#every self respecting fantasy setting needs shit that usually lives in the water to be in the sky

[the-chattering-tower]

Poking my pirate ship setting again in ways that aren't all that productive but at least resulted in some outfits, namely for Captain Whitestone, his partner Delian (who holds no specific rank besides being an all around fun dude), and one of the crew members, Nutmeg

[magpie-to-the-morning]

On Fire from Within

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Tags: Self-Indulgent, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, the helmet comes off, Blindfolds, Sex Pollen, Dirty talk, Mostly in Mando’a, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, PiV Sex, Din is soft and a mess, and so am I, so much Mando'a because I cannot be stopped, Please let me know if I missed anything

Summary: Reader is a newish crew member on the Razor Crest. She was helping out on a bounty hunting mission when she got hit with a laced dart at a shady brothel. It's a sex pollen fic lads, you know how this goes!

Read on Ao3

“Fuck,” you swore softly, pulling a small barb from the back of your neck. It’s only a little thing, a geometric pattern of angles and sharp points. Odd for a piece of shrapnel, but surely nothing to worry about. The small wound wouldn’t be worth the Bacta gel. You tossed it away before walking up the ramp into the Crest.

“Everything ok?” Mando stepped away from the controls of the carbonite chamber. You hadn’t realized he was so close, and startled when you heard the question crackling through his modulator.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. That bastard frozen yet?”

“Just about.”

“Good. That place made me want to scrub the inside of my skin.” You’d just finished helping Mando drag a bounty out of a local bar running an illegal “pleasure house.” It certainly hadn’t deserved the name, and you were more than happy to provide an initial distraction so Mando could come in for the kill. (The metaphorical kill, sadly. You would have been happy to leave the owner of that awful establishment a smoking crater on the floor of his bar, but apparently that was “not following the brief” and “wouldn’t bring in as much money for fuel.” Pfft). There had been a little static on the way out, and you assume that’s when you’d picked up that bit of metal. “I’m going to hit the refresher, unless you need it first?”

The bounty hunter shook his head and moved towards the ramp. “No. I’m going to trade in the puck and get us out off this rock. You go ahead.”

--

You checked the controls of the shower. Again. You’re sweating, and as much as you try, you can’t get the water cold enough to soothe your burning skin. You arch your back, moaning when the stretching movement sends a dart of pleasure straight to your aching cunt. Fuck, why are you such a mess all of a sudden? You slip a hand between your legs and are shocked to discover that you are already dripping wet. You rub the back of your neck and it hits you- that wasn’t shrapnel. It must have been a dart laced with something, and knowing the type of place you were in, you’d bet any amount of credits it was a nasty aphrodisiac. “Those bastards…”

You drag your hands through your hair and take a steadying breath. Ok, you can handle this, pull yourself together… Nice empty ship and a hot shower. Nothing you haven’t done before. You let your hands drift lower, massaging your breast and tweaking an already pert nipple. You’re already so close…

__

An hour later and you’re sobbing from want. Why can’t you just. Fucking. Come already? You’ve tried everything, every fantasy, every technique or touch, and nothing. You try again, stroking your clit and spiraling towards release before it slips away again, a jolt of pain rebounding through you. “Damn it!”

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You freeze. You hadn’t realized how much time had passed, of course Mando is back. What had he heard? “Um, nothing, it’s fine!” You wince at how falsely this rings, even to you.

There’s a pause. “Open the door.”

“… no? I’m not-“

“Open the door. Or I will break it down.”

Shit. You have a second to grab a towel before the door clangs open. Mando is through the door and into the tiny room in an instant, hand on his blaster. He checks all the corners which, takes about 2 seconds, before turning that implacable, visored gaze on you. “What’s going on with you?”

“Jeez, Mando, I-“ you try to bluff your way out of it for a moment before giving it up for lost. Even if you could explain away everything else, you know your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes will give you away. “Fine, just, promise you won’t laugh?”

“Is something funny?”

“No, it really isn’t.” You sigh. “So, I didn’t realize until we got back to the ship, but someone back at that hole in the wall hit me with some kind of dart. I think it was drugged.”

“Show me.”

“I chucked it just before I got on board, but this is where it hit.” You pull your wet hair back to show him the mark on your neck. Mando crosses the floor in one step, and you feel one of his gloved hands steady your shoulder as he takes a closer look. That small touch is enough to drive you wild, and you bite back a groan, leaning into his touch.

“Dank ferrik.” Mando pulls his hands away like he’s been burned, and your cheeks flame again, this time in embarrassment. “There are red marks at the injection site. I’ve, uh.. I’ve seen this before.”

You grit your teeth, finding it easier to talk about when you’re not looking at him. “It hurts, Mando and I can’t make it stop. How long am I going to feel like this?”

“Until it runs its course. Usually, a few hours. And it will get worse.”

You swear again, tears of frustration slipping down your cheeks. Mando stands there for a moment, flexing his hands and looking unsure of what to say. Finally, you hear a deep breath and, “let me help you.”

You startle, sure you’ve heard him wrong. It’s only been a few months since you signed on as his only crew member, a live-in mechanic and occasional extra pair of hands for certain bounties. You’d thought about it, of course. At first you’d seen this as just another short term gig. Some light repair work, the odd stint of standing lookout or patching up his wounds or acting as a distraction for a tricky bounty. The longer you spent with him though, the longer you started to see the man beneath the armor, his dark humor, his unexpected kindness, his tendency to throw himself into harm’s way for the sake of a code you can’t begin to understand. Stars, and that voice… but you knew he would never return those feelings. The idea of him offering himself to you now, out of pity or worse, obligation…

“No.” You move to shoulder past him.

He grabs your wrist. “Look, Y/N, I know I may not be your first choice but-“

You whirl around to glare at him. “Not my- damn it, Mando!” You kick the waste bin in sheer frustration. “I’ve wanted you for weeks and just because I don’t want you to feel cornered into sleeping with me you have the fucking gall-“

“Close your eyes.”

You blink in confusion. “Wait, what?”

“Do it. Now.” You shiver at the steel in his voice and comply without another thought.

There’s a soft hiss, and the clang of metal set down on metal. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t… You start in surprise, feeling his leather-clad fingers cup your face and tip your chin up. “Are you sure you want this?”

You laugh, a little shakily, amazed to hear how deep and rough his unmodulated voice still is. “Are you?”

The next thing you know, he’s got you backed up against that wall. You gasp, reaching to pull him closer. His mouth slides over yours, lips warm and surprisingly plush. You deepen the kiss and moan, needing so much more. He responds by reaching down, pulling you up to straddle his waist. Trapped between the wall and a cage of Beskar, you’ve never felt freer. You card your fingers through his hair, marveling at the curls under your hands. Mando gasps, already sounding ragged. “How do you want me?”

You drag your nails down his scalp and lick your way up the column of his throat. You taste salt and pant into his ear, “in the cockpit chair.”

Mando groans. “You have been thinking about this, haven’t you, sweet girl?”

“Less talk. More chair sex.”

He huffs a laugh against your neck and pulls you from the wall, carrying you through the ship like you don’t weigh a thing. You make it through the corridor, with only a few brief stops against walls and doorways. Mando sets you down once you reach the cockpit and you whine at the lack of his touch, but still keep your eyes closed. He kisses your forehead. “Patience, sweet girl.” You give up the last shreds of your dignity and moan, rubbing your thighs together. “Can’t, I need you to touch me now.” You hear a few soft clinks, and realize Mando is removing his armor, piece by piece. Not wanting to be outdone, you toss your towel aside. Your eyes are still shut tight, but you add a hand to cover them, afraid you’ll forget yourself. You may not understand his beliefs, but you are damn sure going to respect them, even now.

There’s startle at a ripping sound, and Mando asking “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Good. Keep your eyes closed.” Mando pulls your hand away, pressing a kiss to your palm before knotting a blindfold around your eyes. You feel yourself pulled down to his lap. You twine your arms around his neck and lower yourself until you’re straddling his hips, grinding as close to him as you can.

“Tell me what you need.”

“Touch me.”

He’s eager to comply, and you shiver as you feel his hands (his hands, not the gloves, stars) skim up your sides. Mando cups the back of your head, drawing you closer as he kisses and licks his way into your mouth. You immediately open your lips to his, stroking his tongue with your own, teasing the roof of his mouth to egg him on. You’re rewarded with a small groan, and Mando palming your left breast. He strokes your nipple with his thumb, rolling and pinching it to make you arch your back. “What else?”

“Maker, that’s so good… talk to me, Mando, don’t stop touching me.”

“Never, mesh’la.” Mando rolls his hips and makes you squirm against him. You can feel his arousal, pressed so close to your own, separated only by the canvas of his trousers. You mewl and buck your hips against him.

“Oh gods, yes…”

Mando chuckles as your breath speeds up. “You’re so gorgeous, Y/N, going to take such good care of you. Going to make this so good for you.”

He bends his head and sucks one of your nipples into his warm mouth, and you nearly black out. The sheer relief of such a touch when you need it so badly nearly undoes you completely. “Mando…”

“Din.” The word is muffled against your chest, and you have to ask “what?”

He rests his forehead against shoulder. “My name, Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you taste the short name, adding it to what you’ve learned about this man. This capable, dangerous, surprisingly gentle Mandalorian. How can such a hard man be so… This train of thought is interrupted as another wave of desire bowls you over, making you shudder with need and pain. “I need more, Din, please…”

You don’t even need to finish that thought before you feel his rough, calloused fingers drifting down your belly and lower, lower… You lean back to give him easier access, his other arm coming to rest around your waist, holding you up. You gasp when he strokes your folds. “Me’bana? You’re so wet, mesh’la. Is this all for me?” He doesn’t wait for a response before slowly fucking two of his fingers deep inside you, dragging the pads over your G-spot over and over. He’s a quick learner, adapting to touch you harder or softer, quicker or slower, as you gasp and buck your hips. “So good for me, so wet and ready. Do you want me to make you come?”

“Yes, yes, please Din, I’m so close…” you whine.

Din rubs your clit while fucking his fingers into you. He bites down on your earlobe, whispering, “Then come for me, cyare.”

You do. You cry out as you feel yourself coming apart under his hands, your hips thrashing despite you as you moan and call out his name. When you drift back to yourself, you’re grateful for his supporting hold as waves of pleasure continue to roll through you. Din strokes you through all of it, only backing off when your breathing slows and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

__

You exhale slowly, taking stock after that release. “That was… whew…” Now that you have a moment to think clearly again, you can feel your mind spinning up to overthink this. Will you ever be able to look at your employer (partner? friend?) again? Not that you can ever look him in the eye anyway, but what if he’s completely disgusted with you after this? Your racing thoughts pause when you hear what can only be Din sucking your slick from his fingers.

“Maker, you taste as good as I hoped you would.” Thoughts: gone. Brain: empty. There can’t be any room for overthinking when your head is suddenly full of HE THOUGHT ABOUT TASTING ME?! “How do you feel?”

You force yourself to consider this. You can already feel the fire in your core roaring back to life. “Good, but, I can already feel it ramping back up.” You blush. “Not that I didn’t… I totally did, but.. sorry…”

“Shh, k’uur. I get it. Just relax and let me take care of you.” He stands up, depositing you gently in his seat. You only have a moment to wonder at this sudden shift before feeling him kneel down in front of you. Without even thinking about it, you let your legs fall open to him. “That’s it, sweet girl, let me see that pretty pussy.”

If you weren’t already positive you were running a fever, that would have tipped you over the edge. Din runs his hands up your thighs, his breath ghosting over your throbbing core. “Ibac’ner. Ni copaanir dinuir gar ner lalat akay gar jair.” Is he… praying? You’re past the point of caring, all you want is for him to stop sucking marks into your inner thigh and finally move to where you need him most. You nearly scream when he drags his tongue up your slit. He flattens his tongue against you, humming appreciatively as your roll your hips. He wraps his arms around your thighs suddenly, jerking you closer towards him. “Jatisyc, ni larayc teh gar.”

You are glad of the blindfold because you are so far beyond controlling your face. Din’s tongue feels like it is everywhere at once, tonguing your cunt like it was your mouth one second, then laving your clit the next. You curl your toes and howl when he sucks your clit into his mouth and you feel the barest hint of teeth around you. “So close, so close” you chant, reaching down to hold his head right where you need it.

Din releases your clit, licking circles around it instead. “You liked that, didn’t you cyare? Do you like it a little rough?”

You shudder, thrilled to have been caught out so soon. “Gods, yes.”

Din chuckles and you hope you haven’t slipped up by confessing quite so enthusiastically. “Oh this is going to be fun. I am going to ruin you, mesh’la.” He dives back into your pussy, licking and sucking and nipping at your thighs like a wild thing. You whine and arch your back.

“Hold. Still.” Din’s arm clamps over your waist like an iron bar. “How am I supposed to finish you off, if you won’t stop writhing around, you etyc dala?” When you push your luck, trying to squirm free, you feel a sharp slap to your thigh. “Are you going to be a good girl and let me make you come? Or should I leave you here by yourself?”

“No, please, I’ll be good for you I promise!”

“Damn right you will,” he snarls. Without warning, Din shoves two fingers into your cunt and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard. You come in a rush, screaming his name.

__

You’ve barely come down from that high before chasing your next. While your first orgasm left you with some temporary relief, this one only stokes the fire even higher. You seize Din’s face from where he was resting his cheek against your thigh and pull him to your mouth. Reticence is a distant memory and you devour the taste of yourself from his mouth. When Din leans back and groans from this spectacle, you palm his length, spear-straight and hard as Beskar under your hand.  Din shudders underneath you, and you can almost see the effort of restraining himself.  You trace the shell of his ear and murmur “Why are you still wearing pants?”

Din rushes to his feet, pulling you from the chair and pushing you up against the nearest wall in one smooth motion. He holds you in place with one arm across your breastbone, panting with effort. “Hang on, I don’t want to rush you.“

You wish you could look at him, to show you the burning desire in your eyes, how much you truly want this. Alas. You settle for dropping to your knees and fumbling blindly with the fastenings of his trousers.

“Dank ferrik…” a muttered oath somewhere above your head. Din reaches down to help you, drawing his cock out. Once again, you wish the blindfold wasn’t necessary. You can feel the velvet-soft skin of him, trace the head of his cock and stroke up and down the length of him, but you wish you could see him. You breathe over him and, holding his shaft to help guide you (and madden him), lick just under the tip of his cock. You run your tongue around the ridge and lick your lips before taking him as far down your throat as you can. Din hisses and unleashes a stream of Basic and that same tongue he’d been speaking earlier. “Fuck… ori jate, ori jate, yes, Y/N. Parer, ke’pare, ah!”

You hum around him, loving the sound of him absolutely losing it. “Too much?” you ask, all innocence.

Din actually growls. “Yes. Don’t stop, please.”

You smile, hoping he can see you amidst his unraveling. You bob your lips over the head of his cock, once, twice, before sliding down the length of him as far as you can take. Din’s fingers tangle in your hair and you can feel him jerking his hips, holding back from fucking your face like he clearly wants to. You pull back again, letting go  of his cock with a wet pop. “Don’t hold back, baby, I want all of you.”

This is more than Din can stand. He hauls you roughly to your feet, kissing you with abandon. “Say that again?”

“I want you Din, please. I fucking need you.”

Din grabs one of your legs and holds it over his hip. He teases your entrance while you beg him, rubbing against your folds. You moan in relief when he finally thrusts home, stretching you and dragging against your walls. You rake your nails down his back, biting at his shoulder. “Gods, yes, that’s so fucking good. Don’t hold back. Unh, yes, yes, yes…” He is pounding into you now, setting a brutally quick pace- just like you need. You try to kiss him but you’re getting sloppy and your kiss is more just dragging your open mouth along his jaw, panting as he fucks you. “Din, I’m so close…”

“That’s good, you’re so good at taking this cock aren’t you, mesh’la? Me'copaani? Do you want me to tell you how I’ve fantasized about fucking you over the console almost since you came on board? Do you want to hear how good it feels to be buried in your cunt, with your tight pussy around me? Because it is good, Y/N, and I am going to fucking destroy you.”

You scream his name. “Gods, Din, I’m gonna come!”

He seizes you by the throat, not hard enough to cut off your air but more than enough to let you know who is in charge now. “I want to feel you come on my cock. Come on, cyare, give it to me. Come. Now.”

It’s the full on bounty hunter voice command that slams you over the edge. You come hard, shaking in Din’s arms and soaking his cock. You absolutely would have fallen without him holding you up. He fucks you through it all, and as the aftershocks roll through you, you realize the screaming urgency has finally quieted. You can just about remember talking him through his own release before slipping below the cool depths of unconsciousness.

—

“Y/N? Here, drink this.”

You blink awake and feel a cold glass pressed into your hand. You take a sip. The icy water grounds you, and you take stock of your surroundings. You’re curled up in the captain’s seat, warm under a slightly tattered woolen blanket, or maybe a cloak? It takes you a moment before you realize what else is different. You can see again. “Din?”

“I’m here.” His voice is distant, slightly fuzzed. You look around, seeing him once again hidden beneath the helmet. “How do you feel?”

You’re still restless, like some distant part of you needs to get up and run or fight or fuck, but your limbs are feeling a bit heavier now and it’s easier to breathe. “Better.” You lift the glass again, drinking the rest of the water like you’ve never tasted anything so sweet.

Din lays his hand on your cheek, and you’re relieved to find that at least this bit of him has not been covered up again. “You’re still running a temperature but it feels like it’s easing up.” He takes the empty glass from you, setting it aside before taking your hand and drawing you up. “Come on, let’s get you to your bunk.”

You rise, unsteady on your legs after several rounds of fairly vigorous sex. Din steadies your elbow, guiding you out of the cockpit. “Sick of me already?” You’re aiming for a light tone but you know you missed the mark.

Din turns you to face him and studies you for a moment. “Yeah. Probably going to drop you off on the next planet we hit.”

You narrow your eyes at him, looking at your own skeptical face in the reflection of his visor. “Oh yeah?”

He presses his forehead to yours, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “No, ner kar’ta.” You couldn’t tell before, but now you’re almost sure he’s smiling. “I think you’re stuck with me for awhile.”

_________________________________

Mando'a Translations mesh'la beautiful

Ibac’ner. Ni copaanir dinuir gar ner lalat akay gar jair. This is mine. Going to give you my tongue until you scream.

Jatisyc, ni larayc teh gar. Delicious, I (am) drunk from you.

Etyc dala dirty girl

Ori jate so good

Parer wait

Ke'pare wait (emphatic)

Me'copaani? What's this?

Ner kar’ta My heart

[notcanoncompliant]

Flight (And What That Means To You)

Merry Christmas to @darker-soft-starker! <3

@starkersecretsanta

(I read your prompt and my brain took off, totally deviated from the rom-com feel, I hope you still like it!!)

warnings: mild violence, anxiety attack symptoms (kind of)

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

The Prompt:

Canon Divergence AU - Tony and Peter are neighbors. Tony is not obscenely rich, just a regular Joe, maybe a cop or something and lives across the hall from Peter's apartment. Peter is still Spider-Man and regularly gets caught by Tony limping back to his apartment bloody and beaten, peter gets stuck to his doorknob and there are a lot of awkward moments etc

And away we go...

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

Like many important things, Tony’s life resets with a ‘bang’. 

On his back, ears ringing, staring up at inky-grey smoke that eats up whatever view there had been of the stars, he takes ragged half-breaths and wonders if he’s done enough, if this was the right way for him to go. When his vision tunnels and his consciousness begins to recede, he still doesn’t have an answer.

*

You’re lucky. 

It’s what everyone keeps telling him. Lucky he was far enough away from the blast that he didn’t lose any pieces, lucky his vest held up just enough to keep the shrapnel from burying itself in his chest.

Lucky.

He might be, but it’s hard to feel it when he still hurts like there’s a baby grand parked on his ribs. Harder still when he wakes up, over and over and over, with the taste--the grit--of sand and copper in his mouth the echo of too-hot sun on his skin or the stinging, freezing cling of ice water on his face (in his mouth, his eyes, his stomach, his lungs--he can’t, he can’t, pleasenomorehecan’t).

It takes him four days to wake calmly enough he doesn’t bolt upright, doesn’t frantically pull off sensors and yank the drip out of his arm, doesn’t get held back down and sedated.

It takes four days for him to get his hands on a notepad and a pen.

When he does, he draws a metal behemoth shooting into the open sky.

He has no idea what it means, but he feels free.

*

‘Indefinite medical leave’ should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face. By the time they’d gotten around to giving him the mandatory psych eval, though (and it had gone as swimmingly as expected), he’d been out of the hospital for three weeks, and well-acclimated to feeling like he’d taken a fist to the stomach.

Before, he might’ve argued, fought, done his best to prove that he could still be an asset to the team, that his mid-forties are practically his prime, god damn it! 

He doesn’t, though. None of it seems as important as it used to.

Being taken off the force is the least of his concerns, not when the tug to vent the dreams (visions, almost) onto paper-canvas-something is so strong he shakes with it.

The dreams are wild. Vivid and jarring. He draws bits and pieces of them all. 

He’s got the time to do it, now. 

*

Rogers is the first to stop contacting him. Barnes follows suit. 

Clint hangs on a little longer, but ultimately stops coming around after the first month.

Rhodey doesn’t feel like a loss, for all that he and Tony have undeniably drifted apart. Rhodey’s got his family; Carol and the kids. He has time for coffee, for a quick chat sometimes. He doesn’t ask after the dreams. Tony doesn’t blame him.

Nat sticks around a little longer. Stops by every couple weeks. Comes in and drinks his crappy instant coffee and looks at whatever he’s working on. Sees him go from pencil sketches to paint. 

When she sees his latest piece, she arches a brow at him.

It’s a glove, she says, flatly. The hint of good-natured amusement sparking in her eyes is nice, even if it’s not enough to counteract the rest of her reaction.

She’s a better liar than the others, because she lies with her whole body, her whole self. It’s only because Tony knows where to look does he see the wariness in the way her glance keeps flicking back to the canvas, catching on the bronze shape, on the spots of bright color that contrast so sharply.

The visit ends more quickly than usual (and they were never long to begin with), the redhead gone after a well-crafted excuse and a lingering hug. Tony knows he’ll see her again, but it still feels like a goodbye, of sorts. 

He’s not bitter about any of it, doesn’t blame or begrudge his team for not staying; their jobs, their lives didn’t end when Tony took that blast, when a cut-and-dry shipyard raid (as cut and dry as any raid can be) went a little sideways.

And, if he’s being honest, the relative handful of times he’s seen any of them after his retirement (after four months he’s given up calling it ‘leave’, given up assuming he’ll ever even try to come back), there’s something hanging silently over them, dragging between them. 

The feeling of distance (and slight relief when they part) is mutual, Tony thinks.

*

There’s one constant, outside the dreams. One figure flitting in and out of the corners of his days, his nights, his mind.

His neighbor, Peter, is a mystery. A gorgeous, twenty-something, world-weary mystery who’s eyes flicker too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body whenever Tony opens the door to find him standing there at completely ridiculous hours.

(Not that Tony’s got a healthy circadian rhythm to disrupt, anymore).

It feels less like random kindness and more like he’s been assigned security detail, the kid’s greeting and polite inquiry--How are you today, Mr. Stark? (because he can’t get the kid to call him ‘Tony’)--accompanied by eyes moving too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body, checking for damage, before he’s off again to do whatever it is he does.

Tony’s not really sure what to do with it at first, how to respond. He’s not used to being watched over, is typically the one doing the watching, the protecting. It’s especially difficult the first couple of times, because the kid--Peter--always looks a little worse for wear; favoring one or more of his limbs, and at least one visible, fresh bruise, small scrape or cut marring his features.

He does him the courtesy of not asking about them, because Peter doesn’t ask invasive questions and obviously tries very hard not to look past Tony and into the apartment, important concessions to Tony’s privacy. It’s only fair to let Peter have his, feels like an even (if increasingly painful) trade-off.

He also doesn’t want to do anything to risk losing this. He’s glad his ‘detail’ keeps showing up. Keeps existing. 

*

After a while, it becomes routine. Once a day, Peter knocks, Tony opens, and they have their exchange. It’s...a spot of light in Tony’s world, even if it feels sort of heavy.

The lightness is due in part to the way that, regardless of apparent injury or hour of the day, Peter always offers Tony a genuine smile, even if it’s also quick or small or tired.

Sometimes, though, the smiles are more grimace than anything else. There are bands of steel behind those ones, and Tony wonders how (why) this kid got so strong, and why it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone telling him he doesn’t have to be. On those days, Tony thinks about inviting him in, offering to take a look at the injuries; he’s got first aid training and still keeps his own supplies in his place.

(He doesn’t ever offer to drive Peter to the hospital; the option never seems to occur to him until after Peter’s already vanished, down the hall or into his own apartment across from Tony’s.)

There’s something that stops him, something beyond the respect for Peter’s privacy. Something about the faint blush that appears on Peter’s cheeks sometimes during their short conversations, something about the way his own eyes sometimes drift over Peter’s form in return.

*  

He wonders, sometimes, what Peter would think of the paintings. 

He's imagined it a few times; showing him, watching him see them. He doesn't know if Peter's into art at all (not that Tony even really is, not in the technical sense), but it wouldn't really matter; Tony's fantasies don't usually revolve around the younger’s critique of his work.

More than anything, he wants to see Peter in his minimalist-but-cluttered space, sitting on his couch or leaning against his kitchen counter, propped against the windowsill, a mug of something hot in his hands and a truly relaxed smile on his face.

Sometimes the fantasies are less innocent, but...something in him just wants to see Peter safe.

*

“Okay, we need to talk about this.”

They’re standing in Tony’s doorway, another ass-crack-of-dawn ‘status check’, and there’s blood actually trailing down from Peter’s left sleeve, dripping off the kid’s fingers.

Peter fidgets in place. “...About what?”

In spite of his concern, Tony nearly snorts a laugh at the completely terrible evasion. 

He reigns it in, arches his brows. “You’re getting you on the carpet.”

The kid shoots a quick glance downwards at his hand, blanching slightly. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s--it’s really nothing, I just--”

“‘Nothing’ is a papercut, Peter,” Tony snaps. “Putting aside the bruises, fat lip, and the fact you’re obviously favoring your right leg, you’re standing here with blood running down your arm. That’s not ‘nothing’.”  

He’s tired and frustrated and afraid, finally venting these feelings after weeks of this, weeks of wondering if Peter’s just going to stop showing up, weeks of being on edge between visits even if they come like clockwork because he just can’t lose these moments, he can’t--and he doesn’t realize he’s moved forward into Peter’s space, how close he is until he finishes speaking. 

Peter’s staring at him with saucer-wide eyes, a pink stain on his cheeks, his slightly wheezing breath fanning across Tony’s chin.

Tony backs off quickly, hands in the air. “Fuck, I’m sorry--”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and Tony watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “You--I’m okay. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am. You don’t need to worry about me Mr. Stark.”

The determined set of Peter’s jaw is both compelling and frustrating, and Tony just barely manages to muscle back his urge to argue further.

“Just...I’m here,” he says, finally. “If you need to talk. If you need anything. Please.”

Something desperate and pained slashes across Peter’s features, and then it’s gone. The younger man nods, short and tense, turns and disappears into his apartment.

Tony stares at the closed door for another moment, before stepping out and shutting his own door, heading down the hall. 

Air. Air will be good.

*

Air is good. It’s always good. Always helps after the dreams, chills away the sweat, clears his head.

It doesn’t do quite as much, now, when his worries are linked to reality instead of a dreamscape, but it feels good nonetheless. 

He stands on the roof of the complex, high up, until the edge of the sky begins to change color. Like he does every time he comes up here, he thinks about his favorite of the dreams, the brief period when his nights were filled with the exhilaration of flight.

He hopes Peter has somewhere like this, that he has something good to return to, his own version of reaching the sky.

*  

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good..."

Wind. Reddish puffs of dust in the air, unnaturally colored sky--everything is wrong, everything is ending, failure, failed, no--

"I don't wanna go, please--I don't wanna go!"

He can't lose him, he can't lose the kid--it's his fault, Tony's fault--he shouldn't have been here, he shouldn't have--

Tony bolts upright, gasping past the taste of dust in the air--gritty on his tongue, in his throat, burning his eyes.

With a clumsy, half-conscious drive, he drags himself up off the couch to the easel, practically throwing the painting of the glove (gauntlet) to the side and slapping a blank canvas up.

He doesn't start this one with a pencil sketch, no swipes of graphite or charcoal. The paint ends up on his bare hands, coating his fingers, and then he's frantically tracing and contouring a face, neck, shoulders, craggy grey rock and more of that reddish dirt--shades of beige and brown, orange and red and blue, grey and black twisting (crumbling) away.

Time is nothing, a non-entity; all Tony knows is the need to touch, to hold, to stop the inevitable--

When it's finished, the energy drains with disorienting suddenness. It's difficult to keep his arms extended, so he doesn't; he pulls them towards himself, hunching over with a sob and burying his trembling, paint-tacky hands in his hair.

The dreams have only ever been abstract; images in a mental blender. Vague human shapes and random objects, landscapes--weird, vivid amalgamations of feelings and colors and sensations. Tasting the dirt, feeling the loss; those things are par for the course.

But none of the people in them have ever had a voice; no one has ever said a word.

He couldn’t make out clear features of the face, even staring head on...but the voice that still rings in his head sounds a lot like Peter’s, and now that the frenzy is over, it’s almost paralyzing.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, the dream fades in the way dreams do, and he uncurls with a heaving sigh and stands, drags himself to the kitchen counter to make coffee.

He's already painted it out, it’s usually enough, but when he sits back down in front of the easel, he feels sick, anxious. His hands are unsteady, knuckles white where he grips the handle of his mug, the liquid inside it rippling slightly. 

Patches of the paint are still shiny-wet on the canvas, and part of him wishes it would stay that way, something about the wetness making it seem alive. It's blurred, as though he’s looking at the image from behind frosted glass, but there’s an obvious shape, the body of the owner of that heart-rendingly familiar, rasping voice. It's faceless; a kernel of (relative) normality he clings to, so he can try to convince himself this painting doesn't feel like the manifestation of his greatest failure, of a grave error that doesn't really belong to him but still spreads, aching, behind his ribs.

He's sore everywhere--his shoulders and neck from being hunched over, his arms from being held aloft for far too long. His hands ache, too, and they’re dry, paint cracking and peeling in an ugly neutral blend of the colors he'd smeared on his fingers.

He showers, manages to get the paint out of his hair. 

But he can’t watch as the color flecks and melts (disintegrates) from his hands and disappears down the drain. 

 *

Every day.

Every day for the last four days. 

The dreams and the art are a cycle: he dreams, he draws, he gets a few days respite while he finishes the piece...and then he wakes again from a new nightmare or dreamscape and starts over. 

He’d finished the first painting the same day...but he keeps having the same dream. Keeps hearing Peter beg to stay, keeps feeling the body in his hands crumble away to nothing. The taste of dirt in his mouth won’t leave, isn’t touched by coffee or food. He’s got five variations of the same painting piled in the corner of his apartment, and he’d been sure that if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to live the same horror over and over and over.

So he’s doing something.

He’s maybe ending this vicious repetition, but he’s also making up for the way he’s been ending their conversations more quickly, the way he’s been holding back and hiding, pretending he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt on Peter’s face when Tony’s the one who evades, bids farewell and closes the door.

He’s the one knocking, now.

“Mr. St--Tony?”

Seeing Peter like this--standing there in a t-shirt and boxers in the doorway of his apartment, less bruised than normal, looking confused and alive, he looks amazing--blows whatever plans Tony had away, ash on the wind. 

He doesn’t think, just sighs Peter’s name and pulls the younger man forward into a tight hug, buries a hand in his hair, presses his face in the softness, too, everything in his head spinning with relief and joy and a painful kind of apology--

--before he notices how stiff Peter’s gone in his arms. 

Probably because, in the months since they’ve been doing this, they’ve never actually engaged in physical contact...or had a real conversation beyond the single argument those days ago. Peter doesn’t know about the dreams; he doesn’t know anything, and Tony must seem like he’s having a mental break.

Before he can make himself let go, though, Peter’s arms snap up to wrap around him, tight, so tight it makes Tony’s ribs ache.

It ends too soon, Peter pulling away to stare at him with suddenly wet, red-rimmed eyes and hope so sharp it hurts to look at.

“Are you--do you know? Do you remember?”

Cold trickles down Tony’s spine.

He knows, without a doubt, he should. He should remember, and he doesn’t. It feels like another failure that he can’t say ‘yes’, that he can’t bring himself to answer that hope with something other than tense silence.

His heart breaks when Peter steps back after a few seconds, looking embarrassed and a little panicked.

“Never mind, I’m sorry--”

“Wait, no,” Tony blurts, barely resisting the urge to pull Peter back in. “Don’t--Look, I can’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about, but maybe you could tell me? I just…” He sighs, frustrated at himself, at the feeling that he’s missing something huge and that huge thing is Peter-shaped

“I just need to be around you for a little while,” he finally says. “Is that okay?”

He’s sure he’s going to get a door shut in his face; Peter’s expression is torn, aching, and Tony wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

But he’s lucky. 

“Um, yeah,” Peter says carefully after another long moment, something like resignation coloring his tone. “Come in, please.”

*

The layout of Peter’s apartment is a mirror of Tony’s, but significantly less cluttered. Pretty minimal, actually, less like a choice in aesthetic and more like he’s only just moved in: a futon and a desk for furnishing, a small microwave and coffee pot on the counter, no pictures on the walls or taped to the fridge. 

Tony’s not judging, can’t; he’s never lived particularly extravagantly either, and his studio only looks lived in because of the art supplies taking up a good third of it. 

As for the lack of personal touches, of photos, memories...If anything, it makes Tony feel a further sense of closeness, of camaraderie. He doesn’t have pictures up either, not anymore; can’t look at the ones of he and the team, of he and Rhodey through the years. Not since everything changed.

The futon draws his gaze, again, still pulled down flat, like Peter’s just woken up, or had just laid down for bed. Tony stares at the pillow and rumpled, pulled-back comforter, and feels a twist of guilt (not enough to leave, but it’s still there).

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Peter’s saying as he closes the door and moves to stand a little off to the side. “I wasn’t expecting company at...um. Whatever time it is.”

Cracking a joke would be ideal to diffuse the tension, or maybe even giving a generic, polite response (‘it’s fine’, ‘I don’t mind’, or, ‘you have a lovely home, literal man of my dreams’), but when Tony pulls his gaze from the futon, Peter’s lips are curved in a tight smile, his stance awkward, yearning, like he’s trying not to approach Tony, but he wants to.

“Can I touch you again?” Tony asks. 

He realizes how it sounds as soon as he’s blurted it out, and as he watches Peter blush, lips parting in silent surprise, he wishes he meant it that way; that he was only trying to finagle his way into further messing up Peter’s bedspread, wanting to touch for a reason so mundane as arousal, instead of out of the powerful desire to reassure himself of Peter’s continued existence. 

Before he can apologize or rephrase, he’s got an armful of shaking, but warm and solid, Peter.

Peter’s face--his cheeks, his nose, his lips--are warm, pressing into the bare skin at the junction of Tony’s neck and shoulder, a sensation that takes Tony’s breath away more so than the return of the tight bands of Peter’s arms, one low around Tony’s waist, the other angled up between his shoulder blades. 

Fabric tightens across his shoulders and a little at his neck, like Peter’s gripping a handful of his shirt, and Tony feels more than hears the younger speak. 

“Yes, please. Touch me.”

Tony swallows thickly and hugs Peter back. The ‘thank you’ is burning in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out...so he lets it. Breathes it strained and hollow into Peter’s hair, the kind of ‘relieved’ that hurts so much worse before it gets better, and Peter shivers in his hold.

It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t feel better to hold Peter, this virtual stranger, than it does to even think of being near his family, his old friends (his other friends, other; they’re not gone, they’re just...distant--not gone, not gone, not wrong), but it does. It feels right, in a way nothing else seems to feel anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, “I’m so sorry, Peter, I’m sorry…”

He’s sure he’s holding on tight enough now that it has to hurt, but he can’t make himself stop. His hand ends up back in Peter’s hair, fingers twisting into the soft brown curls, his other hand gripping at the back of Peter’s thin, worn t-shirt, and suddenly he needs more. Needs more proof, needs more confirmation that he’s not dreaming, that Peter’s not going to crumble apart in his arms. He’s just not sure how to say it, if he can--

He flinches when he feels Peter shift, feels him nosing at his throat, feels lips parting.

“I miss you,” Peter whispers, ragged and strained, breath warm against Tony’s skin, and it doesn’t make sense, but it does.

*

The fading bruises on Peter’s skin taste the same as the pale, unblemished places, are just as soft when Tony’s lips and tongue brush over them, and this isn’t what he’d meant to do, but it’s what’s happening now and neither of them appear inclined to stop it.

They should be talking; Tony should be wondering about the question Peter asked when they hugged for the first time. He should be panicking about how Peter apparently knows him enough to mourn him (he’d said ‘I miss you’ the way Tony talks to his mother, like he was talking to a gravestone) even though Tony had definitely never met him before he left the force, before the dreams. Would’ve remembered a face like his (an everything like his, really).

But they’re not talking. Instead, he’s tangled with Peter on the futon, dragging his lips from bloom to bloom of fading green-yellow-purple down Peter’s torso, his scalp tingling with every reflexive tightening of the fingers in his hair, the disbelief and awed arousal on Peter's face as much an aphrodisiac as the taste of his skin, the texture of it under Tony's hands.

Every motion feels like something slotting into place, the restless places in Tony's mind settling a little further, the empty spaces filling with heat and emotions too big for how little he really knows this person--this beautiful, strong, wonderful being.

Tony’s not panicking. He’s not wondering. He still doesn’t know how this is happening, still doesn’t know Peter beyond the last few months, barely knows him now, but nothing has felt this easy, this right, in a long time.

When Peter spills, warm and liquid, over where their hands are wrapped together around their twin hardness, Tony swallows Peter's soft gasp, kisses him and groans Peter's name as he finds his own release.

*

There are things he needs to say, things he needs to show Peter, the way he knows there are things Peter needs to show him, tell him.

The enormity is there, a strangely relieving weight, blanketing as they sink into each other in soft, post-coital haze.

It's complicated. It’s bigger than the dreams, bigger than anything Tony can fathom.

But when Tony fades, curled together on the futon, Peter's head under his chin and one of Peter’s hands resting on his sternum…

He dreams of flight.

***

[lostinfantasies38]

14 Days of DA Lover’s - Day 10 Surprise Kiss

@scharoux @14daysofdalovers

Pairing: Cullen/Alistair

Locus Amoenus

[def Latin - “pleasant place,” usually a charming field or a walled garden]

Strolling the quiet fortress in the evening was a favored pastime. He noticed many things that others might overlook. Dorian and Varric discussing history in the library. Cassandra and Josephine swapping romance novels with excited giggles.  Lels and Vivienne plotting on the mage’s terrace or maybe discussing their mutual love of fashion, but since they spoke in Orlesian, he wasn’t sure which it was. Since teaming up with the Inquisitor, Alistair began to see the various companions as family and the castle his home. Surprising, indeed, since the last time he lived in a castle it had certainly not felt homey.

Of course, his feelings had absolutely nothing to do with the enigmatic Commander who also lived and breathed and, Maker’s breath, prowled the halls like a caged lion. Alistair sighed heavily. He’d pined for Cullen since he was old enough to realize his brotherly affection for him wasn’t quite so… brotherly.

Leliana was right… again. Damn that maddening woman! He should have spoken to Cullen about things face-to-face before he left. Then, he wouldn’t have spent 16 days, 9 hours, and 27 minutes stressing about his reaction. If he had simply told him, instead of leaving a furtive note and running away, he could have spent the time away either celebrating…or more likely, patching up his battered heart away from prying eyes. Now, he had to walk blindly into a mess of his own making - well, he would if he hadn’t been avoiding every opportunity to speak to him over the last two days.

Andraste’s flaming sword!

Entering the garden, Alistair found it blissfully empty and quickly located his favorite spot at the far end of the cultivated square. Closing his eyes, he leaned against a column hidden by riotous purple blooms and tried to muster the courage to do what he needed to do. Everyone is at dinner and I’m sulking behind the wisteria, hiding from my problems - like usual.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The rich baritone startled him and he wrapped his arms around the cool marble in shock. Swallowing hard, his hazel eyes landed on the man casually leaning on the wall across from him, noting the twinkle in his amber eyes, and his surprising lack of armor.

His attire was the same as his own, except his tunic was red instead of cream, and Alistair’s lips twitched.  Of course, he would wear red – it was practically his signature color. Not that he was complaining, because the shade definitely suited him and without his mantle Alistair could appreciate how Cullen’s muscular legs filled out his breeches.

Clearing his throat, Alistair stammered. “Cullen… I, ah… shit. I’m really sorry about the letter… and everything. I shouldn’t have just thrown it in your lap and disappeared like I did. I –“

Cullen’s warm chuckle interrupted his rambling. “I hope you aren’t sorry about the letter, because I’m not.”

Alistair sucked in a ragged breath as his lips curled into that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk that made him weak in the knees. Producing a red rose from behind his back, he twirled it with careless finesse. He nearly collapsed; his heart pounding so hard he thought it would surely burst. A strangled wheeze tumbled from his mouth without his permission, rudely exposing his absolute astonishment to the man who never had so much as a single hair out of place.

In three quick strides, Cullen stood before him, one hand cupping his face with a tenderness that Alistair dreamed of for almost twenty years. Cullen’s gaze flicked to his lips and closed the two inches that separated them, scattering all rational thought from his mind as he allowed himself to be swept away, fantasy at last made real.

Full lips moved against his own, the scar surprisingly smooth, and Alistair swore he could hear Andraste singing. When they deepened the kiss, brandy and mint danced on his tongue, setting his blood aflame. The moans ripped jointly from their lungs proved he was not alone in this maelstrom of emotion. The arm hooked around his waist might well have been steel, holding him captive as their sweet kiss rapidly gave way to something more primal, insistent, demanding. He needed more; he needed all of Cullen, everything he thought he could never have, yet hoped for since his youth.

Separating with a gasp as his brain asserted the need for oxygen, Alistair stared at Cullen in awe. The blond was just as dazed, swallowing hard before he rasped, “Is that answer enough for you?”

Alistair blinked in residual astonishment while scrambling for a response. “W-why...did you never say anything?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced in embarrassment. “I’m sure for the same reason you didn’t. I was… afraid that I would lose your friendship and… I –“

“Would rather have that than nothing, at all.” Alistair finished and they smiled shyly at one another. “When did you know?”

The blond cleared his throat, features pinking slightly with his admission. “Ahh, when you poured that bucket of dish water over my head and instead of making me angry, it made me laugh. Surprised the hell out of you, if I recall.”

Alistair snorted. “Surprised the hell out of all of us, actually, but Maker’s breath, Cullen! I’d already been in love with you for a year at that point!” Recognizing the enormity of his words, Alistair clammed up and stepped aside to flee. Yet Cullen always anticipated when he would retreat and snagged his arm to return him to his original position.

His eyes shone like polished bronze in the fading light of the garden and Alistair was lost in them. Cullen’s breathing increased along with his and he hoped, he prayed, that he had not stuck his foot so far in his mouth that he couldn’t dig his way out, if needed. A strong arm snaked around his back, deliberately pulling him closer until they were intimately flush. Uncertain what he should do with his arms, he settled for wrapping them around the blond which must have been the correct choice as the other man visibly relaxed in his hold.

Alistair was the taller of the two, but in this moment, he felt small and vulnerable. Cullen also seemed unsure, but certainly more confident than Alistair after his slip. Brushing a hand across Alistair’s cheek, Cullen whispered hoarsely, “I love you, too, Alistair. I have for… far too long without being able to tell you. I-I want this… you… us. If… you’ll have me, that is. I know that I am not… whole anymore.”

“Don’t say that!” Alistair’s wide eyes pleaded, gripping him firmly, mimicking the tightness in his chest. “No one can ever understand what you’ve been through, Cullen, not even me. But you are not broken. You are a survivor and I have so much damned respect for you. Giving up lyrium? Leaving the Templars? Commanding an army?” Alistair thumbed his stubbled jaw. “You’re an inspiration.”

Cullen scoffed softly, glancing at the ground as color flared up his neck and face. Alistair smiled and lifted his chin, stating adamantly, “Yes, Cullen, you are. You’re an inspiration to me.” Tears briefly welled in his golden gaze, but he blinked them away with a small quirk of his lips, relaxing in his gentle hold.

Alistair glanced at the rose in Cullen’s other hand. “Is that the one I gave you,” he whispered reverently, melting at the tenderness with which Cullen cradled the bloom in his large hand, a fond smile decorating his face as he admired the flower.

Cullen nodded slowly as though lost in thought, his thumb delicately rubbing the velvety petals. “I… ahem… asked Dorian to enchant it – preserve it, so it won’t die.”

Alistair rocked on his heels in shock. After a heartbeat, he gasped breathlessly, “You told Dorian?”

His brow furrowed with uncertainty, fear beginning to swirl in his amber eyes. “Yes… only because I needed his help. Should I not have? I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.”

In response, Alistair captured his lover’s mouth again, pouring his heart and soul into the kiss. A few moments later, he rested his forehead to Cullen’s, choking back tears when he spoke. “Of course, I don’t mind, you chivalrous knight! You told someone about me… us.”

Cullen cupped the nape of Alistair’s neck, affectionately circling his soft skin with battle-worn fingers, the clouds of anxiety now banished in favor of understanding. “Of course I told someone. You’re not a dirty little secret, Alistair. I love you. I am in love with you and I have been for half my life. I never expected you to feel the same way, but I am not ashamed of you or us… as a couple.”

Alistair’s tongue was thick with emotion when he replied, “I love you, too. I’m in love with you, Cullen.” Brushing their lips lightly together, he then pressed a chaste kiss against the scar he loved, but knew made Cullen self-conscious. The blond’s breath caught at the action – so much said in that one touch. A lifetime of kisses and acceptance in one and neither of them ever felt so full.

“Come with me,” Alistair whispered, afraid to speak any louder and potentially break the spell in the quiet garden. Cullen nodded mutely, eyes suspiciously bright as he clung to Alistair’s hand, gingerly holding the enchanted rose as they stole up the stairs to the battlements and Cullen’s tower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flower symbolism:

Red Rose: the lover’s rose

Wisteria: this vine has multiple meanings, but I used it in this scene for this particular one “serious devotion, whether it’s to a cause or another person”

[madmandex-blog]

Dexter Family Newsletter 2019

Dexter Family Newsletter 2019

As I reflect back on our year, I can’t help but think of Charles Dickens and his classic line…..It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…...and how appropriate it might be to summarize our 2019.

It was the age of wisdom…….as in Kelsi completing her first year in grad school at Rockhurst University in Kansas City. If you didn’t know Kelsi and listened to her talk about school, you might think she is barely passing.  If I had a nickel for every time Kelsi told me something like….That final exam did not go well; I did terrible….Only for me to later find out that she got something like a 107 on the test, well then I might have a lot of nickels to jingle in my pocket.  Kelsi is getting all A’s as usual and well on her way to graduating in 2020 with a Masters in Speech Pathology.  She is enjoying her classes and her clinical training, and has a great supervisor who is guiding her to be gainfully employed later in 2020, most likely in a school setting.  Nic is also excelling at Rockhurst and working on his Doctorate in Physical Therapy. What impresses me most about Nic and Kelsi is that they indeed have wisdom in their respective areas of study. In other words, they really seem to know their shit.  Meanwhile, Kaylee Jo is now in her sophomore year in high school where she obsesses about getting good grades, which she always does.  Ava Jae is in 8th grade and doing well.  Don’t tell anyone, but, I consider her my smartest kid.

It was the age of foolishness…….as in Mike spending countless hours managing and competing in a mere 7 fantasy football leagues, or in Mike completing his 42nd Old Chicago World Beer Tour.  Along the way, I earned a leather lettermen jacket which Kelly just today told me that I looked like my Dad when wearing it.  I took that as a compliment and proudly wore it about town where people looked at me in awe, as they often do, but, I digress.  Mike also became a more well-rounded drinker in 2019. You see, I was lucky to get to spend a lot of time with my eldest daughter this summer who not only got me addicted to the Crime Junkies Podcast, but also too good wine.  Credit is also due to the great Tackes family for showing me the redeeming virtues of drinking wine and now even whiskey.  So don’t be surprised to see me knocking back a Red Cab or sipping a bourbon in a cool sophisticated fashion.  If only, I had known about these things years ago…..what might have been, or perhaps not been, like 42 beer tours.  

It was the epoch of belief……..in love and marriage as Kelsi became Mrs. Nic Arnone on August 10th in what turned out be an awesome ceremony and beautiful day for the two of them.  When they were both working on details like what are we having for having for dessert a couple of days before the big day, I was frankly a little worried, but, as it turns out the two of them are master wedding planners.  Everything was great from the venue, to the decorations, to the caterer, to the photographer, and most importantly…..to the bartender, backed by yours truly stocking the bar.  Yes, we had an awesome reception and we were so blessed to have so many of you travel all the way to Kansas City to celebrate with us!  In case you weren’t able to be there, rumor has it that there is video available of Mike’s fantastic wedding toast speech.  Sure, there are critics like Kaylee and Ava who will say, it wasn’t all that, but, most of those at the reception gave me high fives for my performance…at least the ones who were drinking that is. Kelsi is most happy that as a Speech Therapist that I finally learned how to pronounce her new last name.  For those of you who don’t know, you need to emphasize the last “e” in Arnone as it is an Italian name.  After meeting Nic’s family, I finally believe he is indeed Italian, after I had long presumed he was Norwegian or Swedish given his fair skin, blue eyed, blonde hair good looks.  

It was the epoch of incredulity…….and speaking of family heritage, Mike took the Ancestry DNA test in 2019. Upon arrival of the test kit, I was in great disbelief as to how hard it actually is to fill up a one ounce test tube with saliva. Trust me, it was challenging.  As it turns out, I am 59% English, 33% Irish, 3% Swedish, 3% German, and 2% Norwegian, which makes me 110% Awesome, which I didn’t need a DNA test to know. So far, it is incredulous that I have not found any long lost rich relatives who want to connect with me, but, I will keep the hope. Speaking of incredulous, Ava will be in high school next year, while Kaylee will have her Driver’s License in as few as 17 more days!  I for one can’t believe we all survived her driver’s training, which started in local parking lots and proceeded to hairpin turns, around tight corners, at the speed of light. Only A.J. Foyt could have pulled off some of the harrowing driving miracles that I witnessed at times this summer!  But, we all survived, and with no dents in our vehicles!  I joke (sort of); Kaylee is actually a very good driver and was even told that she best driver in her Driver’s Ed class.  So you can feel safe when you see her drive by you in her 2007 BMW, which Drew gave to her as a Christmas present to her shrieking delight.  This is now the 2nd time Drew has given a car to one of his sisters.  I can only hope that he has another one to hand down to Ava in a few years.  The good news for Ava is that Drew has said that his next car will be a Tesla.

Even more incredulous is that a once self-proclaimed liberal, who once carved a pumpkin in the likeness of then candidate Barack Obama is morphing into a conservative right before our very eyes.  Yes, people are in a state of disbelief over these developments.  While he does not yet host a show on Fox News, many have looked in disbelief at Mike as he shares his theories on the likes of capital punishment.  Not to mention, the poor teachers of Dunlap who look to their email boxes in fear that they might receive another long diatribe from Mike on what is wrong with our educational system. Don’t worry, Mike still has a few liberal ideas and is still proud of President Obama.  But, might we see a Trump carved pumpkin on Mike’s doorstep in 2020?  

As a final point on incredulity, I bet you can’t believe how long this newsletter is as I can’t believe you are still reading it.  Don’t worry, more good stuff is coming.

It was the season of light……for Nic and Kelsi who enjoyed an awesome honeymoon trip to Disney and the bright beaches of Ft. Lauderdale.  Kelly and Ava also traveled to sunny Florida, with stops at Disney and the beaches of Tampa-St. Pete, while attending Ava’s Starquest World Dance Finals in Orlando.  Ava and her dance teammates at MLSD continued to shine on the dance floor, while bringing home lots of trophies along the way.  Ava and her DMS POMS teammates also brought home a trophy from the State Finals this year in the Jr. High Division. Ava is again on the DMS POMS team and also spending lots of time at the MLSD dance studio.  We can’t wait to see her compete again in 2020, which will include her first ever solo performance. And, her latest dance project involves trying to teach her Dad how to dance in Tik Tok videos with her!  These will surely go viral. Meanwhile, Ava is still Ava….always energetic, always wanting to do something, always wanting Starbucks, and always, always asking me for something or to do something.  She is my constant season of light.  In fact, I sometimes think of Ava as Carol Anne like from the Poltergeist movie.  You see she has a life force that is hard to match and keeps me smiling, cursing, smiling, yelling smiling and speaking of yelling….. Kelly might occasionally yell at Ava (as she is this very minute!) and/or Kaylee for their continued inability and/or unwillingness to do seemingly simple things like throw a wrapper in the actual garbage can, maintain a room where you can actually see the floor, etc. Kelly is still Kelly, the straw that stirs our drink, the one who tries to keep us in check, and the one we, including our dogs can all rely on.  Kelly continues to work with awesome kids, who happen to have a few special needs, at Dunlap Middle School.  I likely have said this before, but, they, like us, are lucky to have her.  

The season of light was also in full effect for Drew in 2019.  Like most people do, he took a month vacation, this time in sunny South Africa, where he did things like go on a safari, dive into the ocean in a shark cage to see a Great White, see the great water falls of Victoria Falls, hang out in the desert of Namibia, and lounge on the beaches and climb the mountains of Cape Town.  He also spent a month in Manhattan for work. Drew lives in the River North area of Chicago, where we all enjoy visiting him.   Thanksgiving in Chicago was a highlight.  In January, Drew has plans to visit Vietnam for a few weeks and make a stop at Boracay in the Philippines.  Yes, it sucks to be Drew.  He will also have extended work assignments in Boston and Washington, D.C., so stay tuned to his social media pages for amazing photographs and drone videos to document his journeys.

It was the season of darkness…….for both Mike and Kaylee, who unlike the rest of the family did not feel the sand under their toes of the warm sunshine upon their faces.  The longest trip these two took in 2019 was to Rochester, Minnesota, in the midst of winter, to attend Kaylee’s Speedo Sectional Championship Meet.  Despite the cold and snow, we both had fun.  And in the hopes of coming out of the darkness, I admit to the world (and mostly Kelly) that I received a speeding ticket on the way home, while dodging potholes and trying to stay interested while driving the monotonous roadways of the northland.  This has been a secret that only Kaylee and I have shared, with Kaylee often smiling and blurting out a whoo-whoo-police siren like sound anytime she felt it necessary to seek favor with me, while in the presence of my wife. So, Kelly, my beautiful, loving, forgiving wife, now you know and Kaylee, you have nothing to hold over my head any longer, at least for the time being.

It was the spring of hope…….for Kaylee and her commitment to the sport of swimming. She continues to love the sport, and work hard, and has renewed resolve to achieve her goals.  She has a group of great friends on the team and is driven by Jersey Mike, her new coach, who yours truly worked hard to recruit to Peoria, along with the rest of it was the PAWW team.  Kaylee made a tough decision to forgo her high school swim season in favor of making a greater training commitment.  I was proud of her resolve in making this decision and remain proud of her in all aspects of what she does, and who she is, with the great exception of her sense of what a clean room is J.  

It was the winter of despair…….as Kelly and Mike look around their house and dream of home improvements in 2020, while still wondering how we can pay for things like dance classes, swimming, and college.  Kelly and Mike did close out the year by replacing our 20 year old kitchen appliances.  Back to those kids who can’t seem to hit the broad side of a barn with a wrapper, let alone a waste basket, we purchased a fancy new waste can in a last ditch effort to solve the problem. The new stainless steel trash can is our new pride and joy and opens automatically at the wave of the hand.  While enjoying all this new technology, our dryer just went out, so back to Sherman’s we go!  Speaking of technology, Kelly and Mike finished the year with a fun night in Chicago where a true life robot delivered “forgotten toothbrushes” to our room. In addition to home improvements in the New Year, more resolutions for Mike include meditation, yoga, and drinking more wine (but only the good stuff).  I think all three of these can likely be done at the same time.

Yes, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times….Like all families, we had some challenges to deal with, but those were far outweighed by many blessings. I am very lucky to have an awesome wife, four awesome kids and new son-in-law, our two awesome dogs Tahyo and Isla, along with our awesome family and friends.  We have had a wonderful Christmas as a family and look forward to a great 2020! Thank you and Merry New Year to you all!  May God bless you in new ways in the New Year!

P.S. – I consider this a living document in that I will likely be asked to edit for omissions, inaccuracies, offenses to my beloved family members, or over the likely fact that I wrote some of the same exact words last year.

[terrible-tentacle-theatre]

The Bestiary: Cleaner Mimic

Disclaimer: While this article is founded in scientific fact, it contains hyberbole and conscious exaggerations for the sake of comedy. Do not take my ramblings at face value. You can find the sources at the end of the article and tools for scientific fact-checking under the “Learn more” link on my blog.

This, is a coral reef.

My god.

The average coral reef, contrary to most popular belief, is a damn deadly place. It’s akin to one of those kung-fu movies that feature a beautiful, classy lady clad in a traditional qipao who inevitably turns out to be the one person in the entire movie that you should definitely not have fucked with. Bladed fans are not pleasant, people.

Coral reefs are like that lady. Silk hiding steel. The steel magnolia. And several other allegories involving steel and other metallurgy products.

Don’t let the pretty coral structures fool you is basically what I’m saying here. The same laws of nature apply in the prettiest blue oceans as the ugliest swamps, because Mother Nature, creative as she may be, has no sense of human aesthetics. The most colorful ones are usually also those who will slit your throat and snatch your purse the quickest.

Take the giant moray (Gymnothorax javanicus) for example. Long and pretty colored it may be, it’s still a suicidally dumb idea to approach it without proper precautions. Its body can reach up to three goddamn meters, and it has a second set of jaws inside its mouth to pull you into its maw with.

…

…No.

No, I’m not going to make another Alien reference. It’s too easy. Fuck off.

And if you think „oh it’s easy, just stay away from the cave”, it has another unpleasant surprise in stock for you: it’s got buddies. Buddies such as the roving coralgrouper (Plectropomus pessuliferus), a fuckoff huge predatory grouper that will very gladly team up with the moray to hunt your ass down if you’re sufficiently tasty-looking and sufficiently a fish. The grouper sweeps through the open water for prey while the moray mops out gaps and crevices, ensuring that you have nowhere to run. Symbiosis is a wonderful thing.

It’s like Touhou, except instead of a bunch of tiny bullets you’re expected to dodge two huge fuckin fish, and you don’t get a single Fantasy Seal. ZUN is taking notes somewhere.

I think I got my point across. Coral reefs are no laughing matter, beautiful as they may be. It’s the same fish-eat-fish world out there as in all other waters.

While our specific example here (the moray and the grouper) inhabits the pretty murderlands of the Red Sea, the same rule of thumb applies anywhere else too, such as in warm waters of the the Indo-Pacific region. This is where today’s review subjects spends its little existence of piracy and treachery on the sea.

Close your eyes for a moment and picture that you’re a humble, ordinary cleanerfish (Labroides dimidiatus).

You eke out a respectable living on the coral reefs of the Indo-Pacific in the business of (surprise, surprise) cleaning. You avoid getting your day ruined by some big mean mother fucker with teeth the size of your whole body by offering to clean the filth, dirt and the gore of your devoured fellows off of said mother fucker’s body. It’s a good business and you’re basically under a protectorate from the entire reef: nobody will eat the best guy who keeps their scales clean.

Life is all good.

Until one day your customers show up at your door with torches and pitchforks, calling for your blood, that is.

So what the hell happened, you ask? Until yesterday you were a widely popular small local business, and now everyone is calling you a cheater who exploits their trust for your own gain.

What happened is this guy.

Yo.

Grip something sturdy: no, this isn’t another picture of the same fish. Clearly some JoJo-tier bullshit is going on here.

What you just touched… was your own future self!

Meet the cleaner mimic (Aspidontus taeniatus), also known as the false cleanerfish. While not a mimic in the classic chompy treasure chest monster sense, it’s every bit as sneaky and assholish. You might think it’s just another cleanerfish, but it’s actually a clever master of some goddamn clever cloak-and-dagger disguise bullshit.

Taking on the appearance of the cleanerfish and imitating its signature “business is open” dance (spreading its fins and waving its tail up and down), the mimic now enjoys the same protectorate, since nobody would eat the dude who gives everyone regular massages and scrubdowns. It could probably live its entire life comfortably, enjoying its undeserved safety, if not for the fact that it ruins its own chances at this through an acute case of chronic backstabbing disorder.

See, it’s like this: The mimic sets up shop on some coral reef, preferably close to a cleanerfish station. This is because it needs a location which fish regularly visit for cleaning off their filthy, filthy scales. Then, this diminutive conman sets its plan into action.

The plan is simple:

Look like cleanerfish.

Act like cleanerfish.

Wait until unsuspecting “clients” show up at your place for a good cleaning.

Bite a chunk out of their fins and RUN.

HAHAHAHAHAHA FUCKING SUCKERS

Instead of a scrubbing, all the poor clients got was becoming scrubs themselves.

So you can probably see why the poor cleanerfish’s reputation thus goes downhill. Afterall, the only way to distinguish your friendly neighborhood cleaner-man from the asshole who steals your organs is by the position of their mouths, which is not what you’re normally looking at when you enter a massage salon.

The cleanerfish has its mouth on the end of its head like this:

Meanwhile, the mimic has its mouth a little underslung its head like so:

Just look at this smug little shithead. Even his face is perpetually locked in a haughty grin. If the ocean was an imageboard, the cleaner mimic would be all the smug anime girl reaction images.

That's it. That's literally it. Other than this one tiny detail on a fish that's already tiny as shit, the two are virtually indistinguishable. If it wasn't already a false cleanerfish, this guy would be a catfish instead.

So long story short, everyone on the coral reef is getting catfished big time by this guy and they take all his dirty little tricks hook line and sinker. This, of course, develops into full on drama. Blogs are deleted. Callout posts are written. Receipts are collected. And the poor bastard at the center of it all is the falsely-accused cleanerfish.

BATESIAN MIMICS DON’T INTERACT

If the local fish are sufficiently dumb, the cleaner mimic can fuck with a reef community for its entire life. Surprisingly enough, however, most local fish are not sufficiently dumb. Regular clients of the cleanerfish will learn to distinguish it from the mimic if they fall for the Nigerian prince scam enough times, and reportedly give the duplicitous little fucker a chase, forcing it to abandon its usual diet of nipped-off fins and skin for a relatively more vegetarian regimen of tube worms and fish eggs. And all because it couldn’t keep its teeth off of the locals. Good job, false cleanerfish. Good job.

And you know the worst part about this entire bullshit? If you’re a fish, and you roll up to a cleaner station to get your act tidied up, and the local cleanerfish starts working on your scales, you still can’t be sure it’s not a cleaner mimic. Because, see, the mimic only attacks its cleaning clients in about 20% of encounters. Now your weekly bathtime comes with a side order of Russian roulette. I hope you’ll have a fun time.

Of course, there is one way to know if your masseuse is in fact a mimic: if it opens its mouth and it looks like this, bail the fuck out of there. No amount of personal hygiene is worth that shit.

Sources

Encyclopedia of Life (EoL)

Ocean Biogeography Information System (OBIS)

FishBase

World Register of Marine Species (WoRMS)

National Geographic

Vail, Manica & Bshary. 2013. Referential gestures in fish collaborative hunting. Nature Communications. 

[aurimeanswind]

I’m More of a Winter—Sunday Chats—1/28/18

Oddly enough, I find myself more “happy” or more at home and comfortable through the winter. It’s my favorite season, yet this one seems to not provide the same boons to excitement as the previous have. There is far less joy to be found, and that kind of sucks.

But we move on with the show.

Talking About The Week I Had

I’ve come to both hate and somewhat enjoy talking about having terrible weeks and rough times. I always, in my heart, feel I am begging for attention. And there must be some honesty in that, right? But I also feel this sense of responsibility and obligation to my internet presence that I need to keep sending those thoughts and feelings out there, and that maybe I’ll feel better when I do. And I usually do. There is always a warm and loving outcry of support when I do, and it always warms my heart, without fail.

But I dunno. It’s hard. I have really bad days and I put myself in a dark place, and while I love the honesty, I don’t want to share that because it’s both personal and it looks like I am begging for good vibes to be sent. Obviously this is all counteracted by me openly expressing my frustrations here (or so my brain hopes) but it’s a difficult side to every coin. The one that’s aware of the more selfish-seeming repercussions of crying out for help, and that just so wishes to be like, not bad on your own. 

I think with my depression and fits of morbid thoughts and feelings of wanting to hurt myself, that’s always the fall back. I just want to be good without having to ask for help. The idea of, “well why can’t I just be alright on my own? Why does this have to be a thing where I have to have me picked up off the ground by my wonderful companions who’d graciously do so, but I can’t just “be” on my own?” When i say I express frustration in sharing my feelings of being depressed, I think it helps to empathize from that angle:

I’m not frustrated because I don’t want to ask for help, I’m frustrated because I was never given the opportunity to not need it.

Does that make sense?

God I hope so. In short I had a bad spell of self-hatred style depression this week, and this is me just airing it out those feelings. If it doesn’t make sense, ah don’t worry about it, but if you saw me struggling this week, that’s your bit of context.

What’s On Tap

Predominantly I’ve been playing one thing this week, and that’s been going back through The Witcher 3. That’s a great goddamn video game.

The Witcher 3

There is just something about Yennefer that... goddamn. She is just like a magnet for me. I definitely feel to her what Geralt does. It’s an attraction that goes beyond appearance. She isn’t like, the best person? either? But I just adore her. She fits the mold of a partner in so many respects, and peeling back the layers of her character are excellent.

I got to Skellige and boy that is just the best part of that game hands down.

The snow, the wintery peaks, the people of Skellige, it’s just so much better than anything you see in Velen or Novigrad I think. Not to say either of those chapters are bad, they’re excellent, but I think it just shows that Skellige is that much more interesting of an area. I think that, to some extent, derives from the fact that Velen and Novigrad are neighboring areas, and so their culture is very similar. It gets me even more excited to see Touissant, the place added in Blood and Wine, because that is also a totally separate part of that world.

Celeste

I’ve managed to put a few hours into Celeste now, where when we recorded the podcast I had only put about a half hour into it.

I worry that maybe my expectations for this game were set too high, especially with folks continually telling me how impactful it’s emotional aspects are. I’m trying to keep my expectations in check, but I will say so far the game has done some pretty interesting things.

On the gameplay level, it has the tightness of something like Towerfall, applied to very Super Meat Boy reminiscent platforming levels that are short, consumable, and challenging. It kind of reminds me that I’m not really in the mood for something that is just outwardly so challenging right now though. Like, it makes you frustrated and you’re supposed to derive enjoyment from the victory, but the levels are very long and frustrating at times, and I’m not getting the same satisfaction I got from something like Cuphead. 

That, mixed with the really interesting story bits makes me kind of just want to get to the next story beat above everything else. The constant dying and repeating of the same challenges impedes that.

Maybe most of my frustration is that each “chapter” bases itself around a different mechanic, and a lot of those have been more just annoying than anything else. One was these platforms that you can move by pressing against them while holding them, which worked, but another was ground or wall that you can’t retread once you’ve touched it once or you die, and that was just zero fun.

There is a very interesting scene where you have to calm yourself from a panic attack, and it’s very evocative, so maybe there is something too Celeste, but right now I’m more mixed than I’d like to be. Overall it definitely plays well, I’m just unsure of if I am buying everything there.

Questions

Like always, look for my tweets on Sundays with the hashtag #SundayChats in it, respond with your question, and be in the chats! Let’s do this!

I like that Ubisoft essentially did this by putting Mario in XCOM last year.

But like, what if Princess Peach was a leader in Civilization 6?

How good would that be?!

Have Mushroom Kingdom units?! Build Peach’s Castle as a World Wonder?! Having to import mushrooms from other city states to appease our great lord and savior Princess Peach?! PEACH getting NUKED by GHANDI?!

Anyway.

I feel like I can’t think of any mind bending ones, or ones that haven’t been done before, save for the Princess Peach one. Like, I’d love to see an strategy game with the Tales characters, and that already exists. I’d love to see a third person action game with Final Fantasy characters, and that kind of exists, and that’s also kind of happening with the FF7 Remake. I’d love to see Vincent from Catherine as a character in a Persona game with all adults, but that feels like a cop out. 

Link playing Baseball? in MLB the show? 

I’ll think on it and if I come up with anything good I’ll tweet it at you.

I don’t know that series sounds like its for weebs.

Nah I’m kidding, I’m glad everyone seems to be having fun with Monster Hunter World. I definitely have a bit of FOMO, but after that beta I really doubt I’d have fun with it.

Nabeshin would go Insect Glaive. Scott would get the biggest and weightiest sword. Tony you’d get whatever you’d get. You said you were trying the Bow on the latest show, so maybe that? And I’d be the cat and I’d be chilling on an inflatable tube.

Hands for feet. Duh.

I’d get like, those toe-shoes, which would basically be gloves, and then go on my merry, tree-swinging way. Like, I’d finally have my dream of being able to have four hands. Ugh. Feet for hand sounds awful because you’d still have “arms” so its not like you’d be able to four-footed run. 

Garbage.

I have no clue what this is.

*Does a quick google*

So Like, I am only loosely familiar with Big Brother, and I hate reality TV (I know Jazz, I’m sorry) but this seems like, totally boring! No big names at all. The entertainment weekly article I read showing the contestants for this upcoming one were recognized by their recent “Dancing with the Stars” placements, and that’s just fucking depressing.

But yeah, I like the idea of celebrities that don’t know they hate each other slowly learning that they do, in fact, hate each other all for your viewing pleasure, sure, if you’re into that sort of thing. But at least throw like, Liam Neeson in there to choke somebody or something.

Oh man there is so much I’d love to see Rocksteady do. They’ve definitely become a favorite developer of mine, even if i have a tenuous love-hate relationship with Batman Arkham Knight. 

I mean they are almost definitely working on something Batman. I feel like we don’t end this year without knowing exactly what they are making, or without it releasing. I think Justice League/Batman Beyond would be cool, but I just worry that they aren’t going that route.

I want them to break away from Batman. I think they’ve earned enough clout to do their own thing, and that’d be the thing I’m most excited about, but it may ultimately just be another Arkham game.

I’d probably kill myself right away tbh.

I know that’s a little morbid haha, but I’m definitely not making it. I have really bad asthma, so assuming we are getting “infected” “running” zombies I am boned. I’ve also never fired a gun before, nor do I really have any interest in doing so. I’m also a pacifist and hate the idea of hurting other living things, dead or not. I’d also not want to be a hindrance to me loved ones who are stronger than me and can live on. And boy it’d be a fucking bummer to just watch humans kill humans over food and water and guns and stuff. I just don’t want to been that world (which is kind of our world, I know, yes).

And knowing my luck I’d be patient zero, so there’s also that.

First, I want to say:

fuck Captain Jack Sparrow.

That being said.

I want Sly Cooper’s ancestor who was also a Pirate, Henriette Cooper.

Hell, I’d probably just want Sly Cooper too.

And maybe Captain Kidd, but like, cool Lady Captain Kidd from AC Black Flag.

And Nato Johnston, who is real.

Jurge Cruz is into some deep web shit with his crypto-mining operation.

It’s messed up.

And very impressive.

That’s a really good question. I want to say yes, because I think that’d be cool, but I don’t know of any Arc System Works game that’s made it big there. There probably (definitely) is one? But I just don’t know it. Maybe Guilty Gear. 

I’d say no because I think the way the controls work in FighterZ is just too simplified. I don’t know what the skill threshold for that game is, but who knows, maybe it’s possible. God wouldn’t that be rad?

This is a tough question. I saw this and I think, at least partially, thats what my opening thoughts bit was about. I don’t really think there is, and I don’t think that is such a bad thing, right?

Like that doesn’t make you any less of a friend, and this goes for everyone to anyone they know with mental illness. If you’re there, supportive, and send the good vibes and are understanding of their issues, you're doing it right. I think it’s people that just lack empathy or say “why aren’t you just happy?” that are the ones super fucking up.

I’d say just empathize with the fact that sometimes all you can do is send support, and that’s totally enough. So don’t sweat it.

Christ.

Joel’s Ears from The Last of Us because apparently that mother fucker can just hear through walls. 

And maybe.... uhhh... The lady from The Sexy Brutale who can hear codes being typed in on keypads from the room over? That’s lit.

Goddamn my arms would just be horrifying tendrils though. Imagine if this combined with my feet that are hands and I’m just a four-eared two-handed monster crawling around listening with my big stalk-ears?!

God help us for this image will never leave my brain.

Ah so you play the Wraith eh?? Well that’s good to know. Time to get my STRATS ready. Of course you’d play the most broken monster though.

And probably never but I’m keeping the dream going.

Evolve was good you guys.

9.0/10, Irrational Passions.

I REVIEWED IT.

http://irrationalpassions.com/evolve-review/

That’s it! That’s the show and the whole kitten-caboodle. 

It’s been a long week but keep things on the up and up. We’re about to move into February and I’m about to launch a cool new show and IP is working on some cool stuff to look forward to. So get hype!

oh and please keep it on the real.

(this gif of Danny laughing on Table Flip just miraculously popped up on my gif search and it’s a gift to you, me, and the GG gods, so enjoy)

[alinkbetweenportraits]

cxrruptedhxpe replied to your post: (Let me tell you as someone who’s almost got a...

tell me

I’m gonna be speaking less as a meme loving fuck and more as a professional using some sources I dug up. Rant below so incoming.

- Let’s take a look at the site. There was no water treatment facility, no waste management, and the beaches weren’t fixed. It was essentially gravel by the sea and chalk full of flies. They basically walked in expecting to turn this island into paradise in a few months, which is virtually impossible. People are guaranteed to get sick, if not the guests, then the locals. You tried to make a city instead of a party, which is an entirely different thing. And as a result hundreds, if not thousands, could end up getting sick with life threatening diseases.

- Let’s say you did somehow in hell manage to get the very basics of civilization functioning in such a stupidly short amount of time. You’ve got hundreds of rich kids who are most definitely going to get drunk and you’re stupid enough to get ONE ambulance!? I would set up an entire medical ward with doctors. My only relief in this was that the beer shipments were delayed or these kids certainly would have died.

- I know I’m stuck on kids getting drunk bit but EVERYTHING IS A LIABILITY AT THIS POINT. And here you have locals who are going to have to put up with this shitstorm and pay for it when these rich snobs are over and done with. And these two fuckheads don’t give a rat’s ass about business relations, particularly with a fucking community. “Oh but they’re poor they’re not going to pay for tickets”. It’s still a business opportunity??? Do you know how much people pay for vacations this interpersonal, luxurious or not??? Shockingly, not everyone wants to live like a rich person. In fact the biggest trend is green hospitality because not everyone who travels is a pretentious and snobby prick. I know it’s a strange concept to grasp, but there is profit in treating people with some basic fucking respect.

- These dumb kids are going to destroy the environment and I know this because I can tell you straight up this group of people in particular are some of the most insufferable pricks you will ever meet. I have a million horror stories I will save for another time though.

- A beach party where locals warned about shark infested waters are you fucking kidding me? Do you not care about the people you’re selling to at all? I might be bitter against rich people for a slew of reasons but they don’t deserve to get mauled by sharks or vice versa.

- Almost no sign of management. There was no plan on how this would work A MONTH before this would start. At this point you should have a majority of the work already done. The plan should be set before you start taking anyone’s money. To quote one of the staff, “Festival vendors weren’t in place, no stage had been rented, transportation had not been arranged.“  Meanwhile, management only came around to party on private yachts while meetings took place. They should be on top of everything and working the hardest out of everyone. They’re the ones who should know the in and out of the project. They should understand everyone’s job and how it works. Why the fuck are you partying a month before the event when nothing is ready I would be screaming and pulling as many all-nighters as possible.

- Nobody had been paid around this point either. The rest should be relatively self explainatory.

-  “That night Ja Rule gave a toast. “To living like movie stars, partying like rock stars, and fucking like porn stars.”” I worked at nightclubs, I’ve worked with addicts, I’ve even worked with felons, and I can guarantee you if you said something like that you’d be the laughing stock of the business and would even get fired on the spot. The amount of arrogance and disrespect to all the people working hard for you is a disgrace. If I heard an event planner I hired saying this to my staff I would back out immediately and tell everyone not to waste their time. Even the dishwashers, busboys, and janitors deserve your respect. 

- HOW CAN YOU NOT HAVE AT LEAST BACK UPS OF FOOD, WATER, AND SHELTER HOW CAN YOU FUCK UP THIS BADLY WHY WOULD YOU SELL THESE TICKETS AND NOT EVEN GIVE THE BASICS AT LEAST DASHCON GOT THAT RIGHT. YOU DON’T NEED A DEGREE TO COUNT.

- The other founder, Billy McFarland, has a history of pulling shit like this. Which isn’t surprising because every time I see a “20 something year old entrepreneur” (whether it be in the news or from work experience) they’re usually some rich idiot leeching off mommy and daddy’s money trying to live a fantasy life in order to hide the fact that nobody actually stands the thought of being around them. There’s only been one exception to this in my work experience and bless him and his success every step of the way.

- They’re so fucking full of themselves that instead of apologizing to everyone for this mistake they’re trying to make ANOTHER EVENT NEXT YEAR IN ORDER TO MAKE UP FOR THE LAST ONE

- Speaking of apology, the fact that not anyone in management is doing anything to thank the locals for all they did trying to help these kids if repulsive beyond words. If I were the manager I would do everything in my power to compensate the locals for everything they did instead of mooching off them and running off.

I have dozens more, but this went on long enough. As a meme loving fuckhead, I think this is hysterical. It was a big hype and watching a bunch of rich kids get what they deserve for being stupid never ceases to amuse me. However, there’s a limit to the pleasure, and as someone who’s poured their heart and soul into hospitality for as long as I can remember, I’m nothing short of disgusted at how poorly this was managed along with the lack of basic safety, health, and food care taken into account. 

I am extremely thankful that the mystery beer was not shipped in on time or else a lot of kids could have easily died. It would have taken no time at all for half of the guests to become deathly ill with all kinds of illnesses (cholera, hepatitis A, and staph off the top of my head considering the plan and environment), and with all those people flying back home that could have definitely spread around and caused an even bigger mess of things. Kids could have gotten injured while drunk and dicking around, and nobody would be able to help them. And these two shit stains have made it clear that they don’t care about the safety or wellbeing of anyone but their own wallets and fantasies. They got off easy, and this honestly is realistically the best case scenario ending for something like this. 

They fucked up the most basic of hospitality rules and chances are they’re going to get away with it again because they have the money. I can’t begin to tell you how infuriating that is. 

[qqueenofhades]

Black Sails s4/finale thoughts

Okay, so I caught up on episodes 4x05-4x10 with @thelittleschemer​ over the past few days, and as such finished the season/series. Now I have many thoughts and need to write them down, welp.

I held off on finishing the show because I didn’t want it to interfere with what I had planned for TDH, and I can definitely say that it did not change anything about what I had worked out for the ending of said fic (which I really need to get around to doing soon). I was pleased to see that there were/will be a few points of concord, but yeah, TDH will definitely remain its own entity/story.

Tagging @prairiepirate​ and @ransomideas, who have expressed interest in my thoughts on said subject, heh. Under the cut for length and possible unpopular opinions.

Okay, first and foremost: Overall, I really liked it. The writing generally remains some of the best on TV, the acting is phenomenal, and as usual with Starz’ historical dramas these days, the production value is jaw-dropping. The sets, costumes, ships, etc are all just so real, and it definitely set up well for Treasure Island. It finished off its narrative arcs cleanly (or mostly so) and it continues to provide some excellent meaty commentary on the nature of stories, who tells them, who remembers them (hums “Who Lives Who Dies Who Tells Your Story” because lbr, theme song of this whole show) and the roles we play in creating and managing and remembering our own. This show was (and remains) incredibly intelligent and complex and subversive, you have to pay attention to all of it or you’re going to miss important plot developments (and probably still be confused on a few points) and it’s otherwise not at all what you’d expect from the premise (and first few episodes). As I said, just overall really impressive on many levels. The final few episodes also had a very POTC feeling to them, with mysterious islands that nobody can find, ghost stories, swashbuckling sea battles, hidden treasure, and so forth, and that was a lot of fun.

That said: Time to deconstruct it!

My main issue with the second half of s4 was that they seemed to throw all constraints of time/space/travel out the window, especially when it involves the characters sailing long distances at sea over incredibly cramped time-frames. Possibly writing TDH has made me too well-informed in said matters, heh, but they’d have us believe that Jack sailed from Nassau to Philadelphia, back to Nassau, out to Skeleton Island, and then back to Philadelphia in what.... a week? It’s been hard to gauge a reliable timeline for the show, since they’re moving historical events around freely and playing fast and loose with the facts to tell a good story, but we have the Maroons arriving and Madi’s mother saying that pirates from as far away as Massachusetts (which made me briefly hopeful for a Sam cameo, I AM NOT GONNA LIE) have heard of the fall of Nassau and have come to fight. In what... again, a day or so? I realize it’s important to keep the plot moving, and that nobody is actually going to watch two weeks of Jack and Anne stuck on a ship on the way to Philadelphia (although lbr, it’s probably still amusing), but for a show that has prided itself on its gritty realism, it kept taking me out of the story because I was all, NO WAY THEY’RE THERE ALREADY. WAIT. WHAT. THEY’RE BACK AGAIN? OKAY THEN.

(Aka, every historical/historical fantasy show has to contend with the fact that they need to get characters/news to places faster than historically accurate transport can actually take them, so things get compressed and skimmed over and squashed together, etc. It wasn’t enough to ruin anything for me, but I did keep noticing it, so yeah.)

My other issue was the involvement of the Spanish. Once again, I understand the narrative choice behind the decision: they needed a wild card/way to shake things up/break the standoff between the English forces and the pirates, and re-change the balance of power on Nassau. However (and I feel like they were aware of it and tried to finesse it to some degree in the narrative) are we really supposed to buy that the Spanish hate pirates just that bit more than they hate Rogers, agree to sail to Nassau, sack the place good, and then.... pack up and leave, never to be seen again or to have any further involvement with trying to reclaim the Urca gold (which would at least be a full-circle thing)? Within the span of an episode? I feel like the writers needed the shakeup, and to obviously provide an impetus for Rogers’ poor decisions to blow up in his face, but they knew they didn’t have time to adequately deal with the outcome, so we had the Nobody Expects The Spanish Inquisition and then poof, gone. This connects to the other sense I had, which was that they knew they had to wrap things up for the final season and find a way to stop a full-out war from happening, so the Spanish had to disappear after their use as a one-off shit-stirring device, the Maroons and the pirates and the English had to hastily make treaties to avoid said war, and despite a few really excellent action scenes, it still felt, idk, a bit... anti-climactic? As if they wanted a relatively happy ending for these characters (which is understandable) but didn’t have time to play everything out, so it just got compressed and a bit watered down.

Speaking of characters...

I love that the show has such intensive character studies/conversations/setpieces. However, I also feel as if the pacing ended up being a bit off as a result. We kept having long, multi-minute scenes of just two characters talking to each other (and again, exchanging important information in most cases, so you can’t really tune out), followed by a brief action scene, usually followed by yet another long dialogue scene. It’s always enjoyable to see the acting chops on display (I mean, these are not easy scenes to work through and require a lot of line memorization and facial nuance and other skill), but at several points I was wondering when everyone was going to stop talking and get back to the issues at hand -- as noted, if they’d cut some of the talking and focused on solving their plot problems, it could have flowed somewhat more smoothly. It felt as if they went too often to the well of “flashback followed by voiceover explaining plot twist” and had to TELL us information rather than SHOW us. Which again, it’s a good problem to have when your narrative is rich and complex and intelligent and has a lot of moving pieces, but again, everything could just be a bit, well, tighter. At least, that was the overall impression I was left with.

I was successfully kept on pins and needles over Madi’s fate (I had a few choice words when it looked like she was dead) and I hope she and Silver do end up together (I think it’s implied she does come back to him at the end) because I really like that relationship for both of them. It added a bit of selflessness and sympathy to Silver’s otherwise completely self-interested character, as did the scene where Flint presses him to explain his past and he doesn’t; we can tell he simply wants to forget everything that existed before Long John Silver (and I love how both that persona and “Captain Flint” were treated and twisted as distinct narrative entities for both characters) and that his life has probably been incredibly tragic too. He’s just dealt with it differently than Flint (which again, fits with them well as each other’s foils/yin and yang.) Their conversations/one-on-one faceoffs were some powerhouse acting from both Toby Stephens and Luke Arnold, and I appreciated the way things came full circle between them/to the logical end, but with a twist and with callbacks to their relationship in the pilot (as well as Silver finding the cook belowdecks). Madi is also generally a queen of everything and I love that she, a dark-skinned African woman, was made a central love interest and given emotional and narrative power/sympathy in her own right, and that the subject of slavery and her telling off Rogers to his face remained front and center. The show has always been so good with that (and LGBT representation, to the point where it’s a shorter list to think of who ISN’T LGBT than who is) and I really appreciated that.

On the subject of Rogers: Luke Roberts did an incredibly good job. Like damn. You can see the anger and insanity and grief rising and rising in him, but he’s almost scarier because it never breaks the dam entirely, because he’s always (almost always) self-controlled and dangerously calm and driven to do whatever he has to, and yet has no qualms with absolutely anything that is going to take. I was yelling at him for being the worst (and as noting, side-eyeing the decision to involve the Spanish both on a story and a meta level), and rooting for him to get his just desserts, but also genuinely being scared of him and respecting that he was good at what he was doing. You’re aware that he CAN hurt/kill/otherwise cause serious problems for our faves, and you’ve seen him do it, sometimes in gruesome detail. So yes, he served as an effective villain. You never could relax with him on screen, or be quite sure which way he was going next.

As for him and Eleanor, I’m still not entirely sure what to take away from that. I never bought that she genuinely loved him, as Eleanor is way too selfish to do anything, even a relationship, without personal benefit, and she got together with him in the first place as an alternative to incarceration/hanging. Even Flint questions whether her relationship with Rogers is somehow different from all the men she’s bragging about overcoming. Eleanor’s motives/nuances remained opaque until the end -- I believe that she wanted to rule Nassau again, and that she wanted to survive (hence the sad irony in her fate: that everything she did and everyone she sold out trying to save her neck led to her dying anyway) and that she saw in Rogers a way to do it. Likewise, I think he loved the idea of controlling Nassau through her more than her, and that it was easy for both of them to attach their feelings about ruling/controlling this place to the person of the other, to the point where even they might have been fooled/willing to believe it was true (if somewhat twisted) love. Hence as well why neither of them ended up in charge of it, she died, and he was ruined by his wife’s family, but not the wife he expected.

Jack and Anne were, as usual, fab, though as noted, their Super Speed Ship Travel had me side-eyeing hard. I noticed that their story, at least for now, ended far more happily than it does in history. Glad that Max got the chance to come out on top (I never ended up fully connecting to her as a character, but she’s definitely a BAMF).

Billy.... damn. Talk about a 180. Going from the man willing to do anything to keep your crewmates safe from Flint, to shooting them down in the water aboard a boat full of redcoats? Not cool, bro. Not. Cool. (Though I did enjoy the final face-off between him and Flint on the yards.) When that’s contrasted with Flint giving orders to make sure everyone is evacuated from Nassau and nobody is left behind, it strikes you how much they’ve changed places and how Billy has become objectively no better -- indeed, possibly worse -- than Flint, and doesn’t even have Flint’s self-awareness to know it. He has gone down a road by himself, by choice, and which fits fairly well with his upcoming role in Treasure Island/estrangement from the others (real talk, how does he get off?) but which made him pretty hard to root for by the end. I also think it’s no accident that he got paired with Rogers. Both characters are convinced they are acting for a greater good on their respective sides, but both are willing to do anything to achieve it, stubborn and independent to a fault, and unwilling to take any responsibility for their mistakes.

And okay, so... Flint.

He is my favorite and as such, I’ve had to save him for last, since I probably have the most thoughts/investment on the end of his story. In a nutshell: I have mixed feelings. I was convinced that he was going to die for most of the season, so I am obviously happy that he got some measure of solace/happiness/reunion at the end. However, I am also not sure that it wouldn’t have worked better for him to die, or at least leave his fate more open-ended. Hint that Silver wasn’t telling the whole story and that Flint was still alive, but for it to remain ambiguous where he went or what he did or why.

This obviously is a strange place to be for my favorite, but after a season of fairly hard-hitting emotional moments/notes and some pretty bloody action, I almost feel like they chickened out of killing Flint at the end and wanted to give him some happiness instead -- aka, an unexpectedly sunny “Everyone Lives!”-type finale for what has been a pretty dark show. Which again -- I have no problem with, because heaven knows the man deserves some happiness, but I still found myself vaguely unsatisfied with how it was pulled off. See above for my feelings on how well they dealt with the legends/personas of “Long John Silver” and “Captain Flint” in their own right, and I did appreciate that the end of season 2 (Flint wants to leave it behind and settle down with Miranda, but she’s killed) was paralleled with the end of season 4 (Flint does get a chance to leave it behind/is reunited with Thomas). However, on a narrative level, this... doesn’t quite work for me, because Thomas was never built up on-screen to be a character capable of carrying this emotional weight. We saw him only in a few season 2 flashbacks. We saw a bit of his and Flint’s relationship and how that backfired, but all we ever really knew about Thomas mattering to Flint was that we were told he did. We cared about Thomas because we cared about Flint and Miranda, but there was never really enough for him to become any more than a motivating/backstory figure in Flint’s own story.

Hence, I feel as if Thomas worked better as such (a backstory figure) rather than as Flint’s presumably somewhat-happy ending. Yes, I am a diehard Flint/Miranda shipper, but I was more invested in Flint and Miranda’s relationship because of all the time the narrative spent on making me care about it. We saw them together for two seasons. We saw their arguments, their disagreements, their tender moments (”I was hoping to have you all to myself for a few days”/”I recognize you, do you recognize me?” will never not kill me). We saw Miranda fighting to be with Flint and reminding him that she has been loyal and devoted to him for ten years, and him finally accepting that and letting her come with him to Charlestown and the two of them planning to make their home together and leave piracy behind... only for, yeah, welp, noooo. We saw Miranda’s relationships with other characters and we saw her own struggle in how exile had changed her and the sacrifices she had made for allowing Flint and Thomas to be together and the blame she took for the scandal. We had Flint wanting to die and be with her and his flashbacks/dreams of her for half of season 3, and him even saying that this was worse than losing Thomas (”But you... I am ruined over you.”) In other words, I was invested in them because the show spent so much time making sure that I was. I cried out loud when Flint compared Silver’s apparent loss of Madi (the woman he was willing to give up the war for/wanted to be his wife) to his own loss of Miranda. Flint and Miranda were both real characters in their own right, and Thomas just by nature of his role in the story was someone that they had lost and whose memory they still honored. To pluck him out and make him alive again seems a bit, well, pat.

Don’t get me wrong, my super bi ass is definitely incredibly appreciative that Flint, a bi character who has had two great loves in his life (Thomas and Miranda) ended up with his same-gender partner, and that they got to be reunited on screen. But I also feel as if the most poignant and fitting end for his story would either for him to explicitly die, and for his reunion with both Thomas and Miranda to take place in the afterlife (I so wanted that scene of the three of them together again/Thomas and Miranda being there to finally bring Flint back to them) or for his fate to not be spelled out, as it is in Treasure Island. I.e., for it to be pretty clear that Silver didn’t kill him and let him go, but for us not to know where he went or why, and that is why the legend remains and lives on. That way they can have the symmetry of him letting the persona of Flint “go back to the sea,” and to also keep the tragedy and romance and true loss of his story. He HAS changed forever in being Flint. He can’t give that up, he can’t wake from his nightmare. He’s lost everything and everyone (including his ship, poor Walrus). The ending with Thomas was nice enough, but again, I don’t care that much about Thomas in his own right, because the narrative never spent time on making me do that. I am happy FOR Flint because I love him and I know it’s what he would have wanted, but I don’t feel the gut-wrenching relief/sadness/cry-for-days-but-love it that I would have with Flint dying and finally getting to be with both Thomas AND Miranda again, and for us to see them once more as a threesome and a whole. Again, I feel like they ducked out of bringing Flint’s story to a sadder and arguably more fitting end, and while I can’t argue with my fave getting to live, yeah.

Anyway! Damn. That was a long-ass meta. As I said, overall I did like it very much, I certainly had feelings, and the rest of the show was generally so well-written that I can forgive them some pacing and plot hiccups here and there in this season. As I said, this is absolutely one of the smartest and most subversive and diverse shows on TV, and I am sorry to see it end. I would watch the shit out of Treasure Island if they do it (as I think they were kicking around). I just wish they could have hit some even more powerful notes in a few places. But thanks for the great adventure.