#he's gonna build nine more houses and fill them all with stray cats

[thebroccolination]

How I'm Navigating 2024 (Blorbo Edition)

I'm a big believer in the quality of life being vastly improved by the anticipation of good things to come (concerts, movies, anniversaries, hang-out sessions, etc.), so I like mapping out what I'm excited for.

And in terms of queer media, I'm pretty well sorted for the year. \:D/

Right now, I have these two:

And these two:

Once Cherry Magic and Ossan's Love end, I'll have these two:

And after Young Royals ends, I'll have these two:

And then when Untitled Vampire Series is over, I'll go into paroxysms of genteel screaming while I wait for whatever these two are doing:

So I have a pretty stacked year, all told.

[essieeeeeeeee]

For the I wish you would write a fic where... post I’ve got non angsty: Deckard or Hattie or Owen or Luke or all of them chaperone Sam’s class field trip Or angsty: Deckard comes home bruised and broken after a mission gone horribly wrong and Luke takes care of him

I’m already working on a one-shot for the second one, so here’s a little fill for the first. I had to cut it off, because it was getting way too long, so sorry if the ending seems a little stilted, lmao. Thanks for the prompt!

———————

Shaw nearly fumbles the burning hot frying pan when Sam first asks the question. He’s an international spy with reflexes that rival a cat’s, though, so instead of dropping the pan and splattering pancake batter across Hobbs’ kitchen, he pauses.

And slowly, incredulously, turns to look at the kid.

“… come again?” he asks, and Shaw can feel the way his face is twisted in a moue of disbelief. He tones the expression down just a touch, though, as Sam glances away and fiddles timidly with the pen in her hand.

“We’re supposed to go on a field trip next week. My class, I mean. To the San Diego zoo.” She scuffs her foot against the ground, eyes still firmly Not Looking at Deckard. It’d be endearing, if the subject matter wasn’t so baffling. The next part falls out of her mouth in a rush. “And I’ve never been there before, and I’ve always wanted to go, but Dad’s usually pretty busy, so we’ve never had the chance, so I was really excited about the field trip, but Mr. Brougher said there’s not enough parents signed up yet, and that if we don’t get at least three more adults to chaperone by the end of today then–then–”

Her shoulders hunch in. It’s almost painful seeing it. Shaw feels guilty just witnessing the sight.

“… then he’s gonna cancel the trip,” she finishes quietly.

Silence follows her monologue. Neither of them try to fill it–Sam, because she’s too absorbed in staring at the floor, spinning the pen round and round her little fingers in skittish habit, and Deckard because he’s too busy choking on his own tongue in surprise to say a word.

The butter from the pan decides to fill it for them, apparently, as it hiss-pops and bubbles, and splashes a few drops on his hand. Shaw cuts off his own hiss of pain from the burn of it, and turns back to the stove; the motion is half to distract from the alarming subject of conversation, and half to prevent the food from burning.

“… are those pancakes?” Sam asks behind him, shuffling closer to glance curiously at the pan. Apparently, the sight of food was a sure-fire way to tempt the kiddo out of her little bout of nervousness.

Apples and trees, Shaw thinks, the corner of his mouth ticking up somewhat before he has a chance to smooth it over.

“Pull out a plate and the syrup, and I’ll get you some before your bus gets here.”

Sam skips over to the cabinets to do as told, and Shaw takes the moment to wonder how the hell he ended up here: Hobbs’ kitchen, cooking pancakes for a child, being asked to babysit schoolchildren.

He’s a mercenary. An ex-special ops assassin. A cold-blooded, red-handed, rap-sheet-bigger-than-Luke-Hobbs’-biceps murderer.

He’s not some–some fucking nanny.

So what if he occasionally shows up at the Hobbs homestead post-mission, bruised and scraped and in need of a place to sleep and lick his wounds where he doesn’t need to keep one eye open in paranoia? If he occasionally stays a few days here and there, bickering and bitching the time away with the lawman; if from time to time he glances over Samantha’s shoulder while grabbing a glass of water from the fridge, and absently tosses out advice and corrections for her assignments. If sometimes the two of them even manage to coax Shaw to the dining table for meals, like he’s some stray cat that’s grudgingly wandered into their home. 

And so what if maybe, occasionally, when Sam is away at Hobbs’ sister’s or a friend’s home, and the house is otherwise quiet and empty–if he lets the bickering turn into something else. Lets Hobbs slam him up against a wall or a counter or the fucking dining room table, any flat sturdy surface that can take the roughousing. If, maybe, he lets Hobbs do things to him he wouldn’t otherwise permit.

So fucking what?

It’s not like any of that makes him the kid’s step-mother.

“You’re burning them,” Sam points out absentmindedly. Shaw glances down at the pan in his hand, and lo-and-behold, the flat little pastry was starting to char around the edges. He scowls, and flips the pancake onto its other side with a quick flick of his wrist.

Still looks salvageable, at least.

He stops to process that thought for a moment, and–Deckard doesn’t even like pancakes. 

Why was he making pancakes?

“Can you make one shaped like a star?” Sam asks cheerfully from her stool at the kitchen counter, scribbling in her glitter-pink notebook. “Dad’s really good at making shapes.”

And Shaw, because he wasn’t about to let Luke fucking Hobbs upstage him in anything, acquiesces. He shapes the runny batter into something that resembles a lopsided star, perhaps, if you happen to squint and spin around three times before peeking at it sideways.

Shaw stares at it for a moment. And then, briefly, glances back and forth between the pan, with it’s demented star-cake starting to brown, and the little girl next to him, still happily absorbed in her drawing. Realization builds in his chest like dread.

… Jesus Christ.

He was being domesticated.

“So, can you?”

Samantha peers up at him with big, brown, apprehensive eyes, and bites her lip as though worried about the answer. It takes Shaw a moment to remember what exactly the question had even been.

Ah. Yes. The… field trip.

No, he wants to say, blunt and brutally honest. No chance in all the realms of hell was he about to chaperone a bus full of screaming niblets. The concept was–completely barking, really. Hattie would certainly get a laugh out of it, if she had even an inkling that the idea was put out on the table.

But the kid looks half-way to hiding herself under her own hair again, and even Shaw isn’t heartless enough to ignore that. “Probably not a good idea,” he says instead, slowly, to take any bite out of it. He flips the pancake over to avoid having to look at the disappointment he just knows is on the little bit’s face at his answer. “You even ask your dad yet?”

“He said he doesn’t get home from his next trip until two days after,” she answers, and even without looking at her Shaw can still hear the dejection in her voice. He winces. God, he’s such a bastard.

Really, though, that’s all the better reason for him not to be around a group of young and impressionable children.

“You know if your dad ain’t gonna be here, I won’t be either, don’t you?” he asks, still beating around the bush. Shaw doesn’t really want to face the music and put that defeated look in her big bambi eyes.

Stall, he thinks. When was the fucking bus getting here?

“But he’s only going to be gone for a couple days! And if you watch me, then Aunt Lisa won’t have to cancel her beach trip next week. It’s perfect.”

The kid really had it planned out, didn’t she? Sneaky little bugger.

He wasn’t about to fall for it, though. And if she really thought her father, of all people, would willingly leave his nine year old daughter in the hands of Deckard Shaw, then the kid was only deluding herself.

“I don’t think it’s gonna…”

Work like that, he wants to say, but her pouting face makes him hesitate. Goddamn big brown bambi eyes, he thinks, and tries to steel himself to finish the sentence–

“Please, Uncle Deck?”

… aw, fuck.

Shaw rubs a hand across his face, and swallows down the bitter taste of defeat with as much grace as he can muster.

“Your dad ain’t gonna let me watch you, kid,” he says. Sam’s face starts to fall, but it perks back up instantly as he finishes it with, “but I can… chaperone. Your trip.”

The cheer Sam makes gets muffled into his stomach as she flings herself at him, and Shaw catches her in alarm. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands as the nine year old wraps her own arms around his waist in a hug that was tighter than he’d expect from someone her size.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you–” she babbles delightedly. Deckard decides patting her head is probably safe enough, and does so awkwardly until she lets go, humming, and dances back to her seat.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of serving the kid breakfast, with a background chatter of Sam rambling about a social studies project that was due in two weeks. Shaw can’t really say he’s paying much attention, though; the cringing dread welling up in him was too distracting.

By the time Sam grabs her bookbag and darts in to steal another quick hug before rushing off for the bus that was idling out front of the house, Shaw’s regretting every decision that ever lead him to Luke Hobbs’ doorstep.

A chaperone. For a fourth grade field trip.

It may have only been seven thirty in the morning, but Christ, he really needed some alcohol.

[thesarcasticramen]

Down Came the Rain (and Washed the Black Cat Out)

Sequel to Rain Rain Go Away (Come Again Another Day)

“What’s wrong my little sunshine?” his mother asked as Adrien padded towards her chair in the Master’s bedroom where she sat. With tears falling and lips quivering, he climbed unto her lap.

A flash of lightning and the rolling of thunder jolted the four-year old and he snuggled closer to Emilie. “I’m scared,” he wept.

His mother fixed the blanket and wrapped it around them both as she hushed him. She rocked him back and forth and hummed a melody that she would sing whenever he was in distress.

Soon, Adrien was being lulled by the calming heartbeat of his mother. There was a kiss on his forehead that engulfed him in so much warmth and content. “It’s alright to be afraid, young one. I will always be here.” And he believed her.

—

There was a storm inside of Chat Noir raging more than the one he was caught in. Running a hand through his sodden hair, he closed his eyes and gripped the railing in disdain. Chat Noir knew he had a flair for theatrics and from a different point of view, he probably looked like an angsty hero in a noir (pun, unintended) film under the gloomy weather. Most of the time, he would scramble to escape but now, he was filled with so much emotion he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stayed hunched over the terrace for what seemed to be hours until he realized that the water stopped trickling down on him.

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t stop trying to imitate those emo protagonists in films you know,” somebody stated. Chat Noir was dumbstruck to find out that he unconsciously relocated himself down the streets next to a lamppost. What he was more surprised to see was Marinette standing next to his crouched form, her umbrella pinched at the crook of her neck to prevent it from dropping as she held out a long green cargo jacket—no doubt, it was hers judging by her thin layer of clothes—above his head.

“Princess, what—” He didn’t get the chance to finish that thought when she unceremoniously dropped the coat on him, concealing his face with the hood. When he managed to poke his head out of the article of clothing, he saw how she clutched her umbrella properly and held the paper bags in her other hand. She ruffled his hair with a smile. “See you around chaton.”

Then she walked away and disappeared into the rain.

—

The pitter-patter of the rain against the roof was what roused him. The smell of bread, soup, and Marinette’s detergent invaded his nostrils and he stirred on a toasty bed. Gone was the rain dripping onto his face and the hardness of the concrete his sore limbs were lying on earlier. Something cold was pressed against his burning forehead and he was being bundled under the covers tighter. His hearing was the last to come to him. The person speaking sounded as if she was out of the water while he was deep under it.

“…idiot. Coming all the way here when he’s in the worst shape. I am so gonna kill him when he wakes up,” the angelic voice murmured, obviously distraught.

Blinking the fuzzy sight away, he was greeted by an agitated Marinette fussing over him at the edge of the bed. She was still in her pajamas and was pressing the cloth she had placed over his forehead. She stopped when their eyes met. His heart automatically hammered and he was filled with jubilance. Her shoulders slumped in relief before her eyes glazed over with annoyance. “Marine—”

“Not a word you darn cat,” she sharply ordered, glaring at him intensely.

Chat Noir zipped his lips up and sniffled. He forgot how scary Marinette can actually be. He watched her sigh and massage her temple as if to prevent herself from yelling at him.

“You are gonna be the death of me.”

Guiltily, Chat dragged his eyes downward. He knew what he did was irrational and impulsive. He should’ve listened to Plagg and stayed home. His kwami will most definitely strangle him the moment he detransforms. But he knew he couldn’t stand to be detained in that house a second longer.

“I’m sorry princess,” Chat rasped and broke into a fit of coughs.

“Yeah? Well you should be," an all-too familiar voice piped up. Chat Noir choked and stared at his kwami floating above Marinette’s shoulder mirroring the same expression of the girl next to him in horror. He looked down on his clothes and saw that he was in the same black jacket he wore before he transformed meaning he wasn’t Chat Noir right now but Adrien Agreste. Holy sh— That’s it. He was doomed. He was absolutely utterly screwed. Ladybug is gonna annihilate him but Marinette will probably do it first.

“What were you thinking?!” Marinette berated. “What you pulled off was dangerous! You could’ve—" she looked away then closed her eyes, crossing her arms as if to protect herself from the terrifying idea that keeps foraying into her mind. "What if I wasn’t the one who found you, huh? What if it was Hawkmoth or anybody at all who wouldn’t hesitate to let you be in harm’s way?" Marinette opened her eyes and trained them on him. Chat Noir cowered under her. "For God’s sake Chat Noir! You’re not just putting your identity and life in jeopardy but also your family’s! What has gotten into you?!”

Adrien could only bite his lower lip in remorse. Marinette was right. What he did was all the levels and degrees of stupid. He doesn’t deserve to bear the miraculous. Now Plagg will leave him to find a more worthy holder and he would lose his only chance to freedom. Now Marinette knows he was Adrien and she will never want to have any affiliation with him ever again and—Wait, she didn’t call him Adrien. She called him Chat Noir. He touched the skin around his eyes where his mask resided and found that he still wore one, not his real leather one but a homemade felt mask. His golden locks were also hidden under the hood of his jacket.

“After what you did, I didn’t have enough energy to maintain your transformation. I had no choice kid,” Plagg explained. He and Marinette shared a knowing glance as if sharing a little secret. For a moment, Adrien was afraid that Marinette finally knew who he was but it was...something else he couldn't put his finger on. For now, he was just glad that neither betrayed his trust while he was incapacitated.

“Your girlfriend here—” Marinette sputtered denials and Adrien’s face reddened. Plagg flew in circles around both teens which made Adrien even dizzier. “—was understanding enough to keep your identity under wraps so you have nothing to worry about. I told her all about what I am and how your miraculous works yada yada yada. Oh!" He stopped right in front of Adrien's face, making the boy cross-eyed as the kwami grabbed his nose with its tiny paws. "She also happened to feed me Paris’ best cheese danishes ‘cause they’re all out of cheese apparently. Boo. It’s not as good as camembert but I’ll rate it a nine out of five.”

Marinette giggled, all lividity dissipating away from her stance. “I’ll make sure to tell my papa your feedback then, he’ll be flattered. As for the cheese, we’ll be restocking soon.” Plagg flew to hover in front of her. She leaned and winked at the kwami, “I’ll pack you some danishes later before you guys leave.” Plagg gasped and turned to Adrien. “Kid, I love her already. Plagg approves.” Adrien just shrunk under the covers.

After an argument between kwami and holder that was resolved by Marinette’s bribery, Plagg relented to transform Adrien. His identity was still vulnerable to being exposed the longer he was out of the costume. Without Plagg’s remarks that eased the tension, Marinette was left to nursing a sick Chat Noir in an awkward atmosphere.

She helped him sit up with pillows supporting his back and situated a small table in front of him. Marinette reheated their dinner earlier— her mother’s wanton soup and made tea to help with his cold. Upon his insistence to be left on his own devices, Marinette made a quick trip to the bathroom downstairs to fetch some medicine for him.

Chat Noir tried to stomach the hot broth and noodles but all he wanted was to throw it all up but he was too shy, knowing that Marinette’s mother has gone through a lot of trouble to prepare the meal and Marinette made an effort to serve it to him. He was half way through the soup when he felt the bile rise to his throat and he couldn’t keep it in much longer. Good thing, as if sensing it, Marinette was already back and she took one look at him before promptly shoving a bin for him to empty the contents of his gut as she rubbed soothing circles on his back. He grimaced at the stench and situation.

He was humiliated to say the least, having her be an audience to his state and overstay his welcome but Marinette only tenderly smiled and handed him a glass of water, advising to finish the soup because he needed to eat something first before he could take his medicine. Once his bowl was devoid of the food, he popped the pills in his mouth and washed it down using the tea.

It was thirty minutes past midnight when Chat Noir was once again nestled under the enormous pile of blankets and Marinette was building herself a place to sleep on the chaise below. Chat Noir felt ashamed for occupying her bed after all she did for him but he just watched as she got ready to sleep. “Wake me up if you need anything! Good night,” she called before facing the opposite direction.

Chat Noir didn’t let his eyes stray from her immobile figure for a while. He waited for any signs of movement but there was nothing. Sighing, he focused on the skylight above him as the rain drizzled on the glass pane and his eyelids slowly drooped to a close. Maybe he should try to get some sleep.

“Adrien…your mother…she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry but your father can’t make it today, Adrien.”

“I’m in love with you!” “I’m sorry Chat Noir.”

“He’s nothing but a pathetic excuse for a superhero that mangy alley cat.”

“You’re putting her life in danger. What if Hawkmoth discovers how much you care about her? What if something happens to her because of Chat Noir?”

Chat Noir’s eyes snapped open as the nightmares plagued his mind once again. The patter of the rain was deafening. He immediately sought for comfort as his eyes darted everywhere around the room and once they landed on Marinette, he relaxed. Calm down Adrien. You're at Marinette's home. You're safe. She's safe. You're okay. Everything's fine.

“Marinette, y-you still awake?” he asked. His hopes were not met by a reply. She must be sleeping by now and he didn’t want to disturb her but he also couldn’t bottle it all up anymore. The glass was cracking and the words were pooling in his mouth. He needed an outlet, a release. “I…” he started, clutching at the blankets tighter. “I hate the rain.”

“It’s cold and wet and gray a-and…” he trembled but kept going. “…it brings back a lot of memories you know?” Fiddling his clawed fingers together, he rested the back of his head on the pillow and observed the globules of water that threatened to hit him if it weren’t for the closed window.

He swallowed the lump. “It was raining when my mom left. It was raining when Ladybug rejected me,” he wanted to say but he bit down on his tongue hard enough. He’s never been this honest to anyone before. But now, he had laid his guard down and stripped himself of whatever pride he had left. “It’s just that…everything hurts.”

The tears spill and his voice cracks into a hiccup. “I try to forget about everything. I try not to let the sadness get to me. But all of it is just too much sometimes. There are mornings when I wake up that I can’t find the strength and will to get up anymore and survive another one. I-I feel like the weight is crushing me and I can't— I can’t do anything about it. I’m just so useless and—and worthless. I'm, uhh, a disappointment, a—a failure and…I’m—" He could feel nothing, but he could also feel everything all at once. "Nothing...I'm nothing.”

He drapes his arm over his eyes and he sobs. “Sometimes, I crave for jumping off the top of the Eiffel tower without catching myself, just…" He remembered standing so close to the edge just the other day. It scared him more to realize that he's not afraid of the height or falling, but of the fact that he's not scared at all. "I know it’s wrong but there are instances when I get those terrifying thoughts and I wonder, what if? Nobody would care, right? My father definitely wouldn’t. The world would resume to rotate and revolve without me in it and I won’t have to endure another rainy day in my li—”

Chat Noir broke, finally voicing what his heart was screaming out the most. “I just want to be loved." Chat Noir was pathetic, Adrien thought. "I’m so tired of begging for it again and again, from the people who can’t give it, from my father, from Ladybug. I…” His breaths became controlled and shuddering, the melancholy crawling all over his heart and soul and wedging it in every nerve and vein he had in his body.

God, Chat Noir hated the rain.

He didn’t notice that the edge of the bed dipped and there were hands that were cradling his head. Instinctively, Chat’s arms wove around Marinette’s small and petite frame and pulling her under the covers into an embrace. Her fingers carded through his locks in a coaxing manner while she whispered reassurances in his ear and the tears continued to stream down his cheeks. Neither spoke, Chat buried his face in the crook of her neck and cried and heaved.

He clung to her like a lifeline. He was drowning and her warmth was the only oxygen he had. He needed her and she was more than willing to be there right next to him so he wouldn’t feel alone, so she could help him through this together, so she could walk through hell with him.

Marinette disentangled the knots in his hair and massaged his scalp every time he would flinch at the lightning and thunder. He didn’t know how many hours passed while they were in that position. His ear was lodged against her chest and the steady thrumming of her heart sedated him.

Not long after, Chat Noir drowsily started to blow slackening breaths and he felt sleep creeping up to him, his eyes screwing shut. There were soft lips that pecked his forehead and a gentle voice. “Then it’s time to stop begging from the wrong people. I know I’m not much but I’m not going anywhere. I love you Chat Noir, every beat of my heart belongs to you.”

Chat Noir was floored, awed at the amount of affection her words held. What good did he do to have such a sweet, selfless, and most amazing girl—Marinette to still see the best in him despite all his shortcomings and flaws, to still love him for all the good and bad things he possesses? He was struck by how much she meant to him. Her friendship, her love—her. They were all most prized and precious and he wouldn’t know what to do if he loses any of it. It hurt him to hear her think of herself as “not much” because to him, she will always be more than enough. He loved her, he loved her too much.

Chat Noir’s lips curled into a smile and for the first time in years, his heart was finally free. He whispered something unintelligible and he wasn’t sure if she heard him but she only encased him in a cocoon of her love and protection. “I love you too, princess.”

Tomorrow, they would have to deal with the repercussions of their late night, he would have to face Plagg’s vexation for making him use up all his energy to stay transformed for the rest of the night (and pestering: “What? Had fun cuddling with your girlfriend you clingy and needy kitten?” “Shut up Plagg.”), he would have to face Nathalie’s wrath when she finds his room vacant in the morning. But tonight, he would sleep as the rain carries on outside. For as long as he was sheltered in the arms of the girl he loves, he was home.

Maybe the rain isn’t so bad after all.

***

this wraps up this fanfic. hope you all enjoyed it as much as i did. i love marichat and i felt like they would have such a fun and loving best friend dynamic. the last part was kinda vague so it’s up to you whether the “i love you” bit was romantic or platonic, it can be either. i’m sorry if i was clearly projecting while i wrote adrien’s confession. whoever is experiencing sadness, may it be a simple bad day or depression, don’t be afraid to seek solace from somebody you hold dear and trustworthy and don’t hesitate to find a friend in me. thanks for reading! iloveyouall!

[mynameisdreartblog]

Devilish Deals

Aries: For a burning curiosity. It was a cool Monday morning and I was standing outside of the exact, brick and mortar building where I had the chance to restart something I could’ve sworn that I restarted many times before, and the wet, nearly drowned air of Monaghan was calming my oxidized sensibilities: A much needed accompaniment because I felt as if carbon-based lifeforms won’t be welcome in my new living-space. However, I’m clearly not the red one they’re looking for; I’m Dáithí, and I’m merely the one posing as the legally clean agent for them. I’ll be judgmental, but this is quite out-of-character for Redmond if they didn’t call me an hour later to explain they were looking for somewhere they could legally stay while they’re squating an old mill. Now, that was the Redmond I knew. […] The line was long enough for me to feel way more connections to the indirectly hostile environment than I was planning to: In other words, I had to get comfortable with the elderly cat sunbathing in one of the chairs that were designated as a waiting area. I filled my head with thoughts of snatching this potential apartment myself to cut off the mojo in the room, potentially betraying Redmond. But my ma always told me the thoughts of backstabbers are acceptable if you never perform said backstabbing, so I was fine. […] It was my turn to officially speak to the woman at the counter who looked like she didn’t mind she was half cigarette ash, and she said to me in a broken voice, «Oh, you must be, agh, the one called Dáithí, right?» I noticed the emphatic tone immediately, and all of my previous defenses immediately gave away and I felt like I lived twenty years of my life here. <The woman at the counter takes Dáithí’s hand and forces it open, and drops into it a key.> Well, I’m having more thoughts about the betrayal part ‘cause I think I’m gonna love this apartment since the old lady handed me a key with skulls on it. […] «Oh fucking please, I remember looking at a bathtub that looked the most like a deathtrap: It was vertical.» That was all I heard from her talking to the customer (or cat) below me, but what occupied by ears was the song of the broken bells that chimed when you entered. The fresh sight could be a new opportunity to close off again, but lo and behold, there was only a bathtub there… it was vertical. I hope Redmond can work around that.

Gemini: In a coastal inlet during nighttime. <Truce can be seen closing the last mailbox for the day, and the sun is shown overhead in a setting position behind the island’s primary volcano. They begin to rewrap the bandages around their feet to the tune of their mumbling.> We’re all on the same road, being written by an author who ascribes us with the same personality as theirs: Making us all a bit too intellectual in the right areas. That’s the thing with self-absorbed authors, they don’t know when ignorance is important and what types of ignorance are important to character development... But what would I know about authorship? I’ve never written a book in my life, nor have I ever written a letter: My job is just to deliver them and peak into them when the spirits aren’t watching me. [,] <Truce finds that there’s a splinter in their foot, they take pull it out swiftly, douse it with mudwater to stop the minor bleeding, and begin to rewrap their foot.> Let me tell you: I’ve gained a pretty good insight as to what ignorance looks like and how many flavors it comes in. Like I said before, I’m not a penman, but it’s far too easy to categorize these people into categories of stupid. First off, we have the Anklebiter: Someone who annoys the crap out of you for no other reason than the hell of it. <The splinter, now on the ground, is pulled down into the mud through emerging vines.> Second off, we have the Furphy: Someone who never stops when you wanna ask them for helpful advice. You have to play a game of catch-up with them if you just want bloody directions. <A cracked path of emerging, thorny vines begin following Truce’s path a stray nine feet behind them.> Third off, we have the Bludger: Someone who likes to think they’re always playing some game of manipulation, when they’re so obnoxiously sincere. <The vines begin to warp faster and closer towards Truce.> And finally, you have the Drongo: Someone who thinks that anything that moves and has a skeleton is against them, and they show that by being a prickly fellow. They’re probably my favorite type of idiot. [,] <The vines violently cuff Truce’s right foot and he’s thrown up into the air, now dangling nine feet off the ground.> Heh, that’s not even counting how these four personalities continually interact with each other in ways that form new idiots all the time: It’s an ecosystem of believable characterization that any traditional author couldn’t wrap their head around. <A substance akin to saliva drops onto Truce’s cheek.> It’s crazy how well you get to know people doing this job.

Scorpio: Offered a way out. «From adult fears stems a need and re-manifestation of childlike fears.» <Juyeon steps away from the cosmic forces that make her foresee futuristic visions for just a single moment.> Why would you want my fears? I thought adults were insistent about their “I have my own problems” attitude, but I guess that isn’t the case. I’m small, and not the mighty type of small; I’m the small type of small. <She uses some of her personal strength to fantasize shaking her fists towards the sky. Thereafter, she turns her focus towards Sonnim.> And when you’re small, everything’s big to you, right? But what I found out from my parents is that it’s in fact large regardless of how old you are. You become familiar, but not familiar enough: So like, we have only a finite supply of being familiar, right? Before I say anything else, I’m pretty weird in that I’m familiar with things I shouldn’t be: Like, stuff that isn’t from my culture. Should I feel bad about that? Like, I feel like I’m wasting the finite amount of familiarity I have. «I don’t know, Seong. Normally, I wouldn’t care much about that, but now you’re making me think about how much familiarity I’ve wasted. I was never really familiar with this idea before you introduced it to me. I mean, would it really be better if you spent that time doing boring formal stuff?» [,] I don’t think you get it Sonnim, there’s an imperative that I’m wasting time: I could be anywhere else but I’m stuck here talking with you about my problems. «I don’t know what the word imperative means, but it sounds bossy, so it’s probably commanding.» Ah, I guess that means you’re wiser than I am because you’ve spent more time doing what makes you feel like you aren’t wasting time with strange, impossible concepts. «Why are you so fascinated with the idea of wasting time?» Because… <Juyeon makes a deep sigh and pinches her temples.> I’m developing adult fears. «Seong, just because you’re past the age where you seriously think monsters are in your closet and the toilet doesn’t mean that you’re getting old. It just means you’re developing some sense.» [,] Sense? How am I making sense of things? I’m losing track of how the world previously made sense to me! How is that not bothersome to you? Are you telling me you actually listen to whatever’s on the news and not wait until they go to the weather section? «Well, I try to pay attention to both the news and the weather, and news about the weather.» […] «Well, Seong, if you’re so worried about losing your sense of understanding, you can just combine it with incoming knowledge and that’ll likely solve it. I hope that makes sense.» Yes…  I think you’re onto something. Like, this spooky house is gonna trap me if I go inside of it, and not the idea of debt trapping me financially, and there’s clearly someone waiting to nab me at the end of the hallway whenever I waste time instead of going to bed on time. <Sonnim tries to muffle their laughter.>

Capricorn: By entrance via murder. You know, all of these “primitive technology channels” on YouTube keep saying the same thing with a different face. Aside from the fact that they’re stealing my audience, they always post the same survival tips that I just know they learned from someone else who also had a primitive technology channel. It’s a vicious cycle you see: The more people we have creating content about why the Gregorian calendar is a myth and how you can construct a waterslide out of bamboo and harden stone, the more people we have regurgitating that content. Not to act like a Boomer or anything, but one of those videos was just two men building a pool using only tools gathered from the resources around them, and what they created looked more like a mosquito nest than a natural pool. [,] My strange reason for despising this content is that all those who participate in it are obviously fakers who can’t really commit to a primitive lifestyle, hence by their use of cameras. But I’m not here to critique them, I’m here to advertise myself instead. <A mock ‘80s intro plays and the video begins to shatter, skipping several important parts of the tutorial.> […] Now, for Vinnie’s survival techniques, all I need is my phone, some beef jerky, and a rake. With these three components, you’ll be able to create an optimal living environment for yourself, but none one you can commit yourself into but rather change from a whim. Because if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s being non-committal, and your sense of comfort should follow. [,] The specifics go as follows: It’ll set me for life, or up until the moment when my body has a sudden rush of energy to take me out of my squalor and into the open field of my living room. In that moment, I’ll contemplate why my body seems to be prepared to act ambitiously while my mind is occupied with laying ambition to rest. Not even the combination of my phone, beef jerky, and a rake could possibly stop my body from being fully content. Therefore, I barge out of my room and scare the only pets I have, making them wary to wander any closer to my doorstep. [,] Now, I hope you recorded those steps because they’re what you need to follow if you want the optimal amount of non-committal comfort. If you watched my previous video, the automatic generator you’ll develop from channeling spiritual energy from the earth will come in handy here, as that’s the source of Internet you need to use to keep you entertained before the jerky runs out and the novelty of the rake (as a back-scratcher) wears off. <The ‘80s intro plays again, this time deliberately revealing it’s a paper sign.> Someone in Guinea or somewhere did this, and I thought it’d be cool… No, it’s because I thought it’d be a good way to win back viewers. Online conduct codes?