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falcon-eye · 4 years

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So I’ve been writing on my phone and this one almost made me lose my shit because when initially hitting “copy” I accidentally hit “paste” and deleted the entire fucking thing. Thank GOD gmail keeps a copy of your notes. Holy shit.

Again made for @inexplicifics Accidental Warlord AU

Veko and Eloise’s domestic adventures continue! I’m so happy people actually like them! I’ve grown so close to them both. This will be part of their bigger story, because since I’ve been writing on my phone they’ve been really small and when I expound on them I want to add more details before all this, like about Veko and Hamra and all that. So consider these teasers I guess? That’s why the endings feel so abrupt. Or that’s the excuse I keep telling myself. I don’t know. But when I finally post everything it will be on AO3, and I may put these little ficlets on AO3 as a fic as well.

Anyway hope you enjoy this one! Veko and Eloise return!

——————

The next time Veko saw Eloise was just as bizarre as the first. Except this time, she ended up helping him as opposed to him saving her father again. It was, somehow, even more awkward.

It was a few weeks of a full year later. What was supposed to just be one kikimora turned into a while nest, and despite this, the alderman barely wanted to pay him what he said he would for the one kill, let alone a whole cluster of them. He wouldn’t even let Veko inside. Luckily it had almost literally just stopped raining. But it was getting to the point where Veko was having to take a few calming breaths between the arguing; the alderman was a miserable prick, but Veko didn’t want to snap on the guy.

“You take what I give ye an’ be done with it!” the alderman shouted, reaching for the dagger at his belt. “Or you’ll get no coin and—“

“Husband!” a woman’s voice rang out. Veko and the alderman jumped; fucking rain and yelling, making Veko’s senses dull. A small force practically ran into him from the side and wrapped a hand around his elbow. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Uh—“

“Eloise!” the alderman exclaimed. Oh shit, that’s where Veko knew her from! “Nothing t’ worry about, this Witcher was jus’ leaving.”

Eloise turned to Veko, pressing closer. “You were?” she asked, faking concern to apparently Veko’s ears only. “But darling, you just got here!”

Veko’s mind went totally blank. “Hello?” he said dumbly.

The alderman’s eyes narrowed. “What?” he hissed. “Eloise, this man—“

“Is my beloved,” Eloise cut in. The alderman’s mouth shut with an audible click. “Last year, don’t you remember? The Witcher that saved my father from those drowners!”

Veko continued to stare at her.

“But—“ the alderman stammered.

“Now what’s with all this shouting over here?” Eloise barreled on.

“I sent this Witcher here to kill the kikimora roamin’ about,” the alderman said.

Eloise gave Veko’s arm a little shake to snap him back into the conversation. “I, uh,” he stammered. “It wasn’t just one. There was a whole nest.”

Eloise clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped dramatically. “A whole nest!” she exclaimed, drawing the attention of the townspeople nearby. “My goodness! I’m so glad it’s been taken care of! Oh, Lennart, I don’t know what we would have done had a whole nest of those beasts descended upon the town!”

People were starting to whisper. The alderman—Lennart’s heart rate sped up. “Oh, well yes, I, eh, was good indeed.” He looked like he was trying to both glare at Veko and keep the shock of Eloise’s outburst off his face at the same time—and failing.

Eloise finally let go of Veko and took the alderman’s hands. “Do you need help with the coin?” she asked innocently. “For the additional kikimora? I know things have been difficult since Nora left—“

“I can handle it!” Lennart exclaimed, eyes darting around at the growing mass of people who’d come to hear about the monsters. The alderman patted Eloise’s hands and laughed nervously. “I mean, that’s alright dear! I-I’ve plenty of coin for the Witcher here! Let me—I’ll go get it.”

Lennart raced back into his house and the crowd of people began to disperse, clearly boring of the now dwindling conversation. Veko was still not sure what the fuck just happened. But before he could ask, the alderman burst back outside and practically threw a pretty hefty sack of coin into Veko’s hands.

“Splendid!” Eloise exclaimed, and then turned to Veko one more. “Shall we go, darling?”

Veko nodded, letting himself be led away, once again, by this bizarre woman. But just before Lennart went back inside, Veko turned to him, held up the bag of coin, and winked. Lennart turned an ugly red and slammed the door behind him.

“Fucking weaselly prick,” Eloise hissed. Veko guffawed.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Where did you even come from? How did you find me? What—what the hell was that?!”

Eloise held up a hand and ticked answers off her fingers. “I was in town putting an order for paints in, saw your horse tied to a tree near the edge of town, and Lennart is a right prick but easy to exploit because of it. His wife Nora left a few weeks ago with some adventurer who came through town. She knew he’d been trying to bed any girl in sight and rightfully left.”

Veko pocketed the bag of coin. “Well I’m not going to complain,” he said.

Eloise tucked her hand into the crook of his arm again. “Are you planning on staying?” she asked. “Papa says it’s supposed to rain; he can feel it in his knees, he says.”

Veko started itching at his burns. “I, uh—“

“Right, coming with me then.”

Veko laughed again and Eloise guide the way.

——————————————————

For having apparently acquired Eloise and her home, this was the first time Veko had actually been inside. It was cozy, the walls painted a pale pink and yellow. The kitchen was warm and smelled amazing, Eloise having apparently left something cooking while she’d been out.

Peering into the next room, the apparent main room of the house, Veko found bottles of paints and an assortment of brushes set up at an easel against the far window (splattered in paint); blank canvases were piled behind it. But actually giving the room a look-around, his attention was immediately drawn to the walls lined floor to ceiling with the most beautiful paintings Veko had ever seen.

Landscapes of what Veko recognized as the local stream and the goat paddock out back, faces he didn’t recognize but could have started up a conversation with him with how real they looked, random assortments of everyday items put together to make some interesting structure—there was art everywhere.

Veko didn’t realize he was gaping until he heard Eloise chuckle. “Like what you see?” she asked.

“They’re amazing,” Veko replied, reaching towards a painting of a young boy.

“Don’t touch!” Eloise snapped; Veko jumped. “Sorry, sorry, they’re just—when they dry the colors fade of you touch them.”

“Sorry,” Veko said, shoving his hand into his pocket.

Eloise shook her head. “It’s always been a dream of mine to be a famous painter. Sometimes I get commissions or sell some in Oxenfurt. There’s a man who comes by to take them to market every now and then. Anyway, apparently my father went to bed early,” she said. “Stew?” Eloise chuckled. “I can paint a delicious meal but actually cooking it, eh...”

Now it was Veko’s turn to laugh. “I’d love some, whatever it tastes like,” he said. “And—thank you, for that shit with the alderman.”

Eloise waved him off. “Honestly? Bringing you up has been doing wonders around here,” she said.

As Veko sat down at the table, he remembered: “Did you call me husband?”

“How long ago was that and you’re just realizing that now?”

“In my defense, you came out of nowhere!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be this great warrior with heightened senses?”

Instead of answering, Veko leaned forward and smirked. “You think I’m great?”

Eloise stared at him for a moment before scoffing and shoveling a spoonful of soup into her mouth. “A great pain in my arse,” she said, “and you’ve only been here five minutes.”

“Might I remind you that you’re the one who dragged me here.”

“Yeah, because you looked like a bloody kicked puppy when I asked!”

“Kitten.”

Eloise blinked. “What?”

Veko tapped his medallion. “I’m from the School of the Cat, so I’d be a kitten.”

There was a moment of silence before Eloise let out a ‘PFFFT!’ and burst out laughing. “Did you really just—“

“I can leave right now!” Veko exclaimed, but there was no heat behind it. Eloise’s laugh was loud and hoarse, hardly ladylike or cute, but for some reason Veko liked hearing it. He wanted to hear it again.

Eloise wiped tears from her eyes. “Just eat your stew, Witcher,” she said.

“Veko,” Veko said. “My name is Veko.”

“Veko,” Eloise repeated, like she was getting used to how it sounded. “Nice to officially meet you, husband.”

Veko started scratching his burns. “Oh gods.”

Eloise smacked his hand like she’d done last year. “Stop doing that,” she snapped. “You’re going to make it worse.”

“I’ve had it for fifteen years; I don’t think it’s going to get worse.”

Eloise was quiet. “How—? Never mind.”

“No, it’s ok,” Veko reassured her. “My brother and I got into a fight. Or something. I can’t remember. But it was an accident, either way.”

“Is your brother also a Witcher?”

Veko nodded, having just stuffed his face with stew again. “Yah,” he said, his mouth full. He swallowed. “Identical twins, actually. Though my hair’s longer and he’s a bit bulkier than I am. His name’s Hamra.”

“Veko and Hamra,” Eloise said, “twin Cat Witchers, huh?”

“Yes ma’am,” Veko replied. Over the course of the meal, Veko explained the basics about the Cats and their caravan, how they worked and why they occasionally split up. Eloise, for her part, only asking questions when he’d finished a story and let him talk most of the conversation. Normally, talking is what Veko was used to, but both times he’d been with this woman she’d shocked him into silence. It was nice to be comfortable again.

Night settled quickly and when they finished their respective meals, Eloise took both their bowls to wash. “I’m going to set a cot up for you,” she said over her shoulder.

“What, no bed?” Veko teased.

“Other than my father's bed, there’s only one other and it’s mine,” Eloise replied.

“Not enough room for husband and wife?”

Eloise suddenly turned serious. Without even turning to him she said, “I’ll not bed you, Witcher.”

Veko held his hands up in surrender, even though her back was still turned. “Ok,” he said softly. “Just messing around, sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you, truly.”

Eloise sighed deeply and finally turned to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just. I don’t want that. From anyone, ever. It’s—it’s hard to explain. Just thinking about... that... makes me... extremely uncomfortable.”

Veko nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I mean, I don’t, but I respect that.”

Eloise smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Is that why me being your husband is useful?” Veko asked; Eloise’s heart rate sped up. “I don’t have a problem with that!” he quickly assured her. “It’s just, last year you said something to that effect.”

Eloise looked him in the eye for a moment, maybe trying to assess if he was telling the truth? And then nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s no problem here,” Veko said. “Gods know I only really come through this area once a year. I could swing by to keep up appearances.”

“And I could help you bleed Lennart dry of all his coin.”

Veko smirked. “I like the way you think.”

Eloise smirked back. “I think this is going to be a very successful partnership.”

#the witcher #witcher oc #accidental warlord au #inexplicifics #falcon writes

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the-odd-job · 4 years

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Building Dreams chapter 1 - Origins

Warnings: Chose Not to Use Rating: Mature Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Relationships: Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Unnamed Characters, Original Characters Additional Tags: Alien Culture, Dubcon, Canon-Typical Violence Words: 4413

Okay apparently I’m writing this well before I should. The thing I posted previously is the second chapter of this, so here’s the actual chapter one.

They snuck inside, hoping the actual owner of the apartment was too deep in a high grade induced stupor to notice their arrival—or their departure once they’d done what they came here for.

It was nothing illegal, really. This wasn’t officially their place of residence anymore—their room in the Pits was—but it was owned by their commissioner. That legal binding hadn’t been broken yet.

But would be soon, hopefully. There was nothing about this place or this mech they wanted any ties to. They were nearing the one event that inevitably led to a mech’s legal independence, anyway. It was just a matter of time before the mech in the living room of the tiny apartment could lay no claim on them.

Not that he particularly had at any point of their lives.

“–Lord Megatron of Kaon was once again caught in a heated debate with Optimus Prime of Iacon at the publicized Council meeting. We’ve all heard the arguments on both sides a million times, haven’t we?” the entertainment screen droned on, the channel turned to some manner of talk show. What a waste of time.

But that was all their commissioner did or had ever done, wasted his time away. The chair he was currently sitting in had its back turned to the open door into the hallway, and the brothers used that as an advantage to the best of their ability. They weren’t built for stealth and silence, who here was, but with the volume of the show turned up so high, it should mask the sounds they made pretty well.

Like always.

“Carriers this and carriers that—as you’re all well aware of, Optimus Prime is still campaigning for the demolition of the Housing system. What should be established in its stead? Equality for all? How does that help our species? No, he doesn’t have a replacement plan! As always, Lord Megatron called him out on this, and in a surprise move, Lord Starscream of Vos actually backed him up. Imagine that, the two of them united in something! For a mated pair they sure argue a lot—and if that’s in public, how much worse is it in private?” Laughter from the screen, both from the host and the audience present in the studio. Sideswipe huffed to himself, only to get glared at by Sunstreaker. Yeah yeah, keep quiet. Get the last of their things from their old room and beat it the pit out of here before their commissioner ever got any wiser they’d even visited.

It was kind of funny, though, how easily you could tell you were in Kaon just based on the kind of entertainment that was aired. It wasn’t that there was never anything critical of Megatron, but in this one thing most of Kaon seemed to agree with their leader, and thought the Prime was nothing but a bumbling dumbling.

Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker by extension? Or whoever was the extension of who or if it was just the In-Between, anyway, they stayed out of politics. That was a thing that only brought more stress on you when you needed to argue with anyone who had differing opinions to your own. So tiresome, no thanks on that.

Although he could kinda agree the Prime was a little dumb. At least the things he said were dumb. And the whole scandal with his so-called mate… Yeah, there was something just wrong with that mech. What the pit even drove him to these things?

Alright, end of opinions, right there, or else he’d find himself a political activist or something. Dumb Prime, Megatron calling him out on it, the end.

What mattered more than the artificially created problems Cybertron had—really, why do anything about a good thing that worked already?—was them and their little life. Maybe it didn’t matter to anyone else, but that was what life was about. Taking care of yourself, standing up for yourself, making it out there in the cold, cruel world… Or something like that.

He liked to think they’d gotten pretty far already, as Sunstreaker opened the squeaky door to their old room as quietly as he could. Once it was parted enough that they could fit through, they stopped to listen—but there were still just the sounds of the show, nothing from the third occupant of the place. “So they’re there, both trying to sway the Council, Optimus jabbering on about ‘freedom is the right of all sentient beings’ or something like that—did you stay awake listening to him? I sure didn’t. And Megatron comes in and points out the obvious: we need the breeders! Where are you going to get a newspark from otherwise? Out of thin air? By miracle of Primus? ‘Hey, big guy downstairs, would you be so kind as to send me a newspark, I really need one’? Not happening, is that?”

Alright, so what had they still left behind? There was Sunstreaker’s old art pads and art books on equally old datapads. They were carefully picked up and subspaced while Sideswipe quietly opened the subspace containers embedded in the walls and made sure nothing was going to get left behind. Some of the stuff they were taking and had taken with them was nothing but junk that they threw out to the nearest trash chute, but dammit their commissioner wasn’t about to get any of it, junk or not.

It was the principle of things. These were things they’d acquired on their own, with their credits or their wiliness. They belonged to them and no one else.

Unless someone picked them up from the junk piles on the lower decks, but if a mech was crazy enough to wade through that mess, then pits, they had deserved whatever they found.

But really, most of these things just weren’t worth anything.

Once he’d checked through all of their containers and Sunstreaker had looted their secret stashes—because sometimes that was the only way to keep more valuable things from addicts —they slipped from the room as carefully as they’d come in.

Or thought they did. In the gloom of the hallway, there were two red optics staring at them. Sunstreaker froze in place the same Sideswipe did.

“Are you leaving?” their commissioner asked quietly, voice a little staticky as it always was with this mech.

Ugh. Why couldn’t they have just managed to come and go unnoticed?

“Pit yeah,” Sunstreaker growled at him.

It was impossible to tell if their commissioner was sad or not, his field was always just a fragging mess and nothing else. “To the Pits?”

But they knew this thing. He didn’t like the Pits overmuch, and he definitely didn’t like that it was where the brothers had found a livelihood and a home.

Sideswipe could’ve sworn most of it was just seeing them succeed in something, even if only in a limited capacity. Getting rich with Pit fighting… Yeah, not happening.

But making ends meet through winning matches? Doable, if you were good enough.

And they were.

And they didn’t waste every credit they earned.

It was an argument they’d had a million times before. Sunstreaker didn’t do more than rev his engine in warning. And it was a warning. They’d taught themselves how to fight through blood and dents and more blood and dents. They knew what they were doing by this point, at least for mecha their age. They were better than most of their peers, even if they weren’t about to get to champion levels anytime soon.

Most fights weren’t fair to begin with, but it would be especially unfair against a mech who could barely stay on two pedes. One punch and he’d be down—and anyone who knew Sunstreaker knew he was perfectly willing to throw that punch.

Then again their sole remaining commissioner didn’t exactly know them, so maybe he thought there was some sort of affection or respect that would keep them from decking him.

There wasn’t.

“Out of the way,” Sunstreaker ordered once their stalemate had gone on long enough. “We’re fragging leaving.” And not coming back.

“You’re not yet mentored.” Mentored, legally independent, same thing.

But bad wording. “You’ve never done a damn thing to mentor us,” Sunstreaker hissed, taking one step forward. A clear threat. “Or did you totally miss the bit where we had to raise ourselves because you were too busy wallowing in your misery?”

“I stayed,” their commissioner argued with a shaking voice, although Sideswipe couldn’t have told what made it shake. Emotion or high grade?

“All the good that did!” Sunstreaker argued right back, his voice raising like it often did when they were caught in situations like these. It was doubtful the neighbors would even bother to see what the ruckus was about, anymore.

And there was a lot of bitter resentment there—and this might be their last chance to air any of it. They sure as pit weren’t planning on ever seeing the face of the damn mech again.

So Sunstreaker chose to do just that. “We had to practically live on the streets anyway, because you sure as pit weren’t looking after us! It’s a fragging miracle we didn’t need to whore ourselves out just to get enough fuel to get by, and what did you do? Sat here all day every day, on your fragging aft, trying to drink your problems away? What’s even so sad about your life, the slagging fact you were stuck with us? You commissioned us!” his brother alternatively growled and straight up yelled.

Was it a fair rant? Not really.

Was it well earned despite that? Sure was, if you asked Sideswipe. He got it, it was tough to lose one of your best buddies that you had planned to mentor a sparkling with, and then have that topped off with your second best buddy just taking up and leaving because none of them apparently knew how to handle any of their issues.

What excuse was that to neglect the life you had paid to create and supposedly committed to mentor into maturity?

Or maybe they were just really slagging selfish and should’ve gone easier on the mech—that had taken credits they’d earned just to spend it on more high grade. Oh, they’d learned real damn fast to hide that slag, or spend it on necessities right away so there was nothing to even steal. What did it matter if they had enough fuel to even stay online, as long as he had more high grade to drown himself in?

Sideswipe didn’t think they were the more selfish ones here, but he might’ve been a little biased.

Their commissioner was shaking, but it was still impossible to tell why exactly. “I–”

“No,” Sunstreaker cut him off with a violent lash of his arm, his sharpened claws inches away from scratching the fragging drunkard. “I’m not listening to your fragging excuses. Out of the way.”

Damn right.

When their commissioner didn’t move fast enough, Sunstreaker’s arm flashed forward, his servo closing around the mech’s faceplates—claws digging into his helmet. There was a muffled sound of protest, then a scream when Sunstreaker simply closed his servo, crushing and tearing their mentor’s face off, protoform deep.

His vocalizer was still unharmed when Sunstreaker let go. His victim dropped into a graceless heap on the floor like the fragging piece of scrap he was, sobbing, bringing his servos to a face that wasn’t there anymore. There wasn’t blood, only the sparking of severed wires and gouged, sightless remains of optics. Crushed plating, scratches.

Sideswipe made a face, but stepped over the weeping frame on his brother’s heels. This… Was a death sentence. There was no way their commissioner could afford repairs, and it was unlikely there was any spark kind enough around to pay them for him. He’d starve into stasis in his bleak, lonely apartment, and one day someone would come to see why he hadn’t paid his rent, find his frame in stasis, and send it to the scrapyard. No one would bother fixing up a random mech that probably couldn’t even pay back for it.

He’d die as alone as he’d lived. Justice? Or, “That was kinda over the top,” Sideswipe commented once they were back in the hallway.

“He had it coming,” was all Sunstreaker grunted in response, setting their pace towards the exit.

Sideswipe thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. Not like they would get in legal trouble for it either. This was Kaon. It was every mech for themselves under the dark cast by the first deck.

So, whatever.

They made it to the outside of the residential underbelly of a tower that probably rose somewhere into the sky up above, but that here was nothing but an oily base for wretchedness of so many kinds.

At least they were free of it, now, even if it hadn’t quite happened as Sideswipe had envisioned.

Back to the Pits with them, then, which some would’ve just called a downgrade— but for them it really wasn’t. They had a room just for themselves, fuel, occasional maintenance, and even more occasional chances to hose themselves off instead of just trying to wipe themselves clean. It wasn’t a steady living, but they made it work.

They transformed onto the road and drove through the shadowy streets that no one bothered to light properly. That wasn’t the case everywhere on the lower decks, though, and as they neared their arena, the lights turned brighter and more numerous until they made it to the center of activity surrounding the arena. It was almost as bright as the day of the first deck in this section of the underworld.

Definitely an upgrade.

They drove to the arena’s secondary entrance, transformed back to their bipedal modes, and entered the building. Here there was more to gloom to be found, and more dirt, grime—stains you didn’t even want to know the origin of; dents on the walls, floors, and even the ceiling. Nothing was clean, nothing was in full repair.

But that was the Pits for you. Really, it was just a part of their charm.

The mecha down here didn’t look much better than their surroundings, and they knew they weren’t exactly exceptions. Oh, they tried to take care of their looks, but so did almost every other sorry sap around.

It didn’t work too well for anyone, aside from some of the administration. Those you could recognize when you saw them walking about. Rich bastards—relatively speaking, most of the time. No one down here could compare to the wealth of those who could afford to live in the upper towers.

“A groon until my match,” Sideswipe commented as the reminder popped up on his HUD. “Wasn’t yours one fight after that?”

An affirmative grunt.

“Time to kill. Let’s go watch the matches and make overtly judgmental comments about everyone’s techniques,” Sideswipe grinned, flicking his claws to urge Sunstreaker into following him as he took the turn towards one of the arena gates. Not like they could really go up to the stands, but you could see at least something through the floor level gates, too.

Together they chose a gate that didn’t have more than one other mech observing the fights and went to lean against the thick bars. There were no impressive fights going on this time of the day, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything to learn from observing others.

Even if it was just in the way of ‘geez, I’m never doing that myself’.

“Ugh, the green one’s footwork is garbage,” Sideswipe snickered. The corner of Sunstreaker’s mouth twitched in a near smile.

He’d get the damn mech smiling yet, before his match. That was what he was here for! Be a menace that brightened his twin’s day by being all lovable and slag. He was lovable, wasn’t he?

Sunstreaker was eager to tell him that no, he wasn’t, he was just lucky they were twins or he’d have booked it a long time ago. But, see, Sunstreaker was smiling when he said that, because he couldn’t help himself once Sideswipe found the right buttons to push. It was perfect! And only took him a few seconds, see. Pretty good, if he said so himself.

That still left all the other seconds of the groon to get on each other’s nerves, to the point where they annoyed the third spectator into leaving. You know, instead of each other.

Twins.

“My time!” Sideswipe announced once it was minutes until his match would be called. Still together, they made their way to the right gate, he picked his weapons—twin swords, as he preferred—and entered the arena proper once the gate rose to let him through.

The lights were bright enough to blind, here. Not one drop of energon would go unseen because there wasn’t enough light. Everything they did would be on full display.

Sideswipe grinned, that particular bloodthirsty grin, and nodded at his opponent. The mech was bigger than him, but then almost everyone was. Oh, he wasn’t small in the grand scheme of things, but in Kaon he was.

Came with not being able to afford big enough upgrades to reach the sizes of most other Kaonites. But that was fine, he made this work too.

He went to prove that much both to the audience and his opponent. He was smaller, but that meant he was faster with less mass to move around, and more agile with his lighter armor doing less to restrict his movements. Play your strengths, make up for your weaknesses, all that. He’d danced this same dance thousands of times before, even if the choreography was never quite the same.

The other mech was brandishing a mace, and if that wasn’t a devastating weapon if it landed proper hits. So, don’t let it land proper hits. Sideswipe could’ve never put the same amount of oomph behind the swings as the bigger mech could, but as they moved, it became obvious enough that there really wasn’t that big a skill difference between them. A good match for the audience, not so much for them. Uneven fights where you had the upper hand were always better for finances.

But that just meant he’d need to work harder to come out on top, and preferably without too severe injuries, too. One thing he did have on his side—the rarity of frames at least a head shorter than everyone else. There was really no getting used to fighting mecha his size when you faced them so rarely.

Meanwhile, he was intensely familiar with fighting mecha bigger than himself, because basically everyone was that.

It tipped the odds in his favor just enough, this time around. His opponent couldn’t judge his speed right. Sometimes he thought Sideswipe was slower than he really was, other times that he was faster. As many hits as glanced off of Sideswipe’s armor, leaving minor injuries behind, only one hit him in the side in full force.

Hurt like a bitch, that one, and sent him flying off to the side pretty spectacularly. He landed on his pedes though, only briefly made the mistake of instinctively bringing a servo to his side, and was ready to dodge out of the way when his opponent tried to finish things off. Not like he hadn’t landed his fair share of damage, himself. Some were pretty bad, too.

Don’t get cocky. That got you beat down into the arena dirt. He was supposed to be better than that by this point.

The roar and stomp of the crowd thrummed through his lines along with the excitement for a victory he tried to push down before it could distract him—and managed, enough so that when one dodge under the mace’s swing saw him in position to sink one of his swords into the other mech’s chassis, he wasn’t too distracted to see and take the opportunity. He had to get the frag away from there right after because that mace came right back around, but the injury was pretty debilitating by Sideswipe’s judgment. Damaged internal components that were actually important, that sort of thing.

Don’t fragging dare get cocky.

Just a little more. He could do this. If nothing else, his opponent would succumb to his injuries with time, even if Sideswipe couldn’t carve some more on him. Playing it safe wasn’t like him, though, so he didn’t hang back to wait around for time to win the fight for him.

That was what made him good at this. The showiness, even if that sometimes meant not doing the smartest, or at least, the most cautious thing. The spectators loved that. They wanted a real fight, every time, and if Sideswipe could deliver that, frag, he would.

It didn’t cost him, this time. He got hurt a bit more, but he also got to hurt a bit more, and although none of that damage was really severe enough, it piled on top of the existing injuries until this one time his opponent couldn’t keep his footing anymore and fell, onto his back, into the dirt.

Sideswipe took the chance it was to close in. The mech tried to still fend him off, but just couldn’t anymore, not before Sideswipe’s sword pressed snugly against his throat.

It wasn’t a death match. There wouldn’t be a kill, this time.

But had he gone through with that last attack, that would not have held true. Everyone knew it.

“Yield,” his opponent said, grudgingly, but he got to walk away with his life. Did that make him lucky, or just someone who now had their life, sure, but no credits to their name?

Not Sideswipe’s problem. He grinned at the mech one more time before he turned his back to him and lifted his sword to the cheer of the crowd.

Credits. They always needed those. They needed to fuel, they needed to pay for the repairs they couldn’t perform themselves, they needed tools for the repairs they could do on their own—their room wasn’t free either, they had to pay to use it. They needed to maintain their looks even somewhat. Cloths, solvent, sometimes even polish.

Expenses, expenses, expenses, no matter how frugally they tried to live.

Were they ever going to dig themselves out from the gutters, or would they always live on pede in the sludge of the streets? Everyone tried to get out. The vast majority never succeeded.

But they could dream.

His side was wonderfully caved in, armor uncomfortably pressing against his jarred and misaligned internal components, and that was a little too much for them to fix. Sunstreaker accompanied him to the sorry space that worked as the arena’s medical bay—they paid, he got repairs from someone who had probably failed the integration of his medical files. That was what you got down here. No one could truly count themselves a winner if they were stuck in the arenas of the lower decks.

But it got them by. He felt worse by the end of his repairs than he did before them, but the damage warnings had either dismissed themselves or lowered in importance.

Good enough, that was all you could ever ask for.

Sunstreaker was always a pleasure to watch in the ring, too. He was efficient, not one to play around, just a destructive force on a warpath that would see anything in its way destroyed. Did he always win? No. They faced their betters semi-regularly, like anyone else.

That didn’t make Sunstreaker any less as a fighter, in Sideswipe’s opinion. And they got better, constantly. They practiced, took every opportunity to learn more, studied others, studied themselves to analyze what they could do better. They didn’t settle.

His brother’s unbridled brutality won him his match too. It wasn’t just their unfortunate commissioner that got to taste his claws, and whatever other weapons he chose to use, a sword this time. Just one.

The weapons, too. They practiced with as many of those as they could, not just so they could wield them themselves, but so they knew how they were wielded and wouldn’t get caught off-guard by someone who used them.

Maybe they’d never make it out of here, but slag, they’d try their hardest anyway.

Sunstreaker needed a few things fixed by a medic too, but even after those payments, their winnings were enough to get them fuel. The rest would go into savings, this time.

They weren’t the only ones at the energon dispensers they made their way to, and they weren’t all strangers there, either. Sunstreaker never talked a hell of a lot with others, but Sideswipe made up for it like always. A couple of friends, a bunch of acquaintances, chatter, teasing, laughter. Recounting of their more recent victories, lamenting of their losses.

The message alert popped up on both of their HUDs at the same time, high enough in priority that it overrode– Actually, that was the highest priority a message could be.

They shared a glance. There wasn’t much question what this was about.

“I think we just got our test date,” Sideswipe stated out loud at the inquisitive looks they both got for their sudden distraction. There was a chorus of understanding noises after that. It wasn’t a secret they hadn’t reached maturity yet, at least not officially.

But they would have, after this. Independence, not tied to anyone. Do what they wanted with no one able to tell them they shouldn’t. Well, aside from the law and all that. But mostly what they wanted!

“Congrats, you’re about to join the big league,” one of the mecha he wouldn’t quite count a friend yet laughed.

“Yeah, it’s really just a formality,” another shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Just show up, get it done, and that’s it, you’ve got your legalities all sorted.”

“I mean,” Sideswipe said after he consulted his navigation system to see where the address they were given was, and wow, “at least we’ll get to see some high end areas for once.

“We’re gonna look so out of place.”

More friendly laughter. Everyone kept their distance from Sunstreaker, but a servo clapped Sideswipe on the shoulder. “Enjoy it while it lasts! Take in the sights, snap some pics. You’ll be back down here right after.”

“Bring a souvenir, too!”

Sideswipe laughed and even Sunstreaker made an amused sound. “I’ll snatch something from the clinic before making a run for it, that good enough?”

( Next )

#transformers #maccadam #sunstreaker #sideswipe #fic #2021 #breeder au

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missjanjie · 4 years

Text

I Could be in Love (with Someone Like You) | Jankie

this is a commission for @moniapossenti99 which is the dramatic conclusion of the ‘jankie in australia’ journey

Ship: Jankie (Jan Sport x Jackie Cox) Word Count: 1.7k Rating: T

comission info | ko-fi

In the weeks following the final day in Australia, Jan and Jackie did their best to put what they had behind them, but it was easier said than done. Both of their partners were complaining that they were distant and detached, and they had to offer excuse after excuse, neither of them willing to confess to the affair.

And at times, hiding the truth was easy. They both traveled more for shows, meaning less time at home to raise suspicion. The obvious downside, of course, was that many of these venues booked them together, often with their other season twelve sisters.

The first post-Australia show they had together was as uncomfortable for them as it was for everyone around them. Jan did his makeup in the bathroom, making poor Heidi run back and forth whenever he realized he needed something from the dressing room.

“Does she have the runs or something?” Heidi remarked as he returned to the dressing room after his fourth makeup run.

Jaida shrugged. “She better pop an antacid before the show,” while Heidi and Crystal laughed, he noticed that Jackie was noticeably silent, and looked over at him. “You sick too?”

Jackie frowned. “I’m not sick just because Jan’s sick. We haven’t even seen each other in weeks,” he didn’t mean to jump right on the defensive, but it came out before he could stop himself.

“I don’t think that’s what she meant…” Crystal quietly chimed in before deciding to drop the subject entirely. None of them were used to seeing Jackie in such a foul mood, so they all decided the best course of action was to leave him alone and just make it through the show.

Things didn’t improve as shows continued, and whichever queens they were with were picking up on it. And now they were starting another tour, that of course, Jan and Jackie were both on. It was them, Gigi, Nicky, and Jaida, and while the five of them normally got along well, the tension had only built up more and more as time went on.

It was only by their second show that the issues became too obvious to ignore. Jackie had shown up to the venue in full drag instead of getting ready with the rest of them, something that had caught them all off guard. Everyone knew Jackie to be warm and personable, to want to hang out with his friends.

The only thing more unnerving was Jan’s attitude. Jan normally carried himself with a high level of energy and enthusiasm long before he needed to be onstage. It had never been an act - he was really that bubbly and friendly. But this was a different Jan, a pouty, moody Jan that was alienating himself almost as much as Jackie had been.

“We should talk to them, right?” Gigi said to Nicky after the show. “I feel like we should talk to them. You get Jackie, I’ll talk to Jan,” and before Nicky could object, Gigi was already making a beeline towards Jan.

Gigi sat next to Jan, burning a hole into the side of his head with a pointed stare.

Jan sighed and finally faced him. “What?”

“Jan, I’m only saying this because you’re my friend and I love you,” he paused for a beat. “What the actual fuck is up with you?”

Jan bristled at that, sitting upright. “What do you mean?” he asked stiffly.

Gigi rolled his eyes. “You’ve been aloof, cranky, dismissive… literally the opposite of how you usually are.” Even though he saw Jan start to reply, he continued. “If something’s wrong, you can tell us. We’re your friends and we want to support you and-”

“Fine! You wanna know the truth?” Jan snapped, making Gigi recoil, startled, but nodding nonetheless. “Jackie and I had sex in Australia. Multiple times a day sometimes. And we were going on dates and sharing a hotel room and…” He sighed and looked down. “And we caught feelings for each other. Way too many feelings. But we decided that we didn’t want to ruin our respective relationships, so we’ve been keeping it a secret.”

“So you let your relationship with Jackie get ruined instead,” Gigi concluded.

Jan stared at the vanity table silently for a moment. “I guess so,” he reluctantly agreed. “I didn’t want that either, but maybe it’s for the best.”

“Explain.”

“I just mean… If we’re not even friends, we won’t be so, you know, tempted…” Jan felt his cheeks flush red. He had been actively avoiding acknowledging any lingering feelings he might have had. “It’s not even worth harping on. My relationship is already being held together with chewed gum and scotch tape.” And with that, he got up and started to leave, only to stop and turn back to Gigi. “Don’t… Don’t say anything to Jackie. Just don’t.”

Gigi hesitated, but nodded. “I won’t,” he promised, and watched Jan leave. He could keep that promise, because nowhere in it did he say he wouldn’t say anything to Nicky. He quietly made his way towards Nicky and Jackie, and had gotten there just in time to see Jackie walking away with the same dejected expression his paramor had.

Nicky looked over and spotted Gigi, motioning him over. “How much did Jan tell you? Because I knew that they wanted to hook up in Australia, but not…”

“Not that it was basically the only thing they were doing when they weren’t on stage,” Gigi finished. “Yeah, Jan told me everything. He’s pretty beat up about it, and it’s pretty clear that he isn’t over Jackie. Which makes sense, it sounds like they never got closure.”

Nicky nodded. “I don’t know if they need closure or if they need to have break up sex, though.”

“Break up sex could be closure.”

“You’re not totally wrong,” Nicky conceded, “but you’re not right either.”

Gigi rolled his eyes. “So, what do you suggest?”

Nicky tilted his head in thought. “You live near here, right?” He knew Gigi had mentioned it offhandedly when they arrived in Los Angeles, but he would be lying if he claimed to have been listening and not shit-talking with Jaida.

“Yes. Where are you going with this?” Gigi asked, his interest piqued.

“You bring Jan, I’ll bring Jackie. We get them to your new apartment and lock them in your room until they learn to play nice. Yes?”

Gigi nodded slowly as he mulled it over. “How are we going to convince them to come if the other is gonna be there?”

“Simple, you tell Jan it’ll be just you two, I tell Jackie that Jan is spending the day with Jaida,” Nicky explained.

He shrugged. “I don’t have any better ideas, let’s see what happens.”

Nicky knocked on the door to Gigi’s apartment, standing with Jackie and trying not to seem anxious. He wasn’t trying to win an Oscar, he just needed to keep acting long enough to stave off Jackie’s suspicions, but even that wasn’t easy for him.

“Hey guys,” Gigi was much better at acting nonchalant, letting the two of them in. “So yeah, it’s pretty empty in here, you should see the bedroom, though,” he motioned for them to follow.

The next few moments were quick and chaotic. As soon as Jackie had stepped into the bedroom, Gigi slammed the door shut as he and Nicky scrambled to barricade them in by pulling the couch in front of the door and putting whatever heavy objects they could find on it to weigh it down.

“What the fuck is happening?” Jan asked, having been sitting idly on the bed the whole time.

“I have the sneaking suspicion they want us to talk to each other,” Jackie murmured. “You know, considering how you decided to ghost me while we were back in the city.”

Jan jumped up at that, face flushed red with a sudden surge of anger. “Ghost you? Jackie, this was what we agreed on! We said we’re gonna go about our lives with our boyfriends and put what we had aside.”

Jackie crossed his arms. “That doesn’t mean you had to completely blow me off!”

He bit his lip and shook his head. “Doesn’t it though? We’ve made it pretty clear that we can’t control ourselves when we’re alone together,” even now, he couldn’t ignore that Jackie was sexy as fuck when he got angry.

“Doesn’t that mean something to you?” Jackie took a couple steps towards him. “Don’t I mean something to you?” he asked in a much softer voice.

“Jackie, you mean so much to me,” Jan’s voice started to tremble. “It’s just… I don’t… We can’t…”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Jan. Just kiss me.”

And just as he had claimed, Jan couldn’t control himself, acting right on Jackie’s command. He grabbed him by the shirt, kissing him passionately, letting everything that had built up over the last couple of months out flow into the kiss.

Jackie, of course, kissed back. He held Jan tightly, needing to feel every inch of his body against his own to make up for all the lost time. He used up all of the air in his lungs to make that kiss last as long as he could, because kissing Jan was more important than breathing.

But eventually their bodies’ natural instincts won out and they had to break apart. “I can’t do it anymore,” Jan breathed out. “I can’t pretend you’re not the one I want.”

“Neither can I,” Jackie replied, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is this… official, then?”

Jan hesitated, chewing on his lip. “We should wait until we get back home. The least we could do is tell them in person. It wouldn’t be right to do it over the phone, it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Agreed,” Jackie pressed a gentle kiss to Jan’s forehead, still holding him close. “But, um, does that mean we can…”

“Pick up where we left in Australia?” Jan giggled softly. “You fucking bet we can.” There was a momentary temptation to consummate their relationship in Gigi’s bed as an act of revenge, but he resisted bringing up the suggestion. This was just the very start of them finally getting what they truly needed.

#jankie #rpdr rpf #rpdr fanfiction #fic commission

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spraxinoscope · 4 years

Text

Oct. 14: Why I still think Trump has a ~75% chance of winning

Epistemic status: Who even am I? You shouldn’t listen to me. But see the final section for details.

By ‘winning,’ I mean still being president on 1/22/21, and there being no serious actionable plan to get him out.

2500 words of paranoia and bad math after the cut.

Polling factors:

Today, 538 gives Trump a 13% chance of an EC victory, so let’s use that as a starting point. As Nate Silver will tell you every chance he gets, 2016 presidential polls were only off by a few percentage points, and that’s probably still true. But a similar (or even smaller) systematic polling error would be enough to flip some battlegrounds, bumping Trump up to something like 25-30%. Have pollsters managed to correct for the systemic errors of 2016? There’s true meaningful debate around this, but the balance of evidence seems to be that the pollsters never figured out what caused the errors, and so were not able to fix them.

Note that Trump’s decline in the polls is driven by voters who approved of the president until very recently. Consider the sort of person who still had a favorable of opinion of Trump right up until fall 2020. Generally, dips in Trump’s favorability ratings seem to have been due to conservative infighting. Often, when a person stops supporting Trump, it’s because he is being insufficiently racist. These constituents’ loyalty may be wavering, but they are not likely to switch sides.

As a complete asspull hypothesis, I’d guess that some people who tell pollsters they no longer support Trump are trying to pressure him into adopting more hardline policy and will never vote for a Democrat.

I would posit that the 13% number is the absolute hard minimum chance of Trump winning an EC victory, fair and square. Error bars push that number higher. Taking average polling data over time also pushes that number higher, since it’s almost never been this low.

Dysfunction factors:

So, those are the odds for a free and fair election. What are the odds of the election being free and fair? I’m glad you asked! Zero.

Election integrity has taken major hits recently. Citizens United turned elections into ad campaigns. Shelby County v. Holder made laws against discriminatory election practices unenforceable. The Hatch Act is also not being enforced. The numerous alleged campaign finance law violations brought against the 2016 Trump campaign all amounted to nothing (except jail time, and subsequent pardons, for some functionaries).

Fine, let’s say elections can never be perfectly fair, but even if we grade on a curve and request that elections be as fair as possible, we’re still not doing great, and it’s been getting worse since 2010.

Hey, remember all those jokes from like 2004 onwards about how unreliable and insecure electronic voting machines are? That shit never got fixed. Remember the story from this week about some 90,000 New Yorkers getting the wrong mail-in ballots?

Remember when the Russians got into the Illinois voter database in 2016? The institutions that were supposed to defend against that kind of thing have since been gutted or captured by republicans.

Hey, remember when the Iowa primary was so dysfunctional that they ended the vote count without ever producing a final tally or figuring out what the problems were?

Election integrity groups have been sounding the alarm continuously on this one. Electoral commissions and underfunded, understaffed, and undertrained in use of modern systems. This is a huge problem all by itself, and it gets worse when applied to the next issue.

Malfeasance factors:

In my American public school civics education, I learned that Richard Nixon was a crook who paid some burglars to spy on the democrats, because of how crooked he was. I did not learn that ratfucking is bog-standard procedure, in every election, all over the world. I had to learn that on my own, later. Generally speaking, the election integrity talking heads take the opinion that most countries routinely interfere in the elections of most countries, and the Ds and the Rs have never not been spying on each other. The extraordinary thing about Watergate was that Republican congressmen were weirdly amenable to allowing an investigation into one of their own, a mistake they have never since repeated.

Some amount of ratfucking is to be expected. The nation has weathered this factor before. But, like electoral competence, this may be getting worse over time. State governments have very wide purview when it comes to voting procedure, and Republican states are wasting no time in finding creative new ways to toss out ballots. The most common reason for a mail-in ballot to be rejected is that the signature on the envelope doesn’t match the voter’s signature on file. There is no official criteria or standard practice for how close a signature has to be to count as a match. Signatures are not useful security for anything, anyway.

Georgia’s 2018 election was arguably illegitimate. Irregularities included voting sites closed at the last minute for unclear reasons and fraudulent ballot collectors stealing ballots. Calls for recounts all failed. Other southern states are on thin ice. All the big Texan cities are getting one ballot drop box each, in case you thought Texas would be allowed to turn blue.

Red states already have various laws permitting them to throw out ballots that arrive after the election. Sabotaging the post office or throwing out all uncounted ballots soon after the election, as most sitting Republicans in congress and governors have already gone on record to suggest may be necessary, is a violation of the letter but not the spirit of existing restrictive voting laws.

The big thing, of course, is that the right wing media landscape has been fully saturated with the idea that Democrats will engage in conspiracies to steal the election, and action will need to be taken to thwart these plots. To that end, Republicans at all levels of government, including at the DOJ, have repeatedly signaled willingness to take unprecedented measures to stamp out fraud. These include numerous voter purge plans, new criteria for dismissing ballots, and sending the DHS or other law enforcement agencies to take custody of ballots.

In addition, the MAGAs are organizing ‘poll watcher’ groups to secure urban voting sites. Even if these groups fully obey the law and do not engage in anything that could legally be termed intimidation or harassment, that’s still a lot of leeway. Of course, over the last couple years, we’ve all learned that right wing protesters can sometimes bend or break the law and get away with it, and sometimes receive cooperation from the police. This goes triple for blue cities in red states, which is exactly what we’re worried about.

Malfeasance in general is made easier by the unprecedented levels of geographically-sorted voting blocs. It is trivially easy to tell whether a district will go hard for Trump or hard for Biden. So, whether interference is coming from law enforcement officers, protesters, or semi-sanctioned militias, they will know which lines to intimidate and which boxes to steal.

Russiagate set a clear precedent: It doesn’t matter if it’s blatant, outrageous, or corrupt. Republicans do not want to defect, and right wing media will keep the base in line. Democrats will be outraged, and then fold. There are no remaining nonpartisan referees to appeal to.

Pundits like to imagine that sitting Republicans in congress will not blatantly steal an election for fear that it will lead to them getting voted out of office, to which I would suggest that the obvious answer is the correct one: Voted out how?

Democrats shooting themselves in the goddamn foot factors:

Trump likes to say that the election will be illegitimate if he loses. Mainstream news outlets like to push back against this. The NYT, for instance, has been loudly insistent that the election is totally secure all year.

It’s not, and they’re morons. No experts agree with them on this. Trump fabricating a bunch of fictional threats does not invalidate the numerous actual threats.

Biden, Pelosi, and Schumer would not be anyone’s first pick for the task of contesting an election, but that’s who we got.

Possible October surprises:

Hey, what do you guys think this year’s James Comey is going to be? The only real prediction I have is that something very destabilizing happens in the week before the election, but the particulars could be anything. Some fun possibilities:

DNC hacked again

Federally sanctioned repeat of the 1985 MOVE bombing

Hunter Biden cocaine sex tape

Anything that startles people, destabilizes institutions, and distracts from other issues is a viable possibility.

Scenarios after a contested election:

There are plenty of bluechecks and think tanks who have already gamed this out in detail. You don’t have to take my word for any of this part. The choices are:

There are rival sets of state electors, and Congress decides which ones count. Result: McConnell and Barr play Calvinball until they get the outcome they like, Trump remains in office.

The supreme court decides. Result: Trump remains in office.

The militias decide. Result: Trump remains in office, plus the Handmaid’s Tale happens.

There’s an orange revolution. After months of protracted struggle, Trump is ousted from office. However, in the meantime, ~8 states have seceded and Russia has annexed Alaska. In the ensuing chaos, John McAfee claims the presidency.

Probability estimates:

Trump’s odds of a ‘legitimate’ EC victory are only at 13% as of this moment, but the running average is higher, with occasional spikes above 30%. Polling errors add a little extra. Let’s say 25%.

Trump’s odds of losing the EC vote, but clawing it back through malfeasance until enough Republicans agree that he’s won, are very low in the case of a Biden landslide. But a landslide is unlikely, and as the results are closer, the probability of Republicans declaring themselves winners approach one. Note that, at least from mainstream news coverage, this won’t look like the power grab that many democrats fear. It will look like a lot of confusion and disarray, with an unclear EC count, followed by a cascade of authorities and sources declaring Trump the winner and securing the acceptance from government bodies one at a time. For the most likely election outcomes in which Trump doesn’t win straight up, I’d say a 30% chance Trump remains in office.

The election being a total dysfunctional disaster, with multiple states unable to certify results, is at least 5%. At least! In such a case, I’d give Trump an 80% chance of remaining in office.

In general, I believe that the only way that Biden gets to be president is if everything basically holds together and works like it’s supposed to, and also Trump legitimately loses the EC. There is one way for everything to go right. There are many ways it can go wrong.

The NYT has fixated on the possibility that Trump clearly loses, but refuses to leave office anyway. I’d give this no more than a 1% chance of happening. But I think there’s a major blind spot around the possibility that we have no idea who won, because the whole thing is obfuscated by multiple layers of confusion and malfeasance. What tools to democrats have for investigating malfeasance? What tools do they have for persuading people that they won when the results are in question? What tools to they have for enforcing election laws that they didn’t have in 2017?

I think they have approximately one asset, and it’s a populace that’s willing to rise up in defense of their rights. But the DNC spent the last five-ish years antagonizing and alienating anyone left of Dianne Feinstein, so, the efficacy of a potential national mobilization has been severely compromised.

Any protracted contested election scenario either favors Trump remaining in power, or the eventual balkanization of the US. One reason there are no good scenarios for a contested election is that mainstream media has been so adamant that the election is secure. When the Democrats are trying to contest results, they will be struggling against their own narrative.

Then, I add a 10% chance that a last minute October surprise tips the race to Trump. It happened last time, and Comey wasn’t even trying; now that every government office is staffed with Trump appointees who are trying, they have a decent shot at this.

Summing up these odds, I arrive at Trump having around a 70% chance.

Then, I add another 5%, because I bet there’s things I haven’t thought of, and every year there’s some small chance that the far right will go all in on a race war, and this would be a good opportunity for them.

I will take actual bets on these odds.

My biases:

Numerous.

I grew up in a red community in a red state and was bullied a lot by kids who grew up to be far-right; I have a chip on my shoulder about this that precludes dispassionate analysis.

I believe the RNC has looked at US demographic trends and likely consequences of climate change, and has accepted a certain amount of fascistic will to power as a necessary evil. This is mere supposition on my part.

Despite the fact that I am more or less an asshole stoner burnout weeb, I remain convinced that the editorial staff at the NYT and several other major American journalistic institutions are somehow even dumber than I am. Although this may sound unlikely, this assumption has been invaluable for making predictions about the world.

I am a paranoid person.

My motivations for writing this:

Believe it or not, I’m only doing this to assuage anxiety. I’ve been convinced that Trump’s odds for remaining in office have been significantly higher than polls would suggest since 2018, and it’s maddening to see so few other people agree even though my core assumptions keep not going away.

If anyone read this far: I’m sorry, and I hope this motivates you to vote, if you weren’t going to already. If Trump remains in office, protests against him will benefit from having the mandate of a clear popular vote win, even if not an EC win, so I do believe that even people outside battleground states should vote.

I don’t know about Tumblr, but on Twitter, ‘no-hopers’ are characterized (fairly or not) as being defeatist Bernie bros who think that Trump should win the election to teach the DNC a lesson. I disavow this idea in the strongest possible terms. I think Biden can win and urgently should win. But every time I see someone talking about the Biden presidency as if it were a sure thing, it takes another year off my lifespan.

No matter what happens, we will be fighting racism and corruption for the rest of our lives, because that’s what ethical behavior entails in this world. But a Biden term vs. a second Trump term are in no way equivalent, and things can still get worse.

In conclusion, [that picture of the guy at the folding table with the ‘prove me wrong’ sign]

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ayakashiramblings · 5 years

Text

Dawn and Twilight’s Social Media Accounts

Kuya

@NevermoreButSnore.

1230 followers.

Yes, I copied Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, I’m not sorry about the rhyme. Or calling him out.

Not that he really cares.

Insists that he is a headcanon creator on Twitter

Everyone who follows him knows that he is lying.

If we really had to classify him as a writer, it would one who posts those way-too-accurate posts about writers complaining about writing.

Like the notebook hoarding one. Not that anyone here in the fandom is guilty of that, haha... haha... ha.

Ironically is one of the more popular ones out of the whole group.

His flat responses and laziness are way too prominent to NOT be noticed.

If you actually tentatively sneak into his DMs though, for writing tips, he will patiently listen and... rather bluntly advise you.

It’s still advice though and is always the type to check out and reblog any short fanfics.

It just has to be weird, sporadic hours because he is the type to fall asleep with the phone on his face.

Koga Kitamikado

1230 followers.

@CapitalKayKay

Listen, there is a reason why a lot of successful businesses chose Instagram as their social media so Koga is no exception.

What makes his account stand out, as you can see from his rather cheeky username, is that he is willing to be an open book.

So he isn’t constantly shoving down any products he is sponsoring or whatever piece he is endorsing.

It’s more of genuinely wanting to hang out and explore what the world has to offer.

Whenever he posts a picture of the gang together, he’s the one tagging all of them, even the ones with hard usernames.

And there’s always a nice comment thanking whoever hosted the fun time or being appreciative of the area and the locals.

It helps that he has a sense of humour so the memes are always just the right amount of teasing but nothing too bad that will deter potential clients.

Because of his down-to-earth nature, he reels everyone in.

Uses the space to invite everyone following him on any celebration/casual outing.

The thing is... he has a lot of followers.

So... good luck.

Aoi

1150 followers.

@DeredArtTooTsun

Look, even he knows he is a Tsundere. It’s a small victory getting him to acknowledge that, let alone use it to brand himself here.

But god, he’s the man I’m most jealous of on Tumblr.

PERFECT BULLET JOURNALS AND SKETCHES.

Got the spreads that literally define ‘aesthetic’, a perfect lineup of art materials even with pencils that have their numbers faded, and somehow, the emotions can pass through the paper and screen.

Even does tutorials on perspectives, positions with cute annotations. Just don’t praise them for being adorable though and focus on improving your skills, dummy.

Ironically though, it’s his mindless vents that get the most number of notes.

It helps that the pics include him, a very cute... I mean... manly boy screaming at very, very hot men.

A bit baffled but whatever it takes to get commissions.

That’s right, he takes them. At least there is a back-up option should the restaurant ever go out of business.

Spoiler Alert: Still doesn’t get paid as much. People, have you seen the number of talented artists here? Aoi might be in the rankings but it’s still hard attracting business.

Support your fandom artists, everyone!

Ginnojo

1000 followers. Just nice.

Ginnojoz

Poor grandpa didn’t intend to put that extra ‘z’ letter, it was a typo because scales don’t get along with haptic touch.

And unfortunately, doesn’t understand how to change it.

Once, he was huge on Vine before it died. The end of an era that he has to witness again. RIP.

Gin-Gin, it is RIGHT. THERE.

Expect to find his super short self-defence videos and Book Club Readings on YouTube.

Girls actually appreciate his instructions and attempts to provide help even if they are alone.

He did try to respond to the nice ones and actually succeeds.

It’s always easier getting to know the language of women when you don’t really see/touch them.

A deep baritone is perfect for some sexy excerpt of a historical novel...

Until he corrects the setting.

In fact, he sometimes rage-quits and rewrites it.

Unlike Kuya, him doing those established ideas actually catches on.

Yura and Gaku

1500 followers.

MelodyandTheBeat.

... Tik-tokers. Tik-Tok people?

WTH do you call them?

As you can see, they are the most popular since it’s combined stardom.

Look, their covers and music mixes are beautiful.

They always have their own version that somehow combines traditional Japanese music... with k-pop.

And of course, food porn.

Just be grateful there isn’t that awful squelching sound you hear when you consume jelly or the breaking of chilli seeds.

Listen, I usually separate them because it’s never nice to be grouped as having the same activity as your twin.

But in this case, being both equally beautiful AND talented sells their uploads.

Even the cringy ones made because Yura is such a Luddite.

Like just turning his head and being amazed his hair can turn so many colours, being impressed with each tilt until he gets to a black shade.

Suddenly hurls the phone away. Gee, wonder why? Guess black isn’t the new... black for him?

Gaku sometimes even introduces new filters he created based on Yura’s random requests that strangely get circulated on the site.

Oji

550 followers all know Oji-Sanz

Unlike Ginnojo, he deliberately adds the ‘z’ letter to sound cool.

You wanna know what’s worse?

He actually uses Facebook.

Aoi decides to give up on him. Nobody blames the poor student.

It’s apparently some old form of social media? Never used it, no sirree.

Always changing his relationship status but at the end of the day, he’s single and ready...

To post about all the lovely ladies destined to enter his restaurant.

He thinks it’s great publicity.

It really isn’t but one good thing about Oji is he includes EVERYONE.

This man respects his customers and always helps advertise their wares, especially if their connections lead to more resources.

And less grocery shopping on his part.

Does post the recipes he and Aoi created but will never use because the Milk Hall had a certain style to follow.

Officially makes Aoi his son... on Facebook at least.

Aoi now tolerates the account.

Barely.

Toichiro Yuri

WhatheMeSay has 1231 followers!

In your face @CapitalKayKay and @NevermorebutSnore!!

You know, I’m so glad that there aren’t any users with those names because I’d be so scared of accidentally tagging them.

Also, geddit? Because... What the fox say?

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding... yeah, I’ll stop.

Pinterest Guy. And actually does spend on his ‘hobby’ to show off to everyone.

It does boost you and your father’s sales so there is nothing to complain about.

His boards are always alliterated just to sound super catchy and it works so long as he gets the right emoji.

Kabuki plays better be promoted or else.

Filled with candid pictures of his victims all taken at different angles you didn’t know were possible and in varying degrees of hilariously misunderstood positions.

He even supplies a donation link, heavily leveraged by his followers, since there are incentives tied to it like early access.

A bit suspicious the photos look like cropped out parts from Koga’s posts and some of the text resembles Kuya’s... er... wisdom?

He takes an unholy amount of selfies when he thinks no one is looking and so they are always surprised upon finding them on the Selfie Board.

There is a locked board that no one can access, even his followers who are his comrades in real life.

It’s actually just one picture in there.

It’s you smiling and giggling at a joke of his. Not even you know it’s been taken. Guess he is as soft as his fur, eh? He better come out soon or else.

Kuro

Kuroruohtumbling

Ginnojo is unfortunately just old enough to have grown up with Scooby-Doo to understand the reference.

Snapchat, like a snapping snake! Hiss!

Unironically loves the puppy face.

Ok, but the glimpses of his stunts help show snippets of the circus life.

He and his whole troupe family will even don costumes best suited for certain filters.

Sometimes ropes in Ginnojo... and by sometimes, I mean enough for everyone to start wondering if the stoic man is part of the act.

To be fair, he randomly hugs people and ranks them here.

You, of course, were number 1.

Now, if only he didn’t use the bloody song to announce it but you forgive him.

Maybe even risks revealing his ayakashi form before deleting the message to you.

Loves making international fans and learning various languages through each post, sort of like flashcards but animated and more fun!

And with 1200 followers, he might become a polyglot like Koga.

Shizuki

Everyone bans him from creating one.

Because they know the power of his roasts is too great.

Little do they know he goes undercover.

Underground.

And under their noses.

That’s right. His rant town on... MySpace.

Unapologetically uses a good chunk of his salary from serving the House of Yuri just to get nifty themes that help with the whole burning process.

Look, there’s a reason he and Oji are friends.

This is why.

Their taste in women seems fine but we really have got to do something about their affinity towards DEAD PLACES.

To be fair, he made the whole thing drunk but that doesn’t mean he should maintain it SOBER.

He just feels that it is a waste of space if he doesn’t utilize it.

And it also becomes kind of cathartic. From the intrusive hugs to his master and Sir Gaku irking each other to no end, he needs it.

Zero followers... but only because it’s super private.

It becomes 1 the moment you jokingly create an account.

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timeagainreviews · 5 years

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The Fabric of Time and Space

Hello friends! It's been quite a busy time for me. Not only did we have a houseguest for about a week, we got a dog! She's an adopted Irish greyhound named Aoife, and she's a good old girl. Needless to say, lots of things happening. I wanted to write sooner so that I could talk about the death of Terrance Dicks, but finding the time was difficult. While Dicks was a bit of an old school writer when it came to women, I absolutely love "The Horror of Fang Rock." However, one of the things for which Dicks was most beloved was his Doctor Who prose. Whether it be the Target novels, or even the BBC range, chances are that if you've read much Doctor Who prose, you've read some Terrance Dicks. Which is why I plan to do something I've never done on here, and that's to review a Doctor Who novel, specifically- The Eight Doctors. Mind you, I'm going to re-read it, just after I finish these Dark Crystal books.

Speaking of Dark Crystal, how many of you have been watching the new prequel? I've been a bit obsessed, myself. It's captured my imagination in a way I haven't felt in years. For those of you not in the know, I was born in the far off year of 1983, just one year after "The Dark Crystal," entered theatres. However, it wasn't until around 1994 that I even became aware it existed. I remember this because the night I bought two Flintstones movie books, there was a display for "The Dark Crystal," in enticingly green Disney style VHS cases. All of these things released around 1994. I was perplexed by this Jim Henson movie that somehow went completely under my radar. I took my books home that night. The Dark Crystal would have to wait a bit longer.

One of the things I loved most about my copy of "The Flintstones: The Official Movie Book," was the pictures of the Jim Henson Creature Workshop fabricating the dinosaur puppets. Something about their ability to create something realistic while still looking like a cartoon resonated with me. I wanted so much to do that job. Since then I've always had a passion for filmmaking and movie magic. Watching "The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance," has rekindled that childhood love I have for the Creature Workshop and character design. As per usual, this got me thinking about Doctor Who. Specifically, its costume design. So I thought I might keep it simple and talk about the costumes of each Doctor. Where better to start than at William Hartnell?

First Doctor

Style: "Edwardian Grandad"

To me, the First Doctor will always look the most like the Doctor the first time we see him in "An Unearthly Child." Topped with an Astrakhan hat and shrouded in a black cape, he cuts a mysterious figure framed by the door of the TARDIS. His costume was a team effort between Maureen Heneghan and William Hartnell who was adamant as to what he would and would not wear. The decision was to make him slightly Edwardian, as the time period would look somewhat out of place, yet not too far removed from the 1960's.

There's something delightfully camp and yet simple to the way he dresses. Nothing about his wardrobe seems out of place. Even his slightly manky fingerless gloves make sense for an old traveller twisting knobs and flicking switches on his fantastical machine. Sometimes leaning on a cane, and other times standing tall holding onto his lapels with his dark ring glinting against the light. He's an enigma and just a touch out of time.

Second Doctor

Style: "Cosmic Hobo"

When the 60's counterculture movement had started to shake up the status quo, we saw learned men like Timothy Leary and Richard Alpert abandon their stuffy collegiate positions for newfound roles as acid gurus. Much like these wild professors, we see the same thing in the Second Doctor's attire. It's as if the First Doctor partied so hard that he regenerated, and his disheveled clothes were whatever he was wearing when he woke up the next morning.

At the time, we had men like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi popularising words like "cosmic," and I believe it caught on in the Doctor Who production offices. Costumers Daphne Dare and Alexandra Tynman really brought a sort of anarchic spirit to the Doctor's attire that I believe has really carried on throughout the series. While I'm glad the stove pipe hat was annexed early on, I loved the additions of things like his giant fur coat held closed with twine. There's something so very Doctory about a man who looks like he sleeps in boxcars that can also attune his mind to build a perfect white cube. He really is far out, man.

Third Doctor

Style: "Space Dandy"

I've heard it said that there are two men that can pull off ruffles- Jimi Hendrix, and Jon Pertwee. And my god, does he ever? Primarily designed by Christine Rawlins, he was influenced by Adam Adamant's wardrobe. However, the biggest inspiration behind his crushed velvet and scarlet lined capes was colour television! Colour! Colour! Colour!

There's a lot of timeliness tied up in his garb. The increasing abundance of colour TV mixed with a post-60's desire to cut loose. This new night-time apparel was a way for gents to relax after a long day in their office suits. Leave it to the alien time traveller to completely ignore this fact and wear said nightwear in the middle of the day. Not only does the Third Doctor introduce a trend of the Doctor stealing his clothes from hospitals, he also marks the first major shift in apparel. The First and Second Doctors may have worn different ties, or trousers, but their overall look remained consistent. The Third Doctor's look adhered more to a wardrobe, or a style of dress. And boy does he have style!

Fourth Doctor

Style: "The Bohemian"

Once again, we see a continuation here of the style of the previous two Doctors. There's a bookishness, mixed with counterculture. Costume designer James Acheson, based a lot of the Fourth Doctor's look on Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s painting of his friend Aristide Bruant. Bruant was a man known for his wide brimmed hat and long scarf. As legend has it, Acheson commissioned a woman named Begonia Pope to knit the famous scarf. Only instead of stopping at a sensible length, this witty little knitter used every last spool of yarn she was provided.

As much as I love Tom Baker's costume in it's versatility and appropriate alienness, I am less a fan of the series 18 redesign by June Hudson, which was notoriously meddled with by John Nathan-Turner. While I rather like the new scarf, the all burgundy ensemble with question mark lapels seems to me like the first time the costume felt like a costume. That being said, there is something timeless about Tom Baker's look that even carries on into its various redesigns such as in "The Talons of Weng-Chiang," or "The Horror of Fang Rock." So much so, that even today if I go out in my Thirteenth Doctor cosplay, you always get some joker saying "Hey, where's your scarf?"

Fifth Doctor

Style: "Beige Cricketer Dad"

Before I had ever watched the Fifth Doctor's episodes, I used to look at his costume and contemplate what kind of guy would dress like that. The cricketer uniform with that red piped coat, and those garish pinstripe pyjamas over white trainers is a definite statement, but what is up with that celery? You can imagine my further confusion when I discovered Davison's portrayal was slightly more subdued and less eccentric. It made him almost the weirdest Doctor in that such a normal seeming guy would dress like his five year old picked out his clothes.

Hell, even the celery is there for a pretty mundane reason. It changes purple in the presence of certain poisonous gases. Very practical. They didn't even illustrate this purpose, we were told about it in his last episode! And you know how I feel about "show, don't tell." Regardless, I can't help but kind of love this outfit, question marks and all. I don't know if it's because I'm a fan and we grow to love this show, warts and all, but there's a reason it's on my list of costumes to cosplay. It's unmistakably the Fifth Doctor, even if it doesn't really make much sense.

Sixth Doctor

Style: "Hot Alien Mess"

Out of all of the Doctor Who costumes, I don't think a single one has been more notorious than this one. Unlike the Fifth Doctor's costume which piqued my curiosity, my initial thoughts upon seeing the Sixth Doctor's costume was "Well that was a mistake." And I wasn't wrong, it definitely was too much. Though in many ways, it also marries so well with the rest of his tenure. John Nathan-Turner's goal was to have a completely tasteless costume to match his tasteless vision for the show. He gave poor Pat Godfrey the thankless task of bringing this monstrosity to the screen.

Though, like I said, you do get used to it, as it does fit Colin Baker's irascible narcissist. I totally believe that an alien might find something like that fashionable. Even his little cat badges on his lapels inspire something I think is essential to his character. He's a big loud tomcat yowling until people stop what they're doing and recognise his brilliance. This is another one of those "I can't help but want to cosplay it," outfits. I especially like his tropical look in "The Two Doctors." It would have been nice to see more this variation in his run, such as the original black design or even the blue one we got in other media. Sigh.

Seventh Doctor

Style: "Tweedy Eccentric"

Remember how I mentioned in previous articles that the Seventh Doctor era was a series of course corrections? This is a definite one of those. We're back to something a lot more subtle, like the First or Fourth Doctor's eccentric professor vibes. But my god, those question marks just won't die! You ever have one of those friends who just can't help themselves? You can give them good advice, but at the end of the day, they're still going to do things their way? That's JNT with these goddamn question marks.

I really love the Seventh Doctor's era as I feel like the show was on the up and up. The writing was getting back on track, and Ace and Seven's chemistry was brilliant. So when you look at the Doctor's jumper, it's a kind of visible evidence of JNT being dragged kicking and screaming into this new era. Yet, funnily, when we see the Eighth Doctor movie, the Seventh Doctor's new waistcoat seems somehow less exciting. There's a certain playfulness sacrificed for realism. Perhaps JNT was onto something with his campy vision.

Eighth Doctor

Style: "Anne Rice Vampire Boyfriend"

It's going to be hard for me to view this costume without rose-tinted glasses. The Eighth Doctor is my first Doctor, so his costume will always have a place in my heart as one of the greats. But which costume? Well, of course I mean the first one from the TV movie, but my god has the man had some costume changes! Be it book, comic, or audio, the man has changed his clothes. My favourite being the unjustly maligned "Dark Eyes," variant, as I had always wondered why the Doctor never wore jeans.

Marking the second time the Doctor stole his wardrobe from a hospital, his original costume, designed by Jori Woodman, seems geared toward evoking a more classic look. A little Hartnell, a little Pertwee. For the most part it works, but I could see the argument some have made that it is a bit "costumey." In its defence, it is a costume. By the time we see McGann again in "The Night of the Doctor," we get a more subdued version of the movie look, befitting the modern series. Gotta love a man who can pull off a neckerchief.

War Doctor

Style: "Metrosexual Post-Apocalyptic"

Sadly, there's not a lot of information on the War Doctor's ensemble. But I believe you can learn a lot simply by looking at it. It's design by Howard Burden (who also did the Eighth Doctor redesign), is meant to be a sort of dark in-between of the Eighth and Ninth Doctors. Which makes a lot of sense, really. His costume looks like the clothing of a man at war. Utilitarian in it's form an function, it looks designed for durability and versatility.

I've often felt the War Doctor would not look out of place in the Fallout universe. He still wears the bandolier of a woman he couldn't save in a previous life. So much of his costume is meant to tell a visual story of a Mad Max-style road warrior. Funny then that the man still has the time to form the perfect faux-hawk coiffure and manscaped goatee with just the right amount of neckbeard. It's more of that visual storytelling I love so much- the Doctor may be a man lost at war, but he's still a bit of a narcissist. Brilliant.

Ninth Doctor

Style: "Navvy Bloke"

Christopher Eccleston has been in the news a lot these last few days due to the release of his new book "I Love the Bones of You." We've learned so much about his time as the Doctor that talking about the look of his character has become a bit of a tough subject. A lot of the man's look is now intrinsically tied in his body dysmorphia, which was at its worst when in the role as the Doctor.

I say it's "tough," in that I do want to talk about how he looked like no other Doctor Who came before him. His northern bloke look and sound almost dared the audience to reevaluate the Doctor they thought they knew. His costume is almost a non-costume. Black leather on black trousers with an assortment of dark coloured v-neck jumpers were a far cry from the question marks and long scarves of the Doctors before. Yet despite all of these differences, he quickly dispelled any doubts many longtime viewers had. He was the perfect Doctor to breathe new life into the show. These last few days have shown us just how lucky we are to still have such a man with us.

Tenth Doctor

Style: "Hipster Geek"

People often times call Matt Smith's Doctor a hipster. But who's the one wearing horn rimmed glasses and Chuck Taylors with a form fitting suit? You want to talk about first impressions from a photograph, my first thought was "hipster geek." And I love him for it. David Tennant's Doctor is such a charismatic goofball, that it's hard not to love him. And I honestly can't think of a better costume for him. I will say however that I think this one falls under that "costumey," look I've mentioned before. There's something very Scooby-Doo about a guy who owns two of the same suit in reverse colour.

I also love the simple fact that he's wearing actual Chuck Taylors. I'm surprised more Doctors haven't. Even with the logos on the sides whited out, you can spot the real McCoy (or Tennant) a mile away. Top all of this off with that marvellous coat of his, and you've got a real super hero look. Just picture it- his coat blowing in the breeze as it clings to his matchstick frame, his hair and eyes trembling with Time Lord fury. He's iconic as hell and it's no wonder he's caught the hearts and minds of so many fans.

Eleventh Doctor

Style: "Young Old Man"

I absolutely love Matt Smith's Doctor, especially his early look with the tweed and floppy hair. Ray Holm really came out swinging with this costume as it bred countless one-liners about his bow-ties and love for a good fez. If you've ever seen pictures of other Eleventh Doctor costume concepts, you'd realise what a stroke of genius that bowtie really was. He just doesn't look like the Doctor without it. I believe it was Smith himself who suggested the bowtie.

I would not say I am as onboard with the later purple suit the Doctor wore with Clara. It just lacked the subtlety of the tweed. And that top hat looked especially out of place, which is funny when you consider how good the black top hat looked on him in "Let's Kill Hitler." While I would not say the purple ensemble was a total failure, it's got nothing on his original look. Which, if you'll recall, was also stolen from a hospital.

Twelfth Doctor

Style: "Punk Magician"

Peter Capaldi is the first Doctor I ever had to wait to see the costume reveal. I had gotten into Doctor Who around the tail end of Matt Smith's first series. I remember my first reaction to Howard Burden's costume being something like "Huh." I didn't really love it. Perhaps it was the mixture of it being new, and not having already been established as the Doctor's clothes, but I was slow to come around to it. Capaldi's inspiration behind the costume was David Bowie's "Thin White Duke," persona, which is a telling bit of inspiration considering what a dark point it was in Bowie's life.

For me, the Twelfth Doctor's look truly comes together over time. I think it's somehow tied to his hair. The wilder it got, the more I liked his look. I absolutely love the hoodies and the First Doctor inspired trousers. There's something so perfect about a black jumper bespeckled with holes allowing the white shirt beneath to shine through like stars. The cosmic hobo is back in a punk rock fashion. There's something very lived in about the Twelfth Doctor's style that really resonates with me. He may be the eldest Doctor of the modern series (unless you count John Hurt), but there is something undeniably youthful about him

Thirteenth Doctor

Style: "Godspell Casual"

Jodie's costume was another one of those "Huh," moments for me. It was such a departure from anything before it, bar maybe the Ninth Doctor's jumpers. However, it only took me a few days to get used to, as compared to multiple episodes with Capaldi. A female Doctor was something I had pondered over for such a long time, that I had some expectations as to what she should and shouldn't be wearing. I definitely wanted her in sensible footwear and no floofy skirts. I wanted her like an adventurer. Think Rachel Weisz in "The Mummy." So when she showed up with a pair of high water trousers and comfortable boots, I was pretty happy. It was her t-shirt I was most taken aback by. It seemed a little more casual than I expected, but when you consider she's been a bloke her entire life, having no nonsense clothes is very much the Doctor.

It's not hard to imagine why this was the second Doctor I've cosplayed (the other being Four). There's lots of symbolism tied into the coat that Ray Holm and Whittaker devised together, and I love that they put that much thought into it. At this point it's still early days in her character. Aside from a blink and you miss it scarf or a red shirt, we've not seen a whole lot of wardrobe variation. Rumour has it she'll be donning a pair of black trousers is series 12, which I'm all for. I'd also love to see her wear some grey checked trousers like Hartnell and Troughton. Or even a black and white version of her current look. There's so much versatility possible in her costume. I hope they explore a bit of it.

And that's it for now, friends. I hope you enjoyed this article. I tried to put a little bit of research into it. While I was writing it, this blog turned one year old! I can't believe I've been doing this for a whole year! It's such a wonderful sight to see when you all like the posts and share them. Knowing I've resonated with someone like yourselves feels a little less lonely. Expect to see a Sixth Doctor review corresponding with his blu-ray (I missed the Third Doctor Blu-ray/Pertwee 100th birthday). I'm also planning on covering "The Edge of Time," VR game if they ever decide to release it! Oh and I might start covering the Dark Crystal as well, because I really love that show. I hope you are having a great weekend!

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hide-the-cutlery · 5 years

Text

Isn’t it Lovely

all alone?

Heart made of glass, my mind of stone

Tear me to pieces, skin to bone

Hello...? Welcome home.

Ben Solo’s death looked unnatural to me when I saw it in theaters. I thought “it looked like that was played in reverse”, and now that I’ve seen all this stuff online about how it was maybe a last minute change, and he wasn’t supposed to die, or not then, hmm.. Oh, and I didn’t get why Leia’s body stayed present until Ben died. Was that supposed to imply that she was giving her life force to him? Wasn’t that already depleted when she reached out to him? I have questions that only lead to more questions. TROS was so packed full of shit, it was hard to process anything. Anyway, that’s not where this post is going.

...

I just had a revelation of sorts. When I was drinking (and maybe at some point, it might be good for me to try to explain how I almost feel as that part of me wasn’t part of me. Like I hold it separate from the rest of me. The memories. The destruction. Destitute, dying in my apartment. Literally dying. Well, that was the end. But before that were secrets and lies and betrayal and a “problem” that wasn’t a big problem, until it was. Anyways..)

Ahem... WHEN I WAS DRINKING, I would stay up all night. What I would do depends on what period of my alcoholism I’m reflecting on. (I HATE ending a sentence with a preposition, but I can’t think of a better way to word that one.) The period I’m referring to now is, I guess, my pre-ex period, orrr... my WoW days. Oh yeah. I played WoW. I was a badass Shadow Priest. With a non-gaming computer. At least that was my excuse whenever I “stood in the fire” or when my dps was low or something. I even got the Legendary staff that turned you into a dragon. Yep. Oh, and I was sleeping with one of the guys in my guild directly below the gm. And I’m a girl. Soo. Yeah. Got lots of loot. Lots of help with a lot of things. But even before I was fucking the guy from my guild, I was dating the guy who got me into WoW. So, ironically, he got me into the game where I met the guy I cheated on him with. (Preposition! Bad!) It wasn’t physical with the guy in my guild until I officially broke up with the boyfriend. Well, it was, what do they call it..? Emotional. An emotional affair, except I guess you need to be married to have an affair. We were together almost 5 years, but, thankfully, never got that close to being married. (He did suggest that he would propose to me, if I didn’t break up with him. I felt a sickenly way of sorry for him when he pitched that idea. There were about 6 weeks where I was trying to end it, but couldn’t, so I did the better thing and dragged him around, through the mud, and kept a little hope alive for him — it was pathetic. On both our parts. We both knew it was over, we “just didn’t know the date”. (Fall Out Boy, if you didn’t catch that.)

god, I’m so off topic. So. For a while, I would spend my nights, staying up all night. Sometimes talking to people, sometimes actually playing, and sometimes I would get these little obsessions and delve so deep into them; it’s ridiculous. Well, it’s now 5am, and I have spent all night nose-deep in SW/Reylo/Ben Solo/Kylo shit. Ugh. And the worst part is, yeah, I’m “sober”, but sometimes some of these pills make me feel — kinda nice. They make the time go by, but the wrong time. I’ll sleep till the afternoon at this point. And they keep me out of reality. And let me tell you something about my reality: I AM FUCKED. So hard. Like a life-changing level of fucked. And I’ve managed to push it completely out of my consciousness. SOMETHING — The Thing — happened a week and a half ago, but I’m not going to say what, JUST IN CASE anyone has somehow figured out who I am. Anyway, the immediate problem is I need some money. Couple hundred dollars. So, I’m not too sure what to do about that. Probably lie about something to give myself some more time. That’s what I usually do in situations I don’t know what the fuck to actually do.

So I’m using crap like Tumblr, YouTube, AO3 (yes, that’s embarrassing... I’ve even thought of trying to beta someone’s work for $$$ or even commission one-shots. I can write well; I don’t always show it. I tend to write how I think/talk. I’m the person who sends these huge “wall of text” texts or messages. I doubt they get read half the time — People could do to be a tad more polite.), and Facebook (lame) to stay out of touch. It’s like the WoW or the other little obsessions and the alcohol have evolved (devolved?) into fanbase stuff for SW and pills. Not good. And of course, I’m prescribed all this stuff. It’s just a matter of taking it the right way. Especially now, since I can’t do the one thing that GOT me in trouble, I need to be careful and responsible with the pills. But I have a lot, and there’s a lot to escape from. (Goddamn preposition.) I’m getting itchy. The exact opposite of complacent. I need SOMETHING, in the way probably only another addict could understand. I’m addicted to mood-altering substances, obviously, but other things, too. Other things that are more — physical (not sex) and impulsive. I have an impulse control problem; it comes with the personality disorder, they say.

I need to get to sleep. 5:30am now. So, when I was feeding the cats earlier, I was going through my head what happened when The Thing happened, and I felt like I got body-slammed out of nowhere with this intense, vivid memory. Of exactly what happened with The Thing. If there was something to taste, I’m sure I could have tasted it. It stopped me dead in my tracks, and I had to hold on to some shelves for balance. I realized that I’ve been skating along like everything is alright, and everything is NOT alright. And I don’t know what to do.

I had so much more to say. There’s always more to say. But, right now, I guess it’s time to sleep. No editing, just sleep.

...

Okay, time to sleep.

#Rambling #Random #Drinking #Pills #Addiction #The Thing #Memories #WoW #SW #Ben Solo #Don't Read Me

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megatraven · 6 years

Text

Valentine’s Day Plan

For the ever so lovely @jattendschaton, some Adrininette Valentine’s Day shenanigans for @mlshipfleet‘s valentine exchange hosted in the discord server!

Nino slammed his hands down, drawing the attention of both his partners. He gave them each a stern look before straightening his back.

“We agreed last year that we wouldn’t be doing anything big,” he said, a smile peaking through his harsh facade, giving way to how he really felt about the argument he’d interrupted.

“Elephants aren’t that big!” Adrien exclaimed, then, hearing his own words, blushed. “I mean, it could be baby elephants...”

Marinette laughed at that, setting her chin on her hands.

“Any why, pray tell, would you ever rent baby elephants for Valentine’s Day?” she asked, face alight with humor.

Adrien threw his hands up in exasperation. “Because I love you both and baby elephants are cute! What more reason do I need?”

“So how does your love for us tie into baby elephants again?”

Nino couldn’t bear to see Adrien flounder around for what was certain to be an even worse excuse than before, and shook his head smiling.

“Whatever the reason, no elephants. Baby or otherwise. Nothing big. We all promised. Right?”

“Yeah, okay, no baby elephants.”

“And nothing big.”

“Good. Now that that’s settled-” he clapped his hands together- “who’s ready for dinner?”

Marinette and Adrien gave their excited affirmations and they all turned to go to the dining room. Neither saw how Nino’s smile had turned mischievous.

They didn’t ask for him to reconfirm.

When the big day came around, Nino was first out of bed, only briefly savoring the moment of quiet peace that exuded from his partners’ sleeping forms. Thanks to all of them being relatively light sleepers due to years of superheroing, Nino found himself tiptoeing to the bathroom for a quick washing up- no time for a shower until the other two were up, and he had a lot to get done for the day.

After getting dressed as fast as he could, Nino was out the door, phone to his ear and calling all the right people. First was the florist, who’d been helping him plan the perfect bouquet for over half a year, followed by the bakers- who were definitely Tom and Sabine- and the band.

He made a couple more by the time he made it to the flower shop, and knocked on the door. There was still an hour until it opened officially, but the florist made an exception for him, since they would be there early anyways.

“Thank you so much, man, I really appreciate it,” Nino said as he was led inside. Flowers of all kinds filled the room, and there were even rows of saplings and shrubs-to-be. It never ceased to take his breath away, and he stood around for a minute to admire the scene and take in the scent of the place. He’d have to come back sometime for some musical inspiration when he wasn’t running Valentine’s Day errands. And maybe he could bring Adrien and Marinette with him- they’d probably love it just as much.

“Hey, no problem, man. What’re old school buds for if not opening their store an hour early?” The florist noted Nino’s pause, and turned around to face him, a grin lighting up his face.

Kim- an old classmate of Nino’s, Adrien’s, and Marinette’s, had somehow wound up going into the flower business. Nobody expected it, but at the same time, it hadn’t come as much of a surprise.

“Hey, don’t forget, they’re good for making and sending playlists that promote healthier plant growth too,” Nino teased. He recognized the music playing as his own, even though it could barely be heard through the store.

“Right, right, sure,” Kim said with a shrug, turning around and gesturing for Nino to follow him.

They walked through the winding aisles until they reached a little room that was more garden than break room, if you asked Nino. Kim didn’t seem to mind it, though, and led him over to the biggest bouquet he’d seen in the entire store.

Or, maybe it was more accurate to call it a sculpture.

There, in the center of the room was a slightly-smaller-than-life flower sculpture of Ladybug and Chat Noir. Ladybug’s suit was made up of almost entirely red roses, but Nino spotted hints of ambrosia beneath it as well as carnations. Morning glories, he was pretty sure, are what made up her ‘hair.’ For Chat Noir, his ‘hair’ was made up of primrose, his suit of black tulips and violet roses. There were many more he could see, but he wasn’t so great at naming them based on appearance.

“It looks amazing,” he breathed out, awestruck. Kim had really outdone himself, and Nino gave himself a little pat on the back for the thought.

“I know it does. This was a lot of work, but it was a really great challenge, too, so thanks for asking me to do it!” He gazed proudly at his work. “When did you want it dropped off?”

“Oh, right, one sec.” Nino took out his phone and shot off a few texts, getting responses almost as fast. “Can you do it in two hours? That should give me enough time for everything else to get in place.”

“Two hours is perfect, man. Good luck with your plans.” Kim gave him a wink, and then ushered him out of the store.

Onto phase two.

Everything was a disaster.

Nino was ten minutes away from revealing everything he’d set up to Marinette and Adrien, and they were nowhere to be found. They wouldn’t pick up their phones, he had no idea where they could be, and if they didn’t show up soon, the ice sculpture he’d commissioned would need to be moved somewhere cooler, which would compromise the elegance and charm of his whole setup.

Not that a live showing of Kitty Section was the picture of either of those things, but hey, Nino was pretty sure he didn’t want to be djing his own date.

Except now he’d might as well, because in the two hours he’d took to prepping, his partners had disappeared.

Everything was beginning to feel like his own plans weren’t the only ones being brought to life that day after all.

The next ten minutes felt like an eternity, but just as the clock dwindled down, Marinette and Adrien both appeared, at the same time but from different directions.

Marinette looked like she’d gotten dressed pretty hastily, and Adrien... well, he looked like he’d just climbed out of bed, put on the first thing in his closet, and left. Which, really, he pulled off pretty well.

They both greeted him with a kiss on his cheek, which he returned happily.

“So, no big things, huh?” Marinette asked, a little breathless. Nino eyed her suspiciously before Adrien joined in.

“Yeah, I though we promised, no big surprises.”

“Technically, I called you both nine minutes ago, so it’s not a surprise anymore,” Nino said, laughing at their answering scowls.

“You think you’re so smart, Lahiffe,” Adrien started, poking a finger at Nino’s chest.

“I know I’m so smart, actually.” Years of being exposed to Chat Noir’s cheesy romance caused it to rub off on Nino, and so he took Adrien’s hand and kissed the back of it. The blush that blossomed on Adrien’s face was a perfect match to the flowers in the floral sculpture. Marinette giggled at their display.

“So where were you guys? I called and texted but neither of you responded.”

“I was sleeping, and my phone was set for alarms only.” Adrien looked sheepish at this. “When I woke up, I saw all your texts and missed calls and rushed out. Then rushed back in, got dressed, and rushed back out.”

“And I was getting these,” Marinette said, pulling a bag out from behind her that neither of the boys had noticed before now. Within, underneath a lot of pink tissue paper, was an elephant plush. “Because, you know... it’s not a ‘big’ surprise without an elephant, I guess.”

Nino rolled his eyes at that and laughed, pulling her and Adrien both into a hug. Their dynamic was kind of silly a lot of the time, and over-dramatic, but that was really what made them work. They clicked like three pieces of a puzzle and always had some way to keep the mood light. Somehow, their personalities matched just right.

When they pulled apart, Nino finally prompted, “So, whaddya think?”

The other two took the opportunity to really take in all that he’d done, and the awe was clear in their expressions.

The centerpiece of the room was the Ladybug and Chat Noir sculpture he’d gotten made, and Kim had gotten to him with no problem, so it was perfect for presentation. There was also an ice sculpture, of each of their miraculous animals, and a pretty nice food arrangement. There were foods catered by Alya’s mom, and desserts and snacks by Marinette’s. Off to the side, Kitty Section was beginning to play. Despite originally being a screamo-styled band, they’d began practicing other styles of music, and were now playing something softer with a good beat.

Marinette leaned into his chest and rested her head against him. “It’s lovely, Nino. Though, I kind of wish Carapace was there with Ladybug and Chat.”

“Yeah, he does complete us, you know.”

“Hah, yeah. It didn’t feel right to really add me in there like I was proclaiming my love for myself,” Nino said, shrugging it off. It hadn’t bothered him, anyways.

Adrien hummed and took Nino’s hand.

“Good thing I thought of it, then,” he said, and looked over at Kim, who was smiling widely. He quickly ran out, and within minutes, a Carapace was added to the other heroes.

“Wh- how? How’d you know?” Nino gasped.

“Kim was streaming his work on instagram and I saw it,” Adrien laughed.

“Of course he streamed it. That guy’s a huge dork.”

“But, a very talented one,” Marinette pointed out.

Nino grinned. “Yeah, I guess so.” He pulled them to him again, unable to keep himself from mussing up his hair as he rubbed foreheads with them both. “Thank you both. For being here. For being with me. It really would have been just as perfect if we didn’t do anything big.”

In one voice, Marinette and Adrien said,

“We know.”

Bren!! I was so happy to get you for the exchange!!!!! <3 I hope you like this silly little thing! I had something completely different in mind when I started, haha. I’ll be posting up a few art pieces that are also part of your gift soon! Happy Valentine’s Day!

#miraculous ladybug #ml #adrininette #adrien agreste #nino lahiffe #marinette dupain-cheng #im not the Happiest with this fic but hopefully the art makes up for it :) <33333

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nickrbockr · 6 years

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Simon Vs Fan Fic: Chapter 6 - One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish

Ao3

Leah came with me to Walgreens to get items to put into Bram’s care package. Abby and Nick were still asleep and Ian decided to go on home and sober up for tonight’s partying. She went into the store to start on my list because I called Bram to apologize.

“Hi handsome,” Bram’s voice comes with a layer heart and warmth that drips into my ear.

“I don’t deserve that today,” I start as I shuffle in the passenger seat.

“Stop, Si.”

“If I made you feel bad in anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, honest. What can I do to make you feel better?”

I scoff in guilt. “Here I am trying to apologize to you and you’re the one asking what you can do for me.”

“Simon,” Bram begins. “I know how hard this is, believe me. You have no idea how much Baltimore Nick has to listen to me talk things out. But what is important is how we communicate like we are now. When either of us is feeling something, we just need to let the other know. If I could hold you right now, I would tuck myself so close to your chest so I could hear my heart beat in your chest.”

“I miss you so much. I thought it would be easier, but I was wrong, it’s so much harder.”

“I made the same assumption too and it looks like I’ve been listening to Elliot Smith more and more. Which is counter-productive because the lyrics really are depressing. Remember this, Simon: you’re no longer alone in this, we’re in this together.”

“I’m glad you’re with my goofy butt, Bram. In spite of all my craziness.”

Bram exhaled and I swore I could feel his soft breath on my ear. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you Simon. I see a man with perpetual sexy bedhead. I see your moon-grey eyes explore my face with beautiful awe. I see a man willing to do anything and everything for the sake of others at the expense of himself because that’s how much other people mean to him. I see a boy who I had eyes for since freshman year of high school. Look in the mirror, Si, through my eyes and you’ll understand.”

“I’ll work on that, B, I promise.”

“Simon Jacob Spier.”

“Abraham Louis Greenfeld.”

“I will see you soon.” He could feel Bram’s smile stretch across his phone as well as pang in his voice that was hungry for my flesh.

The ‘I love you’ chorus sang between us and I hung up. My screensaver of Bram popped up, a picture I screenshot from his Instagram. I barely kept any apps on my home screen so I could always stare at him when I needed him most. It’s such a strange gift, being able to affect another person’s mood only with the power of existing.

I left Leah’s car and walked into the Walgreens to find her reading a magazine on the floor.

“How’d it go?” Leah asked, not looking up from her issue of National Geographic.

“Exactly how you said.” I admitted, hand on the back of my neck.

“I swear to god it almost feels like I’m dating you guys too.” She replied, placing the magazine back on the shelf.

“How have you done it?” I ask her, looking for an honest answer.

“I don’t know, I’m not getting any out of it either,” she responds jokingly, standing up with my help.

“I’m serious. Leah.”

Leah rolls her eyes, “Do we have to do this in a Walgreens?” She starts to walk towards the food aisle, knowing the first item that will go into Bram’s care package. I catch her by her arm and stop her.

“We do…I just feel…ever since I knew I am going to propose, I’ve regressed into my high school self where I’m…an idiot and stumble over even small and easy things with you guys and Bram. You’re keeping me balanced, Leah, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Leah hugs me in the middle of the aisle as an older lady is looking at the greeting cards. She notices us and crosses her hands on her chest.

“You’re right, Simon,” Leah says, “you have regressed a little because you’re making me being a friend a big deal! Spier, are you going to regress to the point where you’re back in the closet?”

We laugh and walk towards the Oreos. Walgreens is a different store right when it opens. The employees still look like there is a sparkle of hope in their eyes. Leah and I discuss the pros and cons of double stuff verses regular Oreos when I finally tell her what I’ve been thinking since I knew I wanted to propose to Bram.

“Leah, you’re going to have to be my Best Person, you know that right?”

She shot me a confused look and smiled. “That’s how you’re asking me to be your Best Person? As a joking demand?”

“It actually seemed the most fitting way to do it to be honest,” I defend.

A large smile grew across her face. “You’re actually right for once in your life, Si.”

We checked out and I added the Double Stuff Oreos (I won that argument) to my care package that also had additional snacks, stereotypical college food, new CDs for him to listen to (yes we both still buy and own CDs), a pack of legal writing pads that he loves to use in his journalism classes, pencils and pens with his name embroidered on them, a framed picture of us from this summer, and a bottle of vodka, the only liquor that doesn’t make Bram too nauseated. We dropped it off at the post office and the worker seemed shocked to see two college-age kids in there at nine A.M.

“Sorry about last night.” I said on our way back to the apartment.

“You don’t really have anything to apologize for, you just got drunk and…Simony.”

“I know, but…I felt like we didn’t talk about how Abby and Nick felt really. Like I stole focus.”

“Well, you did,” Leah replied laughing, “but I think it was wanted. It didn’t seem like they wanted to discuss it.”

“I’ll make it up to them. I’ll cook breakfast.”

“I know none of us will say no to that.”

Once we’re home, Nick and Abby are awake and lounging in the living room. We all catch up while I’m cooking breakfast and they’re cleaning up remnants of the party from last night.

“So other than those major projects for school, I also have been commissioned to do a piece for another Off-Broadway show.” Abby finishes.

“Sounds like a good problem to have,” Leah says, throwing the solo cups into our recycling bin.

“Truer words have never been spoken.” Abby replies, sipping on water.

“So guys, breakfast is ready.” I turn around and have two plates ready to go for Nick and Abby and we sit at the former pong table. “View this as an official apology for last night.”

Both Abby and Nick tilt their heads in mild annoyance.

“Like we told you last night, nothing to apologize for. BUT!” Abby shouted, “We did gloss over the fact that you are marrying Bram!”

“Proposing to, yes, I am!” I shout back as I bring Leah and my plates. “Right now the plan is propose in Shady C over our break on our anniversary with rings provided by my Dad.”

“Ahhh! So we’ll all still be in the city!”

“I hope so, it’s at the end of January right before classes start, will that work for you guys?”

“For you and Bram? We’ll make it work,” Nick replies, stuffing egg and sausage into him mouth.”

“I also got his mom’s blessing when she visited last month and I’m still waiting to speak to his Dad but he is a hard man to talk to now that Ruth is in kindergarten.”

Abby stared at me with a dropped jaw as Nick reminded steadfast at eating.

“You’re asking his parents?! That is so cute!”

“I’m hoping to convince his Dad to come fishing to at least lure him up here.”

“Was that a pun?” Nick said, laughing.

“Not intentionally,” I reply.

The rest of our Saturday was stereotypical college student life: movies, booze, GrubHub order, some light marijuana use, more booze and then the bars that night. New Haven is a great New England town in the fall and the leaves crunched beneath our shoes as we walked to the second bar of the night.

“So I want to say this only once more and then I’ll leave it alone. You guys doing okay since the break up?”

Nick and Abby stared at each other.

“We really are,” Nick answered. “Bram was a huge help too, not to say that to make you upset, but-”

“No, no, I’m sorry guys,” I respond. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that and I have no right to. Bram is his own person and I shouldn’t be so…territorial.”

“You’re not territorial, Si,” Leah said between handing us our drinks.

“Yeah, I am. Or was. I don’t know. Last night took me back to the insecure Simon and I didn’t like that. I’m so, so happy Bram was able to help you guys, and I need to work on trust.”

“Si, we can’t really pretend to understand how it was like to be outed or come out in general,” Nick said with a sympathetic smile. “But if you actually have trust issues, they’re valid. It’s okay to feel feelings.” He finished, laughing. “That’s a weird sentence, but don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I guess…I just…I think it all stems back from me thinking that…”

I haven’t ever really told anyone this ever, not Leah, not Bram, not Ian. I was weighing actually being honest as my friend’s concerned eyes stared at me as we walked to a table.

“I guess I have never felt like I’m good enough for Bram, like he will wake up one morning and realize he’s only been with some weird kid from his high school and discover that I’m not enough for him.”

There. It was out there. I finally said it. There was some relief in being honest about my feelings, especially something I’ve felt since Bram and I started dating. Bram has never made me feel this way, let me put that out there. It’s all my brain, all of my psychosis.

“Simon…” Abby pulled my hand to her, Leah placed hers on top, and even Nick put his hand on the pile.

It was already helpful to be able to say those things out loud and I think they understood that I need to get through those feelings myself, but their hands on my hand made me realize that I’m not alone, ever, no matter what. I know it’s cheesy but sometimes you need to hear the cheesy Hallmark card sentences.

“How could you think you’re not good enough?” Nick asked.

“You may be a weird kid from high school, but that doesn’t mean it makes Bram love you less.” Leah added.

“In fact, it probably helped you,” Abby finished as she flashed her Abby smile. “Simon, I know there’s nothing we can really say otherwise until you believe it yourself, but you’re a catch, Bram is lucky to have you just as much as you are lucky to have him.”

“Yeah, you need some self-esteem.” Nick said blatantly. After some stares from Abby and Leah, he continued. “I mean, you…naw, you need to work on your self-esteem. Cause if you don’t, the constant doubt and questioning will end up hurting you the most. And Bram may not want to stay around to watch you do that to yourself.”

“Easier said that done.” Leah said. “But he’s right, Si. As soon as you look at your relationship as a partnership instead of…however you look at it now, all of this doubt will go away.”

I know it wasn’t any business of mine, but I couldn’t help myself and asked.

“Was that why you two split up?” They looked at one another and now I felt like a dick. “Sorry, I’m just the worst person this weekend.”

“No, no it’s fine,” Abby said, sipping her beer. “We both had kinda the opposite problem. Too much pride.”

“Relationships are about give and take and I don’t think we ever found that rhythm. Both can’t give and not take.”

“It’s like if two tops tried to date.” I say, letting it slip out before stopping myself. Nick’s eyes bugged out as Abby started laughing until all of us were laughing at my dumb joke.

After that, the rest of the night was spent like we never left Shady Creek. Memories were talked about and conversation moved quickly and anytime a song came on that Abby liked we danced in the booth. Once the bar closed we swung by the late night pizza place and got some food while discussing the merits of Katy Perry’s latest album (I gave her an A for effort and Nick defended the album with the old ‘she’s hot’ argument).

The next day, I woke up to a text from Bram.

I was told today I can have that weekend off! I can’t wait to see you. :)

There’s no better way to start your day than having your boyfriend confirm a weekend together. Bram works part time at WBAL as their social media intern who they also make work most weekends. He gets to write the summary sentences of articles or links to the news stories on their website as well as respond to comments on their Facebook page postings. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it gave him experience and he liked that part.

I woke up Leah to sweet talk her into letting me borrow her car to drive to Baltimore and she said yes, but there was a price. I had to wake up to cook breakfast every morning until the weekend I needed it and I felt that was a fair trade off.

This morning, however, I didn’t cook breakfast and we all went to grab food together before Nick and Abby drove back to New York. When they visit, it never feels like we had enough time together.

“I wish we could stay longer,” Abby cutely pouted.

“I know I can’t convince you guys to stay in New Haven over New York, but I’ll never stop trying.” Leah responded as they hugged.

“So I’m assuming we’ll all see each other next during Thanksgiving?” I say.

“You know it.” Nick says as we hug too. “I love New York, but it’s nice to get out every once in a while, remember that there are smells other than garbage and smog.”

We laugh as I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s Bram’s Dad. I excused myself from the group.

“Simon, how are you?”

“Great,” I answer, a bit shocked. “How about you?”

“I’m also doing fine. So listen, I know you’ve been trying to get a hold of me and I thought I’d let you know that we’ll be in Boston visiting the wife’s family this coming weekend. If you were interested, we could try meet. I know you’ve been wanting to talk to me in person per your messages.”

I could hear a hint of annoyance in his voice, but as long as I annoyed him into at least seeing me, I can ask him. I didn’t want to ask either of Bram’s parents over the phone unless I absolutely had to, so I’m glad Bram’s step mom’s family lives in Boston.

“Yes, yes that sounds great! I was thinking, if you’re up for it, that we could meet in Provincetown and do some fishing?”

Did I sound as weird as I felt saying that sentence? I must have because all of my friend stopped talking and stared at me.

“I didn’t think you still had fishing in you, Simon. That sounds great, I will be sure to pack my poles.”

His tone was more relaxed after I mentioned fishing. Thank you Tracy Greenfeld.

“Super!” I jump and pump my arm at the audience of my friends. “Also, I know this will sound weird, but can you not tell Bram we’re doing this?”

There was a gut-wrenching pause on the line. I couldn’t say that sentence without sounding weird. Nick shook his head and smiled at me as I flipped him off.

“Okay,” he started. “Can I ask why?”

“Yes, but I won’t be able to tell you until we see each other.”

Another pause as I placed my free hand on the back of my neck. Abby had her fingers crossed and Leah leaned on the car waiting for the call to be over.

“Okay, I’m sure you have your reasons. I won’t tell him.”

Wonderful! I finally got him to spend some one on one time with me. Before I hung up, I gave Bram’s dad the information on where we’d meet to fish. Since speaking to Tracy, I had tried to find the best place in the area to fish and you couldn’t go wrong with Cape Cod.

“Fishing? You?” Leah said.

“Gotta make sure Elijah is in a good mood when I ask for his blessing. He loves fishing and we’ll be out in the ocean, so good views too? That’s important when you fish, right?”

“So you’re going on boat, alone, into the ocean with the father of your boyfriend of whom you’re going to tell him you’re planning on marrying his son?” Nick teased.

“Yeah.”

“If you disappear, I think we’ll start with Elijah.”

“Shut up and get back to New York.”

It was always hard to see my friends leave after they visited. Abby waved goodbye until they turned the corner to head back to New York.

"Can I borrow the car this weekend?" I ask hands folded in a begging manner?

"Duh," Leah said, rolling her eyes and following me back inside.

I couldn’t really concentrate the entire week, trying to figure out the best way to ask Bram’s father.

“Dude, just ask it,” Ian said to me. We were in our final acting class and in between scene studies of our classmates.

“I don’t think I can with Elijah.” I answer. “He’s…not scary, but he’s hard to read and that makes me nervous.”

“If he said no, would that prevent you from still proposing?”

I’ve been so focused on preparing what I’m going to do when I propose that I didn’t think of that part. Which is bad because I still don’t know where in Shady Creek I would take him or what I’d do. I need to figure that out soon, but first I need to get past this weekend.

“The thought of not marrying Bram is worse than Elijah saying no.” I answer. “I’d…probably still do it even if he didn’t say yes.”

Ian laughed, “Then why even ask him? Isn’t asking permission a dated step in marrying someone these days?”

“Yeah, but it seems right to do ask. When it comes to Bram, I want to make sure to do everything right so that the proposal is perfect and then we can plan the wedding together because as you’ve probably noticed, I’m not the best planner.”

“Dude, I think you’re doing well for winging it.” Ian said drinking some water. “Brammy is going to love whatever you do. Do you know how you’re going to ask yet?”

“Ugh…no.”

“He likes soccer, would you want to do it on a soccer field? Oh my god, you should! Then you can have Bram’s family and friends on Bram’s side of the field and your family on your side and you can have them stand as Forwards, Midfielders, and Defenders and oh! You and Brammy and both of your parents can be the Forwards!”

I stared at Ian with bugged eyes. He noticed and laughed.

“You’ve thought a lot about this huh, Ian. You sure you don’t want to marry Bram?”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Ian joked back. “But Bram is missing something that I would never be ale to get past.”

“Boobs?”

Ian put his hand on my shoulder, “Boobs.”

Ian did me thinking the rest of the week. I really wish not everyone hated my high school idea because all of the significant places we were, we spent the most time in that damn high school. I can’t really propose in our either of our bedrooms because one there is not enough space if I invite people and two I’d probably get distracted and we’d just end up having sex and I’d forget to propose.

Would it be cheesy to do it in the parking lot when we had out first lunch and kiss as a couple?"

The more I thought about it, the more and more it did make sense. Bram still has his old car and maybe I could convince the manager to let us go into the store after hours.

“Hmmm…” Leah thought after I told her the idea. It was Thursday night and I we were waiting for our lasagna to finish cooking.

“You hate it.” I ask leaning back I my chair and headed back to square one.

“I don’t…hate it….but it also just doesn’t seem like the most romantic place to propose.”

You weren’t in the car with us when we ate Oreos and kissed while it rained.

“We really didn’t have a place outside of school. Our places ended up being in the lunch room or the fair or…”

That’s it. It was the place we built the foundation of our relationship. All of those moments happened at high school. And as weird or tacky others may feel it is, they didn’t have the relationship Bram and I had. They didn’t have the emails that both Bram and I pined over when we didn’t know who the other was. I have to ask him at Creekwood. It’s where Bram and I discovered each other.

“What is it, Si?” Leah asks as I have been staring into space.

“When I propose, it’s happening at Creekwood.”

“Si, I thought-”

“I know, everyone else thought it was a bad idea, but you told me to trust my gut about this proposal and my gut is screaming Creekwood. It’s the best place, it has our history. We were in the parking lot on a ferris wheel when he kissed me. How could it be anywhere else?”

Leah looked at me with loving eyes and let a smile grow on her face, very un-Leah like.

“What,” I started. “You’re scaring me.”

“I think you should do it.”

“Yeah?!”

“Yeah. You’re right, it all happened there and I know Bram would love it too.”

My stomach warmed and twilled and back flipped out of excitement. Finally got someone on my side with Creekwood and now I can even tell Bram’s Dad where I’m going to do it if he asks!

“Ah! I means a lot you are on board with this.”

Leah was quiet again and I even swear she was tearing up.

“Leah? You okay? Now you’re really scaring me.” I joke.

“I’m just so happy for you and Bram…Can you propose as soon as possible so we can all be happy together?!”

“I’m trying to make January come as fast as I can.”

I could hear both my Dad and Ian say ‘that’s what she said’ in my head.

Leah hugged me and made us watch a horror movie so she could, in her words, get out of this lovey-dovey mood.

I woke up on Friday and the feeling of happiness was soon overshadowed by my nerves of Bram’s dad. Luckily I woke up to a text from Bram.

I received your care package my amazing boyfriend. Thank you so much, I love it all <<33

Hey cutie :)

. .. … Hey handsome :) How’s your Friday?

Good. Kinda nervous

. .. … Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have an audition coming up?

Ironically, he wasn’t entirely wrong, so I won’t be entirely lying.

Yeah, it’s a really good role and I want it so bad

. .. … Then you’ll get the part! Once you set your mind to something, you get it! It’s how you got me. <3

You’re just saying that cause you love me.

. .. … True, but you’re also super talented. And super cute. You have me talking in fragments when I think about you too much

I’m always talking in fragments, you’ve been tripping me up since you were Blue. You’re already making me feel good about the audition.

. .. … Glad I can help. I love you, break a leg!

<3 <3 <3

It helped me get through the rest of the day, but I was super distracted in my acting my theatre history class and couldn’t focus. I fantasized about proposing to Bram alone. Just him and me and the ring. Then I pictured kissing him and running my hands down his back onto the curve of his butt. Bram would pull me close to him and smile between a kiss, loving when my hands found their way back there. It was good I was sitting as it would be embarrassing to walk in my basketball shorts.

I calm myself down and run home to beat Leah so that I could…uh…take care of myself after class. It had been the longest two months away from Bram and his good heart and beautiful body wasn’t making it easier. Once I threw away the tissue, I began packing my suitcase. Bram would have already packed last week for this trip had he been going. I smile and pack the Elliot Smith shirt he got me. I’ll need him there in spirit more than ever.

Leah and Ian came home together as to follow the same path as last weekend. I turn down drinking because I have to be up early to get to Provincetown.

“Know what you’re going to say yet?” Ian asks, chugging a beer.

“No, I think I’ll try to bring it up casually in conversation. When we talk, it usually finds its way to Bram. It’s really the only thing we have in common.” I say laughing.

“Trust that gut, Si, you got this.” Ian answered, crushing the can and letting out a loud burp. I looked to Leah to catch her legendary eye roll. But she didn’t roll her eyes. She was laughing. Strange, but I suppose people evolve. But does Leah evolve like that? Last year she would have scoffed and left the room.

“You’ll be fine, Si. Go into it like you did with Tracy and you’ll be alright.”

With that, they left to meet some theatre kids at a bar so I could sleep.

I dreamt about Bram. I dreamt we were back on the ferris wheel and that we couldn’t stop kissing. It was a great gift from the universe to give me that subconscious boost of confidence. It was interrupted, however, by my alarm. I got up and grabbed the keys to Leah’s car. She left them on the kitchen counter next to luke warm waffles and a note.

‘Use the Belgian waffles as fuel to get your man! – Ian’ ‘Si, the waffles were from me, but Ian helped stir the batter. There’s an ice coffee in the fridge for you. - <3 Leah’

I opened the fridge to a large cup and grabbed it with a smile. The four hour drive went a lot faster than I expected. Bram recently got into making his own playlists for me of music he found himself listening too. I loved everything he sent me, but maybe it’s because I know he picked it and I love him.

The one thing he did pick up from me was listening more to older music than current pop or hip-hop. 90s R&B was his jam at the moment and he also mixed in 80’s stadium rock. It was quite the eclectic mix that helped keep me awake along with the ice coffee. Bram also snuck in some love songs and I swooned quietly on the road towards the Atlantic Ocean.

I arrived early enough to meet Elijah at a breakfast place. I walked in to ask for a table.

“Simon!”

Or so I thought. Bram’s father was in a booth and waving me over. I wave awkwardly because I can’t help myself and I go to the booth to sit.

“Coffee?” He asked.

“Yeah, love some.” That was a lie, I had to pee but I underestimated that Bram’s father would be so much like Bram. Elijah poured me a cup from the pot left on the table the singular cook who also was the waiter.

“So how is Ruth doing? I can’t believe she’s in kindergarten now.”

“You and me both, Simon. She’s good, though she doesn’t like to be called Ruth ever since she started. She wants to go by Ruby now.”

“Kids make fun of her already? She’s in kindergarten.”

Elijah picked up his cup and placed it too his lips while his eyebrows answered. “Yeah, I guess that’s the way the world is headed.” He licked the coffee droplets off his mustache with this tongue.

“So, I as able to rent a ship, just us two. Bluefish Tuna. He’ll be ready for us in about forty-five minutes.”

“Simon,” Elijah started. “You said you would tell me why I couldn’t tell my son you were meeting me. Are you ready to tell me?”

Is this how Dads treat all guys who try to date their children? Dad wasn’t like this to Bram, was he?

“Y-Yes,” I tripped over my words. “I wanted to talk to you while we were fishing, but I can talk now.”

The cook came back with a plate of eggs and with extremely buttery toast.

“Same thing for him,” Elijah ordered to and the cook complied, walking back to the grill. “If you want to wait, Simon, we can wait.”

Okay, am I looking into things or is this starting to feel like an interrogation? He starts digging in as I grasp my coffee mug and take a sip. It’s not that hot and it’s not that good, but it’s something to do while I’m pretending not worry about what he’s thinking.

“No, no I can tell you. I wanted let you know how happy your Bram has made me.”

“Abraham,” He said, a little defensive. “Call him Abraham.”

“Yes, of course, Abraham.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that. Is that it?” He said, staring at this plate and not into my eyes.

“No,” I say as my stomach is falling into a pit. “If that was it, I could have told you that on the phone.”

It was a risk to speak like that to him, but perhaps it will garner his respect. His eyes showed that it did as he looked at me up and down and shook his head. “I suppose you’re right.” He pushes the plate away and crosses his hands on the table. “So what is it that needed to be said to me in person?”

I touch the Elliot Smith shirt and I think of the way Bram gets lost in my eyes and then coyly smiles as he looks away. It’s weird that I can also see the parts of Bram in his father. I swallow as the cook bangs on the grill top.

“I love your son, very much. So much, in fact, that I’m going to ask him to marry me, and I know it would mean a lot to Bram if I was able to tell him I got your blessing to do so.”

Elijah’s face froze as soon as I said marry and didn’t move. It felt like time stood still and though it was only a few seconds, I was over analyzing every single micro expression on his face. I didn’t break eye contact with me and he didn’t break eye contact with me. The cook slid the plate in front of me, but we never took our eyes off each other.

Suddenly, Elijah’s face exploded into a big, Bram-like smile and he slammed the table with his palm. A boisterous laughter followed as confusion poured over my face, which actually caused him to laugh even more.

“I’m sor – I’m sorry, Simon. Oh my god!” He continued to laugh in the empty diner until he picked up his napkin and dabbed his eyes. I still sat in confusion as he calmed down. “I couldn’t resist. You believed it so much, did you really think I was that kind of father?” More laughs poured out of him as he pulled his plate back to him to continue eating.

“Simon, I apologize, but Tracy can’t help herself and she spilled the beans. So I knew about your intentions, and all I can say is that of course you have my blessing to marry my son.”

The biggest sigh of relief washed over me as the tough-Dad act fell.

“Thank you, Elijah, that’s, thank you for that.”

“Hey, you will only be able to call me Elijah for a little bit longer, soon you’ll get to call me Dad.”

The Bram-like smile returned to his face as he put eggs on his toast and took a bite.

“I will say though,” Elijah continued. “I was very happy with how you phrased the question.”

“Oh?” I say, now feeling comfortable to eat.

“You said ‘I’m going to ask’ instead of ‘I want to ask’ or ‘I intend to ask,’ implying the choice was made and that I could either like it or dislike it, but that you were going to do it. Since Bram came out, I had to re-structure what I wanted for him in his life. I had an idea when I thought he liked girls, but when he told me he liked men, I needed to go back to the drawing board. But it’s hard, thinking about the kind of man I wanted Bram to end up with and when he brought you to meet me the first time, I always liked you because I could always look over and see Bram confidently stand by your side. And his confidence was because of you. That is exactly the kind of man I want him to be with: confident.”

I fought the urge to let a tear come out of my eye. “To be honest with you, Elijah, it’s funny that you see confidence in me because it’s something I’ve been working on since high school.”

“You could have fooled me,” Elijah answered. “Simon, it takes a lot of courage to meet the father of your love because when you date someone’s child, you’re dating a part of the parent. You did it. You kept calling, you kept on it, and not in an annoying way, but in a responsible way. You made it happen because you have confidence. Simon, Bram has told me your fishing stories.” He said laughing. “You hate fishing. But you tried to meet me on my level to ask me a hard question. Working on confidence? Simon, you have confidence.”

“Thank you, sir. That really means a lot coming from you.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Simon. Regardless of the genders of people in love, what you can’t fake is the longing looks you two share. To be honest, this moment wasn’t as much of a surprise to me, it was more of when it would happen.”

And that quickly, I have two Moms and two Dads. Elijah gave me an opportunity to bow out of fishing, but I respectfully declined. I had to show him I meant business. I paid the check, again trying to show him what kin of man I am, but he already covered the breakfast before I walked in the door.

“You know, I can see where Bram gets his strategic planning from.”

“And that’s why he needs you, the impulsive confidence.”

We left the diner and the sun had just began to paint the sky a thin red and gold on the horizon. Elijah taught me a lot about what it was to deep-sea fish and I honestly had a genuinely great time.

Until I became sea sick.

Elijah laughed at me while I puked the eggs back up over the side of the ship.

“Not a sailor, huh Simon?”

I spit the lingering taste out of my mouth.

“Not yet, but I’ll get there.”

#Love simon #simon vs #svthsa #bram greenfeld #simon spire #simonverse #simon x bram #gay love #love marraige #love simon fan fiction #Simon vs fan fiction #my fic

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ollyarchive · 7 years

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Olly Alexander on harnessing the power of sexual fantasy in pop

The Years & Years frontman talks about owning his queer sexuality in the mainstream and writing a twisted disco album about ‘holy wood’

Owen Myers

9 March 2018

“It’s like my Rihanna Loud era,” declares Olly Alexander, before breaking into a laugh. The Years & Yearsfrontman is referring to his cropped curly hair, which is freshly coloured to the hue of a nice Merlot. It’s a cold February evening, and he’s puffing on a roll-up while huddled in the fire exit doorway of a Camden venue. His new dye job has to be kept under wraps, he explains, until its official unveiling in the band’s new video. “It’s so stupid,” Olly says with an eye roll. He then flashes me a grin, suggesting that this moment of starry subterfuge is not entirely unwelcome.

Olly Alexander really likes being a pop star. He says that it’s full of “fairytale” moments, like when his Years & Years earnings enabled him to buy his mum a house, or when he and his ex-boyfriend, Neil Milan (formerly of Clean Bandit), became embraced as British pop’s new golden couple. After winning the BBC Sound poll in 2015, Years & Years’ earworm synth pop was everywhere. They had an inescapable number one single, “King”, and their album Communion was the fastest selling debut that year from a signed British band. Olly says that there are downsides to the tabloid headlines and Twitter trolls that come along with being “a public gay man” – a phrase that he puts in self-deprecating air quotes. But right now, those pressures feel far away, as he prepares to change into a bright pink boiler suit and play to a boozed-up Saturday night crowd, at an Annie Mac-curated showcase. Or, as he put it on Twitter earlier today: bring his “gay agenda” to The Roundhouse.

Years & Years’ great new single, “Sanctify”, contrasts lurking vocals with an ecstatic synth-fuelled chorus, and is as unapologetic as any of Olly’s pithy social media posts. He was newly single when he wrote the song, and reading Andrew Holleran’s 1978 chronologue of gay desire, Dancer From the Dance, had got him thinking about a couple of hookups he’d had with straight-identifying men. “It would always be under darkness,” he says. “It had this added layer of eroticism because it was somewhat forbidden. But (being with me) was a window where they could be themselves, and I felt responsible not to fuck them up.” Those conflicting feelings come through in evocative lyrics about obscuring masks and sinful confessions, with a climax that’s about as on-the-nose as chart pop gets. “I sanctify my sins when I pray,” says Olly, quoting the chorus’s payoff. “What do you do what you pray? You get on your knees. So is it a sexual baptism?” He laughs. “I was just like, ‘There’s a lot to work with here.’”

Years & Years are a three-piece, but the other two members, Mikey Goldsworthy and Emre Türkmen, tend to hunker down behind synths and let Olly take centre stage. His soul-searching lyrics give the band’s maximalist pop its heart, with a singing voice that pierces through a constellation of synths. Their videos bring acts which are often shrouded in darkness into the light, showing the singer cruising in a dank car park, or at a pansexual orgy. The new “Sanctify” visual riffs on dom/sub culture, with an elaborate sci-fi plot that is a device for Olly to perform “Slave 4 U”-inspired dance moves to an audience of androids. When he was commissioned to write a song for the Bridget Jones franchise, he made it about bottoming. “I have sex, I enjoy sex,” he says flatly. He’s sitting in his cosy dressing room the Roundhouse, which rumbles with bass as Disclosure and Mabel soundcheck next door. “In the past, I think gay men (in pop) have often shied away from being overtly sexual, or being commanding of their sexuality. But I believe that our sexual fantasies are a big drive for us all. Exploring that side of yourself is super empowering.”

In the past year or so, many well-known LGBTQ artists have begun to bring queerness into their music in sex-positive ways. Pop’s boy-next-door Troye Sivan strapped on Tom Of Finland leathers for a back alley moment with well-fluffed trade, Janelle Monáe caressed women’s bare thighs, Fever Ray returned with a concept album about queer kink. For better or worse, Sam Smith is now calling himself a “dick monster”on primetime telly. “Sometimes seeing a man express themselves in an overtly sexual way, especially a gay man, makes certain conservative people feel a bit uncomfortable,” Olly says. “I always wanna keep people a little uncomfortable.”

“I believe that our sexual fantasies are a big drive for us all. Exploring that side of yourself is super empowering” – Olly Alexander

Years & Years are far from the first mainstream British pop act to proudly put gay sexuality at the centre of their music – that’s a lineage that runs from Will Young to George Michael, Pet Shop Boys to Bronski Beat, and beyond. But Olly’s performances are a reminder that mainstream pop can be open to explicit queerness (at least, when it’s embodied in a handsome white cis man). Olly has faith that you don’t have to be “generic to be palatable,” and that “straight guys can hear a song that I’ve written about being fucked by another guy, but still relate.” LGBTQ+ people like me grew up seeing straight culture pretty much everywhere; seeing more of our community thrive is crucial.

Growing up in the Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire, Olly was a flamboyant kid. That got him bullied at school, called a “batty boy” before he was even aware that he was gay, and meant that he retreated into drama lessons. While acting, he felt it was okay – a good thing, even – to be expressive. He always nurtured a passion for music, too; he taught himself how to play Joni Mitchell songs on piano, and obsessed over “Dirrty”-era Christina Aguilera. An early performance at a year six assembly blended intimate songwriting and outré entertainment: Olly played piano and sang lyrics about lost love, while two of his friends did a dance routine.

In his late teens and early 20s, Olly cropped up in whimsical micro-budget indie films like 2011’s The Dish And The Spoon, alongside Greta Gerwig, as well as Gaspar Noé’s Enter The Void, and Skins. But his early experiences at school stayed with him. “Your first encounter with your sexuality is often from people bullying you and calling you the thing that you just pray to god that you won’t be – but deep down suspect you might be,” Olly says. “Well, no wonder we have an incredibly conflicting relationship with our bodies and our sexualities, because we’ve had to experience all of that.”

Reflecting on these difficult early years in his dressing room, Olly speaks openly about his own decade-long experience with depression, and the inadequate NHS provisions for those who are struggling with mental health. LGBTQ+ folks disproportionately struggle with depression and substance abuse, he recognises, and there’s only one UK organisation, London Friend, that caters directly to the specific needs of the queer community. “I’ve been there,” says Olly. “They’re amazing, but they are over-subscribed, with a tiny office, old chairs, and not a lot of money. When you’re seeing that people aren’t getting the help they should be, there’s an issue there.” That’s something he knows from first-hand experience. Last year, Olly fronted a BBC documentary, Growing Up Gay, about young LGBTQ+ people struggling with their mental health. His openness around the subject made him a kind of ambassador for those struggles, and he’s trying to work out how to deal with the “almost daily” DMs he gets from people at their lowest moments. “I feel very privileged that someone is wanting to share that with me, but it’s frightening,” he says. “We’re all in fucking pain, and I don’t know if we’re communicating with each other that well.”

“What do we expect a male pop star to do? As a society, how do we want them to behave or present themselves?” – Olly Alexander

Years & Years’ second album, out later this year, mixes gliding pop melodies with churning bass and twisted disco. The new songs feel more varied and exploratory than Communion, thanks in part to new collaborators like current pop’s minimalist masterminds Julia Michaels and Justin Tranter, as well as Greg Kurstin, who co-wrote “Shine”, Years & Years’ best song to date. The album’s centred around a motif of Palo Santo, a healing incense-like wood that you burn and waft around a room. (Olly dramatises this with hand motions as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra.) Perhaps Palo Santo, with its power to expel evil spirits, could be a metaphor for the songwriting process? Maybe, Olly says. “But (when writing the album) I was angry about loads of things, particularly men. Palo Santo literally means ‘holy wood’ and I was like, ‘This is fucking perfect.’ Like, thinking that your dick is holy? I’ve known guys like that.”

Years & Years’ renewed vision also extends to creating a futuristic universe for their new music to exist in. That’s an idea that Olly’s idols – “Bowie, Prince, and Gaga” – have embraced, and “Sanctify” is the first part of an interconnected series of “weird, wonderful” videos. It marks the next step for a band aiming to join British pop’s pantheon, at a time when Olly, too, has been reflecting on his place in music. “What do we expect a male pop star to do?” he questions. “As a society, how do we want them to behave or present themselves? If I was asking myself, it would be like, ‘Well actually, I’ve always loved this kind of popstar. Maybe I should just be the pop star I want to see in the world.”

#olly alexander #years & years #yearsandyears #articles #interviews #dazed

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heartslogos · 7 years

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newfragile yellows [245]

Mahanon Lavellan is gripping a pair of scissors like a man about to go to war. Considering that Blackwall has just walked into his salon to get his hair cut and beard groomed, Bull doesn’t blame him.

Ellana is currently filing her nails at the reception desk Bull is leaning on, looking just as amused as Bull feels but wont let himself show because he’s never been Mahanon’s favorite person. Lucky, he’s not Mahanon’s least favorite person, but Bull isn’t about to win himself that place by looking delighted by the current situation.

“He didn’t know, did he?” Bull asks, reaching over the high counter to steal Ellana’s coffee and take a sip of it.

“Nope, I booked him,” Ellana says, “For Mahanon’s time slot. I still get the commission fee.”

“Nice,” Bull muses, “Is your brother just about to hack Blackwall’s entire face off?”

“Possibly,” Ellana blows and pops a bright blue bubble. “But if he does he’s cleaning that up. I think Blackwall wants to look nice since Josephine is coming to visit.”

“Cool,” Bull says, “As in stay at the resort or just drop by for a spot check?”

“Both? I don’t know. I’m doing her hair and nails at two thirty, though,” Ellana says. “And there’s nothing to spot check here. I’m flawless in every way.”

“Sure,” Bull eyes her for a moment because personal bias aside — “You’ve got cake frosting on the side of your mouth.”

Ellana’s tongue is a quick triangle of pink that prods the side of her mouth before disappearing back between her lips which curl back into a grin.

“That’s on purpose. I was testing you.”

“Mhm.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Ellana asks.

“Sure, I’m guarding your very prestigious salon from weirdos who want to come in but were denied access because of your ridiculous wait times. What if one of them wants vengeance? Comes at you with a pair of rusty scissors and crazy hair and a beard like Blackwalls?”

“Stop, you’ll frighten the children.”

“What children?”

“The kittens my brother is about to have as he tries to sort out Blackwall’s Blackwall.”

Bull turns and sees that Mahanon has just started combing Blackwall’s hair to get somewhere to start, but the comb is stuck. Mahanon looks livid.

“Have you considered starting from scratch?” Mahanon asks, voice giving away how hard he’s trying just to stay civil. “With your head shape you might look tolerable and not like a serial killer if you go bald. Sometimes people look better that way. The Iron Bull pulls it off.”

“The Iron Bull makes an effort more than once a year,” Ellana says, “Don’t try and be like my man here, he works very hard to maintain this level of wonderful.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“You’re welcome, bro.”

Bull and Ellana fist bump.

“I’m actually here as Blackwall’s moral support.” Bull takes another sip of Ellana’s coffee before returning it to her. “As one guy with a beard to another.”

Ellana mimes scissors with one hand, “You in for a trim? The chair next to him is open and Mahanon could use someone to relax on.”

“I don’t think your brother is going to be relaxing by trimming my beard so much as he’ll be venting,” Bull replies. They both turn to see that Mahanon’s face has set into something similar to what one would expect from someone about to walk to an execution via firing squad, or perhaps death by hanging.

“Maybe,” Mahanon says quietly, “Montilyet has some sort of very particular weakness to you looking like this that no one knows about. You, specifically. No one else.”

“Do you want to get some shakes?” Ellana asks.

“Sure,” Bull replies.

Neither of them move, because both of them actually kind of want to watch this train wreck in motion.

But there are also some things that should be done behind closed doors to save people’s dignity. This might be one of them.

Still.

The entertainment value is through the roof.

“Have you ever actually stayed at the resort as a guest?” Maxwell asks Ellana as she buffs his nails. “I want to someday. Except I don’t think Vivienne would let me in through the door if I’m not in my uniform.”

“Of course I’ve stayed here as a guest,” Ellana says, “Wait, that Vivienne knows about? As in - like, I’ve paid for it and everything?”

“What do you think I mean by guest?”

Ellana hums, “Sometimes Mahanon and I sneak into vacant rooms to crash if we’re too lazy go to back to the employee housing.”

“It is literally across the street,” Maxwell says, staring at her bowed head, “We have a little go-cart to drive us back and forth if we’re very lazy. You have the Iron Bull to carry you, which I’m pretty sure is possibly his job or like - part of his official duties.”

“That’s silly, I’d just use a spare room here,” Ellana says. “I mean, everyone does it.”

“Define everyone for me.”

“Me and my brother, half the Chargers, Sera, Cole, Herah…”

“Ah, I see,” Maxwell says, “The brave and socially uncaring squad.”

“The what now?”

“Ignore me. Tell me more about how Vivienne hasn’t caught you and what it’s like to be a guest and receive our resort’s services. It’d be very surreal to me, I think.”

“I want you to know that Mahanon and I have jumped on the beds here and it’s fun, it’s great, it’s stress relieving and very bouncy,” Ellana replies immediately. “Also, your concierge staff? Excellent training, Maxwell. Good on you. Somehow we haven’t ever got you, though. Weird. Do you even work?”

“Of course I work. Vivienne wouldn’t pay me otherwise.”

“She could just be paying you to look pretty. It’s basically what Cullen and Herah are here for. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Herah at her post. And sometimes Cullen just has to do one of those awkward smiles and people will walk into the glass walls straight off the street for another taste. He doesn’t even mean anything other than being polite.”

“That’s probably why Vivienne moved him closer to the inside of the resort,” Maxwell muses. “Too many liabilities.”

“Bull and I have also tested the black out curtains,” Ellana says. “We need to get some of those into employee housing.”

“Wait, when I can’t find the two of you during your off shirts is that where you are? In guest rooms sleeping?”

“Or having movie marathons in the dark. We need complete darkness for that. Especially the shitty b-rated horror ones. It adds to the atmosphere.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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ggwweenn1 · 7 years

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Love Over Time

HEY GUYS!!! I’m going to start cross posting my Miraculous Ladybug fic on tumblr. There are 10 chapters available on fanfiction.net if you want to catch up, or you can just read it here! I’ll post a chapter every three days until I catch up to myself, then you can expect chapters on here a day after they go up on ff.net

When a simple trip to get ski gear turns into an unfortunate misunderstanding, and a school trip only causes Adrien and Marinette to be even more tangled up in each other, how will their friendship fare? Two year time skip Adrienette slow-burn.

"I can't thank you enough for coming out with me. I know you have that art project due before the trip, so I'll try to make this quick," Adrien said after stepping out of his car. Marinette smiled and shook her head. They were no longer in all the same classes, Adrien deciding to take a more business focused route of study while Marinette pursued her passion for fashion in the arts program. However they still took litterature and history together, and they were in the same homeroom, and were therefore both going on a four day trip to Grindlewald, Germany.

"I actually already finished that, I was inspired, so I worked all night on it. Anyway, its no problem, what are friends for?" She said as they entered Snow Emotion, a store that catered mostly to professional, or at least frequent, skiers and snowboarders. Marinette had never been here, as all her snow gear had been bought at a larger, and much less expensive, sporting goods store.

In the two years since Adrien had joined her class, she had grown to accept that they would probably never end up together. She still held a kernel of hope that he would one day wake up and realize his dream girl had been standing right in front of him, but that was just a kernel. She was more than happy to just be his friend, working with him on history projects and helping him buy gear for a ski trip.

"So what do I need?" He said, looking at the racks of custom skis and snowboards. Marinette looked moved closer towards the more essential things like gloves and jackets.

"We are renting skis and boots there, so you don't need to get either of those, but since your dad already cleared you to "get what your friend feels you need", you might as well just get all the standard gear," she replied, looking a all the brightly colored waterproof parkas. Not a second later, a sales associate popped out of absolutely nowhere.

"Did you say 'all the standard gear?'" He said. Marinette jumped away from the rack she was examining.

"Ah!" She gave as her answer. Adrien came up to where his friend was standing and gave a more coherent response.

"Yes. I am going on a ski trip and require all of the winter sport attire," He told the attendant. The man's face lit up. He worked on commission, so this was going to make his week.

"Yes well, right this way sir. What is your size?" The attendant asked, shifting all his attention to Adrien. As Adrien told the man his measurements, the attendant pulled items from the racks. Marinette trailed after him, apparently not needed on this shopping venture at all.

The attendant was clearly pulling a specific color scheme for Adrien to try. Every jacket and pair of bibs he picked had the same black-lime-teal thing going on. He also made sure to pull a couple of black under armour for him to try it on with. When they made it to the fitting room, the salesman had probably ten items for Adrien to try. He got a number and put it on the door to the room where he had dumped the items while Marinette took a seat outside. The bell at the front of the store dinged.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," The attendant called behind him as he went to salk his new prey. Marinette just sat there, reading news on her phone while Adrien changed.

It had been a little over a year since any superheros had been seen in Paris, and even longer since Ladybug officially announced her retirement. The Parisian papers had nearly forgotten about the year people had been afraid to be afraid, with the ever looming threat of Hawkmoth and akumatization. Even the people had started to forget, Ladybug, Volpina, Golden Bee, and Chat Noir merchandise leaving stores and being replaced by the new fictional heros that the public so adored.

However Marinette didn't forget. Even though Tiki slept for days on end, and it had been 19 months since she had transformed, Marinette was still ladybug. She still wore the red earrings, which she had learned she could make slightly smaller, in the cartilage piercings she had gotten on her sixteenth birthday. If any supernatural horror were to appear, she would be ready, but since it hadn't she lived simply as a girl in her final year of grade school.

"Hey does this fit right?" Adrien said, stepping out of the changing room clad in only black under armour. He was twisting to get a feel for the garments when Marinette looked up, her face blushing slightly when she saw the material clinging to every toned muscle in his body.

"Uh, yeah it looks good. But you need to try it with all the outerwear to make sure it feels right," She said.

"Alright," He said, stepping back into the dressing room to pull on the bibs.

Just as Marinette had changed over the years, her hips were now fuller, her hair was grown out about 10 cm past her shoulders, and she had four piercings in each ear, Adrien had too. He had grown to be just as tall as his dad, his shoulders had broadened, and he had grown out his hair so much that he often wore it back in a small ponytail. They had both really come into there own, and as they were friends, they also sometimes dressed alike. They had both traded in their old layers for leather jackets, and they had also developed a taste for slim-fit button downs buttoned all the way up to the neck.

"Can you help me with these?" He asked, fiddling with the straps on his neon green bibs. She sighed sarcastically, tucking her phone into her pocket and getting up to help this grown man adjust his clothes. When she got up next to him and started adjusting the straps so that they lay flat on his shoulders and properly held themselves up, she realized how great his cologne smelled. Then she realized how totally rock hard his chest was. Then she noticed herself realizing these things and turned beat red.

Adrien, who had been trying to focus on anything other than how one of his best friends was delicately touching his chest. As one of the most sought after models in Paris, he was used to being manhandled by strangers, but it was different when it was someone he knew. It was almost embarrassing? And when he looked down and saw Marinette bright red face, he was officially feeling a little awkward.

When the moment passed, Marinette told him to go put on the jacket to feel the full look and went back to her seat and her phone, her face starting to return to its normal shade. When Adrien confirmed that the pants, jacket, and underwear fit, he grabbed two more sets of the underwear and went to purchase it with his dad's credit card. When he turned to his friend to ask if she maybe wanted to get coffee, she was gone.

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #tales of ladybug and cat noir #ladybug #chat noir #adrien #marinette #adrienette #fanfiction #fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic

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ramajmedia · 5 years

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Big Bang Theory: The 10 Worst Things Amy Has Ever Done, Ranked

While Sheldon may have a problem with the adage, "the more the merrier", it certainly applies to The Big Bang Theory. Initially, the sitcom was about a group of nerdy guys, but when a few girls are added to the mix, it livens up the popular series even more. Among the ladies, Amy Farrah-Fowler is by far the nerdiest. She dresses like a fusty schoolmarm, writes Little House on the Prairie fan fiction, and is brand new to the whole "having friends" thing.

RELATED: Big Bang Theory: 5 Relationships Fans Were Behind (& 5 They Rejected)

While the rest of her group makes an Olympic sport out of hurling insults, Amy is a delightful person to be around. But that doesn't mean she's perfect. She's been known to make the occasional social gaffe and can sometimes be downright disrespectful. Here is Big Bang Theory: The 10 Worst Things Amy Has Ever Done, Ranked.

10 Lies to Sheldon and Penny

When the people you love are being a little too extra, sometimes you need a break. Amy and Bernadette find themselves in this position, both tired about Sheldon and Penny's respective complaining. Thus, the girls lie about their whereabouts and go for drinks alone. Finally able to unwind, Amy and Bernadette enjoy other's company...until they're caught red-handed.

This isn't exactly a friendship felony. It's barely even a misdemeanor. But even white lies can be hurtful when discovered. It would have been a kinder approach for the girls to explain to Sheldon and Penny that they're sympathetic to their problems, but need a break from hearing about them. That would be leaps and bounds better than getting caught with their metaphorical pants down.

9 Has a tantrum about Penny not wanting kids

For a self-proclaimed "bestie", Amy sure isn't supportive of Penny's decision not to have children. Women in Penny's position are constantly shamed, being perceived as "selfish". Never mind the crestfallen Leonard, according to Amy, Penny should be thinking about her. Apparently, Amy has grand plans for her kids and Penny's kids to be friends.

RELATED: Big Bang Theory: 10 Times Amy And Penny Were Friendship Goals

Historically, Amy has relished the idea of being Penny's shoulder to cry on, whether she needs one or not. Here's any instance where Penny actually does, or could at least use a sympathetic ear, and Amy flies into a tirade. Who's really the selfish one here?

8 Lets Ricky the monkey smoke in her apartment

Amy is a neurobiologist who frequently works with animals. One experiment involves exploring addiction in primates. Whether or not you find this kind of research unethical, giving a monkey a cigarette like it's a toy veers much closer into animal cruelty territory. Amy's reasoning for the cigarette is that she's already killing him as part of her research, so why not make him comfortable? Even when doing the wrong thing, Amy is still trying to be a good person, but her logic is definitely flawed.

7 Is a jerk to Wil Wheaton

It turns out that Sheldon's Youtube show, "Fun with Flags" is anything but. Go figure. Yes, it answers all the questions you didn't ask about flags, but behind the scenes, tension brews. This comes to a head when Sheldon asks former nemesis Wil Wheaton to be a guest on the show.

Many believe that Wil is the aggressor here, but it's actually Amy. She repeatedly criticizes Wil's delivery and when he mentions that he's doing this for free, Amy replies that they're still not getting their money's worth. That is a witty, but rather harsh burn. Wil tries to be patient but eventually calls Amy out as a "pain in the ass." It's hardly the most diplomatic thing to say, but Wil's kinda-sorta right. We've seen Wil be exceedingly obnoxious before and this isn't one of those times.

6 Exploits Penny's heartbreak

Leonard and Priya are one of the least shipworthy couples of the series. Characters and viewers alike loathe this pairing. But Amy was not among their number. Quite the opposite, Amy's delighted because it gave her a chance to bond with Penny in hatred toward her ex's new squeeze.

So imagine Amy's disappointment when Penny gives the relationship her blessing. This just won't do. Amy goes out of her way to state a case why Priya is better for Leonard than Penny. Ouch. But Amy has even more to gain by Penny's heartbreak—Amy wants to monitor Penny's brainwaves when she's crying for the purpose of an experiment.

5 Is a terrible date to Stuart

In many ways, Stuart is perfect for Amy. They're both well-meaning, awkward people, who treat loneliness like a second skin. Though Amy's involved with Sheldon, they aren't official. Stuart sees a golden opportunity and, with Sheldon's blessing, asks Amy out.

The date goes fantastically and Stuart can't believe his sheer luck at having scored such a "dynamite lady". But before we can officially ship Stamy, Sheldon changes his mind. He interrupts Stamy's date at the movies, asking Amy to be his girlfriend. She accepts.

Amy has a right to be with whomever she wants, but agreeing to go steady with one man while on a date with another is just cold. Stuart, bless his doormat soul, sees the rest of the date through and even walks Amy home.

4 Becomes the maid of honor from hell

Maid of honor is one of the hardest jobs there is. It requires steely selflessness to be emotional Secret Service to the bride. You need the right person.

Bernadette maybe should have thought twice about asking Amy to be her maid of honor purely out of guilt. We get that Amy has likely never been asked to be in a bridal party, but she takes things a bridge too far by declaring Howard and Bernadette's wedding as her special day. When it looked like the wedding would be called off, Amy was sadder for herself than Bernadette. But the icing on the (wedding) cake is Amy growing irate when Howard and Bernadette decide to have a quickie wedding.

RELATED: Big Bang Theory: The 10 Worst Things Bernadette Has Ever Done, Ranked

3 Guilts Penny into hanging the world's ugliest painting

We'll always cringe at Amy's "bestie" days, when she clung to Penny like a barnacle. This culminates in Amy commissioning a massive—and massively ugly—painting of her and Penny. Amy's so deluded that she doesn't even noticed Penny's pained expression in the painting. Amy presents Penny with this monstrosity of a gift...that she paid $3000 for. Penny hangs it up but takes it down at first opportunity, only for Amy to work the guilt-trip. Thus, Penny re-hangs the painting and it stays there until she moves out.

2 Belittles Howard's achievements

Compared to her boyfriend, Amy has the social grace of Emily Post. But there is an instance that finds Amy taking up one of Sheldon's more unpleasant habits—belittling Howard's achievements. She even goes so far as to refer to Howard's space travel as his "little moment in the sun." That's petty enough, but saying it to Bernadette is just plain cruel. And also a straight-up dumb idea considering what an emotional hell-demon Bernadette can be. Bernie wastes no time in getting right down in the muck with Amy, slinging low blows about Amy and Sheldon's lack of a sex life. Both women say some ugly things but Amy totally started it.

1 Stays with Sheldon way too long

It's hardly a hot take to say that Sheldon was a terrible boyfriend throughout most of his relationship with Amy. And that's not her fault. But here's the thing—Sheldon is no charlatan. He never paints himself as a certain type of suitor in order to woo Amy only to flip the script when he had her in his clutches. He makes it blatantly clear that he requires little to no intimacy in a relationship and expects to give little in return.

Initially Amy is not only onboard but presents herself the same way. But then she changes. Having more solid friendships with Penny and the gang, Amy realizes that she closed off a part of herself. That's great that she's growing, but for the longest time, Sheldon wasn't. We're happy that Shamy got their happily ever after, but in an alternate universe, Amy should have been with someone who deserved her. *Cough...Stuart*

NEXT: Big Bang Theory: The 10 Worst Things Leonard Has Ever Done, Ranked

source https://screenrant.com/big-bang-theory-worst-things-amy-ever-done-ranked/

#screenrant

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ahnsael · 7 years

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Like seriously, two days ago my mom and I talked about my dad. She said she couldn’t understand why he treated me as the bastard child (I was literally from his own seed -- and yet my little sister, who WAS born under a different father, while my mom and dad were still married -- got treated like a queen by him).

This is gonna become a long rant,

Gonna put a Read More here, because this shit’s about to get deep. And ugly. Content warnings now for all sorts of abuse...I’d get specific, but...there were SO MANY kinds. If abuse isn’t something you wanna read about, no matter what kind of abuse you don’t want to see, read no farther. I probably have that kind of abuse behind the Read More.

I mean...obviously my younger sister’s parentage is not her fault. That was all on my mom.

But he accepted her as her own. Which...hey, fantastic. I like to see that kind of love in the world.

But me? I was his own seed (people have said “are you sure?” but seriously...I look in the mirror and I see his dumb ass looking back at me (and I HATE that I look so much like this asshole -- he’s dead, and I STILL can’t get away from him).

But I have his genes, whether I like it or not; I wish I looked like ANYBODY IN THE WORLD other than him, but I can’t controli that. Okay, maybe I’d rather look like my biological father than to look like Donald Trump, but...that’s LITERALLY the only person who I’d want less to look like. I hate looking like the guy who abandoned me, but I’d hate ever more if I looked like the dumbass who attempts to lead our country right now.

Make me look like Chunk in Goonies. Make me look like any other ugly person you can think of, the ugliest person you can think of. I mean, I’m forever single anyway (seriously, I’m 42½ years old -- the last time I seriously dated someone was before my birthday in 2008, when I was 33). I’d rather be ugly and stay single than to be attractive and end up with someone wrong for me.

I’d rather look like that than either Donald Trump OR my biological dad (who, honestly, would probably LOVE Donald Trump, because my dad was a hypocritical asshole who loved the church, but used all the sermons he heard as reasons why, even if it wasn’t the nature of the sermon, white people should’t mix with black people).

Fuck him for that.

When he found out he was dying of cancer (which had spread through his whole body), he came up to Washington to visit me, both sisters, and my mom. And he said he wanted to take me out to dinner and patch things up.

I only went because so many people here told me that I’d forever regret it if I didn’t try to make amends. I don’t think I follow any of those people anymore. Because sometimes, you’ve been hurt too much, and the other person, even if they’re a parent, just don’t care about the pain they’ve caused, and think that a dinner will patch everything up without any actual emotional effort.

Or maybe, if this case, the people who said I had to “patch things up” were right, but didn’t take into account just how MUCH of an ass my biological dad was.

So we had dinner. Just him and I.

And he literally spent the entire time talking about the kid he adopted as soon as his marriage to my mom was officially over. “Oh, Joshua did this. Oh, Joshua is so good at that.”

He replaced me, basically.

35 or so years after he bailed on me, and ONCE in those 3 years remembered my birthday -- he sent me a $ AMWAY gift certificate because he, at the time, was an Amway salesman and thought he may get a commission off of me).

But this night, when he took me out to dinner (maybe thinking that an $8 dinner without any actual apology would make me love him again?) he wanted to talk about his OTHER son. Adopted (legally so, also), but still...his son. Instead of me.

And then I tried to make things right, because so many had told me that to NOT do so would lead to a lifetime of regret.

But...I emailed this asshole of a father many times after that night. I called him on his phone quite a few times, for almost a month (same with emails...I tried, every few days, for a month). No matter what I did, leaving messages on Facebook, leaving voicemail messages, trying to message him on Facebook...nothing worked.

And then my older sis (who stayed with him after he and my mom divorced; they gave each of us a say in who we stayed with, and since my older sister had a habit of trying to make my life miserable, and went with my dad, I stayed with my mom) told me that he would ONLY talk to me on public posts on Facebook. This fucking asshole wanted to show all of his friends that “look, I’m making up with my estranged son before I die” so they would love him more than his con-artist ass was already loved by fools. I refused. If he wanted to talk to me, he had my email. He had my phone number. He knew my address if he wanted to mail something (after 35+ birthdays that he forgot).

And then we got a call from his wife. He’s about to die, and he wants to see all of us over Thanksgiving weekend. Seriously, FUCK THAT. I wasn’t gonna go. His ass willfully ignored me, after he showed up in Washington and PRETENDED to give a shit about me once, and then spent our entire meal talking about his adopted son...and never once mentioned how much he had missed me.

I know now that my biological dad is nothing but an asshole. But when I was a kid, he was EVERYTHING to me. And then he pulled it all away. Ever hear “Father of Mine

Both my older sister (his other kid with my mom) and my younger sis (my mom’s kid with a different dad -- I won’t pretend that my mom is innocent in everything that happened, but at least she was FUCKING THERE when any of us three needed it -- well, except that I spent every Little League game with NOBODY cheering for me in the crowd, because this was between the first divorce and the birth of my little sis, and the marriage of my mom and little sis’ dad -- during my games she was off having sex with him, glad to be rid of me for an hour or two and basically my entire childhood sucked except if I was at Disneyland at that particular moment and could escape everything that was happening in real life).

Like I said, neither of my parents are innocent. But my mom learned how to be a supportive parent. My dad never did. So she still gets the benefit of the doubt.

There are only two graves that I will dance (and possibly piss on) if I ever happen upon them. One is Evil Stepdad #1. Seriously, he abused my little sister. He abused my mom. He tried to abuse me once (and partially succeeded -- he slammed my neck in a car door and I was bleeding profusely, but lived -- and the chickenshit cops who we called, even after seeing the blood I was losing, said “try to get along so we don’t have to come out here again” like WE did something wrong by BEING beaten by the fucking asshole). The one difference between me and my sis is that I was emotionally and physically abused. In her case, add sexually abused.

Granted, I was sexually abused before my little sis was born, by a cousin. So I’m not unfamiliar. But...she dealt with it more than I did. I remember two instances for myself, and maybe half a dozen times when I stepped in and stopped something that didn’t look right between her and Evil Stepdad #1

But in the end, I punched his fucking lights out...when I was 12 and he was 53. Because he wanted to “take my mom for a ride” -- after that same phrase had been used to dump pet dogs out of his van in unfamiliar neighborhoods since he was tired of having them around (this literally happened three times that I remember...maybe more).

So when he used that same language about my mom...I kicked his fucking ass. I wasn’t about to let that happen. He passed out drunk, and then woke up the next day with no memory of it, and asked my mom how he’d gotten the bloody lip. She didn’t tell him.

She also tried to get me to promise to never tell him that I had beat his sorry ass because I thought he was taking my mom out to shoot her.

20 years later, I’m living in Illinois. My mom and current-stepdad (not the BEST guy in the world, but DEFINITELY the best person my mom has married in her four attempts) are on vacation. Camping, if I remember right.

Evil Stepdad #1 calls. Wants to talk to my mom. She’s not there, but...I haven’t spoken to this asshole in 15 years. And I WANT to talk to him.

I tell him that the bloody lip in 1986 or so? That was me. Will I tell her to call you back when she gets home? Fuck you, I will not. I don’t even know how you got this number, but if you ever call it again I will find you, and I will LITERALLY end your life.

Granted, I didn’t follow through on that last bit. I don’t have the money. And I DID tell my mom that he had called when she got home (but didn’t give her the number, and also didn’t tell her that I had told him about the ass-kicking I gave him when I was 12).

But six months later he was dead from cancer. While my little sis is still torn over how to feel about this (after all, she’s his biological daughter, even after everything he put her through -- and she is more forgiving that I am towards MY bio dad who just pretended that I didn’t exist for 20 years), one of my happiest moments was when I had learned that he died.

And if I ever see his grave, by some chance, I WILL dance on it. I WILL piss on it (he deserves much worse, but without having toilet paper handy I can’t do the other thing I want to do on it). Odds are, though, that I’ll never find it. And I’m not gonna look for it. But...it one day, I see his name and the approximately right dates for birth and death...they better hope his tombstone can handle what I would do to it. Because seriously, fuck him.

You don’t get to treat me the way you did, and WORSE YET treat my mom and my little sister the way you treated them, and have me “respectfully view your memorial.” Fuck that entirely. I will desecrate his tombstone, memorial, or whatever the fuck is there if I ever actually see it (and I hope I never see it...I realize that what I would do would likely put me in jail -- but if I ever saw his name and the right dates on a tombstone, I’d do everything I could to DESTROY his resting place).

#daddy issues #but seriously FUCK my dad #I'm GLAD his ass is dead #at least now I don't have to wonder about half-hearted #well make that quarter-hearted #efforts to win me back after DECADES of him ignoring me #I don't get on the 'daddy issues' kick too often #because I KNOW I tried #and he wouldn't answer emails OR phone calls #but wanted to reconcile ONLY if it was public Facebook posts #so that apparently God could see him making amends (I guess God can't read messages and private posts)#He was trying to 'buy' his way into Heaven #but that's not how Heaven fucking works #I KNOW that I will never get into Heaven if it exists #because my dad was religious as FUCK and still an asshole #and it turned me off of religion completely #(as well as the church deacon who raped my mom but that's another story)#Most religious people I've knows have been absolute hypocrites #and I just can't associate with them #so fuck religion #and if this is who God has chosen #in his 'infinite wisdom'#and his 'omnipresence' and 'omnipotence'#if this is who God chooses to represent him #then fuck God also #I'd rather spend an eternity in Hell than one minute with the asshole that created all this strife and sorrow #And I'd rather go to Hell than spend time in Heaven with people who made my life miserable for DECADES #Not saying I WILL go to hell #I'm an atheist #because I cannot conceivably believe in a god who would make the world such a shitty place

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pumpkins-s · 7 years

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Not As Simple As A Happy Ending

Read on AO3 Here

Read the Other Chapters On Tumblr Here

It’s just a ribbon.

Just a plain red ribbon, absolutely nothing special about it.

At least, that’s what Sans tries to tell himself as Frisk stares up at him, their expectant look slowly morphing into confusion while he sits there frozen.

In which Frisk isn’t the first human Sans meets, nor the first he befriends, nor the first he kills.

And being Sans in general is complicated.

Fandom: Undertale

Characters: Sans, Papyrus, Alphys, Undyne, Frisk, Toriel, Asgore, W.D. Gaster, Grillby, Flowey, Chara, Blue Soul Human, Light Blue Soul Human, Yellow Soul Human, miscellaneous

Warnings: Canonical character death, non-graphic violence, bucketloads of angst (y’know the drill)

Other Things Worth Noting: Non-linear Narrative (though primarily set pre-canon), canon compliant, assumes post-pacifist run following an almost-genocide run for post-canon settings, Sans-centric with other characters being viewed through his eyes

Chapter 18: Conjecture

((Author’s Note:

Heyyyyy. Long time, no update!

(I'm back.)

Apologies for the interim between updates, it's been a weird few months for me, and I really needed a break from this fic to clear my head by working on other things and to deal with some personal issues. Given that, and the fact that this chapter (and the one following it) are possibly two of the most important chapters in Act 2, and I really wanted to do it right, finishing the update took a while.

Before we begin, some extra content and fanart to present!

First up on fanart: Adorable character cards Celestialfeathers surprised me with at Emerald City Comicon this year! You can check them out here!

Next, two gorgeous sketch sets of Wind, Rose, Sans, and Integrity by katthesmall, which you can see here and here!

We also have, by lieu of me googling Not As Simple on a dare, some pieces of fanart featuring Integrity I discovered by saphira123 (If the artist is reading this, I don't have accounts on any of your preferred media to thank you directly, but just know I found them and I love them!!). You can check out their gorgeous art of Integrity here, here, and here!!

In terms of bonus content for you guys, more exciting stuff!

First, to accompany the last chapter, Wind now has her own playlist here!

Second, and possibly most excitingly, Not As Simple now has its own song!! My little sister commissioned one of my favorite independent musicians for me as a Christmas present, so I am overjoyed to present to you guys Lost Time, the official song for Not As Simple, which you can find here!! (The musician in question is amazing and I would absolutely suggest checking out the rest of her stuff!)

That's it! Now, I'm happy to present to y'all chapter 18! ))

“I’m… pretty sure that’s wrong.”

Gaster frowns, turning and squinting at the whiteboard. “…No?”

“Nah, he’s right.” Wind says from the table next to Sans where she’s perched, legs crossed and thick book open in her lap. “Top row, G. You didn’t carry the four.”

Gaster hums, tilting his head and staring up at the section in question. “….Bollocks. You’re correct. I can’t believe I missed that.”

Wind snorts loudly, turning a page in her book, and Sans rolls his eyes, going back to entering the data on his notepad into the computer in front of him.

Sans is fifteen, and some days it feels like they’re no closer to breaking into the rules of the barrier than they were when he first came to the labs.

…Ok, no, that’s wrong. It’s not a case of what he feels, though that certainly plays an inevitable factor.

No, it’s more like they logistically, honestly have little more of an idea of what the fuck they’re looking at than they did three years ago. Never mind the fact Gaster had already been working on this puzzle for at least another two decades and then some before Sans was even a factor.

It’s exhausting, and frustrating, and Sans knew the mystery of the space-time bubble that is the Underground wouldn’t be solved in a day, but sometimes it feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind.

Then again, he notes idly, as his eyes flicker to the two other people in the room, it’s not like this was a job built for the sane and healthy. To learn the truth, to even get close to it, you had to be willing to become damaged goods— And that’s just what they are, him and Wind and Gaster, the byproducts of witnessing the unfathomable and walking out the other side.

Smugly, Wind points out another error in Gaster’s math, laughing loudly at his outraged spluttering, and Sans can’t help but stare quietly, drinking in the bright sound of Wind’s laughter, her rustling wings as her shoulders shake with mirth. Across from her Gaster is loudly animated, coat twirling as he turns and chucks a marker at her, shouting indignantly.

They are so alive. Sometimes Sans has trouble understanding how he got lucky enough to be graced with this.

Wind had become something of a staple in many of his and Gaster’s research sessions ever since their little heart-to-heart during the first annual inspection he was present for, slipping into the mix of languages Gaster meshes together on accident during his ramblings and partaking in the easy, insulting banter, with a grace that alludes to her experience with it. It speaks to just how long she’s been around Gaster, Sans thinks, and of how much time she’s had to learn his patterns. Perhaps it had always been like that, before Sans had arrived. He hates to think he accidentally made Wind feel she could no longer be Gaster’s first support, that whatever had come of sharing her memories led Wind to feel she had a permission, one that she never needed in the first place, to be around them, but at least… things are alright now.

Honestly, Sans had never realized the true depth of Wind’s intelligence until she had quietly intruded upon his and Gaster’s work sessions, offering corrections and assistance. She may not be a scientist, but there’s a clear kind of innate brilliance and quickness to Wind that makes sense for someone Gaster would take an interest in.

Regardless, her presence definitely helps, and there’s a kind of openness in what she’s seen, what she’s chosen to stand for, that makes it easy to share with Wind the research into the barrier, into human souls, that they cannot with the others. She has thrown her lot in with humanity as much as himself or Gaster, and there’s an innate kind of trust that comes with that.

The only research Gaster pointedly does away from all eyes but his own and Sans’s is of that into the timelines. Even Wind is kept well away from every piece of it, and while Sans was never shared Wind’s memories of her time with Gaster as his assistant, she does not, as far as he can tell, know of this one little secret. For all that she may know of the barrier, of the deaths of the humans and of the blind loyalty of the guard, this piece of the puzzle is one Gaster has kept hidden.

It’s protection, Sans thinks. There’s a kind of closeness between the two of them, one that makes sense with the knowledge Gaster has known Wind since she was a teenager, and for every moment Gaster seems parental-feeling towards Sans and Papyrus, there is something of a matching moment there for Wind too. Gaster may not ever admit to it, defensive bastard that he is, but it’s plenty obvious he desires to care for the people around him. And for Wind, who has already seen so much of this nightmare, this is the only shielding he can offer her.

Sans doesn’t know if it’s right, to keep the truth from Wind like that, or from any of them really, but he does understand it. He has done, and continues to do, the same for Papyrus, for Grillby. He cares about them too much to ever tell them, as hypocritical as that sounds.

No, the secret of the timelines was one Sans shared only with the human, and now, he supposes, with Gaster.

Sometimes it feels like a bit of a sick trade off— Sans lost a sister and gained… What? A parent? A father?

That word brings hesitation, whenever it crosses Sans’s mind, much like when Rose’s touches to his cheek feel too maternal. He’s… scared. To risk that label, with all the consequences and costs it could bring.

A guardian, then… A guardian in Gaster, and in Rose, in a way. Someone to trust, in Wind, people to call something like family, in Gamma and Ficus, and a friend, in Alphys.

He has all this, and it is invaluable, and yet what he wants most is something he cannot have back. How selfish.

Still, while he cannot change the past, at least so far as he knows, Sans is painfully aware of the variability of the future. If they want to protect the next human who will inevitably fall down here, they must beat the clock, and crack the barrier first. It’s the only option.

…If only it wasn’t so fucking complicated.

Alphys’s familiar stutter paired with an aggressively loud voice greet Sans when he enters the main lab, leaving Sans gritting his teeth against the assault on his hearing, only adding to the headache that’s already been lingering the last few hours from watching Gaster work through walls of data without any success. Sans is well aware not every day is going to produce some sort of breakthrough, even a minor one, and most days don’t, but today has been… particularly frustrating.

And now this of all things.

A startled squeak followed by a nervous-sounding “Sans!” alerts Sans to the fact that Alphys has noticed his arrival, and, reluctantly, Sans stops in his tracks, turning to face her and her guest.

“Oh, it’s you.” Says a second, rougher voice, its occupant hovering just behind Alphys, arms thrown over her shoulders.

Sans sighs. “Hello to you too, Undyne.”

She grins, sharp and wide. “Fuckface.”

“Fishbitch.”

“Please.” Alphys says despairingly, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose in a sign of exasperation she no doubt picked up from Rose. Undyne whines in complaint, dropping her head against Alphys’s shoulder, causing Alphys to flush pink, and Sans shrugs lazily, earning himself a glare from Alphys.

“She started it.” Sans says easily, ignoring Undyne’s outraged squawk of protest. Alphys rolls her eyes, and he snorts. “I’m just getting something from Wind’s study, anyways. Just go back to… whatever you two were doing. Or… whatever you were doing that Undyne was creepily watching you do?”

Alphys twitches in annoyance, an embarrassed blush scrawling further up her cheeks, and Undyne pops her head back up to point angrily at him. “I’m not creepy!”

“Nah, just annoying.” He answers, walking past them and shutting the door to Wind’s office firmly behind him. Leaning against it, Sans lets out a small sigh of relief, dropping his head and staring at the floor without any real purpose or recognition. Running into Undyne is always a bit jarring, her presence loud and demanding no matter how somewhat used to it he may get. Which is exactly why Alphys is supposed to give him some kind of warning before bringing her over, Sans thinks with a kind of half-hearted annoyance.

Honestly, it’s amazing things between them have even progressed enough that Sans is able to tolerate Undyne’s presence, and Undyne the same for him, even if she still seems to take a kind of vicious pleasure in insulting him (Not that he, admittedly, doesn’t do the same). He blames Wind, really. After seeing her memories he couldn’t help but look at Undyne’s position through new eyes. He still isn’t really clear on the details, but Undyne does seem to spend basically every day hovering around Asgore, and while Sans is pretty sure she isn’t living with him like Wind had been (particularly given Alphys had off-handedly complained about Undyne’s group home once or twice), Asgore does seem to be all she has.

And… Sans can’t fault her for that. Not when he knows what it feels like to be alone and desperate for anyone to place your faith in, and not after Wind. Undyne isn’t to blame for what Asgore and their world taught her— Asgore makes victims, both intentional and unintentional, out of everyone he touches, that’s just the way it is. The Underground is poisoned with his hate, and as it stands, most monsters are just too blinded by faith or too stupid, whichever or both, Sans doesn’t know, to question what has been done.

To turn, monsterkind will have to see the truth, and that’s what Sans and Gaster and everyone else in the labs are here for, after all.

Besides, it also doesn’t hurt that Undyne has calmed down some over the last couple years. Not much, but she’s at least stopped trying to fight Sans at every given opportunity, has learned not to shit-talk humans in his presence. And in turn, Sans has learned to bite his tongue when she slips up and praises the Guard and the future death of humanity.

It’s all… a work in progress, at the end of the day. But they’ve reached this, at least. A place where they can easily insult each other and shove each other around cheerfully and, most importantly, stand in the same room without trying to kill each other.

It’s almost ironic really, Sans thinks. The two of them have achieved this kind of mutual truce, and yet they stand in such opposing positions. Undyne hadn’t joined the regular guard when she turned fifteen, or even when she turned sixteen or seventeen, like Sans had thought she would, instead she stayed at Asgore’s side, training directly under him. There were whispers around the castle, Alphys told him, that Asgore would step in and immediately promote her to Captain once the current head of the guard retired.

And then there was Sans. Sans, who trained under Wind and learned under Gaster, who had a soul that lived not just for the future of monsterkind but for humankind as well. He is the product of Asgore’s greatest mistakes, his greatest betrayals to people that once loved him, and he has every intention of being the thing that takes Asgore down, one day.

In essence, Sans is the epitome of everything Undyne is not, and yet, he thinks, they’re not completely different in their positions. They just placed their faith in different people.

…Of course, Sans likes to think his own choices in what company he keeps are markedly much improved over Undyne’s. She is just a pawn in Asgore’s Underground, and Sans… he is no one’s to use. Not even Gaster’s.

Sighing, Sans straightens up, getting off his resting place against the door and taking the few steps he needs to drop heavily into Wind’s desk chair, sparing a small grin when it spins a couple loops as his weight hits it. Never let it be said Wind didn’t make excellent interior design choices. Her swivel chair was one of the best things in the labs upwards of the ridiculous shit that could be found on Gaster’s floor.

Speaking of… bending down, he trails his finger-bones down the drawers on the left side of the desk, pulling open the third one. There was an old storage drive Wind had somewhere here with some old work she’d done on studying shield magic like her own and comparing it to the barrier that she thought might help. Spotting the item in question, Sans grins and grabs it, sitting up and allowing himself a victory spin on the chair. Glancing at the door, leading back to where the others wait for him, Sans takes a deep breath and stands up.

He cannot become bogged down in introspection and frustration. He needs to do this, there is no one else but himself and those waiting for him in front of Gaster’s whiteboard who can.

He must do this.

Sometimes, Sans can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Admittedly, he’s always been a bit like that, and his time in the loops with the human had only made him more paranoid, fearing an enemy at every turn, but this is… different.

It feels more like an observer, than an impending threat, something unobtrusive and invisible, but undeniably there. It’s an odd sensation, to feel as if there are eyes on him but find nothing, and too often he chalks it up to his worries getting the better of him.

Occasionally, at night, he dreams of a presence, one that sits across from him in the hollows of his consciousness, hidden by shadow. It’s hard to put a name to it, really. It reminds him instinctively of the human, the same kind of curling, inexplicable power in its form. But… More than anything, when he reaches out and pokes at its consciousness intruding upon places it should not be able to, it feels most like himself— Not a perfect match, but close. Like looking in a distorted mirror. In a way, that makes sense. Sans, in his glitching, sparking magic, can jump through the spaces between reality without hesitation, and this… thing, in its own way, is doing something much similar.

It doesn’t belong to the physical Underground Sans lives in, and yet it walks in and out of it, hovering on the very edge anyways.

Its visits are infrequent, and sporadic. Sometimes, it feels as if something is following him for days on end, and on other occasions he’ll go months with only the barest flicker of its presence once or twice in that whole time for only seconds.

When it happens, he is reminded of the creature that once wandered into his nightmare, years ago, abolishing the shadow-form of his sister with ease, and of the ghost Wind had joked about after she’d shown him her memories.

Most of the time, Sans thinks he’s being obsessive over something that is not there, so set on finding another enemy he must keep his guard up around that he’s gone and invented one. Or… perhaps so desperate for another ally he’s done the same thing. It’s hard to tell which.

Occasionally, though, he feels as if there is another player in the chess game he and Gaster only fleetingly understand the rules to. Something else moving pieces as himself and the others hurriedly do their best to find a way to checkmate Asgore.

He… doesn’t know what to do with that potential concept, beyond hope that whatever it is, if it actually exists, is on their side.

God, he hopes it’s on their side.

Sans hits the ground with a yelp of pain, shoulder colliding painfully against the stone floor before he rolls over it and up, tensed in a crouch and magic crackling readily at his fingertips as he braces them on the ground and glares up. Across him, Wind straightens up, sighing and stretching an arm over her head languidly. “You’re way too slow. That wasn’t even a glancing blow, I hit you dead-on.”

Sans huffs, curling his spine up and resting his forearms on his thighs, still crouching. “If you just taught me shielding magic— “

“My shielding magic is a kind unique to my species, and one that takes years to master.” At Sans’s scowl, Wind’s expression softens. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, Sans. Your magic reserves are the kind most monsters couldn’t even dream of. I’m just saying it would likely be exceedingly difficult, not to mention strenuous as hell. Shielding takes up enormous energy, it’s not the kind of thing you do frequently in fights unless it’s your specialty or you have no other choice.” She tilts her head. “Look at it this way. Have you ever seen me maintain my shield between blows?” Sans reluctantly shakes his head, and Wind beams. “Right, because it’s the kind of thing I wouldn’t risk draining my energy unless I had no other choice to keep it sustained indefinitely. Shielding magic is incredibly useful, but it’s not reliable as your only form of defense. Hence...” Wind sweeps down, lowering herself until she’s crouching at Sans’s level, leaning forward with her wings spread out behind her for balance, a picture perfect form of a lithe, graceful soldier. “We learn to dodge. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sans grumbles, and Wind grins.

“Good. Now, again.”

Wind flies forward, leaping up and at him with purpose, and Sans barely has a second to dive sideways and roll out of the way before Wind’s foot slams into the spot where his head was moments ago. Jumping to his feet, Sans ducks under Wind’s arm as it makes an arc over his skull, and manages two steps to the left before a wing curves in from the right and hits him solidly in the chest, sending him flying through the air. Sans barely has a moment to brace for inevitable impact against the wall and send a quiet thought of apology to Papyrus for dying on him so soon, before a pair of wiry arms catch him and the buffet of wings catching on air fills the sound around him. Carefully raising his head and opening his eyes, Sans stares at Wind’s concerned expression as she gently lowers them both back to earth, setting Sans down slowly once her feet hit the ground.

“That’s six times I’ve gotten you today, Sans.” Wind says patiently, in an annoyingly forgiving way that makes Sans grit his teeth in frustration. “If I was a Royal Guard, that’s six times you’d have been dead.”

“I know, I know.” Sans mutters.

“Do you?” Wind crosses her arms, frowning down at him. “In a real fight, your opponent isn’t going to give you a chance to catch your breath, and you may not have anyone to watch your back for you.”

“I know!” He snaps. “It’s not like I’ve never fought for my life before or anything!”

Wind winces, and Sans sighs, ducking his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“No, you’re right.” Wind says. “I should be the one apologizing. I was… pushing you too hard. If you don’t want to do this I— “

“No!” He yelps, head snapping up to stare wide-eyed at Wind. “I need this. I need to be ready. Don’t start babying me because of one rough day. I asked for your help and I’m going to keep asking until I’ve learned everything I can.” Taking a deep breath, he takes a step back, assuming a defensive position. “Again.”

Wind hesitates, and then lunges forward. Sans ducks under her leg as she aims a flying kick at him, diving behind her and jumping up onto the wing that sweeps out at him, using it as a platform to propel himself up and over Wind’s head. He hits the ground rolling, jumping up and breaking into a sprint as Wind takes off after him. He’ll lead her around the room, he thinks, tire her out— Survival is the name of the game with this exercise, the idea being to evade Wind’s attacks for a full five minutes. He grins at the sounds of Wind behind him, confident for once that he’s got the upper hand, and then there’s the flapping of wings and a tall figure slams into the ground in front of him.

—Guards everywhere, cornering them in the tight caves of Waterfall’s hidden crevices. He dodges right to avoid a barrage of flying arrows, the human right behind him, hand in his, he searches the perimeter desperately, looking for a way out, frantically moving until— There! On the left, a gap between the soldiers stands out, leading to the entrance of another cavern. He dives forward, dragging the human behind him, sights set on the route of escape. They’re going to make it, they’re so close, and then a guard slams into view from seemingly out of nowhere, wielding their spear as they thrust it forward and straight into Sans’s soul, shattering his conscious instantly. He hears the human scream, but everything is going black, and he can’t move—

Sans comes back to himself stretched out on the floor of the training room, head pillowed in Wind’s lap and limbs spread out haphazardly. He flinches as cool fingers prod the edges of his skull clinically, checking for injuries, probably, and slowly Wind’s worried face swims into view above him.

“…Sans? You back with me, buddy?”

He winces, sitting up carefully, Wind’s hands going to his back to steady him. “Yeah, more or less.”

“Where did you go?” Wind asks, voice knowing and soft as she runs a gentle hand down his spine, patience and understanding in her whole being.

He shrugs helplessly. “Back.”

Wind purses her lips, choosing not to press him. “I think that’s enough for today.” Sans opens his mouth to protest, and she shakes her head. “You’ve been out of it all morning, and it’s never a good sign when you start having flashbacks. Trust me, I’d know.”

“I suppose not.” Sans mutters reluctantly, and Wind sighs.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged, kiddo. You’ll burn out if you press too hard. So you’re having a bad day, that’s fine. Take a break for once, yeah? Clear your head.”

Sans snorts. “I’ve tried, believe me, but I feel like every time I leave this room I’m staring at more dead-end equations.”

“Then get out of the labs for a bit.” At Sans’s incredulous look, Wind rolls her eyes. “I know you hate being in Asgore’s potential sights, but the Underground’s a lot bigger than his immediate reach. It’s not healthy to live your life down here fulltime. There’s reasons why Rose always bullies Gaster into doing sample collections for her outside the labs, a little change of scenery is good for him, and, for that matter, for you. Take the day off— Go visit Grillby in Snowdin, go to a market in the Capital, go… Fuck around Hotland, I don’t know! My point is, do something.” Wind pauses, sighing. “Sometimes the way to solve a problem is to come back to it with fresh eyes.”

“Yeah, alright, point taken.” Sans says, ducking his head. “I’ll— I’ll try.”

Somehow, Sans suspects when Wind advised him to take some time to himself, this isn’t what she meant.

Muttering under his breath, Sans curses as he trips over another outcropping of rock, stumbling none too gracefully over the thin stream running through the ground beneath his feet. It’s embarrassing really, just how clumsy he’s gotten. What he once navigated with deadly precision and artistry now leaves him falling over his own feet— This is the first time he’s set foot in the lower pools in… God, months.

He’s been neglecting it, and his place in it, this expanse of caverns that was once his home. Was once their home, his and Papyrus’s, his and the human’s.

It was only a few years ago, when he knew the watery songs of this place down to the marrow of his bones, and the core of his soul. Frequently now it feels like a lifetime ago, sometimes it feels like it all just happened.

Very occasionally, Sans still wakes up and expects to see a cavern ceiling and feel the weight of a hand on his sternum, to find the world has reset itself and turned back time once again.

…Honestly, Sans doesn’t know now whether he would be relieved or horrified if that happened. Maybe both.

He has not accepted her death; he will never accept her death, not for how it happened or what was done to her, and in turn to him. And yet, he doesn’t know if he could ever go back to that time. This is so much bigger than one life, one soul to save, now. He’s seen and learned so much.

This is not just about Sans himself or the human he came to call friend and sister. This is about all of them. Humans, monsters, the souls lost to Asgore and the people of the labs he now calls something like family and the fates of the next to fall. There are individuals to protect, those he loves and those he has not yet met but sworn to guard with his life when he does, and there are whole nations to save, that stand to fall if he doesn’t find a way to stop this war.

Patience, he reminds himself. The barrier wasn’t built in a day, and neither will it be destroyed as such. Nor, he thinks, is it as simple as pulling a switch and shutting off the power to whatever keeps them trapped here. Destroy the barrier without learning how to control it and they will only unleash Asgore’s war between humans and monsters that much sooner. They need that power to bend it to their will, to use the barrier as their bargaining chip against the crown. Right now the cards are stacked in Asgore’s favor, and they desperately need to produce an ace.

“Will you kill him?” Sans remembers overhearing Wind ask Gaster in a hushed discussion one night, when the overhead lights were dimmed and they believed he’d fallen asleep in the plushy chair in the corner with his book.

“Not unless I have to.” Gaster had said. “His words have considerable sway among the people, sway that can be played to our advantage if we can control his message to the public, and regardless I’d rather not stoop to his level.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Get him to step down from power, obviously.” Gaster snorted. “He’s too dangerous to try and control him while he holds power. You and I both know we could never successfully make a puppet king out of him. We’ll have to cut the strings or risk getting strangled in them.”

“…Then what?” Wind had offered eventually, her words quiet. “Who will replace him? Monsters have never had democracy, we have told our needs to the royal family and they provided. Our supposed good nature kept us in peace with one another. They will balk at such a human way of government, and in the wake of the destruction of the barrier it will not be the time to try it out. They will need a leader.”

“Yes. They will.” Gaster agreed.

“So I ask again. Who’s going to lead them, Gaster? You?”

“Me? God no. Never. Never me.”

Wind had frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s not an answer and you know it.”

Sans sighs, sticking his hands in his coat pockets and staring up at the cavern ceiling above him, contemplative. He’d couldn’t help but ask Gaster, after Wind had left and the other had come to pick him up and tuck him into his bed for the night.

“Who will lead?”

“…So you were awake.” Gaster had stilled, hesitating and then picking Sans up anyways. He’d squirmed halfheartedly, wanting to protest he was not a small child and yet enjoying the soothing contact too much to protest it.

“Who will lead?” He asked again, once he was settled in Gaster’s arms, his small stature even for most young monsters easily dwarfed by Gaster’s considerable height.

“…Wind will lead.” Gaster had said finally. “She is strong, and intelligent, and has the heart to hold a whole kingdom. Her status as the last of an elite military family, and of a revered species of monster, will give her the backing she needs to reasonably take control, so long as her old records disappear.”

Sans blinked, and as if sensing the unasked question, Gaster bowed his head slightly. “I will advise her, if I can, but my reputation as the nutcase who protected a human proceeds me. Wind’s hands are cleaner, less involved in this mess.” He sighed. “It is more than possible that Asgore will not relinquish his power easily, and if things go wrong someone must take the fall. I will go down as the one who destroyed Asgore’s throne if I must, and from the dust Wind will rise as their savior.” His gaze fell to Sans’s firm glare. “If that happens, Sans, you must let it. Do not go trying to save me from my own choices.”

“The entire Royal Guard and half of Asgore’s advisors know me as the kid who fought their troops for a human.” Sans said, tinges of something close to wry amusement crawling into his words. “My hands are no cleaner than yours. If you fall, I’ll damn well plan on falling with you.”

“Sans—“

“If you want to protect me then don’t let anything happen to you.” He returned firmly, cutting Gaster off. “Do not ask me to… Do not ask me leave my family again. I won’t. I can’t.”

“…I know.” Gaster said. “I know.”

Wind isn’t aware of Gaster’s potential plans for her, Sans knows, and it leaves him with an uncomfortable taste in his mouth at the thought. She would refuse if she knew, he’s sure, which is likely also exactly the reason Gaster never chose to tell her, and in knowing this much about Wind himself too, Gaster has also bought Sans’s silence, prudence winning over his desire for transparency.

Ironic really, given all the times Sans has pressed Gaster for honesty between them.

Sometimes, Sans looks back on the memories Wind had shown him, of her first meeting with Gaster, and wonders if the other had planned this from the beginning, the very moment he met Wind and saw what she was, what she offered.

It would not surprise him if that were the case, honestly. Gaster acts continuously in the best interests of the future, but that can drive him to be manipulative, to keep his cards close to his chest, even if largely unconsciously. After all, the initial agreement between them that brought Sans to the labs was more a business arrangement than anything else, a peace treaty between temporary allies. The later developed familial affection was an unexpected consequence, or bonus, depending on how one looked at it.

Regardless, those are both matters of the past, and of the long-awaited future. He cannot change Gaster’s actions in the past even if he sought to, which he doesn’t, really, and the potential scenarios where Wind might find herself granted Asgore’s royal power, chosen or not, look to be years away. It’s a non-issue for now, at least until they find a way to break the barrier.

…Which leads him to why Wind had booted him out here to get some metaphorical fresh air in the first place.

The utter frustration at their lack of progress, the frustrating itch in his soul telling him he is missing important clues, puzzle pieces he needs to find the answer.

The presence, Sans thinks, the one that haunts him like a half-imagined daydream, or perhaps a lingering nightmare, would know, does know.

He’s not even fully confident it actually…. well, exists beyond the scope of his paranoid delusions, but if it does, if it is real, then it holds the answers he seeks. He is inexplicably, completely certain of that.

It’s crashing into a sign that smacks him firmly in the face that pulls Sans from his musings.

“Ow, fuck.” He growls, tripping blindly away from the offending obstacle and rubbing at his sore skull. After a moment of cursing and waiting for the pain to dull down, he opens his eyes, spots the sign, and groans, slumping forward.

Of course... Of fucking course.

“Why.” He deadpans, staring at it.

It seems he really is just as consistent as Gaster in some behaviors.

And apparently, when he needs the hard answers, Sans’s subconscious only knows one place to get them.

The head Tem’s sharp-fanged smile borders on gloating when he comes to her, eyes trained on him and expecting, as if she knew he would come here.

…On second thought, he decides, scratch the ‘if’. She was the head Tem, she knew about everything that got within even a fifty-foot radius of her village the second it did so. She knew he was coming here before he himself even did.

“Ah, my favorite expendable life-form.” She drawls, voice sickly-sweet. “How lovely.”

“Save it.” He sighs, flopping down into the chair across from her and fighting off a shiver at the predatory curiosity in her gaze.

The Temmies, Sans has come to realize over the last couple years, seem to… like him— As much as Temmies can like something aside from themselves, at least. At best, he figures, he’s something between an amusing distraction to them and an obedient pet they’ve grown fond of. At worst, a toy they’ve decided is worth not breaking during their play.

Honestly, none of the above descriptions stick out to him as particular definitions of valuing a person’s life, but from what he had gathered from Gaster, the first time the latter came back from meeting with the head Tem to sort out Sans’s potential debts to them, the Temmies showed a certain lenient interest in preserving his continued existence they didn’t really hold for most monsters outside their own kind. It appears those years of work for them had paid off, in their own way.

Still, even knowing he holds something like their favor, that doesn’t stop Sans from being fucking terrified of them.

…And with good reason, he thinks, as he watches the disarmingly small form of the head Temmie as she sits across from him.

“What can I do for you?” She asks, tilting her head faux-innocently, and Sans snorts. As if the Temmies do anything without a cost.

“I need information.”

The grin on the Temmie’s face grows wider. “Information is expensive.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just…” He pauses. It’s useless to ask about the barrier, of course, that he knows. If it was as simple as bartering an answer out of the Temmies, then Gaster would have done it years ago. There’s some things even they don’t know, he supposes.

No, it is something else he seeks explanation on, and yet something just as elusive.

“…This is something I’m not sure even your Temmies will know anything on.” He says, choosing his words carefully, and winces when the head Temmie twitches slightly at his words, clearly less than flattered at his implication that her knowledge of the Underground is less than complete. “Not that your sources are… lacking. I’m just not sure any record of this thing even exists.”

The Temmie raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Sans groans. “Look. If you have something to offer, I’ll do the work for it, but if I tell you about this thing and you don’t have any information, can you take our longstanding… business relationship into consideration and just be honest with me before I go and do a job for you that’s not going to give me anything.”

The Temmie sniffs haughtily. “Tems do not lie, especially about information. That is not a part of our principles. In light of the benefits you have served to the Temmie agenda in the past, I will tell you if I can, in fact, offer you anything on the subject of information you seek.”

He sighs, slumping. “Thank you.”

“So,” She quirks an eyebrow, looking borderline intrigued by the concept of something so mysterious that Sans could think even eludes her, “What is it you seek that you find so confounding?”

“It’s…” Sans pauses, trying to think of a way to accurately describe the presence. “…A creature. I’m not sure if it’s monster or human in origin, or… something else. Hell, I’m not completely sure it’s real.” The Temmie’s eyes narrow, and he shrugs helplessly. “I’ve only met it once, it invaded a nightmare and intervened.”

“And you’re sure this wasn’t just your subconscious taking pity on you?”

He winces. He had considered that for a long time, but… “No. My nightmares… Don’t ever stop like that, and it’s only happened the once. It wasn’t me, it was an outside consciousness with autonomy over my dreams. Or, at least, it had that power in that moment.” The Tem nods, and hesitantly, he continues. “I don’t know what it looks like, it was like it was cast in shadow and its face was just…” Sans waves his hands around his own pointedly. “Not there? Distorted. It had a magic signature, though that was kind of static-like too, as if it wasn’t flowing properly— Powerful, I could tell that much, at least… similar to my own, maybe? I’m not completely sure, I’d never felt anything like it.”

“…And did this creature have a name?”

“It called itself… a remnant.”

The Tem frowns, brows furrowing, and Sans watches almost hopelessly as she looks down at her desk and taps it with an idle paw, considering his words. There’s frustration scrawled across her features, and that’s enough to basically give Sans his answer. Temmies as a rule are in the business of knowing everything, and the only thing that truly frustrates them even more than a situation out of their control is something in the Underground they know nothing about, a true wild card.

“No,” She says at length, “I can’t say I have heard of it.” She jumps off her desk, causing the two Temmies standing at the entryway corners of the room to straighten up almost imperceptibly, but she simply pushes open a crudely-painted bright orange and blue door set against the back wall amongst the rabble of overly-cheerfully colored things in the room, and disappears inside, voice slightly muffled as it rings out again. “You said it had a powerful magic signature?”

“Ah…” He shifts, glancing at one of the guarding Tems, who looks as confused as he does, from what little he can gain of their expression, at least. “Yeah.”

There’s a shuffle, and then the sound of something being pulled off a shelf and of pages being thumbed through. “You live in the castle laboratories, yes? You interact with incredibly strong monsters on the daily. Would you classify it as more or less powerful than the stronger signatures you’re familiar with?”

“I… More, maybe?” Sans frowns, and shakes his head ever so slightly. “No, not more, just… Different? Monsters’ signatures all hold some similarities, even slight ones, but this was completely its own equation.”

“Estimate, then. Just on your initial impressions of raw potential.”

He shudders, doing his best to recall the fading glimpses of the remnant’s magic that single time it had interfered in his mind. “At least around Asgore’s, boss monster capability levels of magic.”

“Hm…” The head Temmie hums, pushing back into the room with a large, well-worn book balanced on her head. “Interesting.” She jumps back into her seat with surprising grace, the book barely wobbling from its position before she lifts it off her head and sets it with a none-to-gentle thump on the desk, flipping through the pages with purpose. “Did it have a soul?”

“…What?”

She peers up at him, a distinct lack of amusement scrawled across her features. “I said: did it have a soul?”

“No, I heard what you said, I just…” He runs a hand nervously over the back of his skull, fingers catching on his jacket hood and drawing it over his head on instinct. “It must have, right? Nothing can survive without a soul.”

The Temmie blinks. “Do you remember the presence of a soul?”

“I—“ He slumps. “No, I don’t, but I wasn’t exactly looking for one, anyways.” He feels a shiver up his spine at the implications of his own words. “What are you getting at?”

With a slight frown, the Temmie looks back down at the book, finally landing on a page and smoothing it out before turning the book around to face Sans. “It is not an exaggeration to say my knowledge of this Underground and its inhabitants is likely second to none. If such a powerful creature were loose in these caverns, no matter how elusive it may be, I would have heard about it.”

“…Alright.”

The Tem sighs, nodding to the book, and Sans’s gaze falls to it, eyes widening at familiar handwriting. “There is a… theory, one that was originally developed as a matter of study on the surface before the war, about the nature between consciousness and soul, and whether they can be separated. “

Sans leans forward, grabbing the edges of the book and pulling it forward. “This is… Gaster’s handwriting.”

“But of course.” The Temmie nods towards the book. “The theory was all conjecture originally, but it became a matter of interest for the first Royal Scientist, whom your Gaster studied under. It was thought that if the theory could be put into action, it might offer a way to a means of escape from the Underground.”

“The lost soul effect…” He mutters, reading the words at the top of the page and peering over the book, taking in Gaster’s messy handwriting in the odd-shaped symbols of his native language. “You said it was about separating the consciousness and the soul?”

“Yes. It is generally assumed the consciousness resides in the soul, particularly in regards to Monsters, as our physical forms have no definable neural systems as humans do.” The Temmie pauses. “This research, however, postulated, among other things, that it might be possible to disconnect the consciousness from the soul, and to exist as a separate entity, so long as the soul remained intact.”

Sans furrows his brows, glancing up at her. “Is it?”

“Do you really think that, were it proven possible, we would not have capitalized on it?” The Temmie says pointedly, and Sans winces in answer. “The theory is absolutely impossible to prove correct within any reasonable bounds of experimentation— Monsters souls are the culminations of their beings, to attempt to separate a monster from their soul would result in an overwhelmingly likely chance of death, and, even back on the surface when human souls were accessible, the conjecture was still too risky to test on them. The only way to prove it true is if a naturally occurring case was found.”

“…And you think…?”

“What you described— A creature capable of thought but without a physical form, with a magic signature but no discernable presence of a soul tied to it, what does that sound like to you?”

“But…” He frowns, fingers running over the symbols at the bottom of the page. “It says here that magic is connected to the soul, not the consciousness, and that severing the two would cut off a monster’s access to magic. This thing definitely had magic.”

The Tem tilts her head in acquiescence. “Magic is channeled from the soul, but the assumption that separating consciousness and soul would separate consciousness and magic is conjecture. It is sound, logical conjecture, yes, but only conjecture. As is this.” She purses her lips, shaking her head. “I am not positive on what it is you believe yourself to have found, but if what you say is true, then whatever it is, it is outside our constraints of how monsters and humans work. It takes incredibly powerful magic to influence the psyche, and to interfere with your sleeping conscious this creature would have to share some bond with your own soul, or at the very least your magic signature.”

Sans’s eyes flicker back down to the page, darting over scattered symbols for soul, magic, mind, body. “…It knew my name. It knew me.”

When he looks to the Temmie, she only stares back impassively, and he sighs, idly flipping the page in the book, and scanning the contents, taking in a similar set of notes and charts. “…What’s this?”

The Temmie glances at the book, and blinks. “Ah. The even more outrageously speculative sister theory to the previous one we just discussed. It suggests potential ways to keep a monster’s consciousness alive during the loss of a soul.”

That catches Sans’s attention, and he skims the page, grimacing at the overly-complex diagram filled with a multitude of numbers and symbols revolving around a central circle with only the symbols for what roughly translated to will-to-live variable set inside it. “How would you give a monster a will to survive after they’re already dying?”

“Human souls survive after death, by the means of something within their own makeup.” The head Tem offers. “This was the idea that, if said something could be isolated, and given to a dying monster, it might revive them. Or, in its more wild concepts, that an object given that isolated human element that allows the soul to persist might allow the object to develop a consciousness.”

Sans shakes his head, sitting back. “That’s more fantasy than logic. Maybe, maybe, you could revive a dying monster, if there were some miracle drug sourced from human souls, but you can’t create a living being out of nothing, that’s just like… something out of one of Gaster’s bad animes. Hell, you could sprinkle monster dust over that item and you still wouldn’t get anywhere, not without a soul, or a residual magic signature at the very least.”

The Tem hums in agreement, and he groans, bringing his hands up to rub wearily at his eyes. “I can’t believe Gaster never told me about any of this, half of our fucking research revolves around the nature of souls.”

…Admittedly, that research was focused on the timeline properties of human souls, not on consciousness and soul, but… Well. It’s not like the Temmies needed to know that little tidbit of information.

“It is possible that he did not remember.” The head Tem says, leaning forward and shutting the book. “These were inane theories his predecessor studied for a short period of time then abandoned, nothing more. I doubt he even remembers trading a spare copy of the research notes in exchange for… a favor.”

Sans grunts in something like concession, not bothering to ask why the Temmies would want the notes to such a seemingly pointless bunch of theories. To them, such things didn’t have to be practical or applicable to be desirable. They coveted knowledge, in all its forms.

“Yeah, I suppose. Not exactly the type of thing someone would try out for a laugh, even him.” Sighing wearily, he pulls his hands away and cracks an eye open. “So, how much do I owe you for even showing me that?”

“Nothing, so long as you inform me of anything further you discover on the subject you came asking me on.”

He blinks, sitting up and staring openly at the Temmie. “Wait, really?”

She scowls. “Do not take this as some foolish form of kind-heartedness. I dislike not knowing about anything in this Underground, particularly things that may have more power than they seem. This creature you speak of… It has peaked my interest, to say the least.”

“…Huh.” Sans returns at length, mentally shrugging and deciding not to question the small mercies in life. The less time he has to waste doing odd jobs for the Tems, the better. “Alright, deal.” Almost idly, he stands, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Well, I should get back, I was only supposed to be out for a quick walk.” The head Tem tilts her head, granting him permission to leave, and he turns, ignoring the ever-unsettling gazes of the guarding Temmies as he goes.

He makes it to two steps before the door when the Temmie’s voice calls out again. “Sans.” He startles slightly, because the Tems almost never use his name, and goddamn is that creepy to hear, and looks over his shoulder, meeting the glimmering stare of the head Tem.

“Your Gaster has never tried to give an inanimate item consciousness or tried to revive a dying monster, true, but that does not make him any less of a stubborn fool, or as forgetful as you or I might give him credit for.”

He swallows nervously. “…What do you mean?”

The Temmie grins, sharp and wide, and once again Sans is reminded of the cold, calculating being she really is. “The dog. Toby. It is not like the other dog monsters of the Underground, you know this— But that is because it is not a monster at all.” Her fangs glint. “It came here many, many years ago, with the human Gaster called his own, and the dogs of the surface, mere pets, do not have such long lifespans as their masters. That dog should, by all reason and logic, be dead, and yet it is not. Do you understand?”

It takes a moment, and then the bottom of Sans’s stomach plummets, a horrible, lurching feeling taking over as the implication of her words, of the words on that book still clutched between her paws, fall into place.

“…No idea what you’re talking about.” He forces out, turning and yanking the door open. “I… I have to go.”

He runs, seeking the quiet of Waterfall, away from this place of cursed ideas and suggestions and of obnoxious facades, away from theories on time-worn paper that bring fear and nervous realizations and paranoia crawling into his throat.

Above all, he pretends not to hear the laughter of the Tems as it chases his heels.

#hI THIS FIC ISN'T DEAD YET #Undertale #Undertale fanfiction #undertale fanfic #Sans #my writing #Not as Simple as a Happy Ending (Undertale)

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