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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years

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This is your brain on fraud apologetics

In 1998, two Stanford students published a paper in Computer Networks entitled “The Anatomy of a Large-Scale Hypertextual Web Search Engine,” in which they wrote, “Advertising funded search engines will be inherently biased towards the advertisers and away from the needs of consumers.”

https://research.google/pubs/pub334/

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

The co-authors were Lawrence Page and Sergey Brin, and the “large-scale hypertextual web search-engine” they were describing was their new project, which they called “Google.” They were 100% correct — prescient, even!

On Wednesday night, a friend came over to watch some TV with us. We ordered out. We got scammed. We searched for a great local Thai place we like called Kiin and clicked a sponsored link for a Wix site called “Kiinthaila.com.” We should have clicked the third link down (kiinthaiburbank.com).

We got scammed. The Wix site was a lookalike for Kiin Thai, which marked up their prices by 15% and relayed the order to our local, mom-and-pop, one-branch restaurant. The restaurant knew it, too — they called us and told us they were canceling the order, and said we could still come get our food, but we’d have to call Amex to reverse the charge.

As it turned out, the scammers double-billed us for our order. I called Amex, who advised us to call back in a couple days when the charge posted to cancel it — in other words, they were treating it as a regular customer dispute, and not a systemic, widespread fraud (there’s no way this scammer is just doing this for one restaurant).

In the grand scheme of things, this is a minor hassle, but boy, it’s haunting to watch the quarter-century old prophecy of Brin and Page coming true. Search Google for carpenters, plumbers, gas-stations, locksmiths, concert tickets, entry visas, jobs at the US Post Office or (not making this up) tech support for Google products, and the top result will be a paid ad for a scam. Sometimes it’s several of the top ads.

This kind of “intermediation” business is actually revered in business-schools. As Douglas Rushkoff has written, the modern business wisdom reveres “going meta” — not doing anything useful, but rather, creating a chokepoint between people who do useful things and people who want to pay for those things, and squatting there, collecting rent:

https://rushkoff.medium.com/going-meta-d42c6a09225e

It’s the ultimate passive income/rise and grind side-hustle: It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to discover a whole festering nest of creeps on Tiktok talking about how they pay Mechanical Turks to produce these lookalike sites at scale.

This mindset is so pervasive that people running companies with billions in revenue and massive hoards of venture capital run exactly the same scam. During lockdown, companies like Doordash, Grubhub and Uber Eats stood up predatory lookalike websites for local restaurants, without their consent, and played monster-in-the-middle, tricking diners into ordering through them:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/19/we-are-beautiful/#man-in-the-middle

These delivery app companies were playing a classic enshittification game: first they directed surpluses to customers to lock them in (heavily discounting food), then they directed surplus to restaurants (preferential search results, free delivery, low commissions) — then, having locked in both consumers and producers, they harvested the surplus for themselves.

Today, delivery apps charge massive premiums to both eaters and restaurants, load up every order with junk fees, and clone the most successful restaurants out of ghost kitchens — shipping containers in parking lots crammed with low-waged workers cranking out orders for 15 different fake “virtual restaurants”:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/01/autophagic-buckeyes/#subsidized-autophagia

Delivery apps speedran the enshittification cycle, but Google took a slower path to get there. The company has locked in billions of users (e.g. by paying billions to be the default search on Safari and Firefox and using legal bullying to block third party Android device-makers from pre-installing browsers other than Chrome). For years, it’s been leveraging our lock-in to prey on small businesses, getting them to set up Google Business Profiles.

These profiles are supposed to help Google distinguish between real sellers and scammers. But Kiin Thai has a Google Business Profile, and searching for “kiin thai burbank” brings up a “Knowledge Panel” with the correct website address — on a page that is headed with a link to a scam website for the same business. Google, in other words, has everything it needs to flag lookalike sites and confirm them with their registered owners. It would cost Google money to do this — engineer-time to build and maintain the system, content moderator time to manually check flagged listings, and lost ad-revenue from scammers — but letting the scams flourish makes Google money, at the expense of Google users and Google business customers.

Now, Google has an answer for this: they tell merchants who are being impersonated by ad-buying scammers that all they need to do is outbid them for the top ad-spot. This is a common approach — Amazon has a $31b/year “ad business” that’s mostly its own platform sellers bidding against each other to show you fake results for your query. The first five screens of Amazon search results are 50% ads:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

This is “going meta,” so naturally, Meta is doing it too: Facebook and Instagram have announced a $12/month “verification” badge that will let you report impersonation and tweak the algorithm to make it more likely that the posts you make are shown to the people who explicitly asked to see them:

https://www.vox.com/recode/2023/2/21/23609375/meta-verified-twitter-blue-checkmark-badge-instagram-facebook

The corollary of this, of course, is that if you don’t pay, they won’t police your impersonators, and they won’t show your posts to the people who asked to see them. This is pure enshittification — the surplus from users and business customers is harvested for the benefit of the platform owners:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

The idea that merchants should master the platforms as a means of keeping us safe from their impersonators is a hollow joke. For one thing, the rules change all the time, as the platforms endlessly twiddle the knobs that determine what gets shown to whom:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

And they refuse to tell anyone what the rules are, because if they told you what the rules were, you’d be able to bypass them. Content moderation is the only infosec domain where “security through obscurity” doesn’t get laughed out of the room:

https://doctorow.medium.com/como-is-infosec-307f87004563

Worse: the one thing the platforms do hunt down and exterminate with extreme prejudice is anything that users or business-customers use to twiddle back — add-ons and plugins and jailbreaks that override their poor choices with better ones:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/9/29/23378541/the-og-app-instagram-clone-pulled-from-app-store

As I was submitting complaints about the fake Kiin scam-site (and Amex’s handling of my fraud call) to the FTC, the California Attorney General, the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau and Wix, I wrote a little Twitter thread about what a gross scam this is:

https://twitter.com/doctorow/status/1628948906657878016

The thread got more than two million reads and got picked up by Hacker News and other sites. While most of the responses evinced solidarity and frustration and recounted similar incidents in other domains, a significant plurality of the replies were scam apologetics — messages from people who wanted to explain why this wasn’t a problem after all.

The most common of these was victim-blaming: “you should have used an adblocker” or “never click the sponsored link.” Of course, I do use an ad-blocker — but this order was placed with a mobile browser, after an absentminded query into the Google search-box permanently placed on the home screen, which opens results in Chrome (where I don’t have an ad-blocker, so I can see material behind an ad-blocker-blocker), not Firefox (which does have an ad-blocker).

Now, I also have a PiHole on my home LAN, which blocks most ads even in a default browser — but earlier this day, I’d been on a public wifi network that was erroneously blocking a website (the always excellent superpunch.net) so I’d turned my wifi off, which meant the connection came over my phone’s 5G connection, bypassing the PiHole:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/28/shut-yer-pi-hole/

“Don’t click a sponsored link” — well, the irony here is that if you habitually use a browser with an ad-blocker, and you backstop it with a PiHole, you never see sponsored links, so it’s easy to miss the tiny “Sponsored” notification beside the search result. That goes double if you’re relaxing with a dinner guest on the sofa and ordering dinner while chatting.

There’s a name for this kind of security failure: the Swiss Cheese Model. We all have multiple defenses (in my case: foreknowledge of Google’s ad-scam problem, an ad-blocker in my browser, LAN-wide ad sinkholing). We also have multiple vulnerabilities (in my case: forgetting I was on 5G, being distracted by conversation, using a mobile device with a permanent insecure search bar on the homescreen, and being so accustomed to ad-blocked results that I got out of the habit of checking whether a result was an ad).

If you think you aren’t vulnerable to scams, you’re wrong — and your confidence in your invulnerability actually increases your risk. This isn’t the first time I’ve been scammed, and it won’t be the last — and every time, it’s been a Swiss Cheese failure, where all the holes in all my defenses lined up for a brief instant and left me vulnerable:

https://locusmag.com/2010/05/cory-doctorow-persistence-pays-parasites/

Other apologetics: “just call the restaurant rather than using its website.” Look, I know the people who say this don’t think I have a time-machine I can use to travel back to the 1980s and retrieve a Yellow Pages, but it’s hard not to snark at them, just the same. Scammers don’t just set up fake websites for your local businesses — they staff them with fake call-centers, too. The same search that takes you to a fake website will also take you to a fake phone number.

Finally, there’s “What do you expect Google to do? They can’t possibly detect this kind of scam.” But they can. Indeed, they are better situated to discover these scams than anyone else, because they have their business profiles, with verified contact information for the merchants being impersonated. When they get an ad that seems to be for the same business but to a different website, they could interrupt the ad process to confirm it with their verified contact info.

Instead, they choose to avoid the expense, and pocket the ad revenue. If a company promises to “to organize the world’s information and make it universally accessible and useful,” I think we have the right to demand these kinds of basic countermeasures:

https://www.google.com/search/howsearchworks/our-approach/

The same goes for Amex: when a merchant is scamming customers, they shouldn’t treat complaints as “chargebacks” — they should treat them as reports of a crime in progress. Amex has the bird’s eye view of their transaction flow and when a customer reports a scam, they can backtrack it to see if the same scammer is doing this with other merchants — but the credit card companies make money by not chasing down fraud:

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/rosalindadams/mastercard-visa-fraud

Wix also has platform-scale analytics that they could use to detect and interdict this kind of fraud — when a scammer creates a hundred lookalike websites for restaurants and uses Wix’s merchant services to process payments for them, that could trigger human review — but it didn’t.

Where do all of these apologetics come from? Why are people so eager to leap to the defense of scammers and their adtech and fintech enablers? Why is there such an impulse to victim-blame?

I think it’s fear: in their hearts, people — especially techies — know that they, too, are vulnerable to these ripoffs, but they don’t want to admit it. They want to convince themselves that the person who got scammed made an easily avoidable mistake, and that they themselves will never make a similar mistake.

This is doubly true for readerships on tech-heavy forums like Twitter or (especially) Hacker News. These readers know just how many vulnerabilities there are — how many holes are in their Swiss cheese — and they are also overexposed to rise-and-grind/passive income rhetoric.

This produces a powerful cognitive dissonance: “If all the ‘entrepreneurs’ I worship are just laying traps for the unwary, and if I am sometimes unwary, then I’m cheering on the authors of my future enduring misery.” The only way to resolve this dissonance — short of re-evaluating your view of platform capitalism or questioning your own immunity to scams — is to blame the victim.

The median Hacker News reader has to somehow resolve the tension between “just install an adblocker” and “Chrome’s extension sandbox is a dumpster fire and it’s basically impossible to know whether any add-on you install can steal every keystroke and all your other data”:

https://mattfrisbie.substack.com/p/spy-chrome-extension

In my Twitter thread, I called this “the worst of all possible timelines.” Everything we do is mediated by gigantic, surveillant monopolists that spy on us comprehensively from asshole to appetite — but none of them, not a 20th century payment giant nor a 21st century search giant — can bestir itself to use that data to keep us safe from scams.

Next Thu (Mar 2) I'll be in Brussels for Antitrust, Regulation and the Political Economy, along with a who's-who of European and US trustbusters. It's livestreamed, and both in-person and virtual attendance are free:

https://www.brusselsconference.com/registration

On Fri (Mar 3), I'll be in Graz for the Elevate Festival:

https://elevate.at/diskurs/programm/event/e23doctorow/

[Image ID: A modified version of Hieronymus Bosch's painting 'The Conjurer,' which depicts a scam artist playing a shell-game for a group of gawking rubes. The image has been modified so that the scam artist's table has a Google logo and the pea he is triumphantly holding aloft bears the 'Sponsored' wordmark that appears alongside Google search results.]

#pluralistic #victim blaming #fraud #going meta #douglas rushkoff #ad-tech #local search #wix #amex #thai food #business #rent-seeking #entrepreneurship #passive income #chokepoint capitalism #platform lawyers

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spacefrontier · 2 months

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Launch of Space Shuttle Discovery during STS-105. August 10, 2001.

The primary purpose of STS-105 was the rotation of International Space Station Crew, bringing Expedition 3 to the orbiting laboratory and returning the Expedition 2 crew, and the delivery of 6,775 pounds of scientific racks, equipment, and supplies using the Italian-built Multi Purpose Logistics Module Leonardo.

International Space Station viewed from STS-105 after departure.

Additional payload included Materials International Space Station Experiments (MISSE) Passive Experiment Containers (PEC) 1 and 2. MISSE investigated the long-term exposure of materials to the space environment. MISSE PECs 1 and 2 included 910 specimens of various materials to be tested outside of the International Space Station. PECs 1 and 2 were later recovered by STS-114 in 2005.

One of the MISSE PECs installed on the outside of the Quest airlock.

Two spacewalks were performed during STS-105 by Mission Specialists Patrick Forrester and Daniel Barry. The first EVA on August 16 was performed to install the Early Ammonia Servicer, which would supply ammonia to the International Space Station's cooling system if needed. EVA 1 lasted 6 hours and 16 minutes. The second EVA on August 18 prepared the space station for the delivery of the S0 truss by STS-110 in 2002. EVA 2 lasted 5 hours and 29 minutes.

Mission Specialist Daniel Barry near the end of Discovery's Remote Manipulator Arm during EVA 2.

Expeditions 2, 3, and STS-105 crew members in the Destiny laboratory. Expedition 2 (red shirts) from bottom to top: Expedition 2 Commander Yury Usachev (Roscosmos), Flight Engineer James Voss, Flight Engineer Susan Helms. Expedition 3 (white shirts) from bottom to top: Expedition 3 Commander Frank Culberston, Jr., Flight Engineer Vladimir Dezhurov (Roscosmos), Flight Engineer Mikhail Tyurin (Roscosmos). STS-105 (striped shirts) from top left: Commander Scott Horowitz, Mission Specialist Daniel Barry. Bottom left: Mission Specialist Patrick Forrester, Pilot Rick Sturckow.

STS-105 returned to the Kennedy Space Center's Shuttle Landing Facility on August 20, 2001, having spent nearly 12 days on orbit, over 7 days of which were docked to the International Space Station.

Discovery touches down on Shuttle Landing Facility Runway 15.

NASA 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

#Space Shuttle Program #Space Shuttle Discovery #STS-105 #International Space Station #NASA #Roscosmos #spaceflight #space

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ask-games-galore · 1 month

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MYSTERY GIFT:

A Champion Time!

To celebrate the Pokémon World Championships, the following bundle will be shipped out to anyone who claims this Mystery Gift! It contains special items that represent each of the winning teams/players of this year's PWC!

Reblog to obtain this exclusive reward, delivered near-instantly through the Mystery Gift delivery system.

Expires: September 1st, 2024, 3a.m. GMT.

Rewards:

A Steenee plushie, with a lil' snorkel mask.

A replica of Mew's Unite License (not to be used in actual Unite Battles), to represent the Fennel's Mew, who was responsible for KO'ing Rayquaza during the Unite finals.

A power bank shaped like a Charjabug, a Pokémon used by Yekai0904, winner of the GO Championship.

A Booster Energy and a poster of Mecha Tyranitar from the Big Monster series of films, representing Iron Thorns EX, the main Pokémon in Champion Fernando Cifuentes' Deck!

A poster of Miraidon, the restricted legendary Pokémon used by VGC Champion Luca Ceribelli.

You may only claim this bundle once.

#rotomblr #pokeblr #pokeblogging #pokemon #rotumblr #mysterygifts #pkmn irl

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thewalkingwillowtree · 12 days

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Courting Ayelýn

Series Listing Found Here

Aonung x Original Na'vi Female Character

Summery: Pressured by his parents to enter a formal courtship, Aonung rebels in his own way and what starts as a ruse, turns into something real.

Note before reading: This is a spin off of my Safe Haven Series.

Reading Safe Haven is not necessary to follow this story.

Some characters have been aged up. Aonung in particular is 25.

Ayelýn is my own creation. *Pronounced Aye-Lin

Warning!! This part contains smut.

Part 4 - When They Fucked

When Aonung had asked for the two of them to do something, Ayelýn thought perhaps they’d still end up somewhere public- for show.

Maybe they’d take a walk along the beach, or even attend a storytelling event, but no.

What she hadn’t intended from his request of it being just the two of them was that it truly was… just the two of them.

Their evening started out with a late night swim. Aonung led her to one of his favourite spots- a brightly illuminated, underwater hidden gem, filled with sea fauna and flora that was too beautiful for words.

And so captivated by her surroundings, Lýn had missed the way Aonung drank her in- as though seeing her for the very first time.

Later on, they found themselves on his private tiny island, seated inside of the little makeshift structure he had crafted for himself.

The sort of lean-to design was just tall enough that Aonung didn’t hit his head when standing and wide enough that at least four Na’vi could fit comfortably.

Mismatched, frayed mats laid scattered on the sand, acting as a sort of flooring that also provided comfort, and there was even a well-worn hammock set up in a way that the amazing scenery was still within view.

Near the threshold, they sat face to face as Aonung revealed dish after dish from a sack that had already been there waiting for them. Their position also allowed them the gorgeous view of the glittering sky and sea- stars all out in their glory as rhythmic crashing waves sang.

In quick succession, laid out between them was an impressive spread that had Lýn salivating.

“My Eywa,” she whispered through an excited smile, tucking flyaways behind her ears. “It all looks so good! Is- is this hexapede?”

“Mhm,” Aonung hummed, loving her reactions.

“Where did all of this come from?”

“We got a huge delivery of goods this morning from the Omaticaya. I’ve already made sure Keftxo gets their fair share,” he said, trying not to wince guiltily. “I didn’t know any wasn’t given to Keftxo the last two times… but things should be brought down within the next few days since they’re still sorting through everything we got.”

The trading system between the clans of Pandora was well developed by now. With the use of human technology, communication was up and running, thus, enabling an established procedure.

“Aonung,” Lýn voiced softly. She had no words. He’d gone above and beyond for her little village time and time again.

He tutted at her affectionately, understanding the wave of gratitude she was trying to express.

“We got fresh meat this time around. I made us some hexepade stew and roasted hexape-”

“Wait… you cooked? You? I thought you hate cooking?”

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled something incoherent under his breath and without responding, he continued pointing out the options- one after the other.

“- oh and Lo’ak gave us a couple of these things from his private stash- something called sari cakes, I think? They’re courtesy Neteyam’s mother-in-law… and finally-” He emptied a pouch that held, “Yovo fruit.”

Ayelýn gasped. “Yovo fruit? You’re kidding! I’ve always wanted to try these.”

“I know.” Aonung had gotten them specially well preserved for the journey- just for her.

He chose the best looking one of the batch and held it out to her, pleased when she leaned in to take a bite of the fruit between his fingers.

Tossing the remaining piece in his mouth, he watched as her face morphed into one of ecstasy, eyes rolling in bliss, lips licked with a moan of appreciation. Her reaction had the front of his tweng straining within seconds.

“That’s sooo good,” she sighed.

“Fuck, Lýn.” He cracked his neck, willing his body to calm down. “Can you try not to kill me so early tonight?” he half begged, half teased.

It took her a split second to catch his meaning, but when she spotted his obvious situation- one he made no effort to hide, she managed to mumble an apology through a mortified blush- though a small part of her was pleased she had that much of an effect on him.

Conversation, fun and flowing after that, they talked about everything and nothing as they indulged in their Omaticaya delicacies- sharing and feeding each other bites of food with exclamations of “you have to try this!” and “oh Eywa, this one is amazing!”

And when their bellies were full and satisfied, their attention fell on the view before them.

A light breeze ruffled their hair while they sat in comfortable silence- both minds preoccupied.

Fiddling with his bottom lip, Aonung tossed fleeting glances Lýn’s way- a question on the tip of his tongue. And unbeknownst to him, Lýn was also sneaking her own peeks- finding him far more captivating than their scenery.

Momentarily distracted by a leather waterskin almost sort of hidden behind him, she couldn’t help ask, “What’s in that? Did we forget to try something?”

“Hm?” He turned to see, then, “Oh, no. That’s not for you to try. Lo'ak said it’s lethal. Some insane concoction called Spir’ytüs.”

Ayelýn looked affronted. “What do you mean not for me to try? I want to try it.”

“Sorry, gorgeous but no.”

“All I’m asking is for a sip!”

“Lýn, you can barely handle the lightly fermented ones we make here.”

“Says who?!”

“Uh- says me? Says that one time you were stupid enough to have a competition with Rotxo and I had to carry you back to your parents inebriated and had to explain to them that it was in no way my fault, yet your father glared at me as if I had fed you every sip myself!”

“That was one time! You know I usually hold my spirits well!”

“Yeeah. I’m not taking any chances. Especially with something I haven’t tried yet.”

Determination blazing through her gaze and boldness taking control, Lýn crossed over to his side, careful of the spread that separated them, and in the blink of an eye, she was planting herself in his lap, knees on either side of hips.

At her shocking actions, Aonung worked his jaw, eyes flickering to her lips before returning to her eyes. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Ayelýn.”

“Am I?” Her palms danced down his skin, starting from his shoulders, feathering down his chest to land flat against the hard panes of his stomach. They rounded his sides with clear intent on the pouch behind him. “Not if I win,” she whispered in his ear.

Like lightning, he caught her wrists and clutched them in one hand. Her feeble protests died rather quickly when he lifted his knees- making her land exactly where he wanted. The jaw dropping shock on her face at the intimate feeling of him pressed up against her warm heat was worth the painful ache it came with.

Lýn could do nothing but watch as he used his free hand to pop off the top of the waterskin and take a deep swig of its contents.

He tried not to wince at the burn but failed- it was sickly sweet and definitely fucking potent.

“I win,” he rasped, triumphant grin stretching wide and taunting as he tightened his hold on her wrists- not that he needed to, since the minx in his lap put up no fight.

Never one to back down, Ayelýn arched her brow as if saying really? And then she surprised him yet again by leaning in and kissing him- tongue darting out to taste the essence of the sweet spirits lingering on his lips and tongue.

She’d stolen her taste.

It happened so fast, Aonung barely had time to register, because she was then leaning back with a satisfied smirk and smacking her lips with a pleased hum.

“No… I think I, win.”

But Aonung was quick to retaliate. Greedy and demanding, he devoured her with the type of kiss that had her dizzy within mere seconds.

Wrists released, her hands framed his face as their lips and tongues danced- moving to a tune that worked in perfect symphony.

“Stay,” he begged against her lips- finally asking that question he knew he shouldn’t be asking.

He chased after her when she tried to break their connection, stealing one last firm kiss before she managed to push him backwards.

“Aonung, this is a bad idea.”

Logically, he knew she was right.

It was a terrible idea.

Eyes roaming over her, he licked his lips. At some point he had released the tie that kept her wild hair confined. She was stunning- swollen lips, flushed cheeks and fully blown pupils.

He wanted to kiss her again.

So he did.

One hand tangled her hair, he angled her head and parted her lips with his own. And though he could still feel her lingering inner fight, she kissed him back just as feverishly.

Lýn rolled her hips- a single, deep roll against the thick ridge of him that gave her the most delicious friction despite the layers separating them- one that gained her a staggering groan from Aonung.

“Do you have to get back tonight?”

“Anou-”

He didn’t want to face her rejection just yet, so he silenced her with another kiss- a kiss that made her tail and toes curl… a kiss that hurt her heart just a little bit.

The incessant throbbing between her thighs had become overly unbearable and, aching for relief, Lýn gave in, encouraging his touch as his hands explored her skin.

They skimmed up her thighs and squeezed her ass before traveling up her sides- calloused thumbs sweeping the underside of her breasts.

A loud swear escaped him and his hips bucked when she rolled again- core rubbing deliberate and way too much for him to handle. He clamped a firm hand on her waist to prevent her from doing it again.

Unhappy about this, she smacked the hand away and he smacked her backside in response, tugging on her tail in warning for good measure.

“Ayelýn, I’m going to come within seconds if you keep that up.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” She yelped at the tug of her hair and the stinging bite he left on her neck.

“So mouthy,” he mused.

“And you’re annoying,” she muttered with a nip of her own against his jaw.

But then, reality creeping in, alarming and loud in her head, Lýn’s mouth moved faster than her mind, spewing, “I’m not a play-thing.”

Aonung reared back to see her face. A flash of hurt crossed his features and despite how fast he’d schooled his expression, she still caught it. “Of course you're not… Where did that even come from?”

“I- I’m just saying… I don’t know what any of this is or what we’re doing, but I needed you to know that.”

“Lýn. You're not,” he emphasized.

She nodded, glad to have at least cleared that with him.

“And anyway… It’s- uh… been a while for me,” he admitted in a soft tone. “I don’t- I’m not that Aonung anymore. I’d hope you think so too.”

She did think so. Aonung was so much more different than she’d realized. Different from the rumors… different from when they’d first met.

“When you say a while…”

“Mmm, counting? Over a year…” He scratched his jaw. “Almost two by now since we’ve been together- well not together together-” he rambled. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Ayelýn turned the information around in her mind as she bit on the tip of her thumb.

He hadn’t been with a woman in that long? How? Why?

“Okay,” she finally said. “And to be clear, you want to-” she gestured between the two of them, “-with me?”

“Yes,” he answered firmly, fingers toying with the string that kept her top in place. “It’s no pressure though. We’re just having fun, right?”

“Fun.”

“Mhmm.” He ducked his head to nose at that spot where her neck and jaw connected. With one tug of the string, the beaded thing covering her breasts fell into her lap.

A shudder made her jerk in his arms and Lýn blamed it on a gust of wind. This time of year and this late out, the breeze could get nippy… It definitely wasn’t the way Aonung was mouthing at her flesh, or the way his thumbs brushed over her hardened nipples.

Definitely not…

Fuck.

“Okay,” she agreed breathlessly, head lulling backwards as his path trailed from her collarbones, to the tops of her chest that rose and fell in anticipation. “But just this one time and we don’t talk about it afterwards. Agreed?”

Aonung paused at her words.

He didn’t want that.

And instead of responding, he swallowed her nipple into his mouth.

Sex with Aonung was not at all what Ayelýn imagined… and yes guilty- she had imagined this moment…. Many times actually.

In the early days of their pretend courtship, a heartbroken woman named Zers’i had cornered Lýn, giving her a piece of her mind- accusing her of stealing the man she hoped she’d settle down with.

By the end of the rant, Zers’i had turned from bitter and angry into a sobbing mess. And in the midst of Lýn, comforting the weeping woman on her shoulder, it led to an interesting revelation.

“You’re going to have to do all the work. I- I guess I don’t feel so bad now,” the blubbering soul had stammered through tears.

At the time, Ayelýn didn’t know what that meant, but with two other confrontations that bore similar remarks, she gathered that Aonung could be somewhat of a selfish lover.

Yet here, in this moment as the stars watched over them, Aonung had ripped sounds from her lips she didn’t even know she could make.

The man was ruthless in his pursuit to learn what she liked- mapping her body with his hands, lips, tongue… tail.

He was far from selfish as he stayed buried between her thighs for Eywa knows how long, lapping and sucking while his fingers curled deep within her heat, causing delicious pleasure to consume her in wave after wave.

Then, while she was mid recovery from another glorious orgasm, he was rearing onto his knees, lifting her calf over his shoulder and thrusting into her in one fluid stroke- right the the hilt.

That first time, the burning stretch and his pace was brutal.

Skin slapping on skin he took her hard and fast, practically contouring her body to his will as profanity fell from his lips like a prayer. He really didn’t last long at all and he even apologized for it when he dropped down next to her to catch his breath.

Post orgasmic haze, his lips were everywhere, peppering her with sweet, playful kisses as he whispered things that made her blush.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

“You make the prettiest sounds when you come.”

“Will you let me taste you again?”

“...You’re beautiful.”

Eager to have her own way with him, she had slithered between his thighs, mouth watering at the sight of him coated in her arousal.

Lýn was pretty sure dicks weren’t supposed to look pretty. She guessed he must have been an exception.

He was quite impressive even though he was half hard. She wouldn’t tell him that though, she was sure it would only go to his head, especially judging by the stupid smirk he’d given her as she took him in.

Lýn enjoyed teasing him. Within seconds of her little playful strokes and licks, he was fully erect and leaking all over her hand. His stomach hollowed out and his moans and grunts were loud as her head bobbed- mouth taking him deeper and deeper down her throat each time she came up for air.

And when the cusp of his impending release came near, he was sitting up, impatiently pulling her up his body by the hair and kissing her with such passion, she was on the verge of combusting.

Drenched between her thighs from her own arousal and his release from earlier, he slipped in with ease, sliding her down his length until she took him all- back bowing because at this angle, the man was impossibly deep.

Eyes locked in unspoken intensity, they released quiet breathy sighs as they relished in the feeling of him seated inside her- deep and full and tight and warm.

Limbs folded around each other and lips meeting halfway, they rocked slowly, fucking in a way that didn’t feel like fucking at all.

Aonung planted kisses on her temple and her cheek and jaw, hands smoothing over every inch of skin he could find while Lýn clung to him- tiny murmurs and mewls escaping her.

They moved in tandem, deliberate rolls and grinds that weren’t rushed or hurried as they climbed higher and higher- the build up so profound and fervent, a few tears sprang to Lýn’s eyes.

“Fuck, I’m going to come soon.” He licked away the lone teardrop that escaped her, and she tasted the salt on his tongue when he parted her lips with it. “Come with me, gorgeous. Please.”

She nodded and led one of his hands between them, showing him what she wanted- clit needing attention for her to get there.

It was tempting to increase their rhythm, to want rock harder or move faster, but they both kept their pace, gradually getting to that peak that swelled and blossomed until they neared that break.

Rhythm eventually growing erratic, then faltering, Aonung hid his face- nose pressed into Lýn’s cheek as his fingers tightened their hold- in her hair at her nape, the others circling her clit.

Ayelýn came with a soft cry and a full body spasm, trembling as she felt his warmth spread inside her. She moaned into Aonung’s mouth- his own groans accompanying hers.

Pleasure thrumming throughout her body, he continued to grind into her- drawing little aftershocks and whimpers from her.

Both limbless and exhausted, they collapsed against the mats beneath them.

Aonung slipped out from between her legs and Lýn made a face at the gush of mess slowly escaping her. Though, she was too worn out to care to do anything about it. Eywa, there was so much of it.

Arm draped around her waist, Aonung kissed her forehead and whispered something she didn’t make out. She squirmed closer, and made a home in his arms, content to use a bicep as a pillow and to squish her face into the space below his shoulder.

And in the quiet of their shelter, the sounds of rolling waves lulled them into calm.

Aonung did not find rest easily that night. While Lýn slept, his thoughts plagued him. Knuckles running down her spine, he held her close…

Something he’d never done with anyone before.

Aongung didn’t do cuddling.

He didn’t do soft and sweet fucking.

And he definitely didn’t do night overs.

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping his thoughts would grow tired.

Ayelýn confused him.

He knew he liked her. He hadn’t realized just how deep, however. The way in which this woman had wormed her way into his constant thoughts, terrified him.

A small dark part of him- a lingering remnant of the old Aonung, thought that fucking her would get her out of his system.

They’d fucked alright, yet here he was, holding her because he still couldn’t get enough. She was no longer only in his thoughts.

She had seeped into his veins…

Into his heart.

Giving up on his inner struggle, he decided to literally give up. He was done fighting this.

Done fighting them.

Cupping her neck he held her to him as quiet prayers to Eywa left his lips, whispers buried into Ayelýn’s hair.

When morning broke, neither of them spoke about it.

And in the following hours that turned into days that turned to weeks, neither acknowledged the evident shift between them.

Eywa.

Please give me calm, give me strength.

Ayelýn blew out another shaky breath. She was a nervous wreck this morning.

Tail twitching behind her, she made yet another wrong turn along a bouncing pathway… Maybe it was deliberate? Maybe it was her body’s way of protecting her from what was to come.

Eywa. She really didn’t want to do this.

Throughout her journey, Lýn kept a look out for a familiar mountain of a man who she couldn’t seem to find anywhere. Of all days, this was not a day for him to be missing!

Despite her obvious prolonging, she couldn’t stall any further or else she’d be late, and after final, futile efforts, she at least felt some ounce of relief when she spotted Aonung’s sister.

“Tsireya!” she called out.

“Ayelýn!” the woman chirped in pleasant surprise, walking over to meet her halfway. “Are you looking for my brother?”

“Well, yes and no. I was hoping to catch him for a moment.”

“He’s out on a hunt. Won’t be back till late.”

“Oh.” That was disappointing to hear.

“What’s wrong?”

Lýn licked her lips and tried not to grimace. “My presence has been requested. Your mother summoned me,” she revealed.

Tsireya appeared unaffected by the news, though she did pick up on Lýn’s nervousness. “I had a feeling this would happen eventually. I told my brother as much… He’s so stubborn,” she muttered with a fond shake of her head.

“Why does she want to see me then? I was just told to come here.”

“Sa'nok has been asking Aonung to have you come by for a while now and he’s been swimming around it,” Tsireya explained. “She thinks he keeps you purposely away from her and I’m guessing she’s had enough… and of course she’d choose the day he was on an all day hunt.”

“Ah. I see.” Lýn weighed her options, then, “Reya, I have no clue what to say to her… the few times we’ve interacted were- weird and awkward and honestly, I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“Lýn, trust me, you’ll be fine. She simply wants to get to know you. She did the same thing with my Lo’ak.”

That did ease away some of Ayelýn’s nerves.

Tsireya took her hand and squeezed it in comfort. “And just a secret between you and me… if she offers you to stay for a meal with her, it means she definitely approves.”

Ayelýn tried not to squirm, but sitting before an intimidating Ronal would make just about anyone uncomfortable.

They’d been sitting in silence ever since she’d arrived and Lýn decided to cope by focusing on her surroundings while Ronal continued to study her. After all, every nook of the Tsahìk’s marui had something curious to see.

“What is your appointed position in your village, Ayelýn?”

Lýn startled, not only from the sudden break in their long, suffering silence, but also from the question.

By now, it was no secret what her role in the clan was. Ayelýn had gotten her fair share of snickers and stray comments and at one feast only a couple days ago, she had to pull away a snarling Aonung when he’d overheard a group of women bad mouthing her and her scrubber status.

The Tsahìk had also been present and seated nearby and Lýn had even caught her watching the ordeal in great interest.

“I’m a scrubber, Tsahìk.”

“Hm. Do you enjoy it?”

“I don’t think anyone enjoys being a scrubber,” Lyn answered honestly. “But it is work, and I am diligent about it.”

Ronal appeared to think before she spoke again.

“Should you have the opportunity, what would you prefer to be doing then?”

“Oh- no, I-”

“T’is only a question, child. Won’t you humor a curious woman?”

“Ah… I- I suppose I’ve always had an interest in mending things.” Lýn held in a chuckle, remembering her first meeting with Aonung and his mortified reaction to her canoe. “Though I don’t believe I’d be any good at it given my lack of skill.”

“Skill can be easily learnt,” Ronal said, helping herself to a sip of her brewed seaweed and herb tea. “If I’m not mistaken, Hythspon is finally considering getting an apprentice- I believe you know him? Perhaps you might be interested in taking the position? I can put in a good word for you, if you’d like.”

Ayelýn sat up straighter. “Truly? I- thank you, Tsahìk… I will give it some thought.”

“You should… It means, you’d also be closer to Aonung since you’d have to move to Awa’atlu.”

Unsure how to respond to that, Ayelýn mashed her lips together and gave a small nod.

“My son does not realize it, but he speaks a great deal about you. I, however, am interested in getting to know the women he intends to mate and bring into our family, for myself... So tell me.” Ronal sat back expectantly.

Lýn frowned. “What exactly would you like to know?”

“Everything, my dear. Everything. You will not be Tsahìk- since my Reya is next in line, but if and when you and my son do mate, you will be the mate of the Metkayina’s future Olo'eyktan. It is my duty to know who that woman is… So tell me, everything.”

And so, Lýn spoke as Ronal asked her question after question.

She was asked about her family and her completed rites; Keftxo, her childhood, her likes and dislikes, what her values were and what she did in her free time. Ronal asked her what she envisioned for her future, even how many children she wanted to have.

With each question, they became more direct and personal and Ayelýn felt her walls going up and panic bubble in her chest. Her body was so rigid and tense, she had to force herself to unclench her jaw, to uncurl her tail and to give her shoulders the occasional roll.

When requested, Ayelýn recounted the story of how she and Aonung first met and then Ronal asked her a question she had been dreading the most.

“Aonung won’t say, but when do you believe you two will take the next step? I am keen to have the meeting of the two families. Tonowari and I have been lenient. We gave Aonung a year, it has now been almost two. I understand this must be a bit difficult for you, but… it has been long enough.”

Stunned, Ayelýn fiddled with the end of her tail, then, catching herself, she stopped. “We will discuss it, Tsahìk,” she feebly promised.

“That is all I ask,” she said. “You may continue to court of course, there is no pressure to make the mating bond just yet.”

Tension eased from Lýn’s shoulders at that.

“But, you have to understand, we need to know for certain whether or not this is a secure match,” she explained with surprising gentleness.

“I understand.”

“Good… Now tell me, Ayelýn. Are you happy in your courtship with my son? Truly?”

“Yes. He-” Lýn cleared her throat. “I am happy… He makes me happy.”

“Hmm.” Ronal’s unwavering eyes made Lýn uncomfortable. “I must speak my mind when I say I was quite surprised by my son’s choice of you.”

Feeling another wall of guardedness shift into place, Lýn clenched her jaw. “Because I am a scrubber from Keftxo?”

Surprise clouded Ronal’s features for a fraction of a second. “Oh goodness, no. Nothing to do with that. If anything I am baffled as to why you- a woman with her head on her shoulders- are with my Aonung- given how he can be.”

“How he- can be? Forgive me, Tsahìk, but don’t understand.”

“Aonung is… subversive. He is wild and brash- rude. He is selfish in nature and is reckless with his life. As his mother, I want nothing more than for him to see that he is destined to do great things.”

Lýn’s heart thundered in her chest. She should have bit her tongue but it was quicker to release. “Your son is already doing great things.”

Ronal regarded the woman before her. Gone was the fidgeting, nervous slip of a Na’vi. Ayelýn was livid.

“You don’t agree with me?” she asked, mildly amused.

“No. No, I don’t. Aonung is defined by none of those descriptions.”

“Oh?”

“Tsahìk, my apologies for speaking out of turn but- Aonung is bold, and kind. He is brave and he may seem selfish at times like you say but he would put his own life in danger for the help of others. He is brash and rude but he is also funny and sweet and charming- and he wants nothing more than your approval of him. He wants you and his father to see him- not as a constant disappointment but as your son…. He’s a good leader, he has heart and strength and the people love him!

“And yes he has his flaws- Don’t we all?! But he is our future Olo'eyktan- his mistakes no matter how big or small are seen as monumental in anyone else's eyes. He’s allowed to make mistakes, he’s allowed to learn from them and not have them constantly thrown back in his face... Like anyone else, he’s allowed to be forgiven…. Especially by his parents.”

Silence followed.

An awestruck appearance of realization formed on the Tsahìk’s face and Lýn braced herself for Ronal’s wrath.

“You speak with such passion for Aonung. I had not realized you were in love with my son.”

Ayelýn released a shaky breath. Not outrightly disagreeing with the statement, she didn’t correct it either.

Since her mother’s slip of the word love a little over a month ago, she’d had sufficient time to dwell and think.

At every attempt to reason away the absurdity, Lýn had failed.

She was in love with Aonung.

Through and through.

Flaws and all.

“We are courting, Tsahìk. Of course I care deeply for him.”

“For someone like Aonung with a commitment to his clan, courting has nothing to do with love, child. It is a path to secure a match in the end. You may care deeply, yes, but finding love in courtship for him is a gift. As leaders, courtship means duty, honor, security.”

Lýn bit her lip. She finally understood the pressures Aonung face day after day.

“Then, as a leader whose duty is for the clan- their needs, their happiness… Doesn’t Aonung deserve that too? You speak of love as this surprising gift between a match. But… can’t he just want to find love for himself?”

Ronal’s lips twitched and instead of answering, she asked her own questions. “Does my son know? Does he know how deep your feelings for him fall?”

“...No.”

“And will you tell him?”

Ayelýn’s head bowed, wordlessly answering the question.

“Pity… Well. There is still time, no?” The Tsahìk uncovered a platter. “I am famished. Would you like to join me for lunch, Ayelýn?”

Staring stunned at the spread, when Lýn glanced up, Ronal was smiling.

The type of smile that told Ayelýn she’d passed some kind of test.

Hello friends! 💛

Firstly, I promise you, I tried so many others, but that's the title that happened to stick for this part... and on the topic, I hope the smut was alright... Hehe.

This part got way too long, so I split it into two. The next one coming out will be the final part. *Fingers Crossed*

As always, please let me know what you think.

Tags:@jakesullyfatjuicypeen@granddearduck@riatesullironalite@strawberri-blonde@earthling55 @innercreationflower @gyuventure @btsiguess-kpop@blkmystery@neteswife@luvteyams@isnt-itstrange@erenjaegerwifee@faatxma@ivysully@bakugouswaif@pinkpantheris @mntx666@ironcaptainnataliabarnes @staymentallystable @neteyamslovrr @melsunshine

#safe haven #courting ayelyn #aonung #aonung mini fic #aonung fanfic #aonung x reader #aonung x female reader #aonung x y/n

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wmarximoff · 1 year

Text

𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: because Wanda is unlucky enough to understands as much as you do about the responsibility of those with great power — and the losses that come with it.

warnings (18+): smut, angst, handjob, gender neutral reader has a penis, major character death. MINORS DNI.

pairing: emo!Wanda x spider!gn!reader

word count: 4k

masterlist|

(please, don't flag the work)

༺ᱬ༻

There was something gratifying you could point to in the idea that, propelling yourself into the air, climbing in that arachnid-like acrobatics with your own body to the zephyrs of frigid wind in furrows at that high enraptured speed, the world around you could well be so tiny and contained that it would even be deprived of external evils and annoyances when seen from above.

And you always watched it from above, from above, from the corners, in swaying webs, flight towards the urban labyrinth of a city marked by its own life, in a majestic and vigorous existence – a giant that shines even when the dusk of night falls, warm even in the face of a shroud of icy snow in the middle of that October winter.

Admittedly, the cosmopolitanly avant-garde structures that made up the metropolis of New York were sprawling, treacherous, and indeed even fragile, but the charm of the Big Apple was passed right over everyone else's heads, on the surface, when you didn't peer deep into the alley violence in that capitalist machine that encompassed you as much as it did any other New York passer-by.

Your distinguishing factor, however, your peculiarity, was that for many of those people you were a protector, a masked safeguard of their integrity in the face of the everyday hostility that the system so poorly failed to sustain. You were responsible for protecting the helpless, the underprivileged, the underserved, the mainstay of the marginalized and the forgotten. You were, in accordance with your moral duties, the friend of the neighborhood.

Swinging from one building to the next was part of the job at that point. Aerial locomotion became more practical and utilitarian when dealing with moving from one point to another between the skyscrapers that rose to the dark immensity of the night, like arrows shot to the top of the borough of Queens, where a kind of human spider like you moved upwards, climbing and shooting webs, leaving behind trampled footprints in the accumulated snow on the corners of the parapets and on the lightning rod antennas.

You propelling yourself into the dark sky, your muscle cords contracting, pumping blood, gusts of icy air sliding through the fabric of your dark mask, inflating the white eight-legged spider etching emblazoned on your torso. Feeling fucking alive.

In front of panes of glass, pale lights and hums, there was the frenzy of a city that never sleeps – in an intense rustling buzz, active and dynamic amid the white snow and the thousands of lighted lamps, with people carrying briefcases, with suits and ties and sheltered in heavy clothes, with children and with animals, alone or in packs, cars mottled on the white streets, advertisements flashing everywhere. Conversations meandering through the most disparate topics possible to parrot about, a veritable array of options.

Life was happening right below you, as you swung in a black and white suit over the tops of pylons and tall buildings, beads of icy sweat pouring down the length of your back, delirious ecstasy pulsing through your veins added to your warm, radioactive blood.

But, away from the noise of the night's bustle, your web swings that night were heading towards a final stop on an otherwise quiet round – a small apartment complex with thin walls, raised in stone and red brick and in poor plumbing, rather weather-beaten, with a rent worthy of the salary of a pizza delivery person (and part-time barista) like you in Northwest Queens. A place where you've resided since you found yourself being on your own, a little over a year ago, because you weren't exactly the lucky kind of kid.

However, no longer so far from the popular residence, huddled in an arachnid position right on top of the snowy tiles of a corner market, behind the acrylic lenses in the shape of tears, both your eyes compressed their lids in a comically expression, confused in a furrow of brows, since out of the glass of that window situated on the eighth floor were beams of a white lamp luminescence – and, as far as you held a knowledge in your memory, you had left your dwelling still by the end of that partially sunny afternoon, therefore, never having even turned on the lamps that day.

“Shit,” beneath the fabric of the mask you held your frigid breath, sharpening your senses into a state of alert.

It only took a single jump propelled by your lower limbs and an accurate web shot ejected from the shooter attached to your right wrist, aimed right at the edge of the building's terrace, for you to maneuver cautiously in the air, between the light poles, like an elusive feline to then crawling up the emergency stairs outside your living room window, peering in for a glimpse of who the intruder might be that would have crept into your residence while you were away, merging with the shadows that shrouded that cold night.

But the ice in your lungs soon softened into puddles of itself, and at what lay there, laid out for your view from within those four withered walls that encompassed the narrow cubicle you called home. Your heart pumped in liquid explosion inside your ribcage that spread to the pit of your stomach, taking everything in its path in a dizzying hot drag. And that's why a tiny silly smile allowed itself to be enjoyed by the commission of your lips, against the thin fabric of your mask – it was just a natural act for you, to smile foolishly at the splendorous vision of Wanda Maximoff.

The far view alone was enough for you to find yourself smiling and truly content at your core – Wanda lying on your own bed, between thick blankets and poorly stacked piles of pillows, so oblivious to the fact that she was being watched; the pale expanses of her ring-lined fingers so subtly being nibbled on by her teeth, her nails varnished by a black nail polish chipped at the tips, one opalescent knee crossed over the other next to her chest, her dark miniskirt exposing her firm thighs in a way just as appealing to your desiring gaze.

And you loved the fact that her brown hair modulated coffee-colored tones when arranged in the dead of night, only in the pale light of a lamp placed near the right end of the bed – how even though it seemed so dark in the confines of that room, Wanda glowed in her own light sweeping a strand of profuse chestnut hair behind the shell of her right ear, her ringlet gleaming silver, her gaze so intent on the little television set in front of her.

How her irises seemed to adhere to traces of a mossy hue so bleak out of the sun, yet almost bordering on the innocence of someone who was only enjoying a television program displayed on the squalid screen of the small television set that was placed in front of the opposite wall to the bed, just above a small second-hand wooden table.

Over her torso she wore an old dark sweatshirt of yours, made of thick, warm material, bought at a Hot Topic store a few years ago, when you were still in your high school years. And Wanda was beautiful – the owner of a casual beauty, a simple natural and simple neatness, the kind in which there is no effort to pretend to be pretty. A beauty that begins and ends with itself, just because she was beautiful. The most beautiful sight anyone's eyes could be graced with. The kind that made you feel lucky, lucky to have her for yourself.

But it was then that the cold came to haunt you in a gust of stiff wind, the frozen hand of winter tracing the vertebrae of your spine in a chilling contact on your epidermis, which gelled the blood flowing in your veins and turned your bones to ice. Only then did you realize the reality where you were hanging on the snowy emergency stairs outside your apartment, away from the warm weather and away from Wanda.

And so, with your gloved right hand, you managed to lift the window and head your way into the small room, stepping on the floorboards inside with your left foot.

“Hey little witch, are you breaking and entering now? And here I thought you were one of the good guys...”

“Y/n!” Wanda got pleased immediately and, from the bed, she turned with her chin towards your voice that came from the window, a smile emerging in the outline of those pink lips she had, then getting up to receive you properly.

“It's cold outside, get in quick! You're going to catch a cold!”

And her southeastern European accent, still bathed by the Adriatic Sea, made itself present in her low-toned speech, hardening the enunciation of that soft voice. That's why you smiled – the tone of Wanda's voice always warmed your loving chest.

“Fine, fine, I'm fine,” you muttered in an enthusiastic tone, bringing your left hand behind you down on the windowpane that prevented any more gusts of icy wind from piercing the blister of heat that had become infatuated through the walls of that small room.

“I'm in one piece, see? Healthy as a,” you smiled to yourself, “Well, as a spider.”

And a chaste smile flickered back between Wanda's lips, a hint of skin being scrunched across the bridge of her nose in an adorable way, “You're such a goof, web-head.”

So it was that the young woman came walking towards you, warm, smiling, with open arms to welcome you into her affections.

And you took her for yourself, pulling Wanda's body close to yours, whereupon clever fingers dressed in silver rings hooked on the seam cut of your mask right in the middle of your neck, slowly then hoisting it so that in front of the Wanda's gaze revealed the skin of your chin, and then the pulp of your lips; the jadish irises aimed at your mouth and, morosely, the young woman bent down to take a kiss from you herself.

You held her, groping your fingers around her waist, when it was that, in a dizzying, crimson electric shock, soaked in a jubilation of fiery delight, your lips touched in a prudish, measured way. It was a kiss of a simple nature, yet lingering on her lips and imbued with impetuous feelings – the need joined to longing, the happiness of a jovial and healthy love. Something in you just yearned to return to her arms every day, as if your soul fit hers like a jigsaw puzzle by your lips united in a single tune.

“Hi,” you lisped in the tiniest tone against her mouth.

“Hey, детка,” was Wanda's reply, who still had the hem of your mask pressed between her rings, before she hoisted her forearms up to her chin and completely removed the piece of cloth that covered your face expression as smiling as hers.

“I really love your eyes, Y/n.”

“I can say the same for you, my little witch.”

After a little simpler caress of love exchanged, more kisses and hugs and little oaths of longing, you two separated then in reluctance so that you would undress your cold spider suit, choosing to wear more casual clothes and comfortable on your body – a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of snug, vaguely baggy sweatpants. And while you were doing that, Wanda, sitting right on the edge of your bed, watched you in front of the tiny closet door nearby, where a small door opened onto a narrow, dark room with clothes hanging on hangers and a small yellow light dripping from the ceiling.

“I was looking over your crime board earlier, before you arrived, and...” as she talked, her chin was supplanted by the elbow resting on the right knee of her crossed legs.

“Mmm?”

Wanda looked at you for half a second, her face creasing in curiosity, “Who's Wilson Fisk?”

“Kingpin,” your voice was somewhat muffled by the dark shirt you were halfway pulling on over your head.

“He's one of the crime bosses around here, he's involved in some pretty serious shit around town,” at last, you tucked the shirt over your torso.

“And I've been on his tail for a few months now, but I need to get on with my work if I'm going to gather enough evidence to expose him to the public legally. It's going to be difficult since he has pretty much the entire political underworld in the palm of his hand and other stuff too, of course, but... but I think I'm getting somewhere with this, yeah.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, “That sounds… kinda dangerous, Y/n,” Wanda sniffed with her nose to the side, speaking more to herself than to you per se.

“Maybe if you talked to Clint or Nat they could help you with that. Steve too, even. I know they are all willing to help you if you ask. Steve… you know, he’d really like you to take a chance and be on the team for a while. He thinks you'd make a good Avenger.”

"Yeah, I don't know about that, Wands," you muttered back, raising your right eyebrow at the idea.

“I don't think it's in the Avengers' niche to worry about that kind of thing, you know? I mean, you guys kind of exist to deal with out-of-the-galaxy threats and crazed AIs and evil government organizations and all that shit, don't you? And, well, Fisk is a pretty big fish in his own way, that's true... but he's just a stupid old bald guy who blackmails the local politicians and has created a criminal empire out of bribery and corruption – which is not it's very different from the billionaires we know out there. The difference is that Fisk is not a threat on a global scale.”

At the not-so-indirect burn to Stark Industries that couldn't be ignored, Wanda couldn't help but giggle infinitesimally under her breath, an act that elicited a goofy little smile from you, swaying your shoulders into your baggy blouse.

“Well,” she smiled a little too, in a kind of assent to your words, “You're not wrong.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you turned your head toward her, as your right foot tucked into the seam of thick gray cotton sweatpants.

“Plus, I have this certain, umm, responsibility to the people of this town, I guess. It was a promise I made after all, I... I'm here for them, both to keep all that crazy shit from spilling over on them, and just to look out for them when no one else does. That's my job around here, my function. It's just what I do. I'm not a super spy, or a super soldier, a genius billionaire or a giant green strong guy, Wands. I’m, I’m only...”

“The friendly neighborhood web-head?”

At your roll of eyes, Wanda smirked, like a small rabbit with moderately larger front teeth than the rest.

“That's just mean, witchy. I really prefer Spidey, you know? Spidey.”

“Spidey,” the young enchantress reiterated to you, “Well, anything sounds better than the Witch anyway. That's so fucking pejorative, like, burn the witch or something, what the fuck. I’m not a fucking witch.”

“You aren’t?”

“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes out of their sockets comically.

“The Witch, huh…” you looked at her, almost laughing when you did, “People really aren't good at coming up with superhero names, are they? Because this one is really bad. Really bad.”

“No,” Wanda chuckled in agreement, shaking her head, “They're not, not at all. And I’m not a superhero.”

“I see,” you droned, “And what are you then?”

For a second, Wanda looked at you, “A unlucky person who has made a lot of bad choices in her life.”

The television, which was flashing some old episode of a sitcom that made up Wanda's favorite series collection, was the only thing that filled the room with any kind of light or sound some time later, since, after stuffing yourself with the chicken paprikash that your beloved had prepared for you and then packed and stored in your fridge, the two of you snuggled in each other's arms, away from the cold and the chill, under a thatched hut with thick blankets on your bed during that bitter winter night.

But it was when you turned in search of a comfortable position to lean back against the pillows and your left elbow brushed Wanda's right, that you two looked at each other curiously as if only then had you realized how close you encompassed each other – two dark gazes in the middle of the room lit only by the artificial lighting of a meaningless program, together, alone.

And you craved the comforting body heat that Wanda radiated when as close to her as you were – the scent of red that wafted from her silky ebony hair and her smooth, pale skin. You felt, however, a gaze peering into you from the line of your jaw and cheekbones, and looking back, Wanda was staring at you with a voluptuous fixation on the darkened green corners of her irises. She looked at you like she could completely consume you, like something about her was going to swallow you up and eat you down, digest you to the bones.

And then, from beneath the cocoon of blankets, a subtle touch spread across your left crotch, still above the thick material of your sweatpants. Your gaze sailed from the heap of blankets placed in the region of your lap to the emerald gaze, so dimmed, of the young woman sitting next to your left elbow.

“Wanda...”

“Mm?” she hummed back, as innocent as could be, as if her fingers weren't so close to groping an area of your body that was already beginning to throb with signs of life.

“Wanda,” you lisped softly, again, so needy, pupils popping and blood bristling through your veins, “What are you…?”

“I missed you, детка,” her fingers dipped deeper and deeper into your crotch, her eyes still screwed into your field of vision as she did so, “I missed you so, so much… I get so lonely in my room in the compound, you know? And all I can think about in those moments is you... how much I miss you.”

She locked her upper teeth against the flesh of her lower lip, stifling a lusty, immoral smile when she realized something – already petrified in a flash of desire, beneath the fabric of your pants, was your semi-erection, a noticeable bulge that made Wanda's mouth throb with desire.

"And I bet you miss me too, don't you?"

“Of course I do,” you huffed out a breath of warm air, “Fuck Wanda, every goddamn night… every goddamn night I miss you.”

The bright, lively hand, with thin fingers wrapped in rings and well-cut black nails, couldn't help but travel through the dazzling skin of your abdomen, exposed by the lifting of your long-sleeved blouse, starting from the south, from your navel, into your hips, into the hem of your pants. Wanda captured your thick member and gave your shaft an alluring squeeze – her face then hidden in the contour of your neck, in the joint of your shoulder, to nibble, there, a piece of skin.

“Uh-f-fuck, Wanda...” you squirmed out of your nostrils like steam released from your bruised lungs, in a hoarse wail, somewhat drunk with the acute excitement present in your system.

Wanda smiled against your skin, her thumb lethargic caressing the strained head of your cock inside your pants and, in performed innocence, she placed a chaste kiss on the bone at the tip of your jaw.

“Just enjoy it, malышка,” was whispered in her low voice right next to your ear, in an accent hard and robust, but so dizzying when it came out of the crack of Wanda's lips, “Let me show you how much I missed you.”

And again, followed this time by a shameless tone of voice, leaking the red color from her pores, Wanda pressed the plump shaft between her slender fingers, causing a softness on your part. Following your moan, she placed a warm kiss behind your left ear.

“Allow me to make you feel good, Y/n.”

Wanda's right hand began its harassed, pleasurable work, up and down the length of your nervous member, raised to the intimate of your burning thighs – and you, wrapped in an embarrassed tremor, were exasperated as Wanda kissed your corner of the half-open mouth and the fluttering earlobe, threading your fingers through her brown locks as if it were a need between your hands, just in search of something to support yourself during that very intimate moment, shared by a couple of lovers as young and needy as you two were.

“Y/n,” she called against your cheekbone, “I… I'm sorry, but I want you inside. Now."

“Fine,” was your airy reply, “Fine.”

And without delay, Wanda passed her thighs over your knees, linking the folds of her elbows to your neck, then sitting on your lap so that a pink and expert tongue could slide inside your mouth as the damp, warm walls from her cunt slid around your erection. And then, one hefty, powerful touch, palms wide open and pressed to the flesh of her ass beneath her skirt, you screeched out of the outline of Wanda's lips a savory moan that squirmed from the very core of your lungs to pulsate against her lips during the carnal act of penetration.

“Бля, детка… тобі так добре, Y/n…” she gasped against the shell of your ear in a drawling semi-moan, “Y/n…”

"Do you like it?" was your question against her skin, to which, girding your cock with her velvety walls, Wanda nodded, bobbing her head up and down.

“I love it,” and, drunk on a wave of scarlet ledice, Wanda smiled, “I love you.”

You fell silent for a measly second, in fact barely realizing what had happened. Television still featured some sitcom that no longer mattered to you or even her, who was most attracted to the thing between you two – not being as close as you were in that primitive, carnal or even lewd way; skin with skin, flesh with flesh. Raw, visceral, passionate. It was cold outside, but your chest had never felt as warm as it did during that moment. She loved you. She loved you.

“You love me?”

Pulling her face away from your neck, Wanda looked at you with bright eyes from under thick, heavy lashes. She looked at you like no one else but her ever had before.

“I love you, детка,” was a whisper, a promise, “I love you, Y/n.”

When she started to go down everything became hazy, pulsing, hot, red. Wanda was moving up and down your body and you felt her backs arch convulsively, still continuing, creeping towards her cervix, rubbing her from the inside with the head of your cock.

And she rode you with such firmness, moaning and crying out, doing the penetration herself while your eyes converged in a single vision; Wanda moving up and down, over and over, seeking with her hips, until you both came in a delirium of dizzying pleasure; you pouring yourself inside her walls, into her flesh, and her thighs pale, wet, at the meeting with your hips. When she sighed wearily against the hollow of your neck, you smiled into a lock of her hair.

“I love you, little witch.”

It was perfect, you and her. So perfect that you pledged your love two or three more times that night, loving each other in the flesh, in the core, in the heart. Making you cling to the luck of having that miserable moment reserved for you and her, wanting to multiply it, make it last as long as possible.

It was as if, about a month or two after the event, already at the end of that winter suffered on a late December afternoon, Natasha Romanoff had not found herself leaving the corridors of the compound, walking stiff towards Wanda’s room, the soles of her boots full of soot and snow.

As if, among the strands of that short fire-colored hair, the residue of shards of sparkling glass did not shimmer after a painful fall – as if the Black Widow's lower lip were not found bloody and swollen after an arduous fight, as if she had not left a child to fight alone until it was too late for her interposition to mean anything decisive. As if Natasha hadn't been advised by Captain America to let Wanda, still as young, as damaged as she was, digest what happened, still so recent in the popular imagination, on her own.

“She's going to need some time, Nat,” pleaded Steve in a disgustingly grim tone, when they, he and she, were still sharing the elevator space just after returning from the big city with blood on their hands.

“Give Wanda a break, she's been through a lot. She doesn't need it right now. She’s… she’s just a kid. An unfortunate kid.”

But Natasha walked into Wanda's room in that snowy early evening, the emissary of news so atrocious that it had just left the streets, with blood and glass and corpses everywhere, a body count so tragic it could have had more, much lower if you hadn't intervened. Of course, you. But you weren't the one there to tell Wanda what the result of that fight with Wilson Fisk that Christmas Eve night had been. Natasha was the figure standing there, clutching the remains of your mask between the fingers of her right hand. It felt so pointless. As pointless as telling a young girl her lover was dead could be. Your mask felt meaningless.

“Wanda, I…I…”

But Wanda was nowhere to be found in her spacious bed after the Black Widow entered the room filled with posters on the walls and ceiling, stuffed animals arranged next to the pillows and the books piled orderly on the shelves. That was a young person's room, Natasha thought. Wanda was young. The television bolted to the wall adjacent to the window followed the live narration that portrayed a hideous explosion in Hell's Kitchen, where the fire department was still in the process of fully assessing the high and enigmatic number of lives claimed that night.

Wanda was in the bathroom, after all, when Natasha walked over — sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, threading her fingers through her long hair, scratching the scalp as she squinted at her burning eyes where tears were streaming from; sadness that marked her cheeks. She looked as small and as young as could be. And then it was that Natasha remembered. She realized, indeed, what had happened.

Carrying your spidery mask with her, Natasha remembered that both you and Wanda were really just a pair of unfortunate children, as she herself had once been too – children who carried greater responsibilities than you could even handle, with a maturity as mechanical and precocious as what the world demanded of you two. Children like her. Unlucky children.

“What… what– what am I going to do Nat…?” Wanda sobbed, still not lifting her eyes to the open crack in the door, where the older woman was standing, still bloody, still injured, “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

And Natasha wanted to answer her. She wanted to, she opened her bruised lips to do so and then utter that speech she had already had in mind since she had held your body in her arms, still tucked inside that spider suit, in the snow and in the dark. But she immediately contained herself, refraining herself even before doing so, because that was when she saw it – prepared eyes spotted beside Wanda's so small and curved body a plastic rod with two lines marked in a baby pink color.

“Wanda… is... is that…?”

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried, “I don’t know, I don’t know…”

A pregnancy test of the kind one can buy at any local pharmacy, and the result was positive. And your mask was in her hands because you were gone. She was supposed to give it to Wanda as a reminder of your memory, but Wanda would have more to remember you by than a simple torn and bloody piece of cloth. She was pregnant after all. And you – you were dead. You were nothing but an unlucky dead bastard.

“I… I don't know,” Natasha's fingers tightened on the damn tattered fabric, “I'm so sorry, Wanda. I don't know… I don’t know.”

Wanda's tears, wide and warm, dripped between her bare feet on the pale bathroom floor tile. She had never felt so unlucky as she did at that moment.

668 notes · View notes

hanaaishi · 2 months

Text

PAIRING: Matt Rempe x AFAB! Reader

WORD COUNT: 4.7K

SUMMARY: A surprise bar fight in Gramercy lands Matt Rempe in Bellevue with a head laceration. But a missing bangle allows you to share an experience of a lifetime with him.

WARNINGS: Bigotry, Harassment, Hospitals, Medical Treatment, Swearing, and Violence

I dedicate this story to @2manytabsopen as part of the 2K24 Summer Fic Exchange.

This is my first time writing for a non-binary, asexual person of color. I tried my best to incorporate that into the story while following the instructions you provided in the initial ask. As a result, if I messed up on anything, I am deeply sorry.

That being said, it was lovely to write for you. I had a lot of fun researching Desi culture for the story.

@wyattjohnston @kurlyteuvo @callsign-denmark @avengedearth

The fluorescent lights of the Bellevue emergency room burned overhead as you knelt between endless rows of medical supplies in the storeroom with an open package of disposable syringes at your feet. You scooped a handful and placed them into their labeled plastic container alongside the others lining the chrome-wire shelf. After unloading and breaking down the cardboard, your eyes shifted to the Apple watch around your wrist, which read 6:09 pm. Unpacking today's delivery of medical supplies pared only a single hour away from your twelve-hour night shift, causing an exasperated sigh to fall from your lips. You adjusted your navy blue watch band and rose to your feet to provide your knees with much-needed relief after kneeling upon the hospital's mosaic tile floor for an extended period. A smile appeared as you took a few steps back to review your work and admire your pristine organization before tucking the cardboard under your arm and touching the light switch.

As you entered the hallway, an adagio melody of soft chatters reached your ears. Your nose picked up the remnants of a disinfectant miasma as if the hospital came to life and unleashed a deluge of germicide upon itself like the Overlook Hotel from The Shining. You look deeper into the hallway to your left and into the waiting room on your right, waiting for a code to begin over the intercom and a flock of nurses rushing around the corner with a crash cart. But the announcement never came, causing you to blink at the colleagues meandering past with their files and patients. The hospital's serenity continued to hold against the chaos of the bustling Manhattan streets outside, a rarity in the most populated metropolis in the country.

You closed the door behind you, waiting for the light on the card reader to turn red, signifying that the storeroom had locked. Afterward, you joined the flow of hospital staff wandering through the department on your way to the emergency room’s hospital bay, where the maintenance staff stored the recycling for easy disposal. Several nurses, who must have received a slight lull while waiting for new patients or test results, mulled around the central station. They stood against the white quartz countertop, filling out paperwork or discussing their plans for their next day off with the RNs assigned to monitor the systems for that shift. The handful of invalids who visited the emergency room that evening lay interspersed upon the flimsy white mattresses lining the hospital’s beds with their eyes fixated on their phones or a book in their hands. In one or two stations, a fortunate soul conversed with one of the scheduled doctors, who explained their diagnoses and proceeding prognosis through gestures toward their tablets and illuminated X-rays. Their mouths moved in gentle whispers, preventing you from picking on their reason for visiting. However, based on their relaxed demeanor, you deduced it was for non-critical injuries, like broken bones and simple sutures, and other everyday ailments as you wandered further from the department’s core.

After several moments, the expansive black sliding doors where the EMTs unloaded patients from their ambulances came into view. The sight added an extra bounce in your step, driving you to the recycling room in desperation to trash your cardboard and join your fellow nurses at the station or perhaps grab a cup of mediocre coffee the hospital stocked in the break area from local grocers. However, before you could take your break, one of the boxes slipped from your grasp and clattered to the floor, causing you to stop. As you bent down to retrieve it, a chill began to rise on your spine as the sound echoed through the ambulance bay. The hospital was well-lit, and you could still see bits of your co-workers' pastel scrubs in the distance, but an eerie silence had permeated the air. In the city that never sleeps, you often had a faint cacophony of horns honking and emergency services sirens always accompanying you. But there was nothing like seeing the dark storm clouds before hearing the thunder.

Suddenly, indistinct red and blue shimmers appeared on the off-white walls, causing you to lift your head and turn your attention to the dancing lights. You slouched your shoulders and rolled your eyes at the illuminations as the ambiance of the distant siren struck up once more and confirmed the proximity of an emergency service vehicle. Despite your odds, an incessant mantra began in your head, pleading with the lights to disappear and the siren to fade into as the New York City Police Department or Fire Department passed on their way to an emergency. The Universe sadly appeared to ignore your invocation as the lights and sirens grew ever closer to Bellevue, and you grimaced upon realizing that it was the FDNY, but not for a blazing inferno threatening to burn down several city blocks.

“Fuck!” you said under your breath as you recognized the youthful visage of one of the EMTs who often brought patients to the hospital through the bay doors. You grabbed the cardboard and leaned it against the recycling room door, making a mental note to dispose of it later if maintenance didn’t remove it first. Turning to the door, you grabbed a pair of sterile gloves from a nearby box and rushed out to meet the team.

The EMT smiled as he saw you emerging into the cool spring air from the building. “Evening! I have an interesting one for you: Matt, 22, got into a bar fight at The Foundry a few blocks down in Gramercy. His vitals are stable, and the only noticeable injury is this laceration on his forehead.” He pointed to a patch of gauze on the patient’s face, anchored with two pieces of medical tape. “Apparently, there was a group of rowdy patrons there, and Matt and his friends intervened, causing one of the guys to launch a beer bottle at Matt’s head. He declined to press charges, so no visits from PD, and seems alert. He’s also not too thrilled about getting checked out at the hospital because he’s afraid some guy named Peter would kill him, but I told him it was protocol.”

“Hi, Matt. I’m one of the nurses who works in the emergency room here. It looks like you have a nice cut on your head. We’re going to get you checked out and make sure you don’t have any other hidden injuries. And then, we should get you out by the end of the night. How does that sound?” you explained, approaching the stretcher and placing a comforting hand on the guardrail.

Matt turned his head, acknowledging you with his honey-almond eyes. Your grip around the bed rail tightened, and you tilted your head to study his features better as you neared the bed. Given the fact that the wound wasn’t actively bleeding, it appeared prime facie that the wound was superficial and wouldn’t cause a lasting scar to maim his handsome face. He wore a tense smile on his uneven pink lips and under an adorable button nose while a few strands of his long chestnut hair framed his square jaw. Noticeable dried blood spots on his white button-up peeked out from his dark grey blazer, but it was nothing that some coffee grounds would be able to take out. He also possessed a delicate aroma of juniper, possibly from a cologne that he bought on Fifth Avenue, which tied his outfit together and gave him a gentlemanly appearance. Intrusive began storming your subconscious, compelling you to remark on his handsomeness. However, despite the persistent urge, you remained in place and offered Matt a warm smile, hoping it would ease his fears. He regarded your face for a moment more before reciprocating your tenderness and spreading his lips into a more genuine smile.

The paramedic exchanged puzzled looks with his technicians waiting to roll Matt into the emergency room, wondering why you two were staring at each other. After a few moments, he cleared his throat to break the intimate encounter. “Yeah, so, that’s the story. Can we head into the emergency room to get him some help?”

“Oh, yes, I’m so sorry,” you replied as your brain uncrossed its wires, allowing you to re-comprehend human speech. You stepped back and turned your head to the aging brick wall constructing the hospital, pretending to stare at something to avoid eye contact with the technicians as they entered the ambulance bay.

Once they had passed, you fixed your eyes on their backs as they rolled Matt through the doors. The intrusive thoughts finally gave up the fight, but the battle left more questions than answers. You have worked at Bellevue for several years and received outstanding reviews on your bedside manner and standard of care for your patients. But you had never established an infatuation with a patient before. Perhaps it was his handsome appearance or the story of Matt selflessly placing himself between a group of drunk guys that made him sound like a hero in a fable. Whatever the reason, you pursed your lips at the thought of having to get back to work as you stumbled into the emergency room with the paramedic in tow.

The technicians guided Matt over to a nearby station at your instruction and parked the stretcher near the bed, allowing Matt to climb in on his own volition. It took some work, but he maneuvered his long, robust limbs comfortably onto the sterile striped sheets. You gave the EMTs a polite nod and thanked them for their assistance as they packed up their supplies and headed back to the ambulance with the stretcher, allowing you to return your attention to Matt. You raised the bed’s angle, giving Matt more solace and a better angle to examine his injury. Once everything was in place, you placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder and grabbed ahold of one of the pieces of medical tape.

“Alright, let’s look at this injury of yours. You’re going to feel a bit of discomfort, but it will only last a few seconds. Okay?” you explained. Matt responded with a nod, permitting you to remove the tape. Slowly, the adhesive separated from his ivory skin as you peeled it back, causing Matt to form a slight wince. The gauze lifted, revealing a long but otherwise clean cut an inch above Matt’s left eyebrow. “Oh, that’s not that bad. It’s a neat, straight cut, and there doesn’t appear to be any glass fragments there, which means that getting you sutured up will be easy. You relax here while I go see which general surgeon we have on call tonight.”

“Thank you,” Matt replied in his gruff tenor voice, shifting in his bed as he prepared to wait.

You returned to the storeroom once more and retrieved a series of butterfly strips and a non-adhesive bandage to help close the wound while you waited for the surgeon. As you tended to his wound, your eyes caught glimpses of a video playing on Matt’s phone. The pendant lights fastened from old canning jars hanging around the bar created a cozy ambiance for enjoying a nice stout or a lager after a long day at work, but it did not provide enough lighting for filming. Nevertheless, you could make out the contours of Matt’s stern face as he glared at another bar patron, who resembled the stereotypical blond, old-money villain from a romantic comedy. In the shadows, a man’s arm grabbed Matt’s bicep and attempted to drag him away from his scowling opponent, but Matt’s goliath frame stood firm. A few moments passed before the assailant launched himself at Matt, pushing him against one of the lacquered wood high-tops and punching him in the face. Matt's fierce right hook was the last thing you saw before the videographer concluded the recording, and the screen went black. After the video finished, Matt’s long fingers navigated out of full-screen mode and through the never-ending sea of comments and reactions from fans on Twitter.

“You have a nice punch there. Are you a boxer?” you asked as you focused on straightening a butterfly strip.

Matt let out a chuckle as he continued scrolling. “No, more like a hockey player. Some of the guys and I were out enjoying a couple of drinks before all of them returned home for the off-season, and we overheard a bunch of pricks from some Ivy League school out east. They were harassing some girls across the bar. I have two older sisters. If they talked to one of them like that, those guys wouldn’t be in the back of a police car; they would be in the back of a hearse.”

“Where did the beer bottle come from?”

“One of the douchebags bonked me over the head when I wasn’t looking. I’m lucky I got off with nothing but a simple cut.”

“You can say that again. On behalf of all female kind, I just want to say thanks.”

Matt furrowed his brow as you reapplied more medical tape to finish the dressage. “Female-kind? Not womankind?”

“Yeah, I’m non-binary,” you replied, grabbing wrappers and clicking the tape back into its case.

"Right on!” said Matt with a nod and his attention fixed on his Twitter feed.

You smiled and patted his shoulder as you rose from your stool and disposed of the wrappers in a nearby wastebasket. A warmth spread across your chest as you returned to the nurses' station to consult the on-call and see which number you needed to dial. You traced over each line until you saw the general surgeon’s name, a veteran with several years of experience in the hospital, and picked up the phone, tucking it between your shoulder and ear. In the several years you worked for New York City Health and Hospitals, you didn’t receive much hate for being a non-binary nurse. A few older patients would glare at you upon seeing the rose-colored button on your ID, informing them of your she/they pronouns. But they pursed their lips as you took their vitals, knowing that the wrong word would cause their bridge to healthcare to incinerate faster than the Great Fire of London. The others who accepted you often interrogated you on when you learned you were non-binary and what your thoughts were on the current political climate. While they were always well-intended, their line of questioning sometimes felt invasive. You weren’t participating in a pageant or running for city office, making your personal life irrelevant to their care. That is why Matt was such a breath of fresh air. He cared enough not to treat you like an oddity but didn’t overly care to the point that you became a fragile flower. He allowed you to be you without any regret.

A minute or two passed until a female voice belonging to the general surgeon came onto the line. You explained the situation and Matt’s status, prompting her to state she would be right down. The hospital stowed the surgeon's offices in another wing far from the emergency room, and it would take the doctor a few minutes to travel from her ivory tower. With little to keep you occupied, you returned to your stool in Matt’s station. The two of you conversed about anything you could devise — his hockey career, your nursing career, how he ended up in New York, how you found your way from Detroit. Eventually, the surgeon showed up and stitched together a nice line in his head before giving him instructions on proper wound care. The dissolving stitches would disappear over the next few weeks, but the hospital required Matt to return a week to ensure proper healing. Matt nodded at everything the surgeon said, causing a few more strands of hair to fall to his face. The surgeon’s voice faded to the back of your mind as you fiddled with your watch band once more, trying to ignore the melancholy weighing in your heart. Some of you wanted to see Matt and his aesthetic face again and listen to his charming cadence blather on about his summer. But he was a professional hockey player who had better things to do than visit one of the hundreds of nurses working in the Big Apple. He would likely visit the surgeon’s office through another entrance or even the Rangers’ physician. The possibility of seeing him again outside of one of the hospital’s entrances on your break did exist.

But would he remember you?

Unfortunately, despite your wishes, you never saw Matt again after that day. You rationalized that he must have slipped in and out to visit the surgeon on one of your days off. His presence left a bittersweet mark on your life, like a dent in a hockey rink, for you were glad you met him but sad he left so soon. But you had no time to dawdle on what could have been, for other patients required your attention. It was almost time for the City’s annual Desi Heritage Day, uniting the Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi enclaves from around New York.

While reports of South Asians in the United States existed back to the 1700s, it wasn’t until the early 20th century that the Desi immigration began to increase. Today, New York City boasts one of the largest South Asian populations outside of California. It would only be befitting if the community celebrated their progress over the past 100 years. The Desi-American Association of New York obtains permission from the NYPD to block off a portion of Lexington Avenue at the heart of several Indian restaurants. They decorated the light poles and streets with colorful draping, flowers, and plastic folding tables lining the sidewalks, permeating the air with the delectable aroma of dishes from the local restaurants. You didn’t always receive a chance to visit the festival due to your work schedule, but you tried to get outside during your breaks to hear the dhols drumming in the distance.

This year, the hospital’s director of emergency medicine and human resources authorized you to have the day off to enjoy the festival after several previous tries. You immediately ran to your closet in your West Village loft and pulled out a gorgeous maroon kurta from the upper shelves amidst various clothes and sets of scrubs. It needed some cleaning and ironing from being stowed away for so long, but it was perfect for the occasion. The calf-length dress was solid in color, with two thin golden lines reaching from the shoulders down to the hemline. The tunic and the matching pants contrasted perfectly with the busyness of the dupatta, a long piece of chiffon with an aureate border and ornate flowers decorating the entity of the sheer fabric.

You made plans with a few friends to meet near 28th Street and put on your kurta, ready to enjoy some naan and biryani. But one thing was missing: a bangle your family gifted you before you left Michigan from New York. The only times you removed it were during showering and work. It always remained in a designated pocket in your bookbag, locked away in the nurses' lockers. But it disappeared without a trace over the past few days. You retraced your steps and searched high and low for any sign of it — your apartment, the hospital, and even the station where you treated Matt. However, there was no sign of it.

“Come on! Come on! You must be here somewhere!” you said as you lifted the pillows from your couch in the living area.

However, before you completed your quest, your phone rang an alarm, signifying it was time to gather your stuff and go. You hung your head and sighed, exasperated at your failure, before grabbing your phone off its charger in the kitchen and shoving it into a golden clutch. You also maneuvered a pair of crisscrossed chunky heals into place and draped the dupatta. After looking over your outfit again, you locked your unit door and went downstairs to the nearest subway station. It admittedly stung that you couldn’t find the bracelet, a treasured connection to your family and friends back home in the Midwest. But as the green line grew closer to the festivities, you remembered that the bangle could be replaced, but memories of celebrating your heritage with your friends could not. Outside the oblong subway windows, you caught glimpses of 28th Street Station’s tiled sign, causing you to rise from your plastic seat. The car stopped, allowing you and several other passengers to step out onto the musty underground. You followed the crowd through the exit turnstiles and the decrepit stairs toward the Manhattan streets. A familiar sound reverberated through the air as you returned above ground: the dhol with several other Desi instruments accompanying it. You followed the music until you came across a large gathering of Manhattanites and other New York residents of all ethnicities wandering through the blocked-off portions of the street. Women in delicate sarees and men in sleek jodhpuri suits mingled in the streets, catching up on lost time, while children did their best to draw mandalas with sidewalk chalk. The restaurants from the surrounding businesses help hand out sweet and savory Desi food to any souls who wander into the celebration, from butter chicken to jalebi.

“You look really nice today,” a man complimented behind you.

Your eyes grew wide upon recognizing that gruff tenor voice. A kaleidoscope of butterflies danced around your stomach as you mustered the courage to turn around to confirm the man’s identity. There was no chance it was an acquaintance or a co-worker from the hospital. It was Matt, and you knew it was Matt. Eventually, after several moments, you strengthened your resolve to turn your head around slowly. Matt met you with the warm smile he offered you as the FDNY rolled him into the ambulance bay. His laceration, which had long since lost its sutures, began to form a neat little line of scar tissue in his forehead. He had his hair brushed back, giving him adorable angel wings around the ears and wore a simple ensemble of a tan jacket and black jeans. Despite the casual attire, he still had a sense of suaveness as he shifted his tall frame around, waiting for you to break the awkward silence.

“Oh, thank you. It’s for the festival,” you replied, turning around to gesture and the frivolity behind you. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to return this,” said Matt as he dug out something from his pants pocket.

Your mouth fell open as he presented you with your lost bangle. You quickly grabbed it from his hands and spun it with your thumbs, searching for any scratches or scuffs under the light of the spring sun. But it was just as pristine and polished as the day it came out of the box. You shoved your hand through the middle of the bracelet, allowing it to gently slide down on your forearm near the three-quarter sleeves of your dress. “Where did you find it?” you asked after a few moments of silence.

“I saw it on the ground while I was leaving the hospital. It must have fallen out of your bag or something,” he replied.

“But why didn’t you return it to the nurse's station?”

“I held onto it because it seemed important, and I also wanted a reason to see you again. You seem like a cool person.”

“I appreciate that. But that also doesn’t explain how you knew I would be here.”

“Well, a famous office manager once quoted a famous hockey player in saying that you miss 100% of the shots that you don’t take. I remember you talking about a festival down the road, and this happened to be the only festival down the block from the hospital in the next few months, so I decided this was the best place to catch you, if any.”

You giggled at his reference and said, “It sounds like you went through a lot of trouble to get it back to me, and I appreciate it. This bracelet cost a pretty penny for my family, and it means a lot. So, thank you.”

“Of course, it’s not a problem. I hope to see you around. Have fun at your party,” Matt said, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning around to leave.

“Wait!” you cried out as you chased him, attempting to stop him before he became another face in the strangers walking up and down the sidewalks. He turned around and faced you upon hearing your exclamation, allowing you to catch up with his long gait. As you skidded to a halt before him, you continued, “You came all this way down to return my bracelet, so you might as well stay for the party. I know it seems overwhelming, but it’s actually a lot of fun and open to everyone. Think of it as a tiebreaker.”

“I do have to admit that it does look like a fun time. I was just under the impression I would be stepping on some toes by intruding,” he replied.

“Nonsense. You’re more than welcome here. Come on,” you protested before grabbing his hand and leading him towards the crowd.

It took some work, but you eventually found your friends mulling around your designated meeting area and introduced them to Matt. Their eyes widened as they watched you drag a rising defenseman from the New York Rangers over to them, but they quickly recovered and welcomed him into the group without complaint. As the sun climbed high into the sky, the lot of you led Matt around the streets, introducing him to other community members and showing him Desi cuisine. At first, you thought Matt might be nervous, being thrust into a world of new sounds and smells. But he took everything in stride as he slowly learned about the community’s history and customs. Even when he pronounced a word wrong, the two of you would share a laugh as you walked him through the word’s etymology. The same tingling sensation you felt at the hospital had returned as you watched Matt integrating himself into the culture. It had been a long season for the underrepresented demographics in the hockey community, leaving you a bit jaded over meeting stars like Matt. As the league says, business is business, and there seldom were any consequences for players who expressed maladaptive views. However, as you listened to Matt’s chuckle and how intently he listened to your heritage, you slowly began to believe that Matt could be one of the good ones.

The party went well into the afternoon until around dinner time when the Association determined it was time to pack everything up out of respect for the people who lived in Lennox Hill. You and Matt said goodbye to your friends before staying behind to assist the association volunteers in cleaning up from the celebration. Your hands gently guided a broom down the asphalt, pushing colorful flower petals into a pile, while Matt assisted in folding up the tables and loading them into the rental truck. The work went by relatively fast when you have a 6’8”, 240-lb man on the clock. Eventually, the attendees began to dwindle until you and Matt stood in the middle of the road. As you committed Matt's features to memory, a gentle breeze swayed your hair and dupatta.

“Thank you for such a wonderful time,” Matt eventually said, breaking the silence. “I definitely learned a lot.”

“It’s the least I could do after you return my bracelet.”

“I know you said this was a tiebreaker, but now I feel like I owe you again. Maybe I could leave you some tickets at will call when the season starts again. It would be my treat.”

“That sounds lovely. I think I’ll take you up on that offer in the fall,” you laughed. “I should probably get going. This kurta is beautiful, but I would prefer to change into something more comfortable.”

“Of course. If you don’t mind, may I escort you back to the subway,” replied Matt, offering you his elbow’s crook like a true gentleman.

You nodded and slinked your arm through the aperture he created. The two of you walked toward the Manhattan horizon, painted in soft hues of orange and yellow as the sun prepared to set, now friends brought together through the power of medicine.

#2k24 summer fic exchange #nhl #nhl hockey #nhl fic #new york rangers #matt rempe #matt rempe fic

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conmove · 1 year

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AI-enabled logistics platforms are the future of advanced shipping. They have so many features, like live tracking, online bidding, storage locator, inventory management, customer communication channels, and a lot more.

#container trailers transportation #delivery management systems #container booking online platform

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tailschannel · 9 months

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LeakWatch: Prototype versions of Sonic mobile games found after major iOS app database leak

Early development builds of Sonic Jump, Sonic and Sega All-Stars Racing, and Sonic Dash have been found.

This is after the builds on a content delivery network for TestFlight, a previously independent beta-testing system for iOS, were released to the public.

Described at a similar scale to Nintendo's prototype "gigaleak" in 2020, the database containing terabytes worth of in-development and unreleased iOS apps.

youtube

As fans continue to dig through the database, the apps, dating from late 2012 to 2015, may give us a wealth of information on how popular Sonic mobile games like Dash took shape.

(with files contributed by MC for the Tails' Channel newsfeed.)

#leakwatch #sonic mobile #sonic jump #sonic dash #sega hardlight #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #mobile games #sonic news

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pfhwrittes · 9 months

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i’m so deeply sad at the moment that i’m surrounding myself in fluffy fluffy fics and just hoping for a soft landing for myself but when i try to write it’s just either a) minimal effort or b) so fucking sad

like i’m trying to write a retail hell au with the tf141 boys but yeah. anyway have some notes under the cut about where i’ve stuck the boys so far.

so imagine with me that for whatever reason tf141 end up working in B&Q (home depot for those of you over the pond)

gaz works in the kitchens, bathrooms and bedroom department as a designer/consultant. why? because he’s pretty and can charm anyone into an upsell. oh you came in to get a quote on cheap sanitary ware (toilet, sink, bathtub/shower)? suddenly the customer (“client, they’re always clients. sounds better y’know?”) walking out with a £2000 order containing new tiles, a waterfall shower head, walk in shower array, £120 basin taps, a new towel warmer and a beautiful mirrored cabinet. you love watching him work because he’s just so charming and personable. always shoots you a wink from behind the computer too.

simon works stockflow. he’s in the warehouse or yard exclusively. smashes through deliveries and stock at a rapid pace and then stands in the yard smoking. no he doesn’t need any help, fuck off. leave it alone you’re going to fuck up his system. incredibly territorial over the yard/warehouse and only lets john, soap, gaz in. has a hand written sign pinned by the doors “NO ENTRY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. ESPECIALLY FOR YOU.” the store a manager takes it down periodically. simon puts it back up. nods at you when you pass the entrance to the warehouse but doesn’t speak. coincidentally he seems to be by the entrance shuffling delivery notes or paperwork whenever you walk past.

soap technically works the interior decorating department. technically. he loves working on the paint mixing desk and flirting with all the women that come up looking for just the right shade of whatever trendy colour has been advertised in home and gardens this season but will absolutely wander off to go bother price/gaz/simon/you whenever he feels like it. constantly being called for on the tannoy system “this is a staff announcement could john mactavish please return to the paint desk, customers waiting. that’s john mactavish to the paint desk. thank you”. you’re positive he ignores the first tannoy call just so he can hear you get more exasperated on the second and third call you put out for him.

price is the hardware, electrical and plumbing supervisor and technically the stockflow supervisor. barely ever steps foot in the warehouse aside from a quick check in because he knows simon has it covered. hates management meetings and always finds himself something time critical/difficult to put down when he knows there’s one coming up. a constant presence on the shop floor. always the first supervisor to respond to the tannoy when a customer is kicking up a fuss at the customer service desk. always seems to know where you are, whether that’s on the customer service desk, serving customers on the checkouts or putting away go backs in various aisles. checks in frequently with a little smile and a “alright love?” before moving on to whatever task he can do to keep him out of the store manager’s sights. reminds everyone to take their breaks regardless of whether or not they’re technically part of his department.

#pfh rambles #retail hell au #kyle gaz garrick #cod fic #please excuse the typos i’m tired and sad #captain john price #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #sr #jm #jp #kg

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kaidanworkshop · 11 months

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Workshop Progress: November Update

Happy Holidays guys, gals, and non-binary pals! Firstly, apologies for the delayed update! Flu and COVID season is in full force this year, and it seemed to have it out for not only the Workshop staff and families, but for our VA Paul Warren! We're happy to report that everyone is on the mend and returning to our regular workflow. Learn from our follies; make sure you're taking care of your own health as well! Last update we focused on our alpha and beta testing progress with the Creation Kit and Assets Team -- progress on that front continues as we add in more recorded lines and refine the new systems we've implemented; this update will be a deep dive focusing on our Writing Team and their workflow process in organizing, evaluating, and proposing changes to the base script via our peer review system. Besides this, we have our fourth recording session with Mr. Warren in the coming weeks; after this session, our business lead is projecting one more session will be enough to complete the rest of the original script, and we can begin to finalize what options the community has towards allocating the remaining funds. We've been compiling a few synopses of what those bonus content options will be, so stayed tuned on that front! Finally, we're very excited to show off some of what we've managed to implement, so one of our Community Team members will be streaming some of our current 1.3 beta for our Discord community this upcoming Wednesday, November 15th, 2023 at 3pm CST, and Thursday, November 16th, 2023 at 10am CST! With that out of the way, here's our Writing Team Workflow Deep Dive! Warning: The below contains spoilers!

The temperatures might be cooling down outside but we're staying nice and warm working on the Kaidan romance lines commission. As we move towards the more emotionally charged dialogues the player can have with Kaidan (i.e. his friendship and romance quests), we realized that our previous script notes for our VA needed to be a bit more robust in order to really convey the tone we're looking for. As much as we all love this silly little 10+ year old game, the reality is that Skyrim's engine has its limitations with regards to NPC emotivity and expression, so the onus falls on the voice acting to carry the extra emotional weight. While Kaidan is, on the surface, a rather reserved person, a major part of the growth he experiences with the player character is allowing himself to more vulnerable and forthcoming with his emotions. For prior commissions, our script to Mr. Warren was aggregated into spreadsheets broken up by quest name and dialogue path, with brief notes on delivery/different quest paths as needed.

For each commission, we have two members of our staff sit in with Mr. Warren and offer direction as he works his way through the script. We tend to get around 3 to 8 different takes of each line, with around 250 - 300 lines per commission. Once complete, Mr. Warren sends us the full audio, and the next leg of processing begins. Our absolute savior of an audio tech gets to work splitting all the hundreds of different takes up into individual cuts, as well as processing the audio for any latent sounds or fuzziness in the background. Once separated, they're placed in an associated thread for staff members to listen to and vote on.

Sometimes we are very lucky, and there's a clear winner for the individual take. Sometimes.

Other times, ties must be split. Or not.

It is also during this process that we'll identify lines that might've been misread or otherwise need a retake. We aggregate a list and discuss our feelings on it, then shoot them back to Mr. Warren with further clarification on what we're looking for in his delivery. The process of receiving, splitting, and voting on the retake lines then begins again.

This method of breaking down these emotion-fueled dialogues really helps us as a staff keep a firm grasp on the original presented characterization of Kaidan, and not get wrapped up in trying to unnecessarily change or otherwise alter his dialogue. There's a reason this follower remains one of the most popular within the Skyrim community, and the last thing we want to do is damage LivTempleton's magic with arbitrary wordsmithing. Still, sometimes changes are needed. We try to keep them as minimal as possible, but some lines stuck out due to strange wording or odd delivery. For example, Kaidan's response to this line was originally "You do, eh? Well keep digging there, you might make it to Akavir." We felt that it didn't flow very well, and depending on how far the player has progressed in his personal quest, it might not make any sense for him to be mentioning Akavir at all yet. The below change smooths out the transition in this conversation.

Another example of a change we're adding in is creating a path for players to exit the romance path completely -- as it is now, if you wear an Amulet of Mara and initiate the romance path, there is no way to change your mind. However, we always felt that the below line pathing was very harsh; after all, Kaidan exits the conversation completely and shuts down. Working in a way to 'break up' with him via this dialogue path (sorry Kai!) felt like an easy way to work in a new mod function without having to create entirely new dialogue -- it saves money for extra content in the future, something very near and dear to our business lead's heart.

Finally, one of our favorite changes is rewording the "How do you feel about me?" dialogue tree. Given that not all players will be following the 'hot' or 'warm' romance paths, this line of questioning from the player felt like the LDB was fishing for compliments -- not a good look in our opinion. We changed this to instead be a more equitable exchange of compliments between the two ("I think we make a good team" & "Can I tell you something? I'm glad we met"). Also, we use this format to track which lines will have multiple nickname/pronoun takes.

As we approach the final sets of scripts to wrap up the revoice section of the Workshop timeline, this process may undoubtedly change again when we begin discussing how we'd like to work with the community in producing Workshop original scripts -- which is exciting! In using a peer review system from start to finish, we keep ourselves open to workflow improvement suggestions that ultimately makes the process easier in the long run. While this method of group voting and review undoubtedly adds extra time to production -- especially given the logistics of scheduling multiple staff meetings to accommodate all the different time zones our staff members live in -- we feel that it results in a more polished product, and one in which all the members of each team feel empowered to discuss and offer their insights for our favorite CVF. We'll see you for the beta 1.3 livestreams on Wednesday, November 15th, 2023 at 3pm CST, and Thursday, November 16th, 2023 at 10am CST!

#kaidan 2 #kaidanworkshop #kaidan skyrim #custom voice follower skyrim #skyrim kaidan #elder scrolls skyrim #kaidan #custom voiced follower #tes v skyrim

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tepkunset · 10 months

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The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes Film Review

(This review contains spoilers!)

I consider The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes book to be a masterpiece that sets a standard of what YA Fiction can be; something that any young adult upwards can enjoy. Suzanne Collins does such an amazing job of pulling you into the world and characters she’s created, and doesn’t shy away from the truly grotesque things that make a dystopia feel impactful. I am glad to say that, for the most part, this film lives up to that standard.

Before anything else, I do want to get a few minor complaints out of the way. Keep in mind they did not ruin the film for me, but I feel they are worthy of pointing out.

Sejanus Plinth is my favourite character in the book, and while for the most part he is very accurate, there is one thing that really disappointed me: In the book, Sejanus knew damn well what he was doing with the rebels; he deliberately supplied them with weapons. But in the film, he has the line “I didn’t know there would be guns”, discovering for the first time that they used his money to arm themselves. This really feels like de-clawing his character to me.

It would’ve been nice to have at least a brief mention that Barb Azure is gay. I can understand why they had to cut out Pluribus Bell for time, but because the also cut him out, that means there’s no mention at all of the book’s queer characters in the film.

The relationship between Coriolanus and Sejanus has a much more bitter feeling in the film than in the book, and after sleeping on it, I think I know why: Because we don’t get to hear Coriolanus’s thoughts in the film, the film I think overcompensates by making him much more verbal about his snobbery towards Sejanus. Subsequently, it’s harder to believe why Sejanus sees Coriolanus as his best friend.

Okay now, onto the praises!

The story is extremely loyal to the book. In fact, there is a lot of dialogue that is ripped right of the page, and it all made me really happy to hear. I am especially glad they kept in this pinnacle Lucy Gray quote: “I think there’s a natural goodness built into human beings. You know when you’ve stepped across the line into evil, and it’s your life’s challenge to try and stay on the right side of that line.” Because this, of course, directly enforces the core message I took from the book: Good and evil is a choice. The choices that Coriolanus made are his to hold responsibility to, and as much as you can point at Dr. Gaul for introducing him to the path he takes, ultimately, he chose to walk it. Most of the changes were understandable cuts for time without any sacrifices being too detrimental. The things they added were all, in my opinion, enhancements to the story by expanding on what only happens on the peripheral of Coriolanus’s point of view in the book. For example, the things he only watches on screen in the arena are delved further into by shifting to Lucy Gray directly a few times. They also added a bit to Coral’s character at her time of death, which I liked because it made her out to be less of a cardboard antagonist and instead reminded the audience that she, too, is a victim of the system.

All the actors did a phenomenal job, from both the main and supporting cast. Tom Blyth does a great job at showing Coriolanus Snow’s progression down the path of a young villain in the making. Rachel Zegler does a great job at capturing Lucy Gray’s charm and free spirit. Josh Andrés Rivera does a great job at selling the weight Sejanus carries around with him, and has some of the best line deliveries in the film in my opinion. (My favourite being “I’m so blameless I’m choking”.) And I especially have praise for Viola Davis as Dr. Volumnia Gaul, who does an amazing job at bringing the unhinged character from the book onto the screen. She’s properly intimidating and strange at the same time. Dimitri Abold as Reaper was also a scene-stealer, in that he captures what I absorbed from the book really well; the western societal expectation that a young Black man is a danger that is then turned on its head. Not only does he not kill a single person, he has a very emotional moment of mourning for the tributes, collecting their bodies as he does in the book, and covering them with the Panem flag – something that outrages the audience more than the actual death of the children.

The scenery is very loyal to the descriptions provided in the book; I swear they stole it straight from my own personal imagination while reading.

The music… I don’t even know how to put to words my satisfaction in how the film adapts the music written out in the book, into an actual song. My personal favourite is “Nothing You Can Take From Me”. Rachel Zegler has a great voice, for sure.

The costume design is great. The Capitol’s eccentricities we know from the core trilogy haven’t evolved yet, but there’s still a certain flavour carried with characters like Tigris and Dr. Gaul for example, that tell a story of where the fashion will eventually end up. On the other hand, we see that things haven’t changed very much for District Twelve at all, which showcases how society’s change is stilted in poverty.

The colour palette of the film is mostly just a little desaturated, with one exception: whenever Lucy Gray takes Coriolanus outside of District Twelve. The meadow, the lake, and the forest are all noticeably more colourful, which I interpreted as representing the freedom these locations offer to the characters.

All in all, I think the film was fantastic. It is easily the most loyal Hunger Games adaptation, and I don’t think that’s coincidental in its quality.

#tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg #hunger games #movie thoughts

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 6 months

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Psycho Analysis: Princess Azula

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

This is one of those characters I should’ve done a long time ago, but just never got around to because I felt it was just way too obvious. I mean, come on, Avatar: The Last Airbender is considered one of the greatest works of western animation. Everyone and their mother has talked about this show at some point, so what could I even add?

Well, as it turns out, the way people talk about Azula is exactly what inspired me to write this! I have never seen a character so completely and critically misunderstood! Hell, this is a character that people like to disregard the core themes of the story to talk about! Discussion of her online made me so genuinely angry that I decided fuck it, it’s Azulain’ time! So here we go, my 200% anger-fueled analysis and review of the mentally-unstable Fire Nation princess who terrorized the Gaang!

Motivation/Goals: Azula has basically made it her life’s mission to be the ultimate tool of the Fire Nation, and specifically her father Fire Lord Ozai. To that end, she does basically whatveer he tells her to do? Kill the Avatar, conquer Ba Sing Se, take out her brother and uncle… So long as what she does has a net benefit for the imperialistic goals of her country, she’s down for it, and doubly so if she thinks it will get her even a little crumb of daddy’s attention.

Performance: Superstar voice actress Grey DeLisle of Literally Every Fucking Cartoon Ever Made fame lends her voice to the crown princess of the Fire Nation, and her smug, condescending delivery really sells Azula as a manipulative schemer who is constantly playing 4D chess to outmaneuver her opponents. I think I might even go so far as to call this one of DeLisle’s finest performances ever, for reasons pertaining to her delivery of lines in certain parts of the story that will be described below.

Final Fate: Azula’s fate is a perfect example of the show’s excellent writing because it robs us of catharsis in an extremely narratively satisfying way.

Throughout the finale, we watch as Azula’s mental health rapidly declines as literally everything in her life spirals out of her control for the first time. This is a girl who has defined herself as always being two steps ahead, always having everything firmly in her grasp, and yet her brother has run off with the heroes, her two best friends “betrayed” her, her father gives her the throne but only because he is crowning himself the Ultra Super Cool King Deluxe, and she is constantly grappling with feeling as if her mother viewed her as a monster while also subconsciously knowing that Ursa did truly love her. Keep in mind, all of this is happening to a teenage girl, so is it any wonder she completely and totally snaps?

Her final Agni Kai with Zuko during the height of Sozin’s Comet is epic, but it’s the conclusion where she is defeated by Katara and left as a sobbing, flailing mess that really knocks Azula’s character arc out of the park and cements her as the ultimate antithesis of Zuko. He had the guidance of a good, kind father figure, while she was stuck with Fire Hitler; he had a group of friends to love and support him, while she only had companions who put up with her out of fear and turned on her when they finally had enough; he was able to come to terms with his past traumas and grow to be better because of his numerous support systems, while all she had were toxic influences that led to her essentially collapsing under the weight of her internal conflict. She is what Zuko could have been if no one lent him a helping hand… and it is soul-crushingly tragic. The last we see her, she is a broken mess of a person, someone who has literally lost everything in their life, had the sole purpose of their existence stripped from them, and has just been reminded that she lost because she is a lonely, miserable, pathetic individual without any friends.

After her being on top for almost the entire show, this should feel like a triumph! But it’s not. It’s sad. It’s tragic. There’s no joy to be found. And boy oh boy, is it fucking powerful.

I’m just going to ignore what happens to her in the comics. It’s better that way.

Evilness: So here’s where things get really interesting, because while Azula does some truly evil things throughout the show, there is a tendency to exaggerate just how awful she is because most of her evil actions are just things she says she wants to do/has done. Combined with her smug, arrogant demeanor and it’s easy to believe she would do these things, but we don’t actually witness them. To wit, while she taunts Sokka about torturing Suki to the breaking point, when he finally reunites with her she sure doesn’t seem as cripplingly broken as Azula implied. I think it’s important to note that, as Azula is a massive liar, if we don’t actually see her do something (even something she’s threatening to do), it’s not really a mark against her. She’s a cunning manipulator, after all, conquering an entire city without lifting a finger.

On that note, though, she does have plenty of wicked moments under her belt. She conquered Ba Sing Se for the Fire Nation, she constantly tried to kill Aang and her brother while they were on the run in the Earth Kingdom, she had her friends locked up for defying her… Like she’s one messed up daddy’s girl. Even taking into account the inherent tragedy of her character and the fact she’s a teenage girl, she still kind of steps up to crossing the moral event horizon. She’s very much the product of grooming in an environment meant to espouse the joys of fascism and imperialism, and since she never had a strong guide like Iroh her moral compass is busted.

With all that being said, I think she’s a solid 5/10. She does some really nasty things, but at the same time a lot of what colors the perception of her is stuff she only implies. Also I’m not considering any of her pre-breakdown fights with Zuko as truly evil; this is just how siblings are. You bet your ass sibling squabbles would look just like that if they could shoot fireballs from their hands.

Best Episode: For all her badass moments, awesome schemes, incredible fights, and powerful moments… “The Beach” might be her best episode. This might sound crazy, but I stand by it; I think showing us an awkward, human side of her really helps to sell that Azula isn’t actually some unstoppable force. She’s just a teenager who has no social skills and can’t exist outside of the confines of being a royal or a warrior without looking like an absolute weirdo.

Best Quote: After outmaneuvering season 2’s arc villain Long Feng, who concedes to he rand says she’s beaten him at his own game, she flippantly replies, “Don't flatter yourself. You were never even a player.” I don’t think even Jet got so brutally murdered. It’s the sickest burn in the series aside from Zuko’s scar.

Final Thoughts & Score: The whole reason I even wrote this Psycho Analysis is because the constant and critical misunderstandings of Azula I see online constantly piss me the fuck off.

There is a subset of Avatar fans who completely and steadfastly believe that Azula is in fact an irredeemable monster, a complete sociopath with no redeeming qualities who needs to suffer and die. They reject any attempts at assessing the character in a more nuanced light, because “why can’t villains just be evil?” They treat her as if she’s some sort of pure evil being instead of an emotionally stunted child.“She’s crazy and she needs to go down” might as well be the mantra of these media illeterate Avatar fans, parroting opinions that mirror the words of Iroh after Azula almost killed him but ignoring that crucial context as well as Iroh’s entire character. Like, do these people actually pay attention to the core themes of the entire show? You know, mercy, redemption, humanity, the importance of all life? Did they miss the part of the finale where these core themes were cemented by Aang removing Ozai’s firebending with energybending, or were they too busy bitching about it being a deus ex machina to realize it’s thematically appropriate?

Like they want Azula to just be this evil, unredeemable cartoonish villain in a show that explicitly says no one is like this. There’s even a point in the final episodes where it’s pointed out that genocidal colonizer tyrant Ozai was once a sweet, cute little baby, and didn’t just spring forth as a fully formed Red-Hot Hitler. Azula is a person groomed by an unrepentantly evil father to be the Fire Nation ubermensch, the ideal tool for the conquest of the rest of the world. She was never allowed to have a normal childhood, as evident by her awkward behavior and social ineptitude when she’s actually allowed to cut loose and be around people her own age in a relaxed setting. Everything that she is—a liar, a manipulator, an attempted murderer, an egomaniac—are all the result of Ozai’s upbringing, being entrenched in the propaganda of her nation, and a lack of authority figures with a moral compass in her life. She didn’t have an Iroh to guide her, all she had was Ozai. In this sense, Azula is as much a victim as she is a victimizer.

But she is a victimizer. She is still consciously making bad decisions, she is still doing evil and sometimes appearing to enjoy it. There’s no reason to believe she couldn’t turn things around if given a helping hand like her brother was (though there would need to be a lot more effort due to her being in Ozai’s company unimpeded for way longer than Zuko), but she’s not some innocent little bean who’s being persecuted by others. Azula is still a villain, and viewing her as just a mere victim is a disservice to the character just as much as painting her as an inhuman monster. She is a very nuanced character, but she never gets the sort of POV work Zuko does to fully flesh out what’s on her mind and let us see the world through her eyes so the work done for her is more subtle, at least until her final breakdown. At that point, the show is literally beating you over the head with the fact she is an incredibly tragic character whose entire existence is pitiful and broken, and who lives as a mirror to Zuko, showing him a dark path he could have walked down if he didn’t receive love, support, and compassion.

Ultimately, Iroh wasn’t wrong when he said “She’s crazy and she needs to go down,” but I take it with emphasis on and. Azula is, in fact, crazy. She is incredibly mentally disturbed, her mind warped and molded by her father to the point she breaks if she starts to lose control even a tiny bit. And, as an antagonistic force working against the heroes, she does indeed need to go down. I’m sure he wasn’t too happy with his near-death experience, but you will not convince me that the sweet old Iroh, who himself changed and redeemed himself after being a fucking war criminal who nearly conquered Ba Sing Se, could not see the nuance in the Azula situation and genuinely saw his niece as some beast to be slaughtered.

But that’s enough with the ranting, let’s get to the actual final thoughts and score for Azula. She is one of the most engaging and magnificent villains in animation, a real firebrand (heh) whose numerous schemes are gripping to watch, building her up as someone you want to see finally get defeated only for the writers to pull the rug out from under you and remind you just what Azula really is. Avatar had no shortage of brilliant and subversive writing, but I think Azula’s ultimate arc is an unsung masterpiece among it. The character is so mired in discourse these days it’s easy to forget it, but she genuinely is a grand character.

For her score, I’m gonna say she gets a 9/10. She’s easily the best villain on the show, far outshining her rather generic father, the deliciously hammy but ultimately rather shallow Zhao, and the scheming but relatively minor Long Feng (to say nothing of the numerous minor villains that range in quality from wastes of time like Combustion Man to genuinely amazing and horrifying like Hama). I think the only thing holding her back from a perfect score is that sometimes it feels like things fall into place a little too perfectly for her, and she doesn’t face setbacks too much until the very end, but considering the immensely powerful culmination it’s nothing that ruins her. Azula is a character just as rich and deep as anyone else from the show, and I really wish more people looked at her with nuance.

I also wish the fucking comics didn’t exist. Maybe I’m asking for too much.

#Psycho Analysis #Princess Azula #Avatar #Avatar: The Last Airbender #ATLA #Grey DeLisle

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