining obstacles on the way. So while Griffin had to more or less follow the beaten path, the other could pretty much ignore twists and turns of the road and just jump from shadow to shadow.

He gritted his teeth and picked up the speed. He's not going to lose at his own special thing!

Left, right, jump, jump, right, higher, faster, go go go!

Shifting between rocks and trees, they finally arrived at the last part: the finish line was on the other side of a lake surrounded by rocky hills. Griffin tried to spot the other man again.

Shade waved at him from the top of the mountain.

That little-

Wait, the lake! Maybe instead of running around it, he could run through it!

With that in mind, he braced himself and took a sudden turn. With a side-eye he barely managed to catch Shade's surprised face but it boosted him enough that even when cold water uncomfortably surrounded his ankles, he sped forward, cackling on the wind.

He began to regret it about ten seconds later; his sneakers were not waterproof. His heart skipped a bit when he almost tripped on a floating branch. But even after he managed to compose himself, before water remembered people were not supposed to be running on it, he could already feel his strength sapping away. There was a reason why he usually didn't try that trick.

The finish line was so close! Just a few more seconds!

He slipped.

Griffin took a sharp breath when his foot broke the surface, landing on a muddy bottom and staggered a few more steps before picking up the speed again. Water was slowing him down but he still rushed forward.

With the last burst of power he hurried on the shore and arrived at the finish line a few feet away. Distantly, Griffin registered muted cheers coming from the sides.

Panting and wheezing, he looked back. Shade just crossed the line, significantly more red than gray this time. Despite the air barely making its way to his lungs, Griffin couldn't help but laugh at the face he was making.

"Who's redundant now?"

Shade puffed further and shuffled closer.

Then pushed him in the water.

Griffin, very pointedly, did not screech and did not scramble around and shudder like a wet cat. Did not.

Hunched over, he heard a strange sound, something between choking and gargling. But when he looked up, his eyes widened. Shade was laughing. He... hadn't heard him laugh before. Griffin was so dumbfounded that for a moment he didn't notice the outstretched hand before him. He grabbed it and let Shade help him up. Still choking a little, master of shadows finally answered.

"Yeah, you were right, whatever. I'm not going to apologize for pushing you in, you looked like you needed a cooldown." He shook his head. "But I take back what I said earlier. You beat my butt alright."

"Well, that was one hell of a show! And both of you look like shit now."

Griffin turned around as Skylor and a few others made their way closer. She smiled at them.

"I bet you burned a lot of energy. If you're hungry we can get something to eat."

He suddenly realized that yeah, he was starving.

"I vote pizza!" Jacob shouted.

"Karloff says barbecue."

"Sushi!" screamed Ash.

"Well, does anyone have cash on them? I think you forgot where we can eat for free-"

"Sky-gal, I love you, but we can't just eat noodles every-freaking-time we meet," Tox argued. "We need some diversity!"

Shade raised his hand.

"Two for pizza!"

Griffin laughed and joined him.

"Make it three!"

#my stufff #katsu writes #secret santa #ninjago #griffin turner #elemental masters #zane julien #jay walker #cole brookstone #shade ninjago #skylor #tox ninjago #ash ninjago #fanfiction #fanfic #ninjago fanfiction

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humongouskittentraveler · 5 months

Text

Hello readers, I am your narrator for this story you will be reading.

Zulkon Stories: A Shapeshifting boy

Today you shall see what life is like on this mysterious planet called Zulkon prime, the first you'll shall see is about a boy who was at the wrong place at the wrong time we cut to a huge city called Z Central, the main city of Zulkon prime, a place of peace and quiet and friendliness, but sometimes looks can be deceiving.

The city has its fair share of corrupt people and some are just after one thing and that's munny. No matter where you go money talks even in the deepest of space. We all have things that require cash to survive but some need it more than others.

We now take our attention to a boy, a boy who is barely surviving in this city. He's tried getting jobs so he can use munny to buy some food but no one would take him or he would stay long enough to get paid, the reason for this is because he is not human but a shapeshifter.

The shape shifters are rare and considered very special to some people, they can either be born naturally or made artificially and the boy sadly was artificial.

He was just a human boy living a normal life with his parents but one day seemingly after his parents death he was taken, his house burned to the ground and someone covered it up as a gas leak.

The poor boy was experimented on for years until he escaped and now he tries desperately to keep the white coats off his trail. Most of his childhood went to being some guinea pig.

As he finished reminiscing he noticed a glimpse of light shine off the ground near a garbage can. He takes a closer look and sees it's a credit piece ( roughly 10 USA dollars if you want the math) and as he pockets it he bumps into the trashcan and hears a distinct sound *clink* He thought it was some broken glass in it but he couldn't help but look in the somehow freshly clean trash can and finds about 50000 munny in it.

He couldn't believe it, who in their right mind would throw this much munny away? He looked around for something to put it all in and found a cloth bag. He was surprised how little space was used in the bag and how light it still was, he tied it around his waist and began to walk to his original stop; the iceberg motel.

As he heads closer to his destination he couldn't help get a chill up his spine, he looks around but no one is staring at him specifically.

Instead of heading straight to the motel he decided to walk a little longer, as he walked the sensation didn't go away, he was being followed and he was trying to find a way to get away from whatever is following him.

He soon walked by an alleyway and saw his chance to get away.

The boy starts running, he turns his head around to see what he's running from, it looks like something beastial in nature, it's gaining on the boy who now approaches a wall just about 10ft tall.

The boy then started to stretch to surpass the walls height and just barely got over it, he looks back to see if his pursuer was still on him but he saw nothing nor heard nothing, he got closer to the wall to get an idea of what happened to him, he found a hole he could peek through and as he looked through it he saw... Nothing.

He breathes a sigh of relief, and as he turns around he was hit, knocking him about ten feet away from his attacker nearly hitting the wall, he looks up to see the man that was chasing him, now with a better look he looks boar like in appearance, his eyes seething with anger, the boar was pissed and wants to express his anger on our young friend here.

The boar says "who the bloody hell do you think you are!?" The boar then holds him by the collar of the boys shirt which has a name tag *theo*. He then says " That was about 50000 credits you stole from me you wankah!" Theo was quiet, could he be referring to the munny he found in the trash earlier? "Oh a wise guy eh, well let's see how smart you are after I beat you to a bloody pulp!"

The pig takes a swing for Theo's head but misses. Theo was able to break free from his grip and continued to run from the boar and was able to lose him in a crowd of people.Theo kept running, thinking if he stopped he would die, he already had the scientists to worry about now he has to deal with some pig person.

He got out of the crowd and tried his best to hide, he hid in a box he saw and now waits, footsteps and mumbling can be heard and they just got louder. "This is it, I'm going to die aren't I?" Theo whispered to himself holding back tears. The mumbling stops but the footsteps just get louder as the pig gets closer, Theo holds his eyes shut. But the footsteps are now getting more quiet and becoming distant. Theo waited a few more minutes to make sure he was gone to get out of the box. Theo wipes away anything that might be stuck to him and proceeds to walk out of the alley. A noise startled him and turns around to see only a cat near a tipped over garbage can.

"You got some nerve thinkin you can run from me." A familiar voice behind Theo spoke up, before he could turn around he was punched at the back of his head sending him to the floor. The pig grabs him by the throat and holds him up in the air, Theo, struggling to breathe tries to break the grip but nothing is working, he's beginning to lose consciousness. "I'll be sure to take back my money from your corpse." The pig said with anger, Theo's tears were pouring down his face, his ears going deaf, his vision start going dark. He still tried to free himself but failing miserably.

Before the boar could do anymore he was hit by the side of his head with a baseball bat, dropping Theo, the boar backed up before the he was hit in the kneecaps buckling down on his side groaning in pain on the ground, above him stands a woman holding a baseball bat, her hair white as snow with hints of red on the side, her face showing little emotion except her destain over this pigs actions, Theo, still coughing but also surprised by this woman's actions was thankful he didn't die today "What the f- YOU. You're that rich bitch aren't ya" the pig says, still trying to figure out what just happened. "So what if I am, what's your excuse for beating up this kid?" She says with a hint of anger. " THAT LITTLE BASTARD STOLE MY MUNNY!" The boar says while pointing at Theo. She then looks at Theo, who is looking downwards at this point looking ashamed, his face still drenched from all the tears he finally speaks up with his quiet voice "I'm sorry." He says while sounding like he's about to cry. " I didn't mean to take it, I didn't know it belonged to anyone. I just didn't have any on me so I had to try and find some, but no matter how hard I try no one wanted to hire me.” he said, still crying softly. "I saw a bunch of credits in a trashcan and I took it, that's when he started chasing me, '' he said, crying less now. "THAT'S A BLOODY LIE!" The boar shouted, Theo flinched from the outburst. "Little bastard stole it out of my pocket and I was just trying to get my hard earned munny back!" He said while trying to stand up but the woman pushed him back down with her foot. "Steven porkins, notorious thief and scoundrel , and cannibal from what I've heard, but most importantly a terrible liar." she says while holding him down with just her leg. "Yeah what of it?" Steve says while trying to play cool, "You think you can talk your way out of this your *dead* wrong." She said emphasizing the Dead part. "If I ever see you around this kid again, I WILL KNIT YOUR INTESTINES INTO A SWEATER!" She screams into the boar's face who is now terrified.

Steve is running out of the alley tail between legs, she looks at Theo again and then says " what's your name?". "Theo" he says with hesitation, "My name's Vanessa, but you can call me Vee" Vee says with a smile, Theo looks happy. " You can stay at my place if you want, I got food, water, whatever suits you" she said with a reassuring smile. "That would be nice." He says while hugging her. They walked out of the alley together, Vanessa can't help but feel sorry for Theo, being alone for so long must have been hard for him, Theo looks young compared to her. "Is something the matter? Theo wondered why Vanessa was staring at him, then asked "Do you have any family members you know of?" Theo was silent, trying to think of a proper answer to Vanessa's question. " I.... Don't know." Theo sounds sad when he says those words. Vanessa thinks for a moment and says "we'll cross that bridge when we get to it" with a smile trying to reassure him that everything will be okay. As they walk Theo stops for a moment, "what's wrong?" Vanessa asks. Theo looks embarrassed as he holds out his hand. "can.. I hold your hand please?" Theo stuttered. Vanessa stared at him then started to laugh, Theo is as red as a tomato at this point, more embarrassed than ever before. Vanessa grabs his hand gently, Theo is silent once more trying to process what is happening. "Whatever makes you happy little dude." Vanessa said with a smile, Theo is practically beaming with happiness when she said that and at this point he's thanking her profusely. They walked the rest of the way home with Theo holding Vanessa's hand tight, never wanting to let go.

Fin

Vee and Theo had rainbow sherbert afterwards while Steve got arrested for tax evasion.

I like what I did with this story, and the character's hold a good place in my heart so enjoy this story as you will

#original story #first post #constructive critism welcome

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bastillia · 2 years

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iv. Better Be Quick

Part 4 of Loyalties Lie (1, 2, 3)

Read on AO3

Summary: What was supposed to be a regular day becomes more than you bargained for, thanks to Boba Fett.

Rating: M (fic is Explicit)

Words: 4.9k

Warnings: None.

A/N: Thank you to @kylorengarbagedump for constantly cheering me on every time I think I’ve lost my ability to write forever. Literally couldn’t have finished this without your support. Sorry I’ve been gone forever y’all but please enjoy! 💛

***

Dawn melts across the walls of Capital City, as quiet and calm as your steps on the pavement below. The season is hovering on the verge of change—you can feel it in the chill of the air as you emerge from a shadowed street and into the light of the central market square.

You draw a breath and release a cloud of glittering fog. A smile touches your lips. The air is cold, but laden with scents of spiced root tea and fresh baked tuber pies that warm you right down to your toes.

A steady stream of people have already gathered, flowing and eddying between market stalls, stirring the quiet with a hum of chatter. Morning fog still hovers, steeped in sunlight and shedding a pale golden glow over the plaza just bright enough to soothe the bite of frost in your cheeks.

Your feet begin to carry you across the square while you enjoy the emerging sun and run through your mental checklist of items to gather. You’re in no hurry. Market day is bliss–your own little slice of freedom at the end of each week. Here, there’s no scrutiny: no bar to tend, no eggshells to walk on. Just existence out here at the very end of your tether, where you can feign something like independence for a few precious hours.

A fountain arcs in the center of the square, now host to a small gathering of children. They giggle and lean over the edge, then erupt into shrieks when water sprays their faces. The herd scatters, weaving around your knees, and you lift your basket to avoid bonking any little heads in the fray.

But one overzealous tot smacks straight into your knees and stumbles backwards, plopping down on the tiled duracrete. The tiny Rodian’s face falls as she looks up at you, devastation pooling in her big, starry eyes. You’re quicker, though, swooping down to her level and pulling her to her feet.

“Whoa! You okay?” You straighten her fluffy hat back over her antennae and look her over. It’s clear she’s unhurt, but you let concern linger for just a moment, before cracking a grin and spinning her by the shoulders. “Everything still attached?”

She breaks into giggles as you spin her back around to face you, and gives a shy nod. You wink.

“Better go catch up, then.”

Glee beams across her little face, and she races off once more to rejoin the pack. A person you can only assume to be her guardian gives you a grateful wave from several paces away. You smile back as another spout of laughter bursts from the group of kids. Something tugs at your heart.

At their age, laughter was foreign to you. By then, you were already learning to sneak and steal, finding the best furnace vents to sleep under for warmth on these very same streets. You’re glad they’ll never have to know that life. Glad that they each have someone who will care when they’re hurt, keep them warm and fed, with no cruel-faced officers in pressed uniforms to come and rip that away from them.

You swallow a pang of sadness, and shake it away. It doesn’t matter. The Empire is gone, now. Anyway, you shouldn’t be so ungrateful–your circumstances could have been far worse. At least Dakk eventually found you, scrappy little criminal that you were, and took you in before you could get into any serious trouble. He put a roof over your head; taught you how to work for your keep, rather than beg and thieve. You at least owe him thanks for that.

A beeping noise in your earpiece tugs you back to the present. Speak of the void.

Why the hell is Dakk even calling? It’s too early for him to be up, let alone nagging you about your errands already. Your brows knit. Maybe he forgot to add jogan fruit to the list. He should know that you always pick it up anyway–it’s his favorite, after all.

Shifting your basket to the other arm, you reach up and tap your ear.

“Don’t worry, Dakk, I’m not going to forget–”

“Your manners, this time.”

Your insides lurch at the sound of Boba Fett‘s voice. Only when a few puzzled glances shoot your way do you realize that you just whirled around faster than a spooked fathier in the middle of the square. And now you’re panting, eyes shifting as if he might appear behind the nearest corner. You clear your throat and smooth your cowl. Cheeks on fire, you duck your head and resume your course, hoping your voice sounds more composed than you feel.

“Is it always going to be like this with you?”

You set your intent on a cluster of market stalls on the far side of the square.

“I need you to do something.”

The words roll easily through soft static, but you can hear his smirk. Bastard. You manage a slightly pained looking smile-and-nod as you pass a merchant, waving at you from behind a display lined with carved stone figurines. You force your pace down to a stroll. Approaching the next colorful canopy, you lower your voice.

“You know I don’t work for you, right?”

You stop in front of the stall, meeting the vendor’s eyes and offering a smile in greeting. He returns it, before glancing down bashfully.

“There’s a package arriving at the harbor spaceport. 0800, hangar nine. Pick it up for me.”

Your hand floats over a barrel brimming with purple fruit, letting his words bounce off a wall of indifference. It would seem Fett has lost his ability to hear you now, anyways. Why he thinks you should agree to run his errands is beyond you.

Adrenaline has eased its way out of your chest now, allowing bravery to inhabit the vacant space. Waking up that tiny proclivity for gambling on dangerous odds, especially when your opponent is a notorious-killer-turned-crime-lord. You pick up a ripe jogan and turn the fruit in your fingers.

“Mm. I’m busy.”

A thrill tickles your belly. He’s making this far too easy for you.

“I’ve wired fifty thousand credits to your account.”

The jogan drops into the barrel with a thud.

“What?”

Multiple heads turn. Your face contorts into a pained smile, palms turning out in an apologetic gesture. You point to your comm, as if that explains anything, before giving up and darting down an empty alleyway.

“What the fuck, Fett? You can’t just–how–how did you even–” Your mind is racing far too quickly for your words to catch up. Only one clear thought stabs right through the chaos. “Dakk will notice.”

“Then you’d better be quick.”

There’s that smirk in his voice again. The karking son of a gundark—

“I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your effort.”

“No!” You screw your eyes shut and shake your spinning head. “I mean, you—you can’t send me money.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His voice dips into that graveled register, and heat erupts through your face. “You already know the code phrase. You’ll hear from me when you’ve secured the package.”

Static whispers, and the comm goes dead. Blinking, you turn and press your back to the duracrete wall.

You’re so fucked.

And stupid. Yes, you are incredibly stupid for playing this game with Fett, and now you’ve gone and earned yourself an equally stupid prize, and one on a time limit to boot. You need to get rid of those credits before Dakk wakes up.

A curse flies out from under your breath. What the fuck is Fett buying on Lothal with fifty thousand credits?

You hold a button on your cuff and a tiny holoprojection blinks to life. 0743. Barely enough time to walk to the spaceport. A deep breath hisses through your teeth.

Fuck it.

***

By the time you arrive, the harbor port is thrumming with life. Huge docking bay doors line the center row, the main runway opening to the glittering sea beyond. Freighters sit nestled in their hangars, pregnant with goods from every corner of the galaxy, while boats bearing trade from Kothal and Jalath glide lazily into the harbor. Pilots, sailors, and couriers mingle, chatting idly over their exchanges while repulsorlift chains link together and join the flow of crates in and out of the port, snaking in neat lanes like Coruscant traffic.

Smaller hangars jut away in two rows from either side of the center hub. They host far less activity; you can only see a few jumpsuit-clad pilots strolling towards the bustling harbor center.

Just as your eyes scan down to one end, a small black ship curves into view and hovers, like a carrion bird, drifting down into the farthest bay at the end. You check the time. 0758.

Glancing around, you find a simple directory that outlines the three rows of hangar bays, each marked with its corresponding number. You search it briefly, only to confirm what your flayed nerves already suspect—your courier awaits you at the deserted hangar, in the carrion ship.

Pulse in your eardrums, your feet suddenly go leaden, as if trying to fuse you to the dock. Some last-ditch effort by your subconscious to keep you from doing something catastrophically stupid.

Somewhere in the deafening rush of blood, you manage to hear that your commlink is chirping again. Your finger finds the receiver under your sleeve.

“Okay, I’m here.”

“Lose the attitude,” Dakk’s groggy grumble responds. “And don’t forget the jogans.”

Shit.

“I…” Say something, you idiot. “I won’t forget.”

“Gonna be doin’ the books today.” A rustling sound comes over the line. “I’d better not find any more discrepancies in your account.”

Panic laces your throat, draws it closed in a snare. You try to swallow. It won’t budge.

“I’m sorry, Dakk. It won’t happen again.”

He grunts. The comm goes dead.

The lead evaporates from your feet.

You launch into a half-sprint toward the hangar, periphery a blur. In your haste, you manage to shoulder-check a mustached pilot strolling the opposite direction, jumpsuit rolled down to his waist.

“Sorry!” you sputter.

The man wheels to you in surprise. His hair has grayed, and his eyes are kind, and you’re out of time.

“No worries, can I help you find somethi—“

“I know where I’m going!” Void above, at least try to act natural. “Sorry, uh, th-thank you very much.”

It’ll have to suffice. You resume your course, trying not to break into a full run. The last thing you need is to draw attention while you do… whatever this is.

Finally, you reach the end of the row and approach the last hangar door, taking a moment to peer behind you.

The dockway is empty, your commlink mercifully inert. The only sounds that you can hear are the pounding in your own skull, the waves lapping against metal farther down at the boat docks, and…

Footsteps.

A faint rhythm approaching from within the hangar. Your gaze shifts up to the large, rust-eaten number “9” bolted above the heavy door to the control room.

Here goes.

You already know the code phrase.

Fett was fucking mistaken about that. There’s no way you won’t royally fuck this up. But at this point, you’re probably fucked either way. It doesn’t matter. You take a deep breath.

Metal grinds, and the door swings open.

Before you stands a tall, sharp-eyed woman in a uniform. It’s not the typical jumpsuit of the cargo pilots you’ve grown used to seeing. In fact, the top looks like a salvaged Imperial tunic, its collar slackened, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. An insignia you don’t recognize is stitched where the rank badge should be.

Her eyes narrow, pierce right through you and strip you bare as they fall down your figure and back up. Heat pools in your cheeks.

Who talks first?

Do you talk first?

“Never did like this port.” The woman finally says, her eyes locking to yours and not leaving. “Full of vermin.”

Somewhere, deep in the stalled gears of your brain, a neuron fires.

Of fucking course he would.

“It’s not so bad,” you manage to return. “Hard to be scared of a little mouse.”

The woman gives a slow nod, gaze unbreaking. Then she turns to the side, receiving a handoff from someone you can’t see. Sweat pricks your spine despite the cold.

She turns back to you and presents a small, sleek box. You stare back dumbly, your brain taking an excruciatingly long moment to produce a reaction. When you finally extend a hand for the item, she snaps it back again.

“Uh. Right.”

What kind of idiots does Boba Fett send to do his business? That surely is what this woman must be thinking as she reaches back and produces a data pad, passing it to you across the threshold. The screen is open to a credit transfer. Hands trembling and cheeks ablaze, you authorize the 50,000 credits and hand it back like it’s about to electrocute you.

For a breathless moment, she scours the screen. And then she whisks the data pad behind her, exchanging it for the box again. Before you can reach for it, she tosses it to you. And by some Force-willed fucking miracle, you don’t completely fumble the catch.

Hands still trembling, you slip the package into your basket, under a piece of the canvas lining and out of sight.

“Tha–”

The door slams in your face.

Alright.

Alone on the dockway once more, air fills your lungs for what feels like the first time since you set foot in the market this morning. It’s shaky on the exhale, but some of the vibration in your brain quiets with it. You take a moment to turn back to your surroundings, the basket feeling ten pounds heavier on your arm.

This side of the port is still sparsely populated. A repulsorlift driver pauses to exchange words with two pilots casually chatting a few hangars up from you, then steers back toward the main hub. Your fingers find your cowl, drum the edge of your basket.

Boba said you’d hear from him. So… what now? Stay here and wait? Leave before someone realizes how painfully out of place you look and questions you? Your eyes scan up and down the row, as if a clue might be hidden amongst the buildings on the far side.

And then you see it.

It’s so quick, you could almost mistake it for a trick of the morning light—a reflection on the gutters high above the street leaving an imprint in your retinas. But no, what you saw was distinct: a flash of orange and black retreating beyond the edge of the roofline.

Your eyes narrow, scanning for further movement. Static whispers in your ear.

“Well done, little mouse.”

You blink. Then scoff.

“Yeah, very clever.”

Are you being watched? Fuck, are you actually going crazy? There’s still no sign of movement on the rooftops.

Maybe it was nothing.

Fett chuckles. “That you were.”

Your eyes roll, finally breaking away from the skyline. An anxious pang spears you again—Dakk will be looking at the accounts any second.

“You need to make that transaction disappear.”

“It’s taken care of.”

You ignore a ripple of heat in your lower belly. Stay focused.

“Mind at least telling me what I have? And what the hell I need to do with it?”

“I’m sending you coordinates. My associate will meet you there.”

Your heart drops, a stone to cool your insides.

“So your ‘associate’ couldn’t have just… picked this up themselves?” More ice slips into your voice than you intend, but you can’t help it. With everything that’s already happened, the walls of your emotional fortitude are starting to chip.

“There is much you still do not understand. I’m relying on your discretion.”

You swallow against the withering feeling that drapes you. Some things never change. Maybe this is all you’ll ever be–a piece in someone else’s dejarik game, only fit to serve your small purpose and nothing more.

“Fine,” you clip back. “Send the coordinates.”

There’s a pause on the line, and it cuts off again. Maybe he didn’t expect you to concede so easily. Or maybe he’s finally regretting his decision to assign you this task. With a sharp shake of your head, you refocus on the message blinking to life on your wrist.

You study the coordinates for a moment, and then set off, back up the hangar row and out onto the street outside the port. The location he sent is familiar to you–in the industrial district, a former Imperial production facility that now sits abandoned.

As you walk, your mind begins to roil, building up to a seething tide. Crashing, deafening waves of spite and curiosity force your focus back to the weight on your arm.

You should do what Fett asks. It could be dangerous for you to know what the item is. Deadly, even. You’re swept up in forces now that you can hardly begin to understand, and you know it. But that riptide has already wrenched you from your comfortable shelter, cast you into new depths, and now you have to figure out how to swim.

And if you’re going to do that, you also have to know what’s lurking in the water.

The moment you make it to a quiet street, you dart behind a corner and meld with shadow. If Fett is bringing you in, then he’s bringing you in. Before you can overthink your decision, you snatch the tiny box from its hidden spot in the lining of your basket and unclasp the fastenings.

Something small and cylindrical lies within, obscured in a swaddle of delicate cloth. Gripping one edge, you roll it out until a tiny cylinder drops into your palm. Your brows draw together.

All of that, for a little piece of metal? No, a 50,000-credit piece of metal that nearly caused you at least three heart attacks already?

You huff, roll up the device and shove it back into its box. Fett was right, there is much you don’t understand.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t do anything about that.

New determination fueling your steps, you set off again, this time veering from your course. It’s not like you were given a time limit, or very much information at all, for that matter. Fuck it. Boba Fett isn’t the only one with contacts.

After a short walk, you approach a small droid repair shop just outside the main city center. The sign still hangs a little crooked, but the stoop is meticulously swept. You step up to the door and push it open.

The same little chime announces your entrance. An Ithorian faces away from you behind the counter, hunched over a workbench. She turns as you step in, and then her tall face lights up.

She squeals your name and darts around the counter, closing the distance and throwing her arms around you. All at once, the swarm of nerves that has been migrating around your insides all day melts to stillness. A laugh bubbles up and you wrap your arms around her in return.

“Hey, Tau.” You squeeze her tighter. “It’s been way too long.”

“You don’t say!” Her translator collar morphs delighted, guttural grunts into Basic. She pulls back after a few moments, grasps your hands and begins to drag you toward her workbench. “I have so much to show you. K-C2R is almost done, I just need to get a hold of a positronic transisto–hey, is everything okay?”

She snaps back around to face you, gripping you by the shoulders and searching your face. You feel your cheekbone tingle, even though the bruise there has mostly faded.

“It’s been, like, forever since I’ve seen you. With everything going on, I was getting worried something happened.”

An inexplicable lump suddenly rises in your throat. Maker above, you wish you could just tell her everything right now. But you can’t endanger her like that. You clear your throat.

“Tau, I was actually hoping you could help me with something.” You set your basket down on the counter and pull out the box. “I can’t stay long, but I promise I’ll explain everything later.”

You roll the metal cylinder out of its cloth wrapping and hold it out to her. Her inquisitive stare flicks to your open palm, and you could swear she almost short-circuits.

“No kriffing way.” She plucks it from you and inspects it closely, rotating it and checking every tiny crevice with each eye.

You lean forward.

“What is it?”

Her gaze snaps back to you, and she scampers to the front door to slot the lock into place.

“Follow me.”

Tau snatches your hand and whisks you behind her workbench, past the slumped KX-series security droid and through a door to the back room. She shuts it behind you and punches two switches on the wall. The lights flicker on, an entire wall of screens and panels humming to life.

“This…” She waggles the cylinder in front of your nose, “is a data spike.” She scurries over to a computer station and hops into the chair. “Do you know what’s on it?”

“No idea.” You follow her, taking in the impressive array. “Can you find out?”

“Pfft.” She twirls the spike between her fingers and sticks it into a terminal. “Who do you think I am!”

Grinning, you yank up a chair to sit behind her. Long rows of symbols scroll across the screen. Tau taps a few keys, and the computer responds with a new stream of information.

You blink. This stuff makes your head spin.

“So where have you been lately, anyway?” Tau scans the rows of jumbled code as she speaks. “You know I go Loth-bat crazy in here with no one to talk to.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” You sigh, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes. “Dakk’s had me so busy. You know how he gets.”

She puffs out a throaty sigh.

“Tell me about it. Gavic pretty much has me running this place on my own lately. He’s been offworld ever since that big shipment got hit. Apparently the bosses went, like, totally ballistic over it. HQ was blowing up our comms for days.”

Something flashes across the screen. It fritzes into static. Tau pauses with a frown, presses a few buttons, then gives the screen a solid whack. The display stabilizes.

“How is Brondakk taking it?” Her fingers start to fly, clicking staccato rhythms across the keyboard. “He was overseeing that job, right?”

“Yeah, he was.” Your pulse thumps in your cheekbone. “He… didn’t take it well.”

She sighs, shooting you a quick, sympathetic look before resuming.

“You know, if he’s being an asshole, you can always come and crash…” She trails off, hands growing still.

You lean forward and search the jumbled symbols, but as always, none of it makes any sense to you. Tau’s eyes go huge.

“Hey where did you say you got this thing again?”

“Oh, um. Dakk gave it to me, I’m supposed to be delivering it to someone. I just really wanted to know what it was.”

She starts to vibrate.

“This is so insane. I’m pretty sure this thing could hack, like, any communications array in the galaxy and it would be totally untraceable.” She searches the stream of gibberish now flowing across the screen. “I wonder what they’re planning.”

“Me, too.” Your heart picks up rhythm in your chest, nerves retaking flight in a flutter of razored wings. Tau lets out a devious giggle. Her fingers zip across the keys. The computer emits a few trills.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a copy.” She shoots you a wink.

Your jaw drops.

“You can do that?”

“Duh!” She rolls her eyes playfully. “I mean, it won’t be perfect, this encryption is ridiculously complex. But I should be able to preserve most of the functionality in the duplicate.”

Your mind starts to oscillate, excitement and apprehension setting off on a neck-and-neck race.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” she gives a rueful laugh. “But I might never get my hands on this kind of tech again. Who knows when it could become handy.”

“Who knows when it could become trouble.”

She swivels her chair around to you then, her face growing solemn. Duplicate lines of code continue to split and organize themselves across the screen behind her.

“Look, I know the risks. But… ” She sighs, an internal battle playing across her long, kind face. “It’s like, if we never risk anything, where will we end up, you know? I can’t accept that I’ll be here forever.” She takes your hand, a plea forming in her eyes. “Haven’t you ever thought about getting out?”

That look eats a hole through your chest, opens it up and nestles itself there. The edges of your careful ward start to crumble, that lump rising back into your throat.

All this day has done so far is make you feel more alone than ever. And now you’re faced with your only friend, perhaps the one person in the whole galaxy who could ever come close to understanding how you feel.

And you’re lying to her.

“Tau…” You squeeze her hand in your own, drawing a sharp breath. “I didn’t get this from Dakk. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself wrapped up in, but it’s big.” Her eyes widen. “I can’t say much–”

“Then don’t.” She plucks the spike from the terminal and presses it back into your palm, her eyes brimming with hope. It nearly shatters your heart. “I get it. Look, whatever it is, just know I’m on your side. I want to help.”

Warmth blooms through you, a sensation that almost bursts you from within. You pull her into a hug.

“Thank you.”

She squeezes you, giving your back a few quick rubs. As hard as you’ve been trying to fight them, tears finally spill. You wipe your eyes, recomposing yourself.

“I really need to get going.”

“Go!” Tau jumps up and pulls you back into the main shop. “Just be safe, and promise you’ll keep me updated.”

You nod, and just as you’re about to exit, realization hits you like a speeder.

“Oh! That reminds me.” You pull your sleeve up to reveal your commlink. “Got the one you told me about.”

Tau makes a delighted noise.

“Fuck yeah, finally!” She raises her wrist to yours, and both commlinks beep. She puts her hands on your shoulders, beaming at you one final time.

“Okay, get out of here. Don’t meet any handsome strangers without me.” She ushers you out the door. “And call me later, you bitch.”

“I promise!” You both erupt into giggles, and she shuts the door.

Satisfied and re-energized, you set off.

The rest of the walk to the industrial district goes without incident. You know these streets well enough to shave a few minutes off the walk–and you do, hoping to cover for your detour.

When you reach Fett’s coordinates, you’re unsurprised to find yourself alone. Sighing, you find an old crate against the wall of the building and hop up to sit on it. You scan up and down the alley, thumping your heels against the weather-worn metal.

Nothing.

Until a feminine voice emanates from the walls themselves, wrapping you in a noose of dark silk.

“You’re late.”

A chill settles on the back of your neck. You shrug it away.

“Yeah, well, no one exactly bothered to provide me a time frame,” you say to the empty street, standing back up.

Two feet hit the ground behind you. You whirl.

A small woman stands before you, clad in an angular black tunic with orange detailing. Dark eyes pin you from behind the slitted visor of a helmet, and you have to swallow a pang of realization. The top half of her helmet is painted vivid orange, and from beneath it, a long black braid drapes over one shoulder.

That was no trick of the light earlier. Your heart picks up pace again.

She extends one petite, gloved hand toward you, palm up. You hand over the box and she wrests it open, unspooling the data spike from its silken swaddle.

Seriously? What’s the point of assigning you this stupid errand if they can’t even trust you to follow through?

Your stare is stony when the woman’s eyes find yours again. Her own expression is unreadable under the helmet, but she rolls the spike back up and straps it to a holster on her belt. Without another word, she leaps, catches a pipe on the wall and swings up onto the roof, out of sight.

“Talkative bunch,” you mutter to yourself, swathed once again in the solitude of peeling duracrete walls.

Kicking a stone down the street, you start to head back the way you came. There’s no use dwelling on whatever the fuck this day has become. You suppose that if Boba Fett decides to find another use for you, you’ll know about it.

All he has to do is attach another set of strings and make you dance.

You kick another stone, harder this time. It clatters and echoes along the deserted alleyway.

Whatever. You already mourned your agency a long time ago. This shit is nothing new.

In the meantime, you still have groceries to gather.

And a promise to keep.

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett smut #star wars fanfiction #loyalties lie #my works

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tenebraevesper · 2 years

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Sonic the Hedgehog Analyzer, Issue #42: Zeti Hunt (Part 2)

When we left off in the last Issue, the Zeti had managed to gather and lure Sonic and Team Chaotix away from the Restoration HQ in an attempt to break into the place and destroy it. So, let’s see how the Restoration will handle being under attack and what their plan for the Zeti is.

We start off with Jewel basically having a zoom meeting with Team Chaotix, Tails and Sonic to go over their plan on how to handle the Zeti. Team Chaotix is currently in Sunset City. Tails is at his workshop at Central City, working on something. Sonic is at Winterburg, chilling on a couch with hot cocoa in hand.

Jewel asks Vector to brief them all on the situation, with Vector explaining that they figured out that the Zeti are attacking all the towns they attempted to control during the Zombot Fiasco (yeah, considering how many times I used the term, I figured I might as well continue with it), so since two towns are left over, the Chaotix and Sonic will attempt to ambush them. As for Tails, he has been working on something.

He presents everyone the Zeti Zapper, a device that turns their own electro-magnetic powers against them. It would disable them, allowing for easy capture and transport aboard the Zeti Launcher, which is basically a rocket that would sent them back to Lost Hex, never to be seen again.

Jewel is a bit worried that they might remove the Zappers or take control of the rocket, but Tails assures her that he built in safe-guards, so the toughest part would be to take everyone down.

Sonic tells Jewel to trust Tails and that things will be fine. However, despite his reassurances, Sonic appears to be worried. He notes how he had just saved Winterburg from Eggman and how he’s not going to let the Zeti destroy it. He thinks about how hard everyone worked to rebuilt everything and how they just want to forget the Zombot Fiasco, but it is hard with the likes of Eggman and Zeti around; and he’s also hoping the Babylon Rogues won’t try to create any trouble, or worse, that Starline might make another return.

Honestly, it is obvious that, despite his seemingly carefree attitude, Sonic tends to worry a lot. Sure, the greatest (most recent) crisis is over and the missions he had afterwards were on a smaller scale, but any of his enemies might cause trouble once again and destroy what the Restoration had just fixed. People just want to move on with their lives, but it is not possible when there are villains running around trying to undo their hard work.

Speaking of Starline, he’s at Emeraldville Ruins, right at the entrance to the Restoration HQ. After his defeat at White Park (which he himself was responsible for, the idiot), he decided to find Belle, geeking out over her design and construction, calling her an unique creation.

Okay, I can’t stay mad at this guy. Just look at the panel above, he is totally excited to have seen a completely unorthodox creation of his idol and wants to learn more about it. Admittedly, it is also a bit creepy because... well, this IS Starline we’re talking about and I doubt Belle would agree to be studied by him.

Anyways, he has figured that Belle is in Restoration HQ, and he notes how he can use the Tricore to storm it, but that is Eggman’s style, not his. He also notes how he will be identified by everyone, so using the hypno-glove won’t really work. In short, he needs to be stealthy, so he enters the shed, having seen people going inside but not leaving, and deduces that there is a trap door. After finding the correct lever, he notes how he cannot celebrate yet, as he hasn’t the time to establish a good distraction, which cues right into what is going on at the main entrance to Restoration HQ.

Speaking of distraction... Holy Hell! The Zeti really know how to make an entrance!

They basically hijacked a truck, set it on fire and drove it straight into the main entrance, just casually walking inside. That’s pretty badass if you ask me.

Finally at Restoration HQ, they aren’t really impressed by what they see, and Zavok orders them to tear everything down, causing destruction all over the place and beating the security (with Zeena even doing Sonic’s iconic pose from Sonic Adventure; nice reference!). Zavok then gathers them up, saying how they’ll fight the Restoration’s soldiers as one.

Zavok wonders where the rest of the security is, but Zik figures that that’s all, explaining how people here cherish peace (duh, no surprise, they had dealt with a war several months ago), only being disturbed by Eggman’s madness (Ha! You’re right there, Grandpa!), and even then, they’re relying on Sonic and co. to save the day.

Zeena wonders what happens if someone takes their stuff or picks their fight, but Zik continues how they’re to kind and compassionate to do that, which grosses her out. I really, like how the Zeti cannot even comprehend how some people can just be nice to each other. It’s totally alien to them.

Zavok then commands they march right to the heart of their operations and just rip it out.

There is something I have to wonder about. Did it occur to them that, I dunno, someone might actually alert Sonic they’re at the base? I mean, it’s just a thought and a very likely possibility.

Starline witnesses the Zeti’s destruction and is shocked that Zavok is still alive, only to realize that he can use the ensuing chaos to his advantage. While the Zeti terrorize everyone, he can move around freely, but he still has to be careful not to be caught.

While Starline hopes that his enemies will keep each other occupied, we see Jewel, Tangle and Whisper in the main control room, having blocked it off and preparing for the battle. Jewel calls Team Chaotix, Tails and Sonic to tell them that the Zeti are here. Charmy is confused, as they had followed the clues, but Vector has figured that they had been baited and they run off back. Tails has packed up the Zeti Zappers and is most likely to arrive there first, telling Sonic they’ll go inside together. But, Sonic doesn’t answer, much to Tails’ confusion.

As for Sonic?

He’s already en route to Restoration HQ with a rather intense look on his expression. Like, damn, I don’t think I’ve seen him so pissed off since the Zombot Fiasco when he confronted Eggman and Starline.

You mess with Sonic’s friends, you mess with Sonic himself, and Gaia below help you if you make him angry.

Back at Restoration HQ, Zomom has wandered into the machine shop, with the guy in charge and Belle hiding there. Suddenly, Starline appears, hypnotizing Zomom into leaving and is quite surprised it worked so easily. The guy in charge thanks him for saving them, but Belle warns him that Starline is another Bad Guy.

The orangutan is confused, since he just saved them, but Starline quips how he can multi-task and asks him to hand over Belle. The dude refuses, noting how they all look after each other, even if Belle messes up (love how, despite losing his patience with her, he still cares a lot about Belle). Starline is pleasantly surprised to see that Belle is self-actualizing (uh, I think she was always like this) and Belle introduces herself.

Starline tells her how she left an impression on him (and kicked him in the face) and how she’d be pivotal to completing his project and how he will handle her with the utmost respect, seeing her as just another Eggman handicraft rather than a person.

The orangutan dude tells Starline that she isn’t coming with him and is about to knock him over with a pipe wrench, but Starline easily paralyzes him with his heel spurs, explaining to Belle how the next round of toxins will be the end of him and how if they leave right now, he’d be too busy to finish him off. Belle agrees, having no other choice.

Meanwhile, we see Sonic running up to the main entrance, with the guard pointing him inside and Sonic just barely missing Starline and Belle as they go to the elevator. If he just looked to his left as he dashed past, he would’ve seen them.

Meanwhile, Starline is pissed off that the elevator is out of service, but I guess we can thank that to the Zeti, with Belle even suggesting they probably cut the power lines and decides to bail. Starline responds by grabbing her and using the Fly Core to get out.

As for the Zeti, Zomom is currently trying to punch his way through the sealed steel doors, making a little gap which Zavok then attempts to pry open. But before he can open the so-called tomb, Sonic spin-dashes into them.

He then makes comes to a halt, ready to beat them up, while the Zeti are ready to put him into his grave.

This is going to be awesome!

Links:

#Previous Issue

#Next Issue

#Sonic the Hedgehog Analyzer (Masterlist)

#Sonic the Hedgehog Analyzer #sonic idw #sonic the hedgehog #jewel the beetle #vector the crocodile #espio the chameleon #charmy bee #miles tails prower #dr starline #belle the tinkerer #tangle the lemur #whisper the wolf #zavok #zazz #zeena #zor #master zik #zomom

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talesfromsiteredacted · 2 years

Text

Random Things Overheard On Site

Ah, my coworkers. The weird, wacky, wonderful folks who keep the wheels turning. They're a real cast of oddballs, but no one normal ever works at the Foundation, excluding Doctor Glass, of course. Dude's totally got his head on straight, and welded in place. The rest of us... yeah, we're all nuts. Even Site Command has a few loose screws, in Jack Bright's case it's every last blessed one of them. Hold on to your hope, abandon sanity all those who enter here.

On 049:

"Sure, he can kill you with a touch, but at least he'll apologize as it happens, and unlike some people, his hands are clean."

On 076-2:

"Wow. Uh... where were you keeping that axe, buddy?" A pause. "Huh. After training, mind checking over a few weapon designs? I'm doing a new character in D&D."

On the Foundation, to the new hires:

"No, you don't have to be crazy to work here. Clef and Bright will train you in that."

At target practice:

"Come on, ladies! I've seen senior citizens shoot better their first time playing Call of Duty. Eyes on the target, fingers on the trigger. Let's try this once more, with accuracy."

On 053, playing with 682:

"Aw... it's actually really cute how 682 lets her draw flowers all over him."

"Yeah. Remember the 'ballet lessons' last week? Who knew they even made tutus in his size?"

"Not me. Uh, any chance of photos?"

"Sorry, Benji... kinda dropped my camera in the scaly jerk's acid bath."

On 073:

"He's smart, funny, sweet, a total Arabic fox... why not ask him out, Sarah?"

"One. He's an anomaly, and off the approved list. Two, even if I were allowed to date him, isn't he gay?"

"Oh. Yeah. Got a brother?"

On Doctor Gears:

"Can't stop, gotta get the coffee to the Doc."

"He's out? Shit. Caffeine emergency, out of the way people! Do not block the intern, he has Gears' coffee."

On some anomalous weaponry Agent Strelnikof found:

"It took the door out. And the door behind it. And the door behind that door. And half the target range. I think the Insurgency would sooner meet 682 than face one of these guns. And I think both Doctor Clef and I are in love. With the gun."

During a Keter Breach:

"Do you HAVE to follow the anomaly while blasting 'Gangster's Paradise' by Coolio?"

"You'd prefer 'How I Can Just Kill a Man' by Rage Against the Machine?"

"I'd prefer it if you just did your job, Doctor Bright!"

On 079:

"Not sure who's more annoying... the Old Man AI or the homicidal bitch in 'System Shock'"

"Shodan doesn't have 079's sense of humor."

"And neither of them trump the Red Queen in the Andersonverse 'Resident Evil' movies in terms of creepiness."

"Kid AIs are the worst. And she is a creepy little psycho."

During training with 076-2:

"You threw a sword at my head, Abel!"

"But... did you die?"

And... finally, some Multiverse hijinks. A bit of background here: one of the reality warpers pulled a villain, well HE said he was a villain, from a place called Central City in the other universe. He has some ice powers, but... it wasn't Mr. Snart. Nope, we got an incompetent wannabe cryomancer with a stupid name. And... Iris being Iris, she told him off.

"Chillblaine? You call yourself... Chillblaine? Do you even know what a chillblain is? It's a flu symptom. What are ya gonna do, asshole, sneeze on us? Worse, it sounds like a rich spoiled white uni bro trying to get his jerkwad buddy to calm the fuck down. 'Chill, Blaine. She ain't worth it, bro.' Fuck off until you come up with something we can take seriously." Dude looks like he's gonna cry. I look over, and the rest of the team, even Big Brother, are trying not to laugh at this loser. I have no idea who the hell this Flash dude is, but he's got one pathetic nemesis here. Fifty bucks says he couldn't even steal a wallet.

#scp foundation #tales from site redacted

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vickyvicarious · 2 years

Text

I noticed when the zoomed-in version of this paper appeared that it looked like most articles were fully written out, so then I got very curious about what they said! I can read the titles on the bottom half here, but we never get to see the articles more fully: "Public Health Report", "Lost Cat", and "Retrospective". The top does get more detail, however.

Top left (full article)

Ruffians Aim to Intimidate a Man of Justice London's top prosecutor Barok van Zieks's life came under threat again as a group of heavily-armed assailants, brandishing large knives and pistols, ambushed him last night. The sight of the Reaper of the Bailey and his companion valiantly keeping the mob of blackguards at bay was captured by this reporter, who then rushed straight away to the police to report this most heinous of crimes. As host of the Great Exhibition, the city of London can ill afford to have such brutal acts of violence occurring in its streets, and the Lord Chief Justice's Office is sure to have a response to this latest incident. As to Lord van Zieks and his condition? All will be revealed in tomorrow's morning edition!

Bottom left (cut off)

Skeleton Captures Bumbling Burglar A most frightful turn of events visited upon two Pennsylvanian burglars recently as they attempted to rob a town physician's office when the very figure of Death himself appeared to ensnare one of them in its cold and chilling jaws. [...]-ive man in question just so hap- [...] coil spring mechanism [...] causing it to

Middle left (cut off)

Fiery Ball Gown Sets Dance Hall Ablaze An evening of cordial dancing turned into a blazing ball last week when one of the lady attendees' dresses accidentally caught on fire. In her panic at the sudden appearance of flames at her feet, the lady dashed madly about the whole of the [...] igniting no fewer than three [...] -nkfully, the fires [...]

Middle center (cut off)

French Court Hears Glass Eye Case The judge de paix of Neuilly was presented today with a most curious case of a lady who refused to pay her dues for the purchase of one glass eyes. The whole affair began when Madame Pluyette, the defendant, ordered the eye as a replacement for the natural one she has lost. Upon its arrival, she found that she could see no more with it than she could before, and became incensed at the thought of paying for a deficient product. The judge de paix attempted to reason with the madame, [...] the endeavour proved to be en- [...]

Right center (ad)

ALTAMONT GAS COMPANY Clean, dependable, safe Choose Altamont Gas for brighter [...] a brighter tomorrow

Top right (full article)

King Christian VIII Reverses Ruling, Awards Prize to Mitchells In a rather unexpected fashion, King Christian VIII of Denmark issued a proclamation today announcing the results of his careful reconsideration as to who the rightful winner of the prize his father, Frederick VI, offered for the first man to discover any new comet with the aid of a telescope should be. It appears that the winner will not even be a man at all, but rather a young American lady by the name Maria Mitchell of Nantucket, Massachusetts. Though there were multiple competing claims of the new comet's discovery from all nations, including one by British astronomer Mr. William Rutter Dawes, King Christian was swayed by the fervent petition of Harvard president Edward Everett, who urged the Charge d'Affaires of the United States at Copenhagen, "as the fact of Miss Mitchell's prior discovery is undoubted, and recognized throughout Europe, it would be a pity that she should lose the medal on a mere technical punctilio".

Bottom right (not cut off much, but too dark for me to read)

Women Form New Suffragist Group A new suffragist group, the [...] tional Union of Women's [...] Societies, officially [...] formation today. Though there have been groups [...] others claim that [...] -tion of seventeen [...] suffrage [...] Central C- [...] -al Society for [...] they will be [...] and campaigning [...] to be in [...] of all social [...]

Maria Mitchell did in fact see the comet and receive the award in October 1847, and was awarded by the King of Denmark in October 1848. I believe this case is set in September, and I know liberties were pretty freely taken with other dates, such as the length of Natsume's stay in London, which was originally from 1900 to early 1903. I doubt the game has committed to any particular year, but it's surely set closer to then rather than the 1840s.

The suffragist group seems like the National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies, founded in 1897. Of course, that timeline also doesn't match up, but I still love the historical easter eggs. As well as just the amusing stories under some of the other headlines.

(@dance-of-deduction you might enjoy this if you didn't already notice it!)

#tgaa #tgaa spoilers #tgaalb

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m0e-ru · 1 year

Text

Adachi felt the jingle of his keys as he patted his pockets to check for them. But his heartbeat stuttered as he felt something was missing. Had he forgotten something? What could he have dropped?—slipped out of his pocket, he means. But was that thought of any assurance than the last..?

wip of uhhhh. adachy. first month early into the au timeline basically. drafted this as his first dream equivalent ages ago but it ended up as just something i wanted to put out and establish . things. damn imagine if god tried to test your emptiness in the most unreliable and unconventional way possible like okay . “controlled” environment but the scientific method didn’t mean it like THAT

The detective would find himself at the central shopping district frequently as he’d work on his “cases.” Be it finding a petty purse thief or a lost cat—what would you expect in a city surrounded by mountains and hills alike? One would appreciate some creativity in a while, as long as it wouldn’t make more work than it should, that is.

The shopping district… Adachi had made it a landmark for himself of sorts. Some kind of recognizable beacon to return to when he would get lost in the maze that is Inaba city. It had also been awfully rainy that month. Was it a characteristic of the area’s climate? Or simply some power making his days more dreary than they already are? Besides that, it also meant he’d see that colorful character of a gas station attendant more often than he would like. The man would wave at him amidst the soul-sucking rain whenever he and his boss would pass by to canvas the area.

As much as he would get caught up in the employee’s flurry of gossip and well intentioned remarks, akin to the babbling and life story sharing of elderies alike, Adachi had noticed they’ve never had a substantial conversation with one another. Both parties learning just barely enough about each other to even be called acquaintances.

He continued pondering—whining—in his head as he made his way through the night, light raindrops pattering against his yellow raincoat, and his knees getting damp. The season was warm enough he wouldn’t see his breath as he exhaled, yet the rainy evening chill made him shudder as he walked. Along with that chill, he felt the paranoia of being watched. In this hick town? The old folks’ superstitions may have begun to get to him.

He spent his time thinking blankly as his feet led his way back somewhere, hitting puddles over the asphalt. Hands in his pockets as his legs dragged him to… the central shopping district. Of course.

The detective looked upwards with heavy and tired eyes, just enough that water wouldn’t fall onto his face. The dull and washed out yellow and red of one of the only gas stations in the area: Moel Oil… all shone upon by the dim lights of the nearby streetlamps. He always felt that if he stared long enough, the paint would peel in front of his eyes, and a big enough flake of it would fly straight into his face. Adachi already scrunched his face at the thought of it.

The canopy’s lights were off, something unusual for a gas station, yet quite usual for a city like this. Just then, the lights in the convenience store also shut off. Adachi waited for an little longer to see another man leave through the door, then squat down in front of it to lock it. From a distance, Adachi heard the jingle of keys as the man stood up. To which the figure in the dark saw the detective across himself, having seen his silhouette against the streetlamp lights and the falling rain. He greeted the dripping wet detective with a lilt in his voice.

With a hop in his step, he briskly came over and mentioned something he wanted to return to him. That Adachi had dropped something the last time he was at the station. He offered the last of his time on duty to go bring it to him, where he turned heel to the back of the store before he could hear his company could sigh.

They both made their way to the back, and the man in red dashed in the shower, while the one in yellow simply walked in a tired pace. Just past the restroom, the attendant ran up to the backroom door which he swung open as if it hadn’t been locked before. He disappeared inside with a squeak as his wet soles slid against the floor. Adachi didn’t hear a crash, but instead saw a hand pop out of the room which waved around, beckoning him inside.

He was told he could leave his raincoat on just as he was seen hesitating on entering the room, it would just be final mop work anyway. Wouldn’t want to make it more inconvenient for him, because city boys love the convenience of their home.

The room looked cramped. Storage, and even arbitrary boxes were piled high in unorganized chaos. It even covered the doorway to the store counter itself. Maybe that’s why the employee simply decided not to go through the front. Although, it was a bit claustrophobic, really.

There weren’t much lights in the room, besides the streetlamp’s lights behind the firewall which barely flooded inside the room, and the… TV…

The detective scratched his head. He questioned himself if it were midnight… Further questioning himself as to what made him connect such concepts in the first place.

Words slipped out of the attendant’s mouth in his usual fashion as he walked farther into the room. But there was something about them, though. They felt sharp. As what could be taken as insults would simply be awfully blunt statements from an honest man. Then again, Adachi wouldn’t have the best judgment as he yawned widely as the other party spoke. But if he had to admit, some part of that brief moment unsettled him more than it did offend him.

After shuffling through a shallow box in the dark, the attendant turned around and handed the detective his ID. Inaba PD, Tohru Adachi… he must’ve found it easily from the gleam of a shiny new badge.

Just then, he looked up to a similar gleam across the attendant’s teeth. He made a smile wide enough to show his gums, and the words he had spoken felt like

venom.

Did the man insult him? Berate him? Share a secret no one should have known? Whatever the detective had heard, all he saw was that the man kept smiling, and felt his own heart beating. The red he wore was dulled down to a purple, shone upon by the light of the cathode ray TV.

He stepped closer—or Adachi did. Whoever it was, the distance closed. And kept closing. The two colors of a caliginous orange and lilac moving slightly as if he laughed. But it was all silence.

It was at this moment the man in a wet raincoat realized he hadn’t seen this individual’s eyes. And would he have come to regret the decision to answer his curiosity.

As if he tried to squint, to squat, even, just to take a look under that brim. But it’s like the figure grew taller right before him, or he shrunk as small as a pathetic mouse. Was it darkness, or was it light? He wasn’t sure. It was as if all his senses were getting sucked into that view like a black hole, unsure of what he was looking at anymore. Looking into.

Amidst the feeling of losing himself, which felt like getting crushed under deep sea pressure, words continued to ring in his ears. Like they burrowed into head, giving it a texture of clarity, but also a murkiness he couldn’t quite describe. Like his respiratory system was clockwork, it made a profound “tick” inside him. Something he finally heard, something he finally felt.

He wanted to answer this feeling, he needed to answer it. Like the itch before you sneeze, and so desperately he had to sneeze. He wasn’t even sure what it was, if a response to it would hurt anybody—if it would hurt himself. He squeezed the ID in his hand, before a light thump and a muffled squeak was heard against the ground and

He was inside the TV.

His head dipped into the screen as it rippled, leaving visible only that stretched out smile.

“Shut up,” the detective spoke. In a tone he could not discern.

Was it rage? Was it hate? Was it despair? He didn’t know. Did he even speak? All he felt was the heavy heartbeat in his chest keeping him grounded, as he couldn’t even hear himself. Only assuming the words that left his mouth.

He made a silent wish for his senses to return to him, but that, he would also regret once again.

He put this victim further into the screen to get rid of something he couldn’t call a smile anymore. His hands were on this man’s peculiarly cold neck, where his hair also seemed to match. Bleached white by the light of the screen, it wisped around the detective’s fingers and brushed over his knuckles like fog. Just then, what he held felt thinner than it should have been, with a texture that couldn’t be described as human skin at all. Like he was still getting drowned and pushed deeper into the sea by waves. His senses were melting.

He felt frigid hands grasp his own arms now as this “man” tried to fight back. But it was more like it simply held him, in the same nature a mother would caress a child’s face. Until he put more and more pieces together in his head, what latched on him actually felt long and bony, and… critters—pests—slithered into his sleeves. His breath hitched in response to a sensation, which was already unbearable for him as he already felt like drowning.

His own arms were behind the screen, along with the bust of this… thing’s body. He looked into the light of the TV, which felt like it were piercing straight through his eyes, but also light much too dim that he strained them just to see something. Ah, how many decisions would he regret that night.

He felt like he broke the tension of water when his own limbs enter the screen, where the surface rippled like a clogged sink. Rather than pulling something out, he was desperately trying to stuff something in. He squinted and his eyelids fluttered at the sensation of blowing wind, when the air was still as fog just flowed around his ankles from who knows where.

And as if it stared back, two red lights shone through the screen. Like lights of electrical towers in the distance against an sunset. Oh, how he wished it were as elegant as that, when all he felt from it was that it was swirling with something. With madness. With discovery. With amusement.

Like how a voice rang in his head, he heard something echo.

All while he managed to throw a whole body inside a TV. What an absurd statement to utter—to even think about.

He wasn’t sure what that “something” he heard was. He wasn’t sure of anything.

The glow disappeared from the screen. The man had no light to look at the hands he held in front of him and what he’s done. He could laugh, but nothing could come out of his mouth. He couldn’t feel his chest as he exhaled. He couldn’t feel his face wrinkling to this emotion he felt. Was it victory? Was it remorse? All he felt was how the floor finally gave way as everything drowned in darkness. How he drowned into the sea as the tides pulled him under.

#persona 4 spoilers #p4 #gsa sl au #tohru adachi #⛽️🌫#moel gas station attendant #sulululat #latigaux.w #// tumblr pest of social media platforms stopped working on desktop what if i bite somebody #// speaking of it was a fresh reboot of firefox and theres no xkit or ublock i had to physically cover everything with my hands #// anyway this is written for plot reasons i might finish it tonight. or never #// WHOOO water and sea and ocean imagery WHOOO WHOOOOO SHES FREEEEE IM FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

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motownfiction · 7 days

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multiplex

Steph takes a film studies class in her sophomore year at Central. She needs an elective, and this one is related enough to her Art major to count in lots of ways.

The class is pretty cool. Her instructor is young, chews spearmint gum before her lectures, and swears like she’s on a film set. Apparently, it’s not that easy to teach film history at a university when you’re a woman. Steph can imagine why. When she scans the list of directors on the syllabus, they’re mostly men. Always mostly men.

That’s one thing college has taught Steph. There are more than just men out there.

Don’t miss Jill.

It’s even pretty cool to watch silent films. Steph loved the twisty, jagged village of Dr. Caligari and Chaplin’s City Lights. When Sherlock, Jr. went through the silver screen, Steph thought it might be a good idea to join him. It seems like most of the other students in class really hate silent movies, but Steph thinks they have no taste. They don’t understand light and shadow like she does. They don’t know how to be swept up in ambience and piano.

The instructor is frustrated, too. She asks them to name one thing–just one thing–they might have found interesting when they watched Battleship Potemkin. She even admits that she doesn’t love the film, but they have to talk about it.

“If we didn’t watch Battleship Potemkin, I would be failing you, morally, ethically, and personally,” the instructor pleads. “This would be like if you were English literature majors, and you skated by for four years without reading so much as a Shakespearean sonnet.”

More blank stares. They must not read very many sonnets, either. Steph has, though. She remembers the one Jill wrote on a card for her last Valentine’s Day, partially as a joke and partially out of a strange affection (love).

My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun …

Don’t. Miss. Jill.

“Come on,” the instructor says after the silence grows longer than a silent film itself. “I know you’re the multiplex generation, but without Sergei Eisenstein, you might not even have a multiplex to go to!”

Steph likes that word. Multiplex. It feels so modern. Neon. Popcorn and waxy red Coca-Cola cups and hot dogs spinning on a rotisserie. It reminds her of when she and Jill went on their first date last year–the first one they officially called a date, anyway. They saw Pretty in Pink and made good on its title in a bunch of ways all night long. It was the first night in months that not one thought of Sam crossed Steph’s mind. All night long, it was Jill, Jill, Jill, the noncommittal girl who had found something to latch onto. Something called Steph.

Why did she have to go and ruin it? Why did she have to get another roommate for this year? Why did she think they were over, or that the fun was dead? Steph never stopped having fun. But that was just it. When they broke up, Jill told Steph she thought it was getting too serious, like Steph didn’t know how to chill out. She wanted too much of a relationship, and that felt too normal for Jill. Too straight. Steph didn’t know how to tell her that didn’t make any sense to her. After all, she wasn’t straight. She knew that now. How could she be too much of something she wasn’t?

Don’t miss Jill.

Steph raises her hand to talk about the red flag in Battleship Potemkin.

Don’t miss Jill.

#drabble #writeblr #ch: steph armstrong #year: 1986

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dankusner · 11 days

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HOW JOE ROGAN REMADE AUSTIN

The podcaster and comedian has turned the city into a haven for manosphere influencers, just-asking-questions tech bros, and other “free thinkers” who happen to all think alike.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2024

It’s a Tuesday night in downtown Austin, and Joe Rogan is pretending to jerk off right in front of my face.

The strangest thing about this situation is that millions of straight American men would kill to switch places with me.

Centimillionaires generally pride themselves on their inaccessibility, but most weeks you can see Rogan live at the Comedy Mothership, which he owns, in exchange for $50 and a two-drink minimum.

About 250 tickets for each “Joe Rogan and Friends” show go on sale every Sunday at 2 p.m. central time, and disappear within seconds.

When you arrive at the Mothership, the staff locks your phone in a bag, which both ensures that you cannot leak footage online and makes you think you’re about to see some really forbidden shit.

You are not.

What you will see is four comedians, plus Rogan himself, with routines that might shock the Amish, the over-80 set, college students, Vox staffers, or John Oliver superfans—but not anyone who, say, went to a comedy club in the 1990s. Of the many recent failures of the American left, one of the greatest is making entry-level battle-of-the-sexes humor seem avant-garde.

(Did you know that women often run relationship decisions past their female friends? Bitches be crazy! That sort of thing.)

As Rogan himself says after he emerges in stonewashed jeans, clutching a glass of something amber on ice:

“Fox News called this an anti-woke comedy club. That’s just a comedy club!”

To underline the point that these jokes can survive outside the safe space of the Mothership, much of the material I saw Rogan perform ended up in his latest Netflix special, which was released in August.

In Austin, the masturbation mimicry happens during a riff about concealing his porn consumption from his wife—“the best person I know,” he says, sweetly.

That routine captures the essence of the Joe Rogan brand:

He is bawdy around his fans, respectful of his wife, loyal to his friends, and indulgent with his golden retriever, who has 900,000 followers on Instagram.

He maintains a self-deprecating sense of humor that’s rare among men who could buy an island if they wanted one.

His politics defy easy categorization—he hates Democratic finger-wagging but supports gay marriage and abortion rights.

(“I’m so far away from being a Republican,” he said on a podcast in 2022.)

He voted for a third-party candidate in 2020, and in early August expressed his admiration for Robert F. Kennedy Jr., a former guest on The Joe Rogan Experience.

He also wonders if President Biden might have been replaced by a body double.

(Does he have any evidence? Sure, the guy looks taller now.)

He sees himself as an outsider, nontribal, just an average Joe.

The best way to think of him, one of my friends told me, is as if “Homer Simpson got swole.”

Another way to think of him: as perhaps the single most influential person in the United States.

His YouTube channel has 17 million subscribers.

His podcast, The Joe Rogan Experience, which launched in 2009, has held the top spot on the Spotify charts consistently for the past five years; he records two or three episodes a week, each running to several hours.

The former Democratic presidential candidate Andrew Yang, whose campaign for universal basic income went viral after a Rogan appearance five years ago, calls him “the male Oprah.”

Rogan now lives in Austin, which has recently become known for its transformation from chilled-out live-music paradise to a miniature version of the Bay Area—similarly full of tech workers, but with fewer IN THIS HOUSE, WE BELIEVE … signs.

Early in the coronavirus pandemic, the Texas capital saw the biggest net gain of remote employees of any major city in America; its downtown is now filled with cranes and new skyscrapers.

It is also the center of the Roganverse, an intellectual firmament of manosphere influencers, productivity optimizers, stand-ups, and male-wellness gurus.

Austin is at the nexus of a Venn diagram of “has culture,” “has gun ranges,” “has low taxes,” and “has kombucha.”

The science and technology writer Tim Urban, who runs the popular Wait but Why website, told me that he moved to Austin from New York City because “I would have the experience of talking to someone I respect—some writer friend of mine, or someone who’s in a similar kind of career—and I would think, Oh, you’re in Austin too.”

The city attracts people with a distinct set of political positions that don’t exactly line up with either main party.

They might be religious but are equally likely to be “spiritual.”

They shoot guns but worry about seed oils.

They are relaxed about gay people but often traditional about gender.

They dabble with psychedelic drugs but worry about drinking caffeine first thing in the morning.

Their numbers might be relatively small in electoral terms, but they transmit their values to the rest of America through podcasts, YouTube, and other platforms largely outside the view of mainstream media.

Go to a cocktail mixer, an ayahuasca party, or a Brazilian-jiu-jitsu gym here and you might run into Tim Ferriss, the author of The 4-Hour Workweek; or the podcasters Lex Fridman, Chris Williamson, Ryan Holiday, Michael Malice, or Aubrey Marcus.

Elon Musk is so keen to get people to move to Texas that he is planning an entire community outside Austin called Snailbrook for workers at his Tesla Gigafactory and the Boring Company.

(In case you’re wondering: Yes, every one of these men has been on Rogan’s podcast.)

“It’s amazing that the arrival of one person could change a whole town, but it does feel like Rogan did that,” the journalist Sarah Hepola, who started her career at The Austin Chronicle, told me.

“It’s a lot like the dot-com invasion of the ’90s, like something that happened to the town.”

Your guide to today's biggest stories, boldest ideas, and best in culture.

From the April 2024 issue: Is Kara Swisher tearing down tech billionaires—or burnishing their legends?

Rogan and his fans are often called “heterodox,” which is funny, because this group has converged on a set of shared opinions, creating what you might call a heterodox orthodoxy: Diversity-and-inclusion initiatives mean that identity counts more than merit; COVID rules were too strict; the pandemic probably started with a lab leak in China; the January 6 insurrection was not as bad as liberals claim; gender medicine for children is out of control; the legacy media are scolding and biased; and so on.

The heterodox sphere has low trust in institutions—the press, academia, the CDC—and prefers to listen to individuals.

The Roganverse neatly caters to this audience because it is, in essence, a giant talk-show circuit: Go on The Joe Rogan Experience, and you can book another half dozen appearances on other shows to talk about what you said there.

I wanted to ask Rogan about all this: about the world that has coalesced around him, about the intellectual culture that he is exporting from Austin, about what his appeal might mean for November’s election.

Past research by the marketing firm Morning Consult suggests that his fans are mostly male, predominantly white but a quarter Hispanic, and right-leaning but not locked in for Donald Trump.

In other words, he has a nationwide base that both major parties would be delighted to win over—and that Kennedy was clearly desperate to recruit.

But one does not interview Joe Rogan.

No human in history has needed publicity less, and he routinely turns down requests, including mine.

So that’s how I ended up in the front row at the Comedy Mothership, cheerfully observing the two-drink minimum with the $8 canned water Liquid Death, face-to-groin with the male Oprah.

In May 2020, a couple of months into the pandemic, Rogan—then living in Los Angeles—visited Austin.

“I went to a restaurant with my kids and they were like, ‘We don’t have to wear a mask?’ ” he recalled three years later. “Two months later, I lived here.”

He bought an eight-bedroom house for $14.4 million just to the east of the city, backing onto Lake Austin.

Barely half an hour from the congested traffic of downtown, Rogan’s house is set among scrubby hills, behind a gated driveway on a dead-end road.

Although Rogan’s ability to make headlines blew up during the pandemic, he has been famous for a long time.

He was in the cast of the ’90s sitcom NewsRadio and hosted NBC’s reality show Fear Factor, while building a parallel career as a mixed-martial-arts commentator.

Follow his Instagram, and his tastes soon become apparent: energy drinks, killing wild animals, badly lit steaks, migraine-inducing AI graphics, dad-rock playlists, and shooting the breeze with his buddies.

The last of these has been greatly helped by the opening of the Comedy Mothership, in March 2023.

The newest star here is Tony Hinchcliffe, who in April took part in Netflix’s gleefully offensive roast of Tom Brady and was featured on a Variety cover.

The latter was a sign of a mood shift, given that he has never apologized for using an anti-Chinese slur onstage in 2021 to describe a fellow comic.

Hinchcliffe hosts his own podcast, Kill Tony, which is now recorded at the Mothership, and he has helped set the tone for Austin’s new comedy scene.

“There is no victim mentality whatsoever in Texas,” Hinchcliffe told Variety, adding, “It’s a different little island that we’ve created.”

He was on the bill both nights I went to the Mothership, and wore a huge belt buckle with TONY HINCHCLIFFE written on it—presumably for situations in which he is both taking off his trousers and unable to remember who he is.

He has very white teeth and a predatory grin, and he throws out jokes that double as tests:

Can you handle this, wimp?

On the first night, Rogan was also accompanied by Shane Gillis, a puppy dog of a comedian.

In 2019, Gillis was hired as a Saturday Night Live cast member and then fired four days later, after it was reported that he’d previously used an anti-Asian slur in a bit on his podcast and once described the director Judd Apatow as “gayer than ISIS.”

Gillis apologized, lay low for a while, and built what is now the biggest podcast on the crowdfunding platform Patreon.

He then self-financed his own comedy special, Live in Austin, which has 30 million views on YouTube—and promoted it with an appearance on The JRE.

(Gillis has since been on Rogan’s show more than a dozen times.)

His continued appeal thus demonstrated, Gillis returned to SNL as a host in February.

Rogan’s support of Gillis demonstrates why members of his inner circle are so loyal to him.

Not only has Rogan personally boosted their careers on his podcast and in his club, but his popularity has forced the comedy industry to recalibrate its tolerance for offense.

The best marketing slogan in American history has to be “People don’t want you to hear this, but …” What fans love about Rogan is the same thing his critics hate: an untamable curiosity that makes him open to plainly marginal ideas.

One guest tells him that black holes are awesome.

A second tells him that the periodic table needs to be updated because carbon has a “bisexual tone.”

A third tells him that a deworming drug could wipe out COVID.

He approaches all of them—tenured professors, harmless crackpots, peddlers of pseudoscience—with the same stoner wonderment.

The liberal case against Rogan usually references one of two culture-war flash points: COVID and gender. Media Matters for America, a progressive journalism-watchdog organization, has accused Rogan and his guests of using his podcast to “promote conspiracy theorists and push anti-trans rhetoric.”

In March 2013, the mixed martial artist Fallon Fox knocked out an opponent in 39 seconds and afterward revealed that she had been born male. A few days later, in an eight-minute riff on The JRE, Rogan said he was happy to call Fox “her,” but didn’t think she should compete against biological females. “I say if you had a dick at one point in time, you also have all the bone structure that comes with having a dick,” he added. Rogan’s choice of language aside, this was a claim that most Americans would deem uncontroversial: In general, biological males are physically stronger and faster than biological females. His comments prompted a media backlash, because he had violated an emerging consensus on the institutional left that trans women could compete fairly in women’s sports and that sex differences were overstated.

Read: Helen Lewis on Trump’s red-pill podcast tour “Free health care—yes!” Rogan tells his audiences these days onstage in Austin, riffing on the political demands of the left. “Education for all—right on! … Men can get pregnant—fuck! I didn’t realize it was a package deal.”

During the pandemic, The JRE also drew audience members who were frustrated with the limits of acceptable discussion, at a time when Facebook and YouTube were banning or restricting what they labeled misinformation. Rogan didn’t accept the proposition that Americans should shut up and listen to mainstream experts, and that led to him hosting vaccine denialists and conspiracists, and promoting an unproven deworming drug as a treatment for COVID. True, he has a fact-checker—his producer Jamie Vernon, known to fans as Young Jamie, or “Pull That Up, Jamie,” after Rogan’s frequent instruction to him. But correcting what Rogan and his guests say about multiple conflicting studies during a live podcast is impossible. And to give you an idea of Vernon’s place in the hierarchy, he also makes Rogan coffee.

During the pandemic, the decision to host cranks such as Robert Malone—a researcher who claimed to have invented mRNA technology but sought to cast doubt on vaccines that employ it—resulted in a critical open letter signed by hundreds of health experts, a warning label from Spotify, and a gentle rebuke from the White House press secretary. However, Rogan also gave voice to those who felt that some COVID policies, such as outdoor masking and long-running school closures, were unsupported by evidence. A phrase that you will find throughout the right-wing and heterodox media ecosystems is noble lie. This refers to the fact that Anthony Fauci initially told regular people not to wear masks in part because he was worried about supply shortages for doctors and nurses, but it has come to stand in for the wider accusation that public-health experts did not trust Americans with complex data during the pandemic, and instead simply told them what to do.

You don’t have to look far in Austin to find the caucus of disaffected liberals that Rogan represents. On my second night at the Mothership, the ushers parked me next to Stephan, a house renovator whose business was booming thanks to all the rich newcomers to the city. He had left San Diego during the pandemic, he told me, because “they caution-taped the whole coastline.” A few days earlier, I had met another of these “leftugees,” as one transplant jokingly nicknamed them, over coffee at Russell’s Bakery. The writer Alana Joblin Ain is a rabbi’s wife and a lifelong Democrat who before the pandemic lived happily in New York City and then San Francisco. In the summer of 2020, though, her children’s public school announced that it would remain closed into a second academic year, making her worry about the effect on their social skills and academic progress. She moved her son and daughter to a private school nearby—but on the penultimate day of the summer term in 2021, the head of school announced plans to convert its main bathrooms to gender-neutral ones, in part to help “kindergartners who [are] non-binary” and “kindergartners who are trans.”

When Ain questioned the policy—suggesting instead that some gender-neutral bathrooms should be provided alongside the existing girls’ and boys’ bathrooms—she was ostracized, she said. One father told her that her “wanting a space I feel more comfortable in, that’s a female space, reminded him of segregationists.” The dispute reminded her of other ways she’d felt alienated from the left. While helping her husband tend to his congregation, she had seen marital strife, substance abuse, suicide attempts, and other harms that she attributed to prolonged lockdowns.

And so she made the same journey that Rogan did, leaving California for Texas in 2022. She now runs an off-the-record discussion group called Moontower Verses, which meets in person to discuss culture-war topics. She doesn’t know how she will vote in November. Her experience echoes that of other Rogan fans on the coasts, for whom the pandemic brought the realization that their values differed from those around them; at the time, the persistence of masking was a visible symbol of that difference. “It’s the Democrats’ MAGA hat,” Rogan told a guest in November 2022. “They’re letting you know, I’m on the good team.” Move to Texas, went the promise, and you won’t have to see that anymore.

Read: Joe Rogan’s show may be dumb. But is it actually deadly? A sense of left-wing overreach also drove the creation of the new University of Austin, or UATX. (The school’s website once boasted about Austin, “If it’s good enough for Elon Musk and Joe Rogan, it’s good enough for us.”) The announcement of the university’s launch in 2021 attracted immediate mockery, with The New York Times’ Nikole Hannah-Jones describing it as “Trump University at Austin,” after the former president’s scam-bucket operation.

That was unfair: UATX is run by serious academics, and has raised enough money to give free tuition to its entire founding class of 100. It has, however, leaned into the Roganite philosophy that people must tolerate wacko ideas in order to hear intriguingly heretical ones. In 2022, UATX offered a first taste of its politics when it ran a summer school, called Forbidden Courses, in Dallas. The speakers included UATX co-founder Bari Weiss (canceled by haters on Slack and Twitter), Peter Boghossian (canceled by Portland State University), Ayaan Hirsi Ali (canceled by a literal fatwa), Kathleen Stock (canceled by the University of Sussex), and my fellow Atlantic writer Thomas Chatterton Williams (inexplicably not canceled). When I visited the UATX offices, in an Art Deco building in downtown Austin, the provost, Jacob Howland, told me that he wanted “to get the politics out of the classroom,” and that faculty members will have succeeded if the students can’t guess how they vote from what they say in class.

Just as in Rogan’s comedy club, smartphones are banned in class—“so that students can’t be distracted by them, or, for example, record other students and tell the world, ‘Oh, you know, this student had this opinion, and it’s unacceptable, and I’m putting it out there on TikTok.’ ”

Many on the left, however, suspect that heterodox just means “right-wing and in denial.” An attendee at last year’s Forbidden Courses sent me a slide showing survey results about the students’ political leanings: Out of 29 respondents, 19 identified as conservative. One major UATX donor is Harlan Crow, the billionaire who has bankrolled Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas’s lifestyle for years; he sat in the back of some 2023 summer-school lectures. Another is the Austin-based venture capitalist Joe Lonsdale, who co-founded Palantir with Peter Thiel and others. He recently gave $1 million to a pro-Trump super PAC.

“We really are open to all comers,” Howland told me. He wondered whether some people on the left simply didn’t want to hear any debate.

The Joe Rogan coalition may indeed represent a real strand in American intellectual and political life—a normie suspicion of both MAGA hats and eternal masking, mixed with tolerance for kooky ideas. But it is fracturing.

“Anti-wokeness” once encompassed everyone who could agree that Drew Barrymore’s talk show was annoying, that some left-wing activists on TikTok were out of control, and that corporations were largely banging on about diversity to sell more products rather than out of a genuine commitment to human flourishing. Underneath those headline beliefs, however, were two distinct groups: disaffected liberals and actual conservatives, bound together by a common enemy. “Some of the people who seemed like my comrades on Twitter a while back,” Tim Urban told me, “I start to see some of them say stuff like ‘See, you start with gay marriage, and now you’ve got drag queens in this kindergarten class.’ And, well, hold on a second.”

Today, fractures are obvious across the wider anti-woke movement—and they must be serious, because people have started podcasting about them. Watching Rogan’s stand-up set, I realized that much of his culture-war material was now three or four years old; his podcast is one of the only places I still hear COVID mentioned, as Rogan relitigates the criticism he received during the pandemic. There’s a real tension in the Roganverse between the stated desire to escape polarization and the appeal of living in an endless 2020, when the sharp definition of the opposing sides yielded growing audiences and made unlikely political alliances possible.

Those contradictory impulses are evident in Austin. Jon Stokes, a co-founder of the AI company Symbolic, described the city to me as the “DMZ of the culture wars,” while the podcaster David Perell put it like this: “Moving to Austin is the geographical equivalent of saying ‘I don’t read the news anymore.’ ”

Helen Lewis: What’s genuinely weird about the online right But national politics inevitably intrude. In front of the Texas capitol one sunny day, I found myself surrounded by a sea of pink and blue—a Christian rally against the “grooming” of children by LGBTQ activists through sex education in schools. A speaker was telling the crowd about a concealed, well-funded agenda centered on “the dismemberment of the heart and soul of your children.”

These are not Rogan’s politics. But relentless criticism from the left has pushed him and his fellow travelers closer to people who talk like this. Look at Elon Musk, who has developed an obsession with defeating the “woke mind virus” and an addiction to posting about his grievances.

At its worst, The Joe Rogan Experience is one of America’s top venues for rich and powerful people to complain about being publicly contradicted, and Rogan’s own feelings of kinship with the canceled mean that he has repeatedly hosted guests whose views are recklessly extreme.

This unwise loyalty is most evident in his friendship with the conspiracy theorist Alex Jones. In 2022, the Infowars founder was ordered to pay nearly $1.5 billion in damages to the families of children killed in the Sandy Hook school shooting; his speculation that they were actors had led to a massive harassment campaign against them. At the trial, one father told the court that conspiracy theorists emboldened by Jones had claimed to have urinated on his 7-year-old son’s grave and threatened to dig up his body.

During his stand-up set, Rogan said that Jones was right about the existence of “false flags”—events staged by the government or provocateurs to discredit a cause. Then he whispered to himself that Jones had gotten “one thing wrong.” He had gotten a lot of things right too, Rogan said at normal volume. Then his voice dropped again: “It was a pretty big thing, though.”

Rogan’s sympathetic treatment of his friend demonstrates why power is better mediated through institutions than wielded by individuals: It’s too easy to be sympathetic to a man sitting in front of you, whom you know as a complete person, rather than to his distant, unseen victims. Also, it’s good to be open-minded, but not so much that your brain falls out.

If Rogan is the male Oprah, he is also the human embodiment of America’s vexed relationship with free speech: a complex tangle of arguments and conspiracy theories all boiled down into one short, swole man who likes to wear a fanny pack. Rogan is a guy who started a podcast in 2009 to smoke weed with his fellow comics and talk about martial arts—and who, like many Americans, has taken part in a great geographical sorting, moving to be closer to people whose values he shares. He speaks to people who feel silenced, both elite and normie, even as he’s turned the very idea that opinions like his are being “silenced” into a joke in itself. As I walked into the Comedy Mothership, I saw a sign on the wall. It read HECKLERS WILL BE ALIENATED.

This article appears in the October 2024 print edition with the headline “You Think You’re So Heterodox.”

It has been updated to reflect that Robert F. Kennedy Jr. suspended his 2024 presidential campaign after the issue went to press.

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