#i love the content they gave us always fully fed its nice

[justanotheruser]

And here I thought I'll never go deep into FNAF besides its lore, boi was i wrong

[keilemlucent]

long days for bad people

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~6k

Being a prized, adored possession was far better than you thought it would be.

warnings: light daddy kink (no age play, just the name in mostly jest), spit kink, crying kink, degradation, brief descriptions of blood + violence, kidnapping (consensual?? read a/n), brat taming, light sadomasochism, mind break, praise kink

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here it is, mafia au, villain hawks, dom, brat tamer, soft(?!) hawks. what more could you want? 

there’s briefly described kidnapping at the beginning of the fic but it is reiterated throughout that this is consensual! no yandere/stockholm stuff in this fic. 

i’ve been working on this one for a while and i’m happy to finally share it. hope y’all enjoy!!

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You shouldn’t have fucked around with the League.

God, it was common knowledge in the parts of town and circles you inhabited. Of all criminal syndicates, mobs, to fuck with, the League wasn’t one of them. They were known for their complete cruelty and violent delights. The League had such a reputation due to the fact that they openly left bodies carved up and burnt as they pleased.

But, you were a fucking idiot and got involved anyways.

It was a small loan, Giran almost seemed to scoff when he gave you the cash. You and your almost-stranger of a roommate were just very late on some bills and were going to lose a lot of material items if you didn’t scrounge up at least two paychecks in about three days. 

You swallowed your pride and took the first and easiest loan you could get. That just happened to be with gap-toothed, wide-grinning Giran of the League. He, you knew from what you’d heard, was somewhat fair in matters like yours. 

You had two weeks to pay him back.

...

You didn’t make it in time.

You were close to the amount, notably. You scrounged and clawed your way into getting the cash back. You weren’t much of a pickpocket, but you snagged some odd jobs around the apartment building that you and your roommate were still fortunate enough to keep a room in.

After one particular job, a nasty carpentry gig that you weren’t qualified for, you returned home tired and worn.

Sure, you were a day late on payment. But with this last gig, you were so close. The League would have to pity two, stupid, stupid young girls?

They didn’t, you realized, as you stepped into your apartment.

Your roommate's slain corpse was laying over the arm of your cheap couch, eyes vacant and mouth dripping blood onto the old beige carpet.

You dropped to your knees, horrified and completely stunned.

“You should’ve known better,” it was a hum from across the room, from a figure you didn’t even know was in the room until then. “Really, you’d expect folks to be smarter.”

Your mouth dried as the figure moved from the nighttime shadows, flashing a dazzling smile and ruffling crimson wings.

Hawks.

You’d heard of him, everyone had. Terrifying, fast, precise, and cutthroat. He took orders and didn’t ask questions other than snark. He talked too much, fucked too much. 

“W-wait,” You didn't know why you were pleading, but you had to try, right? “I’m so close, wait—”

Hawks sauntered up to you wielding one of his feather blades, the red of blood mixing with the filaments of his feathers.

He crouched down in front of you, tsking, “I don’t like begging, angel. I’ll make this quick for you. Your friend there?”

Hawks jerked his finger behind to your dead roommate.

“She fought, pleaded, begged, all that normal shit I don’t like hearing when shitheads like you two don’t make payday,” his voice was slow, talking about death like some casual thing. “I’ll make this nice and fast if you don’t run your mouth anymore, how about that?”

You swallowed, nodding.

The small percentage of your brain that was fully functioning figured dying quickly was a much better way to go than whatever the hell had happened to your roommate. There was far too much blood for that to be quick.

Hawks hummed, the tip of his feather blade tipping up your chin so you were forced to meet his gaze. You vaguely heard the pitter-patter of your tears hitting the carpet below. Blood rushed in your ears as you stared death in the face.

Hawks appraised you.

You watched the metaphorical cogs and wheels turning in Hawks’ skull as he looked you up and down before flashing forward, gathering you in his arms and flying from the apartment. 

Your first thought was obvious as you clung to him in the open air:

He’s going to drop you and kill you.

When you screamed, tears growing thicker, he slapped a gloved hand over your mouth, “I’m giving you an out, kid. Trust me. You’ll prefer this over death.”

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 Your new existence was certainly better than death.

If you were ever caught and convicted of any of the illegal things you participated in, you’d be fucked, thrown into prison until you rotted, until you were just dust and bone.

But, until then, you worked for the League.

You had groveled at the feet of their leader, Shigaraki, hands clasped on your lap, claiming your worth, or maybe lack thereof. Not many attachments, not many people who’d miss you, a semi-useful quirk. 

With a boot shoved into your skull, he sneered that you’d be the League’s new errand dog. 

The real reason they accepted you was due to the threatening air Hawks was exuding and the fact that their old ‘errand bitch’ had died the week prior. They needed a new body to act as a civilian and do things that only an unsuspecting-looking ‘civilian’ could. You fit the bill, and Hawks had taken a liking to you.

 Oddly, working for the League was actually pretty okay.

You got your own room. It was small, but you only had to share a bathroom with the somewhat unhinged Himiko, but she was fairly nice once she warmed up to you. Everyone lived in the League’s HQ and went about their business, getting drunk at their bar front each night.

Most of the mess happened at night, but it was important to put on a nice veneer and keep spirits high. Not to mention that no one would dared to fuck with the League, anyways. The cops and federal government had long been paid off due to the resources that the League had acquired for them. 

You felt somewhat untouchable.

A lot of this confidence was due to the fact that you had become Hawks’s... Keigo’s...

‘Songbird’

As he liked to call you, anyway. 

Keigo was the general, loveable annoyance of the League, but his connections were invaluable and his skills were unmatched. Despite how he could grate on people (read: Dabi and Shigaraki), he was respected and feared just as much as everyone else was, if not more so. And being his metaphorical and literal pet had its perks.

Sure, the first time he had you come to his ‘office’ and he fucked you against the window until it was smeared with cum and blood was a bit surprising, but god, if you didn’t fucking love it. Being Keigo’s personal fucktoy came with protection, pleasure, and a surprising amount of genuine attention. The dude was lonely, and so were you. The two of you made a good ‘couple’, if you could even call yourselves that. The sadism he doled out was always counterpointed by affections that did seem genuine. 

Keigo was fond of you, and you of him. Maybe your brush with death had twisted something in your head, to even allow yourself to get close to a man like Keigo, but you couldn’t make yourself care. 

You were comfortable and content. 

...

[bird boss]: hey babe ;^) get to my office in the next thirty minutes 

[you]: what if i don’t

[bird boss]: do u really want to find out

[you]: ...

[you]: im just curious 

[bird boss]: don’t get cheeky songbird 

[you]: u make me wanna u know

[you]: i know it gets you riled up

[bird boss]: tread lightly kid

[you]: oooo i gave you some guff over text

[you]: what’re you gonna do about it?

[bird boss]: use your imagination

[bird boss]: 25 minutes now, songbird

[bird boss]: don’t make this worse for yourself <3

 You set your phone on your cheap duvet, quickly primped yourself to see Keigo. He wasn’t too strict about your appearance but wearing dark clothes and some of the more expensive gifts he’d gotten you over the months he’d been screwing you never hurt. Something about ownership with him always got him hot and bothered. 

You tried to remind yourself frequently that Keigo saw you as some sort of possession, but a possession with feelings.

Meandering through HQ was always a bit daunting, despite your protections. Your skimpy outfit choice and hardly-hidden lingerie made you feel a bit more like an object than you liked too. 

There were hardly hungry mouths around the League, they kept you all fed, but god, were there starving eyes. 

Dabi wolf-whistled as you walked past him through a common room, shouting something about how Keigo was collecting his pound of flesh for the day. Maybe a line or two about being a whore, but that was all flavor at that point. Keigo called you far meaner, more sinful things. And hell, it wasn’t like Keigo hadn’t... shared you on more than one occasion. 

Maybe you were a little fucked up for enjoying your lifestyle to the degree you did, but why not indulge where you could? Life was far shittier scraping paint off old fences and picking up cans to just scrape by. 

Opulence was a breath of fresh air. And if you were Keigo’s fuck toy? Then, god, you were Keigo’s fuck toy.

When you arrived at Keigo’s office, you knocked gently on the door, quickly adjusting your skirt and blouse. 

The door opened, though no one was behind it. Only a single one of Keigo’s feathers allowed you entrance. 

His office seemed daunting and extravagant for a man who did most of his ‘work’ in far-shadier, far-bloodier places. The walls were covered in mirrors and old paintings, something out of vanity and pride, knowing how Keigo saw himself. There were several black leather couches scattered around against walls, some stained by your various... activities. There was a broad desk parallel to a back wall made entirely of windows. 

Night had fallen, leaving the room lit by a few lamps and warm fixtures. 

“Hey, boss,” You hummed as you stepped in, shutting the door behind you just before the lingering scarlet feather flicked the lock on the door.

And the other one.

And the deadbolt.

You swallowed thickly. 

As much as you enjoyed a lot of the perks of your... position, it was also daunting.

Keigo was daunting, all bloody colors, vanity, and hunger. 

He sat behind his desk, wings puffed up, and partially extended over the back of his chair. The desk chair was massive, specifically acquired so that you would have enough room to properly straddle his lap for hours on end if he so wished. 

Keigo idly clicked around on his desktop computer. He leaned slack and back into the chair, legs spread wide and exuding casual confidence that reeked of his own ego. 

Keigo normally wore a mix of black and red, as edgy as it was. He liked to seem clean, hide the stains of sanguine that undoubtedly lingered on him no matter how he tried to cleanse himself. His black slacks were pressed, the seams pristine. The black shirt he wore was rolled up to his elbows, the buttons of his red vest undone as well. His black tie hung half-undone and limp around his neck. His tousled gold hair was mussed as normal, ruffled by his flights. His feathers might’ve needed preening, but you doubted that that was the reason he called you to his office. 

And based on the deep set of his brow and the sickly smile on his lips, he was already on edge and in a mood. 

“Songbird, come over here, will you?” Keigo sat back from his typing, watching you from across the room. He took you in the same way a parched man sucks down red wine, greedily and soon to be fucked. “On my lap.”

You complied, despite your earlier attitude. You padded across the room, going around his desk. 

As you moved to straddle his lap, worn hands gripped your waist. His amber eyes gave you a warning, crinkling at the edges, “Not like that, sweetheart. Do daddy right.”

Oh, so it was one of those moods. 

Maybe you were Keigo’s sexual punching bag so he could exert control on something he could later kiss better and patch up. 

Sure, he was going to fucking ruin you, but part of the fun with him was that the more it hurt, the nicer he was after. And, all things considered, with some of the... other folks the League brought in to satiate its member’s desires, you fared far better. Keigo cared about you, in his own particular way. 

You tried to lean over his lap yourself, but his hands and feathers positioned you perfectly as he wanted. With the tight grip he had on your waist and shoulders, dragging you just as he liked, it was easy to see his need for control. 

Your head hung off of one of his thighs as you squirmed in his lap. His bulge already pressed into your ribs, a wonderful reminder of the reward you’d reap later on. Keigo’s hands gathered your hand to the small of your back, a feather replacing their grip a moment later.

“Sit with me while I finish this shit,” Keigo grumbled, going back to clicking the desktop. His leg bobbed absentmindedly, his free hand rubbing over the curve of your barely-covered ass. “Be a good girl, (Y/N). If you can stand that.”

He laughed under his breath. 

You let your head dangle limply downwards, blood rushing to your cheeks. 

You’d thought you’d be in for more of an ass-kicking, but it appeared Keigo was taking things unusually slow. You knew better than to complain, but kicking up a bit of metaphorical sand couldn’t be that bad, right?

“I dunno,” You hummed, kicking your legs lightly. “I don’t think you like it when I’m a ‘good girl’, daddy.”

“Watch it.” A single, sharp smack to your butt was hardly enough to shut you up, but Keigo did so all the same, rubbing over the covered flesh a moment later, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Are you sure about that?” You wriggled, intentionally pushing up against his growing erection.

His breath stuttered, a smirk pulling at the corners of your lips. The hand on your ass didn’t rear again, rather Keigo kept thumbing smooth circles as he continued to click around on the computer. He might have been actually doing work. Or, he was ignoring you, egging your sass on. 

“If you didn’t want anything, why’d you call me in here?” You asked, way too cheeky for the way Keigo’s body was practically vibrating underneath you. Pissing him off had consequences, of course, but you weren’t in the mood to play ‘good girl’ that day.

“I told you, I want you to sit with me,” Keigo pinched your ass. “But, you’re too mouthy to do just that one thing. You’re usually better than this.”

“Am I?” You played innocent, craning to give him a wide smile. “Hadn’t noticed. What I am noticing, is your already-hard cock, dear.”

“Oh, ‘dear’?!” Keigo paused on the computer. “Cheeky. Cute.” 

Keigo would just dig in more, lean in, before ‘snapping’, if you could call it that.

You gulped as his hand swatted at upper thighs, his nails almost knicking your skin.

“Up and don’t get smart about it.”

Oh, you were going to be remarkably smart about it.

You rose but hardly stayed upright for long. Sliding down to your knees, you pushed at Keigo’s legs, “Wouldn’t you prefer me down here? Just for a treat while you finish your work?”

Keigo clicked his tongue, gaze flickering down to you, “Fine. Behave yourself.”

Yeah, right. You both knew that that wasn’t going to happen. 

You were already tucked underneath his desk, undoing the fly of his pants. 

You pulled his cock from his trousers, pumping his cock to full hardness. Smearing around preek for a bit of extra flare before inching forward.

Wrapping your mouth around Keigo’s dick was somewhat of a feat— he had a decent girth to him, so you usually took the opportunity to warm him (and yourself) up with a bit of tip-kissing and kitten licks.

But, you were feeling bold.

You spit on his dick, a move that normally would have earned you plenty of verbal snark, but anything Keigo could’ve said to you was swallowed as you took his cock down to the back of your throat.

You sucked around it, massaging the vein on the bottom with the flat of your tongue. Drool began to pool at the side of your lips as you let the head bump your throat, gag reflex be damned.

All the while, Keigo had stopped moving above you. The fabric of his trouser balled up in his ringed-fingers as he gazed half-lidded down at you. 

You smiled around his dick, looking up at him innocently as you began to slowly bob your head. His wings fluttered, twitches and air stirring around you. 

Keigo stifled a laugh, a hand tangling in your hair, “All that talk earlier and now you’re treating me to a blowjob without even me having to tell you to? Dove, you’re too much.”

You pulled off of him to reply, “I can only try.”

Before he could reply, you spit on his dick again, and went back to slurping around him.

You held the base of his cock in your hands, twisting and spreading spittle. It almost felt like your actions were for show, but Keigo’s eyes were rolling back in his head all the same.

You smirked.

A drool pool from your mouth, puddling in your lap and soaking your skirt. Not like you weren’t already dripping from the sinful sounds Keigo stopped trying to hold.

“A-ah, that’s it, angel,” Keigo fucked into your mouth with his hold on your hair. “Just like that.”

Your hand rose to play with Keigo’s balls, teasing at the sack as he cried out a high moan above you. 

Considering the performance you were giving, it was unsurprising to feel him tensing above you. You’d been on your knees for him hundreds of times; you’d learned to see the little twitches and puffs of breath he’d give when he’d get close to coming. 

You pulled off his cock with a pop, detangling the hand from your hair in the motion. It was all fast enough that Keigo couldn’t have stopped you in his hazy, pleasure-filled state. 

Based on the look of rapid disbelief he was giving you, your trick had worked well. Knowing Keigo’s... tendencies made you hesitant to push him too much in the past, but for whatever reason, you were feeling stupidly bold. 

Consequences.

“Sorry, daddy,” You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Didn’t feel like swallowing today.”

Keigo’s disheveled appearance was more than gratifying. Knowing how easily you made him come undone by that point was one of the perks of your position.

His hair was more than ruffled, strands and tufts chaotically curled around his cheeks and ears. There was a bright blush on his face, spreading from his nose to the apples of his cheeks, down his deck. At some point, he’d popped the buttons at the top of his shirt. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, half-panting and based on the darkness in his brow and the far-too peachy smile on his face, Keigo was fucking pissed.

His wings stood on end.

You gulped from below him.

Maybe you pushed your luck too far.

Maybe. 

“You’re playing real cute today, aren’t you songbird?” Keigo didn’t move, but his feathers twitched above him, wings flaring out even farther. “Real fucking cute.”

You were fucked.

Good.

A few feathers flew from Keigo, one snagging at your wrist, wrapping around it, and pulling you up from the desk.

You wobbled as you stood, dragged across the room as Keigo leisurely followed behind you. When you tried to set your own pace, Keigo swatted your ass with a huff, “You never learn, huh? I thought I’d trained you better than this.”

You opened your mouth to spit some dickish retort, but you were cut off as Keigo’s shoved you onto one of the leather couches.

“Don’t.” Keigo’s tone was acidic as he stood over your, wings still flared out. “I told you I wasn’t in the mood for your cute bullshit, dove, and you still decided to test your luck, huh?”

You kneeled on the cushions, sucking down air, shaking with anticipation.

“You don’t feel like swallowing today? That’s fine, I can work with that,” Keigo shrugged easily from above you.

Keigo had an... active sexual imagination, and you could tell by the crook in his lips that he had something devilish planned as retribution.

A sharp slap came down on your cheek, Keigo catching the opposite jaw and keeping you from recoiling too far. You blinked as the pain spread around your skull like licking flames against a frostbitten body. 

You wanted more.

A little grin stretched against your mouth as Keigo rubbed at your cheeks with his thumbs, “Aw, you always get so sweet like this, dove. You can be a good girl if you try, can’t you?” 

His actions carried candor and his words absolute torment. 

Despite how Keigo was trying to goad you into submission, you had a bit of spark left in you. 

Plainly, you spit on him.

The glob of saliva landed on Keigo’s cheek, under his eye.

He blinked at you. 

You continued to smile.

His own expression grew strained.

“Oh, songbird,” Keigo damn near lamented, wiping away the kind gift you’d given him. His voice was smooth without any bit of waver, all of the sexually-charged anger rolling just beneath the veneer. “You’re just being pain slut today, aren’t you?”

You were, absolutely. You could feel your arousal wetting your panties, the heat of the strike from your cheek beginning to boil something in your gut. 

“You just need a bit of special attention today, right? That’s all.” Keigo tsked, fully removing the tie from around his neck. “You just need a little reminder.”

“Reminder of what?” You asked, tilting your head quizzically. 

Keigo flipped you, feathers pushing and bracing you as needed while nimble hands tore off your clothes without reverie.

“Plenty of things, especially with this attitude you’ve got today,” Keigo’s tie looped around your wrists, binding them together at the center of your back. 

“You definitely need a reminder of who’s the boss around here,” Keigo shoved you forward, stomach flush with the back of the couch.

You reeled from the pace of it all, shifting your knees for any bit of stimulation you could get. Keigo’s feathers were slicing and pulling your clothes from your body faster than you could keep track of. It was overwhelming, making your mind swim in the best possible way. You throbbed. 

“Maybe a reminder about who fucking provides for you,” Keigo’s own clothes were shaken off, dropped to the floor and forgotten.

It was true. Keigo always made sure than you were taken care of, in more ways than one. Despite how fast-paced and laid back he could seem, he was always on top of making sure you had more than enough material and immaterial pleasure whether than be in the form of food, fucking, or otherwise.

You yelped as a smack fell across your ass. A feather caught the elastic of your panties, snapping a moment later, leaving you fully bare before him. 

Keigo’s worn hand came to press at your throat and jaw, tilting your head back as he climbed behind you, “Maybe, you need a reminder about who keeps you safe.”

This phrase was softer than the others, a sweet kiss pressing to your cheek and his voice a bit more gentle. It was jarring at the skin still stung from his earlier strike, but you cherished the heat besides. 

Once again, true. The folks in and outside of the League were greedy. There were plenty of unwanted souls that stole glances at Hawks’s prized songbird. There were starved eyes that tore into you whether you were dolled up for Keigo or not. There had been some... close calls, one could say, but Keigo always was there, in the end, unafraid to get his hands dirty. 

“You know what the most important reminder is, dove?” Keigo rolled his hips against you, cock wedging between your thighs.

“N-no,” You stuttered, brain turning gooey as Keigo’s arms snaked around your waist, sharpened nails leaving indents in your hips.

He nosed at your neck, leaving a few love bites in his wake.“‘N-no’, what?” 

“I don’t know,” You leaned back into Keigo’s chest, rubbing your thighs around his cock. 

 “Oh, songbird, you sweet thing,” He chuckled, all teasing and self-indulgent. “I’m the one who makes you feel good.” 

He was so right, wasn’t he?

With the way he’d learned your body over the last few months, he’d had some undeniable pursuit to make you feel the best. 

Keigo was inquisitive by nature. He had kept you on your back for hours while he finger-fucked you, watching every twitch and roll of your hips to figure out just the right ways to break you. He’d kissed and sucked and slapped every inch of you, sussing out the perfect ways to make you writhe and cry for him. 

Sure, you were an absolute terror to him sometimes. Not to mention that Keigo jumping you covered in the blood of that day's targets was as macabre and horrifying as it sounded. 

But, fuck, if he didn’t know how to bring you to ecstasy that fucking ruined you in the best way. 

Keigo got off on watching you shatter for him. It was the reason he’d torn you from that cheap, bloodied apartment in the first place. A kind, naive little morsel that he could play with as he wanted. You didn’t complain. Fuck, you reveled in his attention. You gave it back to him, like the fucked up, semi-divine being could be any more debauched than he already was.

Corruption spreads, but you’d never complain. If being plucked from struggling for pennies to being fucked stupid by a man who could kill you at a moments notice, a man who would kill for you, somehow poisoned you?

You’d die with a bitter taste on your tongue and a smile on your face.

 Keigo rubbed at your clit, nipping at your neck, and rolled his hips greedily. His cock was covered in a mix of your slick and his own preek, easily sliding between plushness of your thighs.

“You love pushing me, acting all tough,” Keigo chastised, clicking his tongue. “I mean it when I say it's cute.”

You don’t have any more quick retorts in you, not when his fingers are down your throat, gagging you as spittle dribbles down your chin onto the leather below. It was sure to leave a mark.

“Behind all that bark and snark, you’re just a good girl, aren’t you?” Keigo punctuated his words with a bite and nip to your neck. “Just needed a reminder, right, dove?”

You whimpered against his fingers at the praise, grinding against Keigo’s touch needily. 

His fingers pushed pinched your tongue, breath curling over the shell of your ear, “What are you?”

You mumbled against his fingers, “A g-good g-girl.”

It was humiliating in the best way. Keigo’s light laugh at your attempt. The way he nuzzled his nose into the sweat at the crook of your shoulder was just aloe on the burn.

“I misspoke, if you can believe that,” Keigo’s cock pulled out from your thighs. “Songbird, you know what I meant to call you?”

You squirmed at the loss, but he was quick to hush you. His fingers left your mouth with a thick trail of spit. 

“You’re my good girl.” 

You melted in his arms.

Falling back against Keigo’s chest, you craned your neck to lock your lips to his. 

Maybe that was it, why all the filth didn’t bother you. Because you had worth. Maybe it was insecurity, or maybe it was self-aware in the face of your lived experience. Before being taken, the life you’d lived made you just a rusty cog in a dying machine. You wouldn’t have amounted to anything, probably. 

But with the League?

You were the prized, beloved consort of an angry god. 

Keigo owned you, body, mind and soul, and you let him. That’s not even to mention how you had him wrapped around your finger. He adored you, under all of it.

Fighting with him was for sport, not blood.

Keigo licked past your lips, pressing his cock to your cunt teasingly. You whined against him, wriggling in his arms.

“What does my good girl want?” Keigo loved making you beg for him, claw for any bit of stimulation. He liked it even better when you were already soft for him.

Stray tears pricked at your eyes, “Y-your cock.”

He pinched the meat of your thigh, shaking his head, “Not good enough. Speak properly, dove. Clear and correctly.”

You swallowed, searching for the words in your own haze.

Your words were willed to be solid.

“I want your cock, daddy.” 

It was just enough.

Keigo pushed forward, the head of his cock already stretching your cunt. Consider the girth of it, the lack of preparation stung and burned more than you would’ve liked, as good as it felt to finally be filled.

Keigo cooed at your soft tears, keeping your face to his with a firm hand on your jaw. He shushed you, far too sweetly while licking the salt from your cheeks, “Relax, angel. Big breaths.”

You nodded, sputtering as he speared into you. Keigo’s free hand went back to toying with your clit, encouraging the tension to drain from your body.

As he bottomed out, you shuddered, falling back into his chest. Keigo’s wings fluttered, twitching in wait. Hot breath fanned over your face, Keigo groaning and locking his jaw. 

The stimulation was overwhelming. You had expected Keigo to be meaner, considering how mouthy you’d been. 

Yet, it made sense. Keigo had figured out one of the better ways to make you break was softness. 

(Truthfully, it made him crack in the same way, but he’d never tell.)

“Feel that?” He asked, just barely rolling his hips. 

Keigo released your jaw in favor of wrapping a hand around the front of your throat, tugging you as close he could manage.

“Uh-huh,” You panted. 

You could, the kiss of his cock head against your cervix was almost uncomfortable. The delicious pressure and sensitivity already had you reeling in his arms, unsteady and wanting.

“I fill you up so good, don’t I?” Keigo praised his own ego, his cock, but he wasn’t wrong. The curve of his cock rubbed against all the right spots. He stretched you just right, the burn ebbing away into a need for more, more—

“Please, Keigo—” You gasped. Your legs shook as Keigo slammed into you, shoving you forward and into the wall.

His pace was brutal. Hands and feathers kept your back in a harsh arch as he rearranged your insides to his liking. He was kind enough to keep stroking at your clit, bruising your hips and babbling filthy nothings. 

“I’m the one who makes you feel this good, only me, right, dove?” Keigo growled into your ear with a particularly hard thrust.

You nodded against the wall, aware of the drool slipping down your chin as your mouth lolled open. Your insides were hot like white flames, searing any ability to use coherent speech. 

Keigo snickered at your state. Slowing, he gripped your ass cheeks. You yelped, inside jumping as he pried them apart. You flinched, hole twitching as he spat down, the liquid cool against the flushed skin.

It was little moves like that, Keigo just subtly making your shudder and feel dirty that got you the most fucked up and fucked out.

You pressed back on his cock, panting against the wall and keening. You would’ve spoke, if you could, but anything that you had the ability to say would’ve been torn apart by Keigo’s sharpened, silver tongue. 

“My filthy little dove, huh?” Keigo sneered, watching you try to bounce on his cock the best you could. “Such a glutton when you get broken down like this, needy whore.”

The pleasure of Keigo’s cock tearing up your insides was all you could focus on through the fog of your mind, desperate and wanting and greedy.

“Y-your,” You corrected, the words bubbling from your lips, disjointed and messy. “Yours.”

Keigo may have been avian, but he purred like a damn cat at your admission. He held you like a possession, cock throbbing as he fucked you just right. 

“God, you’re sweet, angel,” He nipped at your jaw before wrapping his hand around your throat. “Even all fucked up, you know who you belong to so well, don’t you?”

You nodded, rolling your hips back. 

Keigo must’ve taken pity on you, squeezing at the sides of your neck. Cruel as he could be, he must’ve noticed the way your thighs and knees trembled against the leather. Keigo knew the cloud in your eyes well— how to get you hazy and how to fuck you perfectly through the fog.

He fucked back into your dripping cunt, pace harder and faster than before. You were helpless to do anything other than fall forward into the wall, cheek squished against the scarlet. 

“Who’s brat are you?” Keigo squeezed a bit harder at your neck as you swallowed against his palm.

“Y-yours—!” You squeaked out, mind going numb from the stimulation and pressure.

A wicked sneer curled against your ear as Keigo’s movements grew sloppier. His tongue lolled over your shoulder, messy kisses and slobbery bites and marks left in his wake. He was close, but you weren’t far off easier.

“Little bird,” It was sweeter, closer and hotter. “Can you come for me? Come all over my cock?”

You nodded.

“Not good enough.” Keigo bit down, nearly breaking the fragile skin of your neck. “You know I like words, angel.”

You gave him words, plenty of them. 

Nearly incoherent pleads and cries poured from your bruised lips as Keigo pounded into you. Each blabbering wail was met with Keigo groans and grunts, condescending little phrases spitting over you without release.

Your lack of leverage and use of your arms made you thumping against the couch and wall, vision darkening on the edges as the pressure in your gut and the hold on your throat remained. 

You were breaking in his arms, tears rolling down your cheeks as you held yourself from cresting. The exertion of it all was taking its toll, legs jellied and chest beading with sweat. 

Keigo sensed it, shifting his hips to hit the spongy spot in your cunt, “Come, dove.”

You let go.

A sob shattered in your throat as your climax crashed through you. Keigo released your throat, holding you by your bound arms as he bottomed out. His own harsh cry panged against yours as he stuffed you full. 

Surprisingly gently, he rocked his hips against your own, letting the ambient throb of your cunt milk him dry.

You came down, rolling and spinning as you sucked down air a bit too fast. Keigo panted behind you, though the sound seemed dull.

The pressure from your wrists released, soft thumbs rubbing at where the fabric had bitten into your forearms, “Hey, angel, you with me?”

You could only nod weakly, exhaustion and aches creeping in. 

Keigo repositioned the two of you, setting himself against the arm of the couch, wings up free to drape and splay over the floor. He dragged you with him, pulling you to lay on his chest. The stickiness of his spunk, your slick, and general sweatiness might’ve been uncomfortable, but you weren’t quite lucid enough to care.

“How are you feeling? Still feeling a little mouthy?” Keigo teased, already knowing your answer. 

You muffled a groan against his chest, shaking your head against the sweat of his chest. 

“Awww,” Keigo chuckled, fingers brushing over your cheeks, “Is my dove a little fucked out?”

“Keeeigo, b-be nice.”

Your voice broke, parched.

Keigo snorted, pressing a kiss to the side of your forehead, “I guess I can manage that. Just for you, though. Can’t let the others see me get all soft.”

You wouldn’t; seeing Keigo warm and gooey, both of you mutually fucked-out, was a pleasure only you got to indulge in. And you loved every moment of it. 

++++++++++++

taglist: @sinclairsamess (msg me if you’d like to be on it!)

ko-fi

[tangerineliqu0r]

Kindle

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Hero!Reader

Summary: They haven't seen each other in 6 months, and after meeting on the metro, have a cute dinner.

Warnings: fluff, mutual pining, married couple stuff, cursing, reminiscing

Word Count: 1373

a/n: I've been dying to actually start writing and I love Sam so much and don't see enough love for him so here it is <3

The bumpiness of the metro had never been nice to you. Whether it was smacking your head into the window or throwing you off balance, it had never been something you liked. Unfortunately, it was much faster than driving when you had to be downtown. Not to mention you weren’t much of a driver anyways.

That’s how you got stuck dosing off on the cracked seats on your way back from work. You’d think that working for the government would have its perks, but here you were working until late and riding the damn metro back home. You were exhausted, so much so that your eyelids were half closed where pictures of a warm bed and Chinese takeout danced behind your eyes. To anyone else on the train, you probably looked completely asleep or at least in your own little world. You were almost knocked out until the train pulled up to a stop and a voice yanked you out of your dreams.

“Hey, is that really you? What’re you doing in DC?”

The striking figure of Sam Wilson entered your half-lidded vision. He was getting on the train and grabbing a standing spot directly in front of you. Despite the initial shock of seeing him you were still able to get a stiff answer to come out of your mouth as you tried to wake yourself up.

“Oh, you know, working myself to death, you know the feds don’t want any of us roaming the streets.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Retiring was never an option for you, it seemed you’d always be paying them back for your ‘enemy of the state’ pardon.

“Yeah, I felt that. Always the next job, right?”

“Exactly. They’ve got me cooped up in an office with a bunch of techs now. Said something about me being unsafe and unpredictable in the field, before assigning me some shitty therapist and slapping me behind a computer.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the thought.

“Shit, I’d kill for a desk job right now. Seems like I fly from mission to mission and get patched up on the plane in between.Dealing with the world post blip isn’t as easy as it seems.”

“I know Sam, the world’s so different and I’m so busy I swear I don’t think I’ve sat down at my kitchen table to eat in 4 months.”

I shifted over so I was fully in my seat and motioned for him to take the seat next to me. I could see the exhaustion on his face as he plopped into the seat. He leaned fully back and stretched out his long jean clad legs.

He blows air out of his mouth and laughs at me, “God damn, I felt that, takeout’s good, but nothing beats a good steak and sprouts.”

Obviously, it hadn’t taken long to fall back into their old ways: complaining about work and talking about food. All we needed to turn back time now would be a quick kiss. You couldn’t help but to reminisce. The two of you used to be like two peas in a pod, where he was you were. Seeing him after all this time made you realize just how much you missed him. You missed being around him all the time. You missed the way he’d laugh at your stupid jokes. You missed cooking for him and staying in to watch some cult classic. You missed going out to Tony’s fancy parties and then driving around for hours with Sam after. You missed the taste of his lips and the feel of his skin against yours. You missed him more than you realized, and the feeling gave you the confidence to speak up.

“Come over to mine then, I still go grocery shopping and I’m sure I can whip up an actual meal for you.”

His brown eyes light up, and you know you’ve got him with the promise of good cooking. “God, it’s been forever since I’ve ate your food, you know I can’t turn that down.”

“Good, I got you just in time then, because my stop is coming up.” You smiled at him.

Suddenly the day had gotten better, even with the torture of work and the monotony of life, Sam Wilson had managed to brighten up your world with just a glance.

Despite your stops coming up in any minute, you felt that they were taking an indefinite amount of time. The excitement to be with Sam for the evening overrode any patience you had managed to develop over your lifetime.

When the stop finally came, the two of you made the quick walk back to your apartment in no time.

“Government assigned?” Sam quirks his eyebrow at you as you pull the front door open.

“Of course, I’m sure they’ve got a million agents in this damn building watching my every move. I swear, you can get pardoned, but they don’t every really pardon you.” You smirk as the two of you enter the elevator.

“Ha!” He barks out a sharp laugh, “You think they’ve got a Sharon Carter in the unit across from you?”

“Oh I’m sure of it, the guy in the unit across from me is definitely an agent,” you snark at him. “He’s doing a real good job at pulling off the frail look thought, especially with the hourly cig breaks and the toothpick arms, I’m sure they think I’d never suspect.” You laugh.

“But really, Sam, most of the people in the building are suits, along with a few agents that I know of.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they keep a close eye on you, being all unpredictable and unsafe like you are.” He jabs you in the side and laughs.

“I’m telling you they’ve got it all wrong!” you laugh. “Alright this is me,” you wiggle your key into the knob and open the door.

“Kick off your shoes and relax wherever, I’m going to see what I’ve got in the kitchen.” You wandered into the kitchen to find something to whip up.

It didn’t take Sam long at all to get comfortable. He quickly cozied into the second-hand brown leather couch situated in the living room parallel to your kitchen. The man was barely awake when you got to him with a plate of food.

The two of you sit next to each other and eat on the old couch. It doesn’t take long until someone suggests that they find something to watch on television, and not long after you all are watching reruns of the Office.

Both of you laugh wholeheartedly through the episodes and somewhere in between the 4th and 5th episode you begin to notice the glances Sam is giving you. They’re somewhere between sad and longing, and you’re beginning to think he’s going to leave until Sam wraps his hand over your shoulders and pulls you in tight against him. Suddenly it’s like the blip never happened, the snap never happened, and it’s just the two of you, doing what you always do.

You were content with that, being close to him, being immersed in him. Hell, you hoped that the familiar warm musky smell of his cologne would stay on the shirt you were wearing. The two of you had nearly watched a half a season when you really began to get tired. Gently, you tapped his arm, so he’d lift it off your shoulders and asked if he minded if laid down over his lap.

Of course, he obliged and there the two you were just like old times, you half-asleep with your head in his lap and him stroking his fingers through your hair and scratching gently against you scalp.

The sad look he had been giving you earlier had transformed. It was a gentle, mellow, content look now. You could guess he was reminiscing too, just by the look on his face. And you knew for sure he had been reminiscing when leaned down and attached his lips to yours.

There it was, that spark in your chest, that you hadn’t felt in a hell of a long time. Sam Wilson had sparked a little flame your heart again, and you just hoped he’d kindle it.

[groovycatcollector]

The Wonderfully Right, And The Horribly Wrong (Daryl Dixon Love story)

Summery: After losing her brother and his wife, one young woman is left on her own, caring for a new born and trying to survive. After being taken in to a community after years of mistrust, how will she adapt, and what effect will a certain archer have on her. Starts the last episode of season 5

Warnings: slow-burn, angst, eventual fluff, violence, strong language. ptsd, age gap

Pairings: Daryl Dixon x OFC

Chapter 9

I had decided to stay awake after one of the baby’s feeds, I had told Maggie I’d help her planting some veg, considering food supplies were running low. I had time before I would go to the infirmary and my mind was still buzzing with distrust for Alexandria. But knowing I should stay for the baby I did, wanting to give him a better chance, so I occupied my days, distracting myself from my gut screaming at me that something was gonna go wrong.

The sun was just lightening the sky without making an appearance, so it was cool enough to work. I was already to go; food packed, baby fed and in a basket, just my hair.

I was standing in front of a mirror in the sitting room. I couldn’t brush it, it was too curly and it would only puff it up more. My last hair elastics broke last night so I stared helpless at the ringlets in the mirror. I could shave my head?

I’m not shaving my head …

After deciding not to shave my head, I graded a pencil (Something one of my older sisters had thought me) and twisted it and weaved it into my hair; leaving me with a low bun. It wouldn’t keep it off my neck but it would stay out of my face. Deciding that was enough for me I wrapped my new found scarf around my head once, making sure to secure my baby hairs and front strands in the fabric. Tying it at the base of my neck around the bun, leaving the flimsy material falling loosely at my shoulder blades.

**

 “One Russian name and one normal name?” Maggie confirmed, using her foot too glide the spade into the ground. “Yep, family tradition, honour the grandparents” I grunted, following suit. The sun had risen, and oh mama it was hot. We had started working before dawn, so we had a few tomatoes plants in the ground, and the conversation has drifted to the Christening tomorrow, and the lack of a name.

I’m guessing Maggie was also tired with an aching back by her strained reply “I don’t know many Russian names so you’ll have to excuse my lack of input there”. I huffed with a smile “I was thinking maybe Luke? Does he look like a Luke to you” I straightened glanced at the baby, who at this stage couldn’t really crawl; only sat there content with his big hat. Maggie halted, turning to look at him clumsily pulling out grass “He could be a Luke”

I decided to test it out “Hey” I called at the oblivious infant “You think you’re a Luke?” Waiting a moment, looking as he tried to put a blade of grass into his mouth before it fell from his weak grip. “Okay not Luke” I announced before bending back over continuing my work.

We were quiet concentrating for a few more minutes. “You thought of any names for yourself?” I asked, whipping a bead of sweat from my neck. The sound of shovels scratching threw dirt filled my ears before she gathered an answer. “Haven’t really thought about it yet, suppose it’s still early days” She said, focusing her eyes on the ground.

I nodded “Just be careful you don’t end up like me, waiting for the day before you have to name him” She chuckled at that.

 When the sun got high I wondered over to the infirmary. I was reading a book I snagged from the hippie on natural herbs, writing out Denise’s beloved Short Cuts on a sheet of paper for each herb. Luckily not many were sick, so besides writing all of my useless information I just tidied up. It was nice, I felt like it was summer vacation and I was down at my Grandpa’s practice.

Denise and I sat on the porch, still in the shade. She looked off long fully in the distance at Tara on post while I quizzed her on her spread sheet. We had come up with a routine of cleaning, testing cheat sheets, cleaning again, and home time (If no one came in of course)

“Infection” I called out agents the hot air. Denise groaned, flopping back onto the wooden panels.  “No, I’m sick of this” she exclaimed rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands. I was sick of it too in all honesty. I lay next to her book on my chest “Yeah me too” I admitted staring up at the white porch roof. I glance across at her, she reminded me of Sonya, just getting in her head all the time, and trying to pull it all together for other people.

“How’re things with Tara?” I asked, somewhere between genuinely curious and just making small talk. “They’re fine, we moved in together” She sighed. Oh shit big step.

 Hold the fuck up that’s a very big step. I bolted up right “What the fuck, I see you ever single day for the past five weeks and you didn’t say anything?” I starred, mouth wide open.

Denise shrugged defensively “I dunno Nina I didn’t think it was that important” My eyes darted to Tara who stood on the watch tower. I scoffed, repeating her “Not a big deal” before lay back down. It was quiet for a moment, just listening to the baby babbling in his highchair before Denise broke the pause in dialogue.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you” She said, putting her face in my direction but still not meeting my eyes. “I guess I was kinda scared how you’d react” She paused, biting her lips thinking “With you being so religious and all”

I narrowed my eyes, not fully understanding her meaning before it all clicked into place, which caused an eruption of laughs burst from my stomach. She looked at me bewildered before I could catch my breath, whipping a tear away from my eye. 

“Dude” I gasped “Dude I’m catholic not an asshole” Her look of shock, followed by a small chuckle of relief calmed me a little.

I lolled my head to look at her “So you’re not homophobic” She asked still chuckling, I offered her a smile before leaning in and whispering “Not an asshole” while putting my hand on hers while we lazily starred up at the roof. I liked Denise, she reminded me of what it was like to have a sister, even if she presumed I was an asshole.

“Sooo” She sang, just as my mind was beginning to wander too far into sadder thoughts. “What’s going on with Daryl?” She cocked on eyebrow teasingly.

Confusion shocked my body, now I definitely didn’t expect that. I got on with Daryl, but I don’t think I’m into him “what about him?” I asked, cautiously.

I’ve gotten too comfortable here, just the hint of romantic relationships got my palms sweating. Now it was Denise’s turn to let a giggle “Are you kidding? You guys are always looking at each other and I see you guys early mornings talking to each other” Her nose was scrunched up like a kid tattling on their friend to teacher.

It’s true we had made a routine of crossing paths when I would feed the baby, and we would get up to hunt or get ready for a run. I just never figured it would spark town gossip.

“We are not always looking at each other” I said defensively. She scoffed sitting up “Nina you both are constantly gazing at each other from across the street!” I sat up next to her leaning agents the wall, her crossed legged and my arms resting on my bent knees. What in tarnation, gazing? I don’t gaze, I’m a Price and we’re not a gazing family

“We do not gaze”

“Then why are you getting so defensive”

“I’m not getting defensive”

Denise through her hands up in the air in defeat “Okay okay nothings going on, shouldn’t have asked” She looked down rubbing her palms together after I thanked her. Suddenly her face contorted in a smile “Say…” She sounded way too pleased with herself for this to end well.

“What are you doing later today?” Shit. I chewed my lip “I’m going helping with the cars” I answered bluntly, trying not to show just how completely she caught me.

“And who is it again who’s doing the cars today?” I hope that smile was hurting her face, it was far too big. My shoulders slouched in defeat, trying to hide my smile, my signal of “You got me” as Denise burst out laughing.

“You” She said, pushing my shoulder making me wobble “Are full of shit” I barely got to mumble a ‘Am not’ before the doctor continued her sentence “And I think you two would be cute”

“Fuck off”

 **

Me and Daryl, that’s weird, crazy even. Just because I get on with someone who’s reasonably attractive and single doesn’t mean I’m attracted to them

Even if I just said they were attractive. Not the point.

I’m gonna go in there, and be cool, chilled, just doing car stuff. And I’m a friendly person, I’m friendly with everyone. Sure I spent a little more time with him but so what?

 I walked into the garage seeing Daryl with his head under the hood of one of the cars. His back was covered by a black vest top but his shoulders were glistening with the sweat, and his hair was damp and sticking agents his neck; obviously not enjoying the summer heat.

“Hey, need any help” I asked, putting the baby on the floor “I know a thing or two about cars” I leaned agents the car and peered into the engine, seeing it had all its parts.

“Had a boyfriend that was into cars?” He taunted, still not looking at me, knowing it would get on my nerves.

“My daddy was a mechanic” I clarified. He shot me a glance from behind the dirt and oil that covered his face “Thought you’d been more into them pageants” His mouth came up in a half smile, just flashing his teeth.

A wicked grin grew on my face “Oh yeah, real big into thoughts, won a few too” I hoped he could pick up on my sarcasm, pushing him over so I could get a better look at the valves threw the walker blood “But that’s only because I slept with the judges” I looked up and gave him a big smile but the look on his face ment I couldn’t hold back a laugh “Dann I never thought I’d see you look shocked” I said, slapping him on his back. See? Friendly.

Then a grumble past his lips “Always knew you’d be easy” Without looking up I punched his arm.

Sonya was into Pageants, real good. She won a scholarship to a nursing school in New York kinda good.

“You’d wanna know” I said, sticking my hand into the slimy shit stuck in the engine and pulling it out.

 Just too buds, having laughs, no feelings.

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part six Part seven Part eight Part ten Part eleven

Tags:@buckysjuicyplums

[kidlightnings]

dinner, no movie

mob au, ky/eli, ky/asra, 4656 words, r-18 (oral, handjobs)

"Now, I've always fancied myself more of a box wine kinda girl."

Ky tried and failed to dispel the grin. "I'm sorry, but the only things I have come in glass. Maybe I can compromise with a handle."

Eli chewed cool fish on warm rice. He made a little snorting laugh. "I'll take your shittiest vintage."

eli belongs to @vesuviannights, ky is my own disaster son

Ky was breathless, dark-eyed as Asra settled himself down on the plush sheets, comforter. His lips were kiss-swollen and clothes significantly undone. Still more intact than Asra’s.

“Ahh- Asra?”

Asra guided him down to sit across one thigh. His hand aligned Ky’s to stroke against his mostly-hard cock.

“Mm?” he asked, nuzzled into Ky’s throat.

“Who’s the guy? The one locked up?”

Asra chuckled into him. “What a question to ask, right now…”

Ky made a little needy noise.

“A pawn,” Asra said.

He made a little huff, let his thumb slide through slickness and trail it back down. “Did he… do something?”

“Not directly, no, treasure, why are you so curious?”

Asra’s voice carried with it a dangerous lilt that Ky knew meant that some questions shouldn’t be pressed. Ky took the adjacent path as Asra’s hands slid up his back.

“Well- does he have to be locked up-?”

Asra laughed, kissed his lips. “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you? What would keep him here, otherwise?”

“Ahh- w- what if I watched him?”

Asra met his eyes, his own almost luminescent with whispers that constantly ran through his head. “Oh, love, would you? Would you stop him, if he tried to run? Would you fight him?”

Ky swallowed, looked to the side. “For- for you, I would.”

Another quick, flirting kiss landed on his lips.

“Oh, you would, wouldn’t you? And you’d be torn up about it later, wouldn’t you?”

“He just looks so miserable, and if he didn’t do anything-”

Asra’s gaze, fond, and indulgent, cut him off. “If you were anyone else, treasure, I’d think you were going to try to free him while I wasn’t looking. But,” he paused, sliding his hand across Ky’s chest, and resting it there. “You’re far too loyal for that, aren’t you? You’re just soft, here.”

Ky could feel pulse traveling into palm as he breathed.

"I'll take personal responsibility, he's not going to run away, we just- we’re not-"

Asra lay back, guided his head down. "Ask me in a few minutes, treasure, I want your mouth doing something else."

Ky kissed at the tip of his dick, dropped to lick from base to tip in a little prelude to taking Asra fully down. His lips worked there while tongue undulated higher up against the smooth head.

Asra's hand tightened in a bright and shining ocean of hair. Lips pumped up and down in smooth motions, tongue stroking him from the inside. Asra couldn’t manage the sounds coming from his lips, soft moans, and a shuddering gasp as Ky’s nose pushed into the skin of his belly, lips tickled by fine white hairs.

"Yes- Ky, yes, fine- fine, you- you can take him to dinner- d-do w-whatever you want with him!"

Ky made a pleased little noise, but was far from one to leave what he started unfinished.

Later, he wiped his mouth, exiting, and headed to his own room to put himself back in order. Hair pinned neatly and lips once again coated in smooth, even color, Ky made his way into the very interior of the mansion. Tarek passed him in the hall.

"Heard you have some visiting privileges," he chuckled, and despite a total lack of untowards intentions, Ky felt himself blushing.

"Just dinner," he said, fast.

"No movie?"

"Ha- aha- no- not like that-"

Tarek patted his shoulder. "Oh, I know." He laughed it, continued on.

Ky reached a door with a one-way window, clear on his side, and keyed in the pin. He knew it, and had for long before he'd been told. It was in his job description, practically.

He swung the door in a smooth motion, where ashy hair did little to hide a sullen scowl. Eyes met his and held contact that had Ky doubting himself. He'd been sure when just looking in, but the anger, the darkness locked on him, could easily, was easily, getting under his skin.

"'m- ah, I'm Ky," he said, walked forward and extended his hand.

His guest didn't take it. Didn't speak. Ky let his hand drop.

"Well, I'm here to get you dinner and get you out a while, ok? Don't- ahh, please don't run off on me."

"So, the arm candy is here to entertain me?"

Ky's lips pulled into a grimace that he forced into a smile in a small turn.

"Do I have to have a taste?"

Ky shook his head. "You don't have to do anything. Well, except just tell me what you like to eat."

He chuckled darkly. "Is this where I say pizza and sushi like we're nervously planning our first date?"

Ky exhaled into a laugh. "Feel like getting some air while you think about it?"

He stood with a weary sound. "If that's what has to happen."

Ky reentered the code and led him out. He followed at a short distance, reluctant, but compliant.

Again in the hall, he and Vega exchanged a curious look that faded into a smile on her side, mirrored on his after she was gone.

"Eli," he finally said as they walked.

Ky turned and again put out his hand, and with any other expression except the broad and uncomplicated smile, it'd have appeared a caricature of the gesture. Eli shrugged, resigned, and gave him a firm shake, brief, before dropping his hand again.

“Now that we’ve been introduced,” Ky teased. “Is there anything you’d like to do? Ah- aside from leave?”

Eli sighed. “Surprise me.”

Ky slid his phone from his pocket and swiped seemingly idly for a moment, then a small smile settled on his face. "Dinner will be here in...half an hour, maybe forty five," Ky then said. "Feel like coming outside? It's a nice courtyard, the weather is nice."

Eli shrugged. "If it'll placate you."

Ky frowned slightly. He realized the rejection had no business feeling near so personal, given their positions, and yet, it did. 

"Come on," he said, forcing some brightness into his voice.

Eli followed, and Ky lead them through the remaining hallway and to the courtyard, surrounded by opulent living and play space. Birdsong lilted its way through the air, and sweetness mellowed around them from flowers in full bloom.

"It's a hobby," Ky commented, gesturing to the abject lushness around them.

"Arm candy… courtesan? I suppose the Alnazars prefer them to pretend to be cultured?"

Ky leveled him a sharp look.

"Ah! So he isn't just a doll!"

"No. I'm not. And I can't set you free, but, I can keep you with me so that you're not with anyone else."

"It's a threat?" Eli asked.

"An offer. But I guess it could go either way…" Ky said, his gaze contemplative. "I mean, I wasn't going to encourage anyone to be a dick to you. But… I can see that already happened."

Eli touched at the marks from his abduction. His voice was resigned when he spoke again. "I guess it has."

"I… I don't know why you were brought here, but, I'm not an animal. Asra said you haven't done anything wrong, so, it feels wrong, ok, to just lock you in a room. That's all. That's it."

Eli shook his head, hair swaying in the light breeze that ruffled the leaves around them, shook a fresh dusting of pollen free, by the aroma.

"It is… Nice to see the sun," he finally said.

"Shall I let you be a while?"

"It's better than a room with no windows," he admitted.

"I'll come get you when dinner's here?"

"You don't have to leave. I just don't have anything to talk to the pet of the boss who is holding me hostage about."

"Ahh- I guess I deserve it, don't I?"

"You are here. And working for him."

Ky sighed. "It's true. We've never done anything like this…"

"That you know of."

He raised his hands, apologetic.

"Ah- yes… That I know of. What about you?"

"You haven't unlocked that content yet," Eli chuckled, dryly.

Ky mirrored the sound. "I suppose I haven't. Maybe after I've fed you and picked a few more right answers."

Eli looked at the ground, as though hiding the smile that tugged at his lips.

They were silent, then, and Ky finally moved to a little table tucked away and took from it shears, started to prune, as though having forgotten Eli was there. It seemed, to Ky's perception, to suit him just fine, and he caught glimpses as Eli took in the surroundings.

He felt a buzz in his pocket and checked the phone.

"Ah… shall I get it and come back, or would you rather eat inside? We have a whole dining room we never use."

"And leave me here? Alone?"

Ky smiled. "You'd be hard pressed to unlock any of these, and, the glass… well. I don't like the idea of anyone falling through it on a bender. You'd be here when I got back."

"You're a surprise," Eli said, wryly.

"I do what I can."

"I'll come with. I'll enjoy the Alnazar's decadence while I have entertainment for the evening."

Ky held the subtly framed french door for him.

Fetching the delivery from the front hall was quick. They walked back along another hall, paneled, until it opened in a diagonal to a plush rug under a polished tabletop, frivolously long and framed in enough chairs for many times their current number in the upper echelons.

"I can see why you don't eat in the general conference room," Eli quipped.

Ky stepped through but didn't stop at the table, and passed into a further room, more scullery than dining room. A small table, easily for cooks or wait staff to use as needed, set near the far wall.

"Better?" Ky asked, smile mischievous.

Eli chuckled. "If I say yes, will you settle down and stop trying to show me your throat?"

"Oh, absolutely not."

Ky was pink in the cheeks as he set the plastic bags down and started to pull styrofoam containers, flimsy utensils, and thin napkins out. A few paper-sleeved wooden chopsticks came out with the utensils. Ky set them like silverware. Styrofoam plates were arranged like China, and Ky caught the sliver of amused smile.

"You know if you'd wanted me on my knees, you didn't need to go through all this, you could have just put a gun to my head."

Ky shrugged, unsure if he should joke, or counter more severely.

"That's usually my job," he settled on.

"The knees, or the gun?"

"Yes," Ky answered. "Ah- that's a lie. I try to avoid the last one."

"But not the first."

Pink turned to red. Ky didn't answer, instead started opening containers - some the traditional square, and others, the slimmer, half-wide.

"Sure, but where's the pizza?" Eli asked, stifling any other reaction.

Ky gestured to a chair. "That's for tomorrow," he laughed. "Thirsty?"

Eli answered as Ky pulled down glasses from a small cupboard.

"For something stronger than you're getting."

"Later! You haven't had water all day, have you?"

"I had a cup."

Ky looked at his watch, then at Eli, and set a full glass in front of him.

"Later. We'll look at the wine cellar."

Eli downed it, and Ky took, refilled it.

"Now, I've always fancied myself more of a box wine kinda girl."

Ky tried and failed to dispel the grin. "I'm sorry, but the only things I have come in glass. Maybe I can compromise with a handle."

Eli chewed cool fish on warm rice. He made a little snorting laugh. "I'll take your shittiest vintage."

"I'll make it a double. How is it?"

Eli seemed to consider before answering. Ky felt nerves rise in his belly, for what reason, he couldn't justify beyond an irrational need to please everyone, including, he supposed, a prisoner. "What's the place, right next door? It's fresh."

Ky laughed, forcibly dispelling the tightness in his chest. "It's- ah- it's not, is the weird part. I- ahah- I don't know how they do it."

"You're sure your boss doesn't just have a private sushi chef locked in some other room?"

"At least then there'd be a reason, right?"

Eli laughed. "Don't trick me into laughing about being held up here."

Ky smiled. "It's- ah- it's better than not, isn't it?"

He smiled and shook his head. "You're an odd one."

"Ah… I've heard that."

"I'd be surprised if you hadn't," Eli said, dryly.

Ky quieted.

"I don't imagine the ice cream survived as well," Eli said, once all that was left was traces of sauce and grains of rice in the bottom of otherwise empty styrofoam. One box remained, and he unlatched the tab to let it open.

"It's still a shape," Ky noted, looked up sheepishly.

"Now, what do I have to tell you to have it?" Eli asked.

"That you want it," Ky laughed. "I swear, it's not an interrogation. If it is, ah, I'm- ahaha, I'm the worst at it. I haven't gotten anything out of you aside from a presumed favorite food. Which, you're a very good and hungry liar if so."

Eli snorted.

Ky eased the container across the table. "If you want it?"

Eli had the softened mochi in hand and bit into it. It dripped, and Ky averted his gaze from the green dribble down his chin.

"You want that wine?"

Eli slipped the other half into his mouth, and Ky bustled empty containers into nesting in each other to drop into rubbish.

"If you're offering no strings attached, then, I think I will."

Ky nodded, gave him a sly smile. "Let's see what we're drinking."

"What would piss Asra off the most?"

Ky laughed. "None of what you'd pick."

"I just might."

His laugh turned unsettled, forced back into a light tone. His brows knit, though.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Eli teased, "I would not, I'd hate it, and you've been such a sport about it all. You've let me be an ass to you. It's charming."

Ky let his shoulders drop and gave a sheepish smile. "Let's pick something out," he said, and held out his hand.

Eli brushed it down, but not brusquely.

"You'll have to liquor a girl up more to get mushy like that."

Ky raised a brow. "Mushy? Oh, you have no idea," he said.

"Somehow, I have an idea."

Ky looked away, started the walk back out through the imposing dining room. "Ahh, I suppose," he laughed.

The hall opened as they passed across the foyer and then took a left, into a glass-walled room that Ky held open the door to.

"So… if there's nothing here, there's more, through-"

Eli had one in hand. "This one," he said.

Ky regarded it, suppressed a giggle. The label read Chocolate Shop.

"Novelty."

Eli nodded. "Glasses, or…?"

Ky continued for another moment.

"I'll pass a bottle. Come up, no need to stay inside?"

"Up?" Eli asked, swiping a corkscrew from a ledge.

"Roof, if you wanted to get some sky? Not much you can see from the courtyard, with all the trees and all."

"Night sky…" Eli murmured.

Ky gave him a small nod.

"Sure," he said after a moment.

His eyes held a look that Ky couldn't place. It was distant, if nothing else. He didn't double back, instead proceeded through the room and out the other side to a spiraling staircase. Ky inclined his head, and Eli followed. Only one set of footsteps were audible, and Ky felt himself watched.

"Quiet," he commented.

"My job. The real one."

"Hmm…"

Ky laughed. "That knowledge won't help you." His tone had a dark subtlety.

"Fair," Eli replied.

Ky reached a landing and used a prod to push up a hatch. He pushed a ladder into the opening where cool air flooded down.

"Jacket?" Ky asked.

Eli gestured to his long sleeves.

"Suit yourself."

And yet, Ky had another folded over his arm as he gestured Eli to go first.

"Clever," Eli commented, and shimmied up.

"I'm not taking the chance of your making off with a ten dollar bottle of wine, of course."

"Are you... offering to catch me?"

Ky could hear the smirk in his voice.

"M-maybe- maybe so."

Ky followed once Eli was up, slipped a wedge under the hatch. He heard a soft gasp.

"You- ahh- you like it? It's...it is a pretty nice view."

His eyes swept out over the city, but as they fell to Eli, Ky saw him looking straight up. He looked up almost in a daze.

Ky moved to stand close enough to reach out and take the bottle. His hand hovered but hesitated until Eli looked down all on his own and uncorked it himself. He tipped it into his mouth. He swallowed, deeply, a grimace on his tongue.

Ky smiled.

"How is it?"

"Exactly what I expected," he said, held it out to Ky.

Ky took it and steeled himself, tipped a sip of the dark liquid into his mouth. It was bitter, deep, and cocoa swirled around his taste buds. The sweetness was almost too much. He swallowed in a heavy motion. It had a burn that he was loathe to repeat, but, the aftertaste dripped through his mouth in a more gentle wash.

"What did you expect?" Ky asked, voice thick.

"Too much of everything," Eli chuckled.

A small collection of folding chairs was scattered around the rooftop, various canvas camp chairs. Ky gestured, and Eli took him by the shoulder and settled him into one instead. Ky exhaled, smiled, and let himself be guided.

"If you needed me to sit first before you, you could have asked," he said, voice surprised, but with a slight edge of appreciation.

Eli settled in front of him, and held out his hand. Ky passed the bottle back. Eli felt it in his hand. "Oh, you are not matching me, come now, fair's fair."

Ky laughed, took it back and took another deep draught.

Eli finally took it back, sat more fully down onto the hardwood decking laid across the roof, facing Ky. The night air nipped at them both, Ky though only through where jacket didn't cover. He held out the other jacket. Eli rolled his eyes.

"Can't decide if you want to fuck me, or mother me."

Ky let out a little chastised laugh.

"Well, the second...ahh- it doesn't work so well with the first, now does it?"

"No, it doesn't," he said, and set the bottle down.

"But, I- ahh, I did already say, I'm not trying to take advantage."

"Oh, now you didn't say that specifically, that's a new one. Getting me fed, drunk, and up here with the stars?"

Ky laughed, nervous. "Besides, it usually works the other way."

Eli looked him up and down, comfortably sunk into the chair, and a faint pink in his cheeks, open posture. Ky looked from the stars back down to him.

"It does, doesn't it?" Eli chuckled, "you look the sort."

Ky's brows knit. "I- ahh- aha. Well. I- I can't argue with it." He held his hand out. He didn't receive the bottle in it, instead the firm warmth of Eli's hand. He felt a chill run down his arm. Impulse had him clasping it, tugging.

"Unless, you...wanted?" Ky asked, voice shaky, and eyes soft.

Eli let himself be pulled, and Ky felt lips settle on his, his other hand on his knee. He made a soft sound into Eli's mouth.

"Hmm… it tastes better on you," he said, pulled back and took another drink.

Now, Ky felt the bottle pushed into his hand, and mirrored the same motion, wine spilling down his throat. Far be it from him to say he was tipsy, but he did feel a warmth in his cheeks, whether from the alcohol or from the man leaned between his legs and pulling him into another kiss, he didn't know.

"H-hang on," he said, breaking it, "you're- ahh- this really isn't just because you think you- ahh, you don't owe me, you know?"

"I don't owe anyone for that wine, in fact, I think you owe me for it," Eli said against his mouth.

Ky smiled into his lips. "Ok, but, the everything else? I wasn't just trying to-"

Eli had his face in his hands.

"Like I think an Alnazar needs to bribe a poor unsuspecting hostage into sex?" he quipped. "You're darling. Let me enjoy it."

Ky smiled now again fondly. "I'll enjoy it, I only could hope you-"

"Shush," Eli said, "you talk so much, you little nervous nellie."

And then he shushed him with his lips.

Ky kissed back, but his eyes crinkled as he used the closeness to drape the coat over Eli's back. He nearly chuckled. Ky was sure he heard the insufferable against his mouth. Still, coat settled in place, he drew one hand to cup Eli's cheek, the other to slide a button open, then another.

Eli's hand stopped him. "Where do you think you're going with that?"

"Ah- we already talked about me.. On my knees…? I could finish off this dinner date-"

"Who says I'm the dessert?"

Ky blushed. "You're not- oh…" Ky mumbled as hands worked down his chest, settled on his hips. He swallowed hard. "Oh- E-Eli- you don't have to-"

"I know that," he said, fingers toying at his belt buckle.

Ky sighed at the pressure against where he realized suddenly how hard he was.

"Parts of you don't seem to though."

Ky wiggled his fingers. "Th- that's hardly your problem-"

"I want it to be my problem, now, will you let me thank you for making this a little less miserable?"

Ky groaned as he was palmed. "Y-ye- oh, yes-"

Eli leaned forward as Ky sagged back, finally taking the given permission to unfasten his belt and get his fly open.

Ky blushed, eyes looking down, then back up to Eli. "It- ahh- it's cold," he said, sheepish.

“It’s about to be very warm,” Eli said, dropping his head, and Ky had to cover his mouth with his hand. 

Hot breath, then a hotter mouth took him in, and Ky sighed into his palm. 

"Ohh-" he groaned, intending to say more, but completely unable as Eli slid his lips down down his cock.

Their eyes met, and Ky smiled, weak from how slack his jaw was. There was a hitch in his breath as Eli nosed into his belly, lips circling the base before drawing back up.

"Ohh- n-not t-too cold-" he murmured, watching Eli.

The ease with which he took him down gave Ky a little thrill, not because he had any delusions about his size, but there was an enthusiasm to his movements that he was sure had his voice carrying as he cried out. Ky cupped his cheek, eyes nearly shut.

"Fuck- oh… Fuck, Eli, your...ahh…your mouth-"

His cheeks pulled in. Ky yelped, felt his hips jump. "F-fuck-!"

He added how long he was going to last to things he had no delusions over. Ky breathed, tried to put it off, but he knew he was buying himself an inconsequential amount of time. He was already fast, and to have the rare treat of his cock in someone's mouth? He didn't stand a chance.

"N-not g-gonna-" he started, and Eli pulled back until just the head was between his lips. He worked his tongue in tiny motions. Ky's breath hissed at the cold against where he was wet with saliva, and felt what had been an imminent need wane back down to a hot ache.

"Oh- oh…fuck," he murmured. "Oh, fuck, that's- ahh- that's good."

Eli broke the hold for long enough to quip, "I was hoping to savor dessert."

Ky managed a laugh, voice tight with restrained pleasure. "I'm- ahh, I'm not complaining- Wha- ohh- what a- ah- terrible host I’d be if I-” Ky faltered, as Eli dropped his head again, had him again enveloped by hot lips and tongue, “rushed you.”

In the evening stillness Ky felt his voice unnaturally loud even beyond how he normally was, covered his mouth with his hand. Eli's eyes met his and his brows knit. Ky gave him a sheepishly pleasured smile.

"We- ahh- we're up high, sound….ahh…. Sound carries-"

He couldn't finish as Eli sucked harder, lips ringed around the base again and working in tight little motions. Eli had Ky's hand in his, guided it to his head. Ky's fingers clenched in his hair reflexively.

"Ahh- d-don't worry- won't fuck… Fuck your face-"

Eli hummed around his dick, and Ky gasped, groaned softly into his hand.

"Ohh-" he moaned, and Eli licked up him, laved his tongue against the head. Ky couldn't tell if what beaded there and Eli licked up was remnants of his saliva or precum, or both. He kissed against the head, and Ky had to stop himself from urging Eli's head down again. Even so, he seemed to respond to the tension in his fingers. He did take him back down. Ky whimpered into his hand. He moved like a tight cunt in slick movements until Ky choked it out, the beginnings of admission that he couldn't last longer. His voice was muffled, eyes barely open.

"E-Eli- c-com- coming-" he gasped.

He hadn't expected to be hilt-deep in Eli's throat when he came. Ky moaned into his palm, breathless, feeling overcome with the sensation. Eli let him finish before licking, lapping up his length. Ky trembled, shuddered.

"Fuck, Eli," he cried.

It was almost too much to have that hot, wet tongue on one side and the night's chill on the other. Ky whimpered, soft exhales as he seemed to try to come back to himself, held at bay by stimulation keeping him in the hazy drift.

"I- ahh- fuck… Fuck, Eli… You're so good-"

Eli leaned his head into Ky's thigh, frowned. Ky stroked through ashy hair, touch gentle as anything he ever did.

"Should….ahh.. should we go back inside? Or...would you like payback out here?"

"Payback…" Eli asked, smile amused. "Any worse way to phrase that?"

"Retribution?" Ky returned, cheeky.

Eli shook his head. "Ok, that is worse." He was quiet a long moment. "You're not paying me back."

Ky raised a brow.

"No? Ahh- that… That was... extremely good, though. I can't just-"

"Oh, hush. You're going to put me back in the room, don't make it worse."

Ky made a little huff.

"I wasn't, actually, I was going to...well… still am going, if you'll have it, just keep you with me."

"Hostage boyfriend, huh?"

Ky looked down, disappointed. "It… ah. It is, isn't it?"

"Oh, don't be sour about it. You did your best. It's a shit time. You made it less shit. It's still shit. You're still a gem."

Ky looked up at the stars. He exhaled, and moved to tuck himself back in. 

Eli's hands covered his own. "Let me," he said, eased him back together, zipped and buttoned him back up.

Ky sighed, sat back. "For what it's worth, I am sorry."

"Still, not letting me go, are you? Oh, I'll be good, I'll even say I beat you senseless, really gave it to you. I'll give you the bruises and everything."

Ky chuckled. "Why not just do that, for real?"

Eli didn't move his head from laying in his lap. "Comfortable."

"Ah." Ky chuckled. He was back to stroking through Eli's hair. He let out a low little hum. "Here, lie back," Ky said, guided him to turn.

Eli heaved up enough to do so, lay so he could stare straight up, and the stroking continued, little light scratches now and then to add variety, texture. He watched the lines smooth in Eli's face, watched him relax, and said nothing.

Eli didn't go back to the room that night, but then, neither did Ky.

[slightlycrunchy]

Whumptober

Day 17: “Stay with me”

Y’all this is my first fic LITERALLY EVER. BE NICE. Second draft?? Who is she?? Editing? Never heard of her. I struggled. Enjoy.

LinkedUniverse AU

Words: 1435

Warnings: slight gore, emotional trauma

He was climbing.

He was awfully good at it after all, let alone it was something he enjoyed immensely. It made him feel alive. To feel his muscles move, stretch and tighten, almost exclusively from memory. One of the few memories he had seemed to have kept.

Akkala. His Hyrule.

He had just needed a moment. Just a little time to himself. They hadn’t been to Wild’s Hyrule in ages it seemed, and he had wanted to visit one of his favorite solitary haunts. Alone, he told them. “I won’t go far”, he had said. But he hadn’t told them where.

Too much of a chance they would follow.

The Citadel. He had a feeling he had had many memories here. He had been a knight after all, following his fathers footsteps. Or so a particular memory had told him. He chose to believe her.

These were his thoughts as he climbed, fingers stretching to the next hold, feet following closely behind in a sort of dance. His muscles burned, his scars stretching slightly uncomfortably as he extended the full length of his body over and over, sweat rushing like rivers down his shirtless frame.

The exertion felt incredible. The Links all shared a need for action when their emotions were especially tumultuous.

And Wilds were especially that. Tumultuous. But something more...they hurt him. Something mental, but affecting him physically all the same.

Coming back to his Hyrule put his head in a place it hadn’t been in months. Ever since he had met them, Wild didn’t think of himself. His friends, they were what mattered. This showed by how he cared for them. He fed them, knowing a hot meal could do wonders for an exhausted body and mind. He listened as they told their tales, offering a shoulder to lean on when needed....or even only wanted.

And when they needed more, much to Twilights dismay....he would die for them. He would come back after all, they wouldn’t.

And so the months had passed, his mind quite occupied in tending to his brothers.

He didn’t leave much time to think of himself.

That was, until they stumbled upon his Hyrule.

It always happened so smoothly, without so much as a sign until someone, usually the one to whom the world belonged, would speak the obvious change.

This time, that charge fell to Wild. But he didn’t get a chance to speak.

It was like lightning had struck him. But there was certainly no storm. Pain erupted from his head, blinding him, jerking his head back towards the heavens, his hands following to cradle his own shattering skull.

From the vibrations he felt rumbling from his chest and throat he was sure he was screaming. And loud at that. But he was lost somewhere else. Every memory he had gathered during his journey was flashing through his mind, with no space between. He wanted to shut his eyes, he didn’t want to see-

But you cannot hide from yourself.

Zelda, Mipha, Revali, Daruk, Urbosa...and then something else. People he didn’t recognize, places he hadn’t seen.

He saw himself, smiling, and the smile actually reaching his eyes this time...

“...ild...”

“...wild...”

“WILD!”

His eyes jerked open. He didn’t remember closing them.

His hands were still wrapped tightly around his own head, his face was wet with tears. His throat was raw and throbbing.

Twi looked down on him from somewhere above him, and he realized there was an arm behind his shoulders, supporting him, while his lower half was clearly on the rocky path they had been traveling. He didn’t remember falling either.

Twi slowly placed his remaining hand on Wild’s wrist, making slow circles on the inside of it, telling him without words to relax his arm. Wild complied, letting Twi gently remove it from his aching head.

“Breathe, cub.”

He took shallow, shaky breaths. In, out. In, out. This took more attention than he would have thought, because next he knew he felt another arm from his other side slide underneath his legs, while an exchange happened beneath his shoulders simultaneously.

Time then stood, effectively scooping Wild up in his arms as if he weighed little, his head lolling to rest on his chest beneath Times chin.

Wild groaned with the quick movement, not much sound escaping his aching throat, before he was lost to the blackness again.

He next awoke in a bed. The familiar sheets over and around parts of the bed revealed it to be a stable, which one he did not know. His head ached, but it was nothing compared to what it had been. And while his throat felt tight, the vague memory of what it had felt like helped him to see that obviously some time had passed; the pain was all but gone.

There was daylight streaming in from outside, which made him hope he hadn’t been out too long. He hated to be a burden. He was already feeling the guilt crawl into his bones.

He turned his head slowly to see Twi sitting in a chair, eyes absolutely transfixed on his own.

And as if Twi knew exactly what he was thinking about... “Two days.”

“Shit.”

While technically the word came out, it was nothing but a raspy whisper. And the quietness did NOT betray how it had felt, his throat screaming at him.

“Wild what was that?” Twi’s face twisted into a state of worry, something Wild sadly saw all too often when Twi looked at him.

He didn’t dare speak. He rose his hands to sign. My memories. I saw everything....and then some. I didn’t recognize all of it...

“You scared us to death cub...” As he trailed off he lowered his gaze to his own hands, grasped together with fumbling fingers. With which he then went to grab Wild’s closest appendage, enveloping his hand with his warm embrace. He returned his gaze to Wild’s icy blue eyes, and with it brought a hand up to cradle his slightly pale face.

“Don’t do it again.”

I won’t.

Knowing fully well that wasn’t really a promise he could keep.

~~~~~~~~~~~

And so, that brought him to now, 2 days after what could be called a confusing experience. The others had fussed over him for another day after he woke, even though he insisted he felt totally fine.

As fine as he could. ‘What was that’ was truly a loaded question, one which Wild was desperately trying to figure out himself. He knew he had neglected himself in the months leading up to now. He had pushed down any thoughts concerning himself, past or present.

He also hadn’t been in a physical place that required him to remember those things. There were different dangers in the others’ worlds. Ones that required all of his attention and mental space. And so he had reason to forget himself....right?

He had reached the top of the tower, lungs heaving from exertion. Palms red and all but bleeding. But this is what he needed. And he thought to himself it was serving it’s purpose, the pieces were falling together.

Their foray into his world brought everything he had been suppressing back. He should have known better. You cannot hide from yourself. But boy was he good at trying.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the sun was certainly going down. Having rested, he decided it was time to return.

He ran, full speed, air filling his lungs, blood pumping through his veins as his leg muscles pushed against the ground with all they had, until he reached the edge and jumped; free falling to the red dirt below.

In a practiced movement he pulled his paraglider from its place on his hip and soared through the sky. Goddess he loved this. He was pretty sure he always would. His thoughts turned inward as he sailed away from the tower toward the stable. The act of flying didn’t need much of his attention after all.

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

He knew his cub didn’t want him following, but with a scare like he had given them 2 days prior, there’s no way he’d be left behind. Twi had animal instincts, you couldn’t tell him something wasn’t going on inside Wild. He knew.

And so when the boy told them what he was going to do, Twi gave him some distance and in his wolf state, followed.

It had been hours. Sitting in the Citadels shadow, watching his cub commit near death drops every fourth hold he found on the wall, all the while having the time of his life. Twi found a sort of contentment in it. Perhaps he would be alright after all.

The sun was going down. From far up the cliff he sees a small body launch itself, caution be damned, off the tower walls; paraglider following shortly afterward. He snickered as much as a wolf can to himself, and then began the trot back to the stables.

He had forgotten how much it rained here. Storm clouds were moving in, small flashes of light intertwined with swirling clouds. The grass beneath his feet suddenly whipped and waved with the wind, where minutes before it was still. He picked up the pace.

Seconds later, a crash such as he had never heard cracked through the air, pounding in his ears and shoving him to the ground. But he didn’t see a ribbon of light hit anywhere near him he thought to himself. Until instead, he raised his eyes, and a small body, his cub, was plummeting to the earth, smoke and fire accompanying him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Wild came out of his internal battle with his own mind only to realize what had happened in the atmosphere around him. He knows what his storms bring. He assesses himself. He has a small dagger on his hip, but other than that nothing else. Climbing with full gear on is treacherous and foolish. He looks around him again, sees the grass below him weave and whip as the storm winds blow in. He looks to the right and slightly behind as he scans the area.

“A dog?”, he says out loud to himself. “No...that’s Twi.” And as those words leave his tongue, he hears a crack louder than anything he thinks he’s ever heard. Simultaneously a pain like fire, forcing its way through his body, consumes him. Like a barbed liquid, poured through him, filling his lungs, his veins, his mind...

He knows he’s falling. The slits that are his eyes see the ground coming closer, and just barely discernible, a dark figure with it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He sees his body hit the ground. Hears a sickening crunch, and then silence.

Twilight transforms instantly, running to Wild’s side....what’s left of it.

Burned flesh, oozing skin, bodily fluids seeping from the cleft starting at his hip. The hilt of a dagger being what was left of the reason for the strike.

“Gods cub why didn’t you take it off?!”, he hissed under his breath. He lifted Wild’s head gently, closer to himself. Wild’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and shallow, his entire body still spasming. Twilight lifted a finger to the hollow of Wild’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It remained, but was entirely irregular.

Then the shaking started. He was trembling continuously before, but this was intense. It was shock, Twilight knew. He was not going to survive this. They were still far out from the stable, and moving him would do nothing but worsen his condition.

This was it.

The hand that wasn’t supporting his back made its way to Wild’s face, caressing his cheek as he stuttered for breath.

“Cub...? Cub...”, he trailed off, tears freely falling down his face, bringing his head to rest against Wild’s.

Wild’s eyes opened only just enough to consider them open, and when his eyes roamed and settled on Twilights, although not really seeing him due to his condition, Twi said the only thing that his mind would string together.

“Stay with me cub”.

And with a giant stuttering sigh, the life left his form.

[topweeklyupdate]

TØP Weekly Update #69: Proud of Our Boys (11/2/18)

Technically, not a lot happened this week. Also, everything happened. Does that make any sense? I don’t know, everything’s been a blur since Tyler Joseph wore a pride flag on a Halloween show in the capital of the United States. Let’s cover that and more in this week’s Update!

This Week’s TØPics:

The Bandito Tour Continues

Tyler Visits the Live Lounge- Or, Rather, It Visits Him

The Best Interview of the Trench Era, Conducted by Fans

“My Blood” Moving Slowly but Steady Up the Charts

Major News and Announcements:

No new music, no new tour announcements, but plenty of other things going on this week.

Mark is helping to keep our lanes nicely watered, as he returned to giving us weekly doses of video content for the tour starting almost immediately after the release of last week’s Update. The first episode covers the planning for the tour, Tyler and Josh receiving the first physical copies of Trench, Josh’s unique method of opening CD cases, and Josh getting a nice head injury after falling off his riser during a rehearsal. Plus, there’s a pretty nice piano interpolation of “Morph” to kick the whole thing off. The second goes more into the depths of planning and staging the show, giving a glimpse of just how much of a diva Tyler Joseph is when it comes to getting every aspect of the tour right. It doesn’t exactly put him in the nicest light- he calls the prototype clip that drops his “Stressed Out” beanie “garbage”, clearly expects the crew to be as intimately familiar with his music as he is, and pushes pretty hard to get the transitions faster and faster. But hey, that approach worked to produce a great show, and Tyler makes sure to thank the crew in every Trees Speech.

I was wavering between whether to include the content from the BBC Live Lounge sessions here or in the Shenanigans section, but considering that we got three HD video performances and a high quality recording of a new cover, I’m gonna tie it in here. In-between the stops in Washington and Atlanta, Tyler flew back to Columbus solo to record a session for the world-famous Live Lounge from Newport Music Hall (because of course Tyler was that extra). Sitting at a gorgeous shiny piano and wearing an outfit that looks like a flannel traffic cone (in a good way, honest), Tyler played some stripped-down covers of “My Blood” and “Ride”, using brand-new vocal interpolations for both of those songs that are just incredible. Live Lounge is most renowned for its covers, and Tyler delivered there as well with his version of Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan’s classic “9 Crimes”. It’s an incredible rendition of a gorgeous song, and the fact that Tyler mentioned the track way back on “Drown” when “9 Crimes” was a brand-new song makes it land as even more heavy. The real kicker came just this morning, when Live Lounge revealed that they recorded one more song: we have our first high quality performance of “Neon Gravestones”. I still haven’t fully recovered, mate.

Performances, Interviews, and Other Shenanigans:

Touring continues to keep us well fed. As I mentioned in the opening, Tyler grabbed an offered pride flag during “Holding On To You”, which deeply affected the entire Clique, especially our LGBTQ+ family. So many kids in that community struggle with depression and lean hard on this band’s music to get through; this clear and pure gesture of support, while small, simply means the world. 

Outside of that show, there were plenty of other great moments from the tour this week. You can tell Tyler’s been tinkering with the format as he’s been getting feedback from the audience response. Despite how dedicated Tyler was to getting back to the stage for the end of “Pet Cheetah”, the big drop now starts while Tyler is still on the skybridge above the pit’s head, which makes way more sense. The ending of “My Blood” seems to be reduced to just getting the audience to fight to be louder than the other side rather than try to harmonize different bits. And Josh keeps writing city-personalized messages on his chest that he shows off to the crowd as he walks across the bridge, dramatically removing his jacket like something out of Magic Mike.

Also, Tyler tossed a frisbee in Boston and the boys discovered finger guns in Philly. Those were pretty cute moments, gotta share ‘em if you missed ‘em.

Interviews continue as the tour travels the nation. KISS FM Cleveland kept the tradition of B.S. first meeting stories alive with a deep dive into Josh’s talent as a painter, though that’s really the only thing you need to watch that interview for. Boston station ALT 92.9 does a little better, though he mistakenly attributes the backflip to Tyler and asks when Josh will get out from behind those drums... To his credit, the interviewer asks about how Jim is accommodated on the tour (unsurprisingly, the crew fights over who gets to look after him) and what Tyler learned from co-producing Trench with Paul.

The best interviews, however, have all been in the form of fan meet-and-greet conferences that have been finding their way online. There’s just something to the energy of these interviews that is so much better than the awkward and rushed ones in cramped green rooms hosted by radio station interns who obviously just Googled a few facts before they’re rushed in. These fans truly care about their band, and their questions were thoughtful and about so much more than just trivia. 

The best of these, I think, is from St. Louis’s 105.7, a station that’s always had pretty good relations with the band.

Tyler has tried to be more intentional about seeing the places they go on tour outside of the venues, with the mindset that he wants to have better stories to tell his kids (oh my God, please help me...). His favorite place that he’s visited? Hobbiton in New Zealand. I love these nerds.

Tyler and Josh talk about the origins of that gorilla suit that shows up in the “Ode to Sleep” video.

They talk about how one of the more difficult aspects of touring early on before “making it” was eating healthily enough to sustain regular shows when they were broke and the only places that were open to eat late at night after shows were Taco Bells.

Tyler tells a truly heart-wrenching story of being at his parents’ house and seeing his two baby nieces playing with (and vomiting on) the keyboard that taught him to play music and opened up the world for him. The obvious emotion in his voice as he talks about learning the “Pachelbel Canon” from staring at the keys for hours and the clear joy he felt at getting to share this private moment with Jenna... I still haven’t recovered.

When one fan asks how she might learn to overcome creative blocks in her career of graphic design, Tyler gives a really technical explanation of how he got past blocks when writing “Neon Gravestones” and “Pet Cheetah” before taking those lessons and extracting how they might broadly be used to help any artist “shock the system” by breaking habits.

Tyler says that he anticipates that “Legend” will be pretty tough to perform live. He further states that a lot of songs don’t emotionally affect him much because he has to worry about achieving the technical aspects of his performance. That said, “Neon Gravestones” has been really emotional for him, and “Holding On To You” is so driven into him now that he actually can think about what he’s saying.

Tyler views the two-man nature of the band as a challenge rather than a crutch to excuse the use of backing tracks due to how hard they have to work to keep audience attention. Tyler does appreciate the dynamic of having a bunch of people collaborate for music (as shown by the cover medleys), and he is not vehemently against the idea of adding members in the future. He’s just very happy about the way things are with just him and Josh.

Josh once again gets very open about his struggles with anxiety, particularly speaking in front of people, tracing it back to how he would even ask teachers to give him alternatives to giving presentations because it scared him so much. He’s come so far since the Vessel days where he just wouldn’t talk in most interviews at all, and I’m so proud of him.

Tyler is against the “Magellan” method of trying any and all new foods, preferring stuff he knows will satisfy his hunger (he mentions that’s been difficult to stick with now that he’s married to Jenna).

Tyler says that you can tell which of his songs started with lyrics before composing the music based on which have rapped lyrics. The raps are almost always poetry that he’s tried to incorporate into a song- otherwise, he almost always starts with the melody.

Another great conference-style interview comes on behalf of Philly radio station 104.5, whose fans also gave some great questions:

As tactfully as possible, Tyler passes on a question about what event specifically motivated him to write about “Neon Gravestones”, saying that he could not do so without violating the respect that he hopes underlines the message of that song.

Tyler tells a pretty rough story about a time when he was working at a restaurant to support the band and school, only to lose weeks of wages to a traffic ticket. It’s a scene that will definitely be in the band biopic in thirty years, but it’s also just a very thoughtful reflection on Tyler’s part about how unfair a feeling it can be to realize that our labor and time are so commodified.

Tyler used to be real annoyed that Josh didn’t like Russel Crowe as an actor, mainly because he admitted that he didn’t have a good reason for it (Tyler Robert Joseph always has a reason). Josh deciding one day that he’d like Russel Crowe because not doing so aggravated Tyler seems like a pretty neat microcosm of their entire personal and professional relationship.

Tyler and Josh haven’t noticed any bands “copying” them, no matter what music press looking for an easy descriptor might say because all they have to copy is “freedom to write whatever kind of song they want”.

Josh keeps himself grounded by searching “21 pilots” on Twitter. Tyler agrees, but also points out that their relationships to their families also play a big role (“our respective families, to clarify”).

Finally, on social media, Tyler keeps hopping on social media to troll fans and his own band account. I hate him so much.

Chart Performance:

Things continue to be a little quiet for Twenty One Pilots on the US charts. The tracks from Trench are slowly sliding off the Hot Rock Chart, with “My Blood” being the only track to gain traction in any region- radio. With that said, however, “My Blood” also managed to sneak onto the very bottom spot of the Hot Pop chart, suggesting that we are approaching a potential crossover moment. We’ll have to wait and see if that happens. (I can only assume until then that Tyler’s having to ignore a lot of phone calls about a radio edit that cuts that slow first verse to keep the general listener’s attention; watch for that.)

Upcoming Shows:

(Can you believe that all of Tyler’s meticulous planning for the marketing and promotion of this album cycle has been totally supplanted by Josh’s cute dog?)

On topic, there’s another host of important shows this week, so let’s get into it!

Show 13: State Farm Arena, Atlanta, GA (11/2)

Capacity: 21,000

After visiting his hometown with Josh yesterday, Tyler rejoins the touring crew today to play a show for the folks in Atlanta at the newly-renamed State Farm Arena. This is bound to be a special one: though the band has headlined the huge Music Midtown festival in the city, this is their first ever arena show in this major metropolitan market. It’s sure to be a real special show.

Show 14: Amalie Arena, Tampa, FL (11/3)

Capacity: 21,500

The band’s next stop is at a more familiar ground. The band played Amalie during the last arena leg. Twenty One Pilots actually has a pretty extensive history of playing shows in Tampa stretching all the way back to college shows from before they were signed. Tyler has some relatives in the Florida area, so expect some more cute moments from this show.

Show 15: BB&T Center, Sunrise, FL (11/4) 

Capacity: 22,300

The touring crew continues their journey south to the outskirts of Miami. Again, they’ve played BB&T before, but if there’s one thing this band has proven time and time again, it’s that they’re not ones to ever get complacent.

Show 16: Toyota Center, Houston, TX (11/6)

Capacity: 19,3000

It might surprise you to learn that the band has never played an arena show in Houston, despite the city being one of the biggest metropolitan centers in the United States. That oversight will be corrected on Tuesday with a show at the NBA Rockets’ home venue.

Show 17: American Airlines Center, Dallas, TX (11/7)

Capacity: 21,000

The last show before our next Update will be held in Dallas. Once again, this marks the second show Twenty One Pilots will have played in the space. Texas will continue to get plenty of love after this show, but we’ll get into that more next week!

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Power to the local dreamer!

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[kingcocoabutter]

The Road to Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions

I saw a video recently discussing the merits of Whole Cake Island and Sanji’s character arc within said story arc and there was a word that caught my attention. Intentions. The author asserted that Sanji is willing to forgive Pudding for shooting his sister and he was willing to place himself at BM’s mercy because he felt that their intentions were good. It is a fascinating idea and one I want to explore in more depth in this editorial. Fair warning that this editorial will be somewhat lengthy. It is going to explore a range of seemingly diverse topics but I swear that they are all interrelated. Let’s start with the easy stuff.

What You See Is What You Get?

If you were to ask fans what the central “theme” of Whole Cake Island (insomuch as it has one) you’d probably get answers like: parenting, family, race relations, self-discovery, and acceptance. Fair and true. But it is also an arc about dealing with personal pain and overcoming trauma. After all it’s the main defense that fans use to support Sanji’s actions during this arc. Sanji’s “self-sacrificial nature” is a result of the endless years of abuse at the hands of the people that were supposed to love and support him come hell or high water: his family. And while Sanji may have managed to escape that hellhole and learn the true meaning of love and family he’s never really addressed his conflicted feelings about his “real” family or confronted his abusers. But more on that later.

I’ve said it before in a previous editorial but I understand why Sanji made the decisions he did at the start of this arc. I don’t think any of the other Straw-hat would have behaved any differently when protecting their friends from harm. Especially when that Strawhat, as we have been repeatedly told, is so kind. I even understand why certain key events in this arc played out the way they did.  Especially Pudding and Katakuri’s character arc’s, which really are a central lynchpin around which so many of the events of this arc revolve around. But first please permit me a brief digression.

Most fan expectations for this arc skew towards the idea that the Charlotte Family and the Straw Hats conflict will be resolved by having them end up as allies by the end of the arc (whatever shape that may take). I know some fans are opposed to this because of the belief that one cannot know an author’s intentions before the story is complete and that setting strong expectations can only inevitably lead to disappointment. Fair. That said I land firmly in the camp of The Charlotte’s will be allies for a number of simple reasons:

1)    Oda cannot realistically expect to convince me that half of the SH crew were able to storm an Emperor’s territory and defeat all their forces, no matter how unusual the circumstances. I’m putting aside arguments regarding the expectation of running away from the clash or other related arguments because they are not relevant to the contents of this work. If I feel they are relevant to the arguments I’m making then I may address them later on.

  2)    The way Oda has structured the relationship between the two prominent main characters on both the SH’s and Charlotte sides (Luffy/Sanji, Katakuri/Pudding) leaves me no doubt in my mind that there will be no protracted conflict between the two groups. Again maybe a discussion for further in the editorial.

So many fans whose analysis of WCI I read bring up pretty much the same arguments and defense of the characters. All of them see Pudding/Sanji/Katakuri as sympathetic and relatable characters and it’s not hard to see why. Each of them has had expectations placed on them regarding behavior since the day they were born in spite of the fact that their personalities seem to run counter to said expectations. Sanji was supposed to be an apathetic killer working in the service of his father to restore the glory of a fading nation. Katakuri is…well we ASSUME that he has spent a lifetime striving to achieve a state of perfection so…perfect, so that he can compensate for his relatively minor “flaw” despite it not being perceived as such by his family. Pudding is much the same in she puts on a mask to plays the role of the perfect daughter who is a pawn in her mother’s machinations (much like all her siblings) to gain power/alliances that will allow her mother to achieve her dream of creating a utopia for all races.

We are also shown how tenuous the bonds of blood that bind the Charlotte family together seem frail and frayed in the presence of a family like the SH’s whose bonds have been forged in the fires of love, friendship, conflict, and perhaps most importantly choice. Given that it makes sense then why the crux of this arc relies on us understanding that the reason Katakuri/Pudding are swayed by Luffy/Sanji is because they are genuine people with good intentions who have shown them something they have never gotten from their family: kindness. It’s most likely the reason Sanji so strictly adheres to Zeff’s teachings and code is that he was one of the first people to show Sanji kindness. He was the person that selflessly gave of himself so that Sanji could live. And for a kid who has spent his entire life being told that he was worthless, a mistake, and an embarrassment, that is a powerful action indeed. So let’s talk about that Pudding eye scene.

The single most “powerful” defense of the Pudding scene is the idea that Sanji saw a kindred spirit in Pudding, much like Zeff did in Sanji all those years ago. That the sentiment behind his exclamation of the beauty of her eye was grounded in something deeper, something empathetic, and something…genuine. And given that we know Sanji is doing his best to model himself after the man he admires, maybe Oda’s intentions with that scene were to capture that same feeling. After all Pudding has basically been stuck in a situation similar to Sanji for far longer than he had without the possibility of escape. And given what we what we know of the Charlotte family, it would seem kindness is not a trait they value. So when seemingly confronted with someone that shows her something she has never experienced before what else would Pudding do? Especially when it’s directed at a perceived flaw that seems so trivial when compared to the whole.

It all seems so perfect doesn’t it? Sanji was born into a family that saw his kindness as a weakness until a man showed him that his perceived flaw was not something to be ashamed of but rather should be carried as a mark of pride. Then when he comes across someone in a similar situation to his he emulates the actions of the man he so admires to lift them up much like what was once done for him. All these pieces fit together so well it almost seems like WCI should be one of Oda’s better arcs. So why don’t I feel it? Well that’s probably because that while Totland, may seem like a Utopia from a cursory examination, a closer look would reveal all the hidden cracks and imperfections that mar its flawless façade. And what better place to begin examining its structural flaws then with one of its mightiest pillars: Sanj’s character arc.

You Are The Weakest Link! Goodbye.

Is Sanji shallow? I heard a fan ask once why other fans (mostly women) were bothered by Sanji’s preferences regarding women. Why were they trying to shame him for being physically attracted to a certain “type” of woman? Well…it’s complicated but I’ll do my best to give input.

One reason it’s so problematic is how Oda embraces a problematic cultural trend that has been emblematic of a societal problem that has plagued us for centuries. We have been fed a media diet that has conditioned us to recognize certain body shapes as being the model of attractiveness, and Oda has taken that to an EXTREME with his female characters. Any DESIREABLE WOMAN in the series has a certain body shape and they are almost always meant to be perceived via “The Male Gaze”. Chapter 898 being a perfect example, with all the Vinsmoke brothers being drawn in dynamic action panels and yet when we see Reiju attack it’s with a nice front row seat to her ass. Or even consider the infamous bath scene in Capone’s hideout. It is very telling that Oda only draws Nami/Carrot “naked” in the bath and has Chiffon sitting off to the side fully clothed. Saying “well Chiffon was holding Pez” is an excuse and an example of how good Oda is at illusion, and misdirection. He believes that Chiffon isn’t attractive like the others and so he shunted her off to the side. What does this have to do with Sanji? I wrote an entire editorial about this but to reiterate: What does Sanji love about women? Answer: He loves their looks.

Now I know fans will want to bombard with me all manner of “That’s not true” and “he loves Pudding” and maybe even a “So?” I’ll address the latter but with regards to the former the only question I’ll ask is: Does he really though? What exactly does he love about Pudding? I haven’t been as attentive to the events of this arc due to my lack of emotional investment and so maybe someone will prove me wrong, but off the top of my head I cannot remember Sanji ever stating what exactly he loves about Pudding. And I mean something specific apart from she’s sweet/kind. Mostly because that was a façade she was putting on but also because those are very generic character traits that can be broadly applied.

I am not going to judge someone for taking physical appearances and traits into account when choosing a partner (stones and glass houses as it were) because that’s how we’re programmed and it’s something we have had jammed down our throat for years. There’s a trend starting recently that’s starting to make a move away from that with body positivity but it’s hard to undo centuries of mental conditioning so easily. So I’m not saying Sanji is shallow for being attracted to certain kinds of women but I will totally call him shallow for that being the only DEFINING trait that he claims to LOVE about women. And it plays into one of the biggest problems I have with this arc: The pudding eye scene.

My question to fans would be: Would Sanji have reacted the same way if Pudding was not a conventionally attractive woman? What if instead of her it had been Chiffon that he was to marry? Would he still be able to convince himself that he would be happy? Would he still have reacted the same way to any potential third eyes she had? Yes? Bullshit. I don’t buy it for a second and none of Sanji’s actions throughout the series have convinced me otherwise or even given me cause for reasonable doubt. The reason that the Pudding eye scene falls so flat for me is that Pudding is GORGEOUS. There is no believable world in which Sanji’s reaction to her eye would be anything BUT positive. Especially given his reputation for being a horn dog and ESPECIALLY when considering the kinds of women he finds attractive. A cynical person might even note that maybe that’s the reason Oda has spent so much time this arc reiterating how Sanji is KIND.

I know some fans will justify it by saying that Sanji could have seen something in Pudding that gave him insight into her inner turmoil. After all we as readers are not privy to every single event that the Straw Hats are involved in because they aren’t relevant to the story. Something could have happened during all the time that Sanji was with Pudding while we readers were preoccupied with one of the other groups on Whole Cake Island. Fair. But it’s not enough. That scene serves as a central crux of this arc and its importance means that reading between the lines and general assumptions aren’t enough. And given everything we know about Sanji that runs counter to what we’re supposed to believe I don’t think it’s unfair to ask for more. Which brings me to the core of this editorial.

The Missing Link

I’ve been privy to a number of conversations recently regarding “villainous” characters and how fans don’t understand how or why someone could like someone so heinous. The prime example of this being Bakugo from My Hero Academia. I’ll provide a quick refresher/primer for those that are unfamiliar with this character. Bakugo was basically the golden child, that was naturally gifted with a powerful superpower and whose arrogance was fanned by the flames of admiration.

He develops a dislike for another child (Midoriyia) whom he perceives as weak (because he lacks a “quirk”) and he relentlessly torments him and bullies him for much of his childhood. Bakugo is seemingly an irredeemable asshole. That said a core part of the story focuses on Bakugo’s development as he comes to terms with his past behavior so that he can set himself on the path to becoming the person he wants to be. He’s a kid that’s some done some horrific shit because that’s what you do when you’re a kid. You’re focused on your wants, your desires, and your pain. It’s basically all what can the world do for me and I deserve this. But the lesson most people learn is that actions have consequences and some of them may unintentionally or ignorantly cause harm to others because you don’t know better. A person’s past should not define their future but neither should it be wholly discounted. And that’s one of the things that kind of bothers me about Luffy.

Fans have questioned before why Luffy never pays attention to the backstories of his crew or the people he befriends and I feel like it’s because he doesn’t care about their past. Luffy only cares about what actions a person takes now because what’s done is done and there really isn’t much you can do to change that. It’s even easier to ignore when you consider that Oda has written someone like Luffy to be able to instinctually tell (much like Sanji this arc) what someone’s intentions/personality are like. And much like Sanji that has NEVER backfired on him. But more than that it also means you either don’t want to consider what terrible things a person has done or you don’t think it’s important. And that is problematic.

I’m not going to go dive into speculation about whether the SH’s are good people or not because that’s a mighty big rabbit hole to fall down. So instead let’s focus solely on the actions of the characters on Whole Cake Island and how it ties into the broader theme of empathy.

Empathy at its core is simply the ability to relate to another person’s perspective. To put yourself in their shoes. It’s the basis for “The Golden Rule” i.e. treat others how you’d like to be treated and phrases like “walk a mile in her shoes”. It is also, as Mihawk so observantly noted during Marineford, one of Luffy’s greatest weapons. It was also brought up more recently when, during a flashback, Luffy told Rayleigh that he felt a person’s personality was important to him in regards to predicting the future and observation haki.

I’ve speculated on this countless times but to summarize: I believe the inherent power of Observation Haki is basically Oda turning empathy into a superpower. Consider all the most powerful observation haki users we’ve seen in the story thus far: Otohime, Asia, Coby, Madame Shyarly (potentially), Sanji, Luffy, Katakuri. When you consider all their personalities it would seem that they are all extraordinarily empathic/sensitive to other people’s emotions/auras. The sole “logical” and “powerful” argument in defense of the Pudding eye scene relies heavily on the reader’s assumption that this was why Pudding reacted so strongly to Sanji’s comment. The same could be said for the end of the Katakuri/Luffy fight when Luffy covered up Katakuri’s fangs with his hat. And I would further argue that we as readers are supposed to assume that since Luffy/Katakuri were both pushing their observation to the max, they gained some sort of insight into each other’s character that led to them developing “mutual respect”.

Empathy is so inherently important to so many of the events of this arc that I’m surprised that so many fans don’t bother mentioning it by name or acknowledging it’s importance. But here’s the thing about empathy. It doesn’t make you omnipotent. It doesn’t let you read someone’s mind. Observation haki may let you read someone’s aura/spirit/chi whatever you want to call it but in the end the observer is essentially making assumptions based on a number of minutiae (body language, tone of voice etc.) to determine how someone is FEELING. And thinking about it so much of this arc rides on the assumptions people are making without realizing how problematic that is. Cause here’s the thing about intentions/assumptions: they are flimsy. They are insubstantial. And we place far more weight on them than they can bear. Yet despite that they’re wielded like shields and swords to deflect or detract from a number of troublesome behaviors. 

An argument I’ve heard repeatedly again and again is that “X character doesn’t need a reason to do Y” or my favorite “X character having a flaw doesn’t make them a bad person” or my favorite “X character’s flaw is part of their personality and you should learn to accept it because it makes them who they are”. And that last one especially is a doozy, but let’s start with the simple stuff first: reasons. Let’s take the example of two people brought in for the crime of stealing medicine. One because they can’t afford to pay for it and their child is very sick and one because they want to get high off the fumes. So does this mean:

a)     Both of them should be charged and receive the same sentence or;

b)    The one stealing medicine for his daughter should face a lenient sentence if any because of the circumstances around their actions?

Would reasons matter in this case? Should they matter? Can we even be sure either one is telling the truth or should we just take them at their word? The road that people pave during the journey of life is a complexly interweaved web of the choices they’ve made and the circumstances/situations they’ve faced that has made them whom they are. And empathy is an ability that allows you to untangle that web to try and understand the how and the why. It’s easy to judge a broad group of people by measuring them against a single standard. It’s much more complicated to judge a group of people individually and tailoring the judgement after considering all the divergent paths they’ve faced and the ones they’ve chosen that led them to where they are. It’s a problem that Sanji has and something I’ve addressed before in that he tends to tailor his actions towards groups of people rather than considering their individual merits. Hence why he treats an entire marginalized group so poorly and why he will not harm a woman regardless of how heinous the acts she has or may have committed. Pudding shot his sister, gloated about how she was involved in a plot to assassinate him and his “family”, mercilessly mocked him, and yet Sanji will not hold that against her. Why? Because he is “kind”.

But the thing about kindness is that it is none at all to turn a blind eye to someone’s heinous actions. There are any number of reasons that Pudding may have done what she did. She was scared of BM. She was made this way because she was bullied. She was “acting”. But none of that excuses the actions she took no matter what her intentions were. A true kindness would be to help someone understand why they act out this way and help them become the kind of people they want to be. And that brings me back to the point I made above regarding flaws. Because it’s one thing to acknowledge that you have flaw. A person may be able to look at an aspect of their personality and say “yeah this is my weakness” and as long as it doesn’t hurt someone that’s fine (for the most part). But what if your flaw is something dangerous that could put the people that you love in danger?

The thing that annoys me about Sanji’s “flaw” is fans accept it as part of his personality and they’re willing to ignore it because he’s got an exceptional group of friends that will help him. After all it’s like Luffy said: I’ll do what you can’t do and you do what I can’t do. Ah! But the key word there is can’t. As in I literally cannot physically/psychologically or whatever do this thing. Sanji doesn’t want to hit women. It’s not something he cannot do. Usopp does not want to place himself in danger. His cowardice is his weakness. And he could do the same thing and say that he can’t fight. And I don’t think the crew would ever hold it against him. YET whenever Usopp exhibits this cowardice and considers running away, fans are very quick to eviscerate him. Yet when Sanji was selfishly unwilling to fight a woman, when time was a critical factor, it was shrugged off. Fans are more willing to accept that Sanji will never hit a woman and that doing so “would ruin his character” and yet they get infuriated that Usopp is “still a coward”. And that’s likely because it’s been instilled in us that hitting women is not something a moral/noble person would do. But you know what? Refusing to acknowledge or even introspectively consider the actions of your weakness and instead relying on your crew to compensate for you is the most selfish and cowardly thing you can do. You know why Usopp’s moment on Arlong Park was one of the most goddamn powerful moments in the series? It’s because Usopp is brave enough to recognize his weakness and strong enough to overcome it because he wants to support his friends. He wants to become the kind of man that would be proud to stand next to them shoulder to shoulder, KNOWING that he has done everything he possibly could have to help them during their journey.

So let me present a hypothetical. What if all the SH’s were otherwise pre-occupied and Sanji was the only one that could have saved Robin? He can’t just pass it off onto Usopp/Nami saying I WON’T hit a woman. I know that Sanji is probably so attached to Zeff’s teachings because he wants Zeff to be proud of him. He want his mentor that he loves/respects more than anything to be proud of the life he’s lived and he doesn’t want him to think that saving Sanji was a mistake. But here’s the thing. Sanji isn’t living his life for Zeff and I don’t think Zeff saved his life because he wanted Sanji to feel obligated to him. Zeff made choice to take a chance on a kid that might achieve the dream that he never could. I don’t think Zeff is the kind of man that would blame/fault Sanji for not being perfect, or deciding that maybe he doesn’t want to find the All Blue after all. And I’m not saying that if Sanji kicks one woman that all bets are off and he should just go around kicking any potential female enemy they come across. See above where I said I want him to stop tailoring his actions to a broad group of people. If Sanji wants Zeff to be proud of him then maybe he should live his life on his own terms. Because at the end of the day that’s all that matters. Is Sanji proud of who he became? When he dies will he die satisfied that it was a life well lived? If he can stand next to Zeff one day and say yes to all of the former isn’t that all that matters? And if Zeff was ever the kind of person that judged Sanji for hitting a woman to save his friends, then maybe he’s not the kind of person he should give his respect to in the first place.

Bakugo has made some shitty choices as a kid either out of selfishness, ignorance, or arrogance. BUT he’s starting to learn. He’s changing himself and his approach to others. And I hope that eventually he makes amends with Midoriya for all the atrocious shit he puts him through. And Midoriya might not forgive him. And that’s okay too. Because the point of the apology is not to make yourself feel better that your intentions were good because you are defined by the actions you take. All you can do is understand how your actions hurt other people and then going forward work to make sure it doesn’t happen again (at least intentionally but again that’s a complicated issue for another time). But this is the big kicker and one of the storytelling elements that’s been weakest in Whole Cake Island. Like I said it’s one thing to acknowledge a flaw and another thing to overcome it. But can a thing really be called a flaw if never results in consequences?

It Ain’t Over Till The Fat Lady Sings:

I’ve always imagined that having the Grand Line being split into Paradise and the New World was reflective of the process of growing up. The first half is the journey towards adulthood where you make friends, set your sights on a goal/dream you want to reach, and learn what your values are. In the second half your CONVICTION in all those areas is tested. Is your bond with your friends/family based on something real or were the connections so tenuous and superficial that they were never there in the first place? Placed in a desperate situation where your values are tested will you still have the strength to hold onto them? What cost are you willing to pay to achieve your dreams? And how many people are you willing to step on to reach that goal if any?

Avid followers of my Twitter theory posts will note that I’ve stated this before but I want the Strawhats to be tested in ways they’ve never been tested before in the New World. After all they are in the big leagues now. We’ve seen how the New World takes in hopeful, optimistic, ambitious rookies and spit them out again as callous, hardened, broken men and women. One of the reasons I love Sabaoady and Marineford so much is that those arcs are the first time that Luffy has ever really tasted defeat. No amount of luck or skill could have saved him from those situations, even though he did his absolute best, because he was weak. In his case it meant that he wasn’t powerful enough and I don’t expect that to always be the case. But in a series like One Piece, where people’s convictions in their dreams are represented by their ability to overpower their opponents it’s something that can’t be ignored. So how do you push people past their limits? You attack their weaknesses (an idea I’ve explored in my other editorial “The Hero’s Dilemma”). If you want to test the strength of a person’s convictions and push them past their limit then you have to place them in a situation where they are FORCED to grow, change, and adapt. But you can’t just place the character at the precipice of the volcano and then pull them back at the ending and let them go on their merry way. It’ll instill fear in them for a little while but then they’ll forget about it because there was no CONSEQUNCE! And it’s something that is especially important in a series like One Piece.

One of the big problems I’ve had with this arc is Sanji’s general attitude and treatment of women. So you can imagine I was a little bit infuriated in a recent chapter when he so easily made light of all of Pudding’s actions up to that point, even thanking her for “playing the role of his bride”. It was first brought up in Water 7 when Sanji told chopper that “a man forgives a woman’s lies” and it’s been heavily played up this arc with Sanji calling out Pudding’s “acting” and questioning whom was she really fooling. Remember how I mentioned that empathy is a not a mind-reading power? Well Oda has been really heavy handed in treating it like one. We are to ASSUME that Sanji somehow has an intimate understanding of a woman’s true intentions because he is “kind”. And quite frankly that’s something that’s very easy for him to do when he is RIGHT EVERY TIME. And it’s even easier for him to do when there’s been no consequences.

Because that’s the thing isn’t it? It’s easy for Sanji to say that he believes in his captain when he has no real personal stakes in the matter. I hate that Oda made the bomb cuffs a red herring and then used the wedding as plot convenience to ensure that Sanji didn’t have to lose anything. . It’s bugged me throughout this arc that Sanji didn’t have any faith in Luffy or the crew being able to help him out of his hopeless situation but as soon as he’s free then he can start spouting all that nonsense again about how his captain will become the Pirate King. And what makes it worse is that Oda has repeatedly dropped hints about it throughout the series. Luffy wants to be the Pirate King because he wants to be a man with unlimited freedom. But that’s not something he can just have for free because other people will fight him for that same right. So he has to have POWER. It can be interpreted as you like: physical power? Authority? Alliances? Weapons? If he wants to be the Pirate King then he needs to ensure that he doesn’t have any weaknesses that can be exploited. And of Luffy’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness is his crew. He would do anything for them, including invading an underwater prison (his brother now crew but they are the same for this purpose), the HQ of a clandestine government organization, or the territory of an Emperor of the sea. But the thing is he can’t do it alone. And I don’t just mean that he can’t do it without the help of his friends (though there is that) but rather the person he’s saving has want to be saved. Fans like to compare Sanji’s actions to Robin’s during Water 7 and Nami’s during Arlong and that’s fair. Fans may not like the comparison but it stand that in each of these cases the lesson they had to learn was that they needed to trust in their friends. There are some challenges they might face alone that they can’t overcome but that there aren’t any challenges they can’t overcome if they work together and trust in each other’s strengths. And Sanji didn’t do that when he was at his lowest point. He only did that after he was unburdened from having to make the choice to lose something he valued the most. And I don’t want to hear arguments about Sanji’s self-worth and all that because it doesn’t matter. At this point in the series there is no excuse for Sanji to EVER doubt in the strength of his crew or his captain and the things that they can achieve for their love of one another.

One of my favorite panels from Zou is the one where Pekoms tells Luffy that Big Mom could have the heads of a loved one sent to anyone that declines her tea party invitation because that’s true power. And if Luffy ever wants to claim to be the Pirate King then he has to wield a similar level of power. The sight of his flag flying on an island should inspire the same level of respect that pirates had when they saw Whitebeard’s flag on Fishman Island. Luffy’s reputation should be so well know that no-one would dare harm anyone that claims his protection because the consequences would be DIRE. And that’s the thing I didn’t see Sanji acknowledge. Yes he was stuck in a seemingly impossible situation. He had the best of intentions when he did everything that he did because he thought he was protecting everyone. But he was being selfish. He thought he could/should shoulder his burden himself. He didn’t want to ask his friends for help because he didn’t want them to get hurt. But you know what? They did.

They invaded the territory of an Emperor and started a fight with her at a time they could ill afford to do so. Luffy was brutally beaten, almost had his hand chopped off, and he lost a tooth. The Sunny took massive damage. And Pedro is dead. Except…none of that matters does it?

Luffy almost got his arm chopped off and yet there’s no scar to show for it and it didn’t hinder him in his fight against Katakuri in the least. He lost a tooth, and while the gag was funny the first time, he grew it back again leaving no trace. And the Sunny? Well this isn’t like the first half of the series is it? The sunny will get repaired because they have Franky. Any “damage” it takes is temporary and there’s no reason to pretend that we’re supposed to care because the Strawhat’s do because we know better. We know that the good guys always win in the end. So how do you still make it FEEL like they achieved something? How do you make it look like they changes? That they learned a lesson? That there was a cost? You have consequences.

Empathy is one of the most powerful tools in a storyteller’s repertoire because the easiest way to get you invested in a story is to have you be invested in the characters. Having a sad backstory in One Piece is not something unique. Sure it may set your starting point on the path of life but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s a straight one or that you are confined to its borders. And despite Oda being heavy-handed in his use of it during this arc it really feels like he’s just going through the motions. He’s given us a few panels of backstory for Pudding/Katakuri and used his characterization of Big Mom to justify their actions and make us sympathize with them. It feels like we’re supposed to feel sorry for them because they had a shitty past. But does that mean we just assume their actions are justified? That they’ve never once done a single heinous thing in the service of Big Mom. Or are we supposed to sympathize with them because we ASSUME Luffy/Sanji are good judges of character? How great would it be if they turned out to be wrong? If someone they trusted/admired betrayed them and they never saw it coming? Because that’s the thing about reading a series like One Piece. We know the good guys will beat out the bad guys in the end. But reading a story where they always win is boring. It’s more interesting to see them fail and get knocked down. Because then we get to see them climb back up again over and over and over. And each time they get knocked down they would learn something new about themselves. It’s why some of the most powerful moments in the series are just that: powerful. Whether it’s Zoro being cut down by Mihawk, Usopp confronting his weakness, or Nami/Robin learning to ask for help. All these little moments make us cheer that much harder for these characters because we know they’re going through hell but the moment they get their reward it’ll all have been worth it. And that is something I’ve been advocating for either through my criticism of the series or even via the theories I create. And that’s why I can only see WCI really ending satisfactorily in one way.

Because Whole Cake Island is about more than just Sanji learning that kindness isn’t a weakness (or whatever bullshit it was). It’s about learning what being a Utopia truly means, it’s about confronting your abusers and coming to terms with your past, it’s about shattering illusions, it’s about power and family and kindness. But more importantly it’s the beginning of learning exactly what the Strawhats role in the grand scheme of things is. But that’s a theory for another day. Whole Cake Island could be the start of a trend in the way One Piece approaches stories going forward. But it really depends on what Oda chooses to do going forward. I want to believe that Oda has good intentions but that’s just not enough anymore. Show me that you are the great storyteller I know you can be. One Piece has the potential to be the greatest story ever told and just know that no-one wants that to be more true than me. 

[novamm66]

Red Sky in the Morning

Chapter 5 – Always Afraid

*Updated*  I am sorry to bombard you with these posts.  I but I wanted to get all of the updated chapters up before this weekend, well just cause.  Enjoy.

The moment Kiaya had arrived back in the cabin she sat on the bed and tore open the bundle that was all she had left of her belongings. The robes were nothing more than scraps of cloth holding the bundle together. Her leather breeches were completely serviceable, and her shirt was fine beyond a slice in the arm and some blood stains. It would be nice to have a change of clothes. Her sketchbook was gone, but she had expected as much. It was too easy to lose, and there was so much to learn in its pages.

Kiaya was stalling as she tried to fight off the panic about the necklace. The last thing in the bundle was her coin purse. At the sight of it, Kiaya’s eagerness suddenly turned cold and her hands shook as they hovered over the small leather bag.

“What are you waiting for?”

You are always afraid.

“That’s stupid and sort of untrue.” Kiaya’s voice trembled as she spoke aloud in the empty room. “What is the worst thing that can happen? You don’t get it back? It’s just a locket.”

Kiaya sat frozen as she trembled with an internal battle.

“Open. The. Damn. Bag.” Kiaya growled through gritted teeth as the mark throbbed, tinting the leather green.

In one move she opened the bag and dumped the contents on to the bed in front of where she sat. She held her breath as her eyes roamed over the metal pieces pooled together, trying to distinguish the right shape and colour of her locket. The moment her eyes focused on it and her fingers wrapped around the familiar object, the air whooshed out of her lungs as she fell on to her back, tears of relief streaming silently down her temples and soaking into her hair.

She had fallen asleep like that, fully dressed, clutching the locket in her hand.

---

Kiaya opened her eyes after barely enough sleep. As she lay there listening to the sound of a sleeping world, the early hour and the solitude began to release her demons.

It had taken ages for Kiaya to speak of the anxiety she didn’t understand or the darkness in her mind that forced her to believe the worse of herself. With the events leading to her arrival at the circle and those horrible first few years, the only thing keeping her alive was Evie and the promise she had made long ago.

Kiaya shook her head and forcefully rolled off the bed, the familiar pattern of her thoughts leading her down to the dark hole that she so often found herself trapped in. She fastened the necklace around her throat and quickly changed into the breeches and shirt from her old life. She added the lightly armoured coat she had chosen instead of robes. Kiaya hated robes with a passion, and she had decided while struggling up the temple valley that she would rather run around this country of ice and snow butt-ass naked than try to run and fight in robes ever again. However, the poor selection of lighter armour in the Inquisition supplies had almost called her bluff. Thankfully, it had been decided that she, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas would not leave to meet this Mother Giselle for a few days, to give all of them time to recover. She had taken advantage of the chance, and had spoken to the blacksmith, placing an order for light armour that would actually fit.

If I’m going to do this I’m going to do it as comfortable as possible. 

    You can’t do this and you know it. You will only get more people hurt.

“None of this is my fault,” Kiaya whispered to the room.

    But you’re still involved. Where you go people get hurt.

Kiaya tried to forcibly ignore the dark thoughts whirling in her mind, fuelled by the grief, exhaustion and fear that had been her waking life for what seemed like weeks. She had to get out, distract herself, do something, anything. She fastened her cloak around her shoulders and tucked a knife into the hidden sheath at her back.

She would bet her last coin that both the Spymaster and the Commander had set a watch on her cabin. She debated for a moment whether it was worth the energy to cast a spell to hide from watching eyes before she wrapped herself in silence and shadow. She slipped out of the cabin and out of the village.

I need to think, plan, clear my head.

  You’re running away.

I am not. I just need space to think, to breathe.

  You might be running in circles but you are still running.

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

It had been Lydia who had been the first person after Kiaya’s grandmother to really get past the barriers She had built around herself and who had started to help her trust again. Her mind shied away from the memories of her journey to the circle and the life she had found there, both good and bad. All her memories brought hurt and pain that she wasn’t ready to face yet. She instead tried to concentrate on the mantra Lydia had given her.

Breathe. Ride the lows; they end. Remember the highs; they will come again.

As she faded from tree shadow to tree shadow, putting as much distance between the village buildings as she could, she chanted under her breath, trying to drown out her doubts and fears.

I am strong. I am loved. This will pass.

---

Cullen was up early, before there was even a hint of dawn in the sky. He had gotten used to waking early as a recruit and it gave him comfort to stick to that routine. It was a small comfort.

Last night’s dreams had been different. He could feel heat rising in his face. It’s not unusual to dream of her. She’s the centre of all this, she’s the key to closing the Breach, of course she would be on my mind. Cullen busied himself getting ready to start his day. He preferred to get his own fighting drills out of the way early; easier to avoid the constant interruptions that the rest of the day brought.

As he got dressed, his mind slipped back to yesterday and his first actual meeting with the woman he now knew as Kiaya Trevelyan. He was not convinced that the benefits of using the Trevelyan name outweighed the negatives, but Josephine was firm in her belief that it would help. She and Leliana also had plans to use Evelyn Trevelyan’s name as well. His concern was not alleviated when he had asked the Herald if they would come after her, and she had joked about it.

But Josephine seemed very confident in her ability to work this to their advantage. She would know. Cullen would never like politics no matter what form they came in, and was happy to leave it to the skills of Josie and Leliana. However, the safety of Haven and all of its occupants was his concern, and he still hadn’t figured out the best way to ensure that any more attacks against the Herald would be prevented, especially if they were going to involve hired professionals in the future.

He had hoped to have a chance to talk to her himself after the meeting had concluded, however, the Herald had not seemed eager to talk to him or anyone, having bolted from the room at the first opportunity. Cullen had noticed how she had stiffened when he was introduced as well as when his history as a templar had come up in discussion. He tried to ignore the irritation that these reactions kept sparking in him, but it was one step at a time.

Cullen prepared for his daily training routine, dressing in a light shirt and pants with his sword strapped at his side. Shield and armour drills were better with a sparring partner. His early morning drills were just for him, to centre him, to sweat off the nightmares and headaches and pain in his muscles that seemed to be almost constant since he had given up lyrium.

He left his tent. It still bothered him how easily everyone seemed to defer to this woman that they still knew so little about. Leliana was still waiting to receive information from the Ostwick Circle, and she was frustrated that it was taking so long. Something was going on there, she was sure of it, and had dispatched some of her spies to find out what it was. Cullen would admit that they needed the power to close rifts, but it was premature to bring her into the top ranks of the Inquisition. Cassandra, however, and surprisingly Leliana, had insisted.

He scowled as he tried to silence the echoes of the vitriol that Knight-Commander Meredith had fed him through the years in Kirkwall.  It had been four long years and his guilt at his compliancy with her hatred methods still haunted him.

Cullen was lost in his thoughts as he walked the path outside of town. As he neared the quiet grove of trees that served as the fallen’s temporary resting place, he suddenly heard a raised voice that snapped his body into action even before his ears realized what he had heard.

Maker, please don’t tell me I have failed already…

Cullen broke through the undergrowth blocking his view, sword in hand, and froze just before crossing into the clearing.

—-

Kiaya wandered in circles around the village, keeping out of the way of the patrols, for what felt like hours. Dawn had finally made an appearance, filling the hills with a pearly grey light, tinged with the sickly green from the Breach that seemed to reach everywhere. Kiaya found herself in a clearing filled with snow covered mounds neatly laid out in rows. It took her a moment to realize where she was. She had emerged into a grove almost completely surrounded by trees. She could see a path that touched the far side, probably leading back to the village. It was what filled the grove that sucked the breath from her body and made her heart lurch and stutter. It was beautiful; the silent rows of wrapped bodies were covered with fresh snow, forming gentle rows of white that cast sharp black shadows in the early morning light. The entire grove was a field of white and black waves.

Kiaya was hit by a wave of grief and guilt that caused her body to shake. This was where they had chosen to rest the dead that were recoverable from the temple as well as the soldiers who fell fighting the demons at the temple.

“How can I bear this?” Her own faint voice barely reached the edges of the clearing, but the effect of breaking the silence was immediate.

“You’re the Herald of Andraste... this is your fault... you killed her... YOU KILLED HER...”

She whirled around to see a young elven woman rising from the snow not ten feet away.

You fucking idiot, you know people are trying to kill you.

The woman was shaking, body tense like a bow string but something in her face stopped Kiaya from drawing her dagger.

I hope I’m reading this right.

The woman attacked her.

---

Cullen was on the wrong side of the clearing to do anything but stand and watch.

The young girl had flown at Kiaya with no skill or training behind her but pure fury in her favour. The girl was taller than the Herald, but was thin as a sapling. The Herald was close to twice her weight, which she used to her advantage as she ducked under the first wild swings aimed at her head, and wrapped her arm arms around the girl’s body pulling her into a secure embrace.

Cullen watched as the Herald held the girl tightly as she flailed against the woman’s back, then almost as quickly collapsed against her sobbing onto her shoulder. The two women sank to their knees in the snow; the words the Herald was saying were overrun by the sobs coming from the girl.

Cullen slipped deeper back into the shadows of the trees, shaking his head in disbelief as he silently sheathed his sword. He kept his hand on the hilt, watching the two women talking.

His sudden relief at seeing the Herald unharmed and not in any danger quickly gave way to confusion, and the whole situation didn’t do much to alleviate his worries from before. He watched as the Herald got the girl back on her feet and helped her gather up her meagre belongings from under the snow.  He was too far away to hear the whispered words but they shortly resulted in the elven girl heading toward the village. How could that have possibly worked?

---

Kiaya watched as Lyra disappeared into the trees. She hadn’t chosen to take the path, which was probably a good thing since the Commander was barely managing to remain concealed as it was. She attempted to surreptitiously wipe away the tears and snot that were the result of the emotional conversation she just finished.

The sound of footsteps was quickly muffled by the powder on the ground and after only a few moments, silence descended on this resting place of the dead. Kiaya told herself that she wanted to wait until the young woman was well away before she called the Commander out of hiding but in truth she was trying to calm herself and it wasn’t working. Her mind swirled with thoughts and memories, each one coming faster than the last. Waves of panic crashed over her; her lungs unable to draw air, and her vision started to dim around the edges.

I can’t, I can’t do this. Not now.

The sound of the snow crunching as the Commander shifted his weight brought Kiaya sharply back to herself.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I am stronger than this fear.

“You can come out now Commander.” Good, steady voice, just get out of here without being an ass.

“Herald, are you alright?” Cullen moved around the edge of the clearing, approaching her quickly. Kiaya kept her head slanted down looking at the man as he drew near. Maker’s fuck he’s big, I mean tall, I mean, Shut up.

“Herald?” He’s talking to you answer him...

“What? Of course I am alright. What the fuck are you doing following me?”

Wait. Why are you attacking him? He didn’t do anything! Her emotions were determined to run the full gambit today and when the panic had been corralled the anger had rushed in to take its place.

She could see the hurt and confusion in his eyes as her words froze him to the snow. The accusation in her words, and the sharpness of her tone had not sparked his own temper, surprisingly, as he instantly stiffened his posture and his brow drew down into a scowl.  “I wasn’t following you. No one is following you. I heard shouting as I passed and came to investigate. I am glad my aid was unneeded however, if my presence is unwelcome I will leave.”

He spun on his heels and strode off as quickly as he had approached. Kiaya watched him go, her rage now at herself where it belonged.

“I am such an idiot.” She groaned aloud and dropped her face into her hands. “Ok that’s it: no more human contact until you can behave yourself.”

Waves of self loathing were lining up to drown her as soon as she let them. With one more regret filled look in the direction the Commander had gone, Kiaya slowly made her way back towards her cabin.

Thanks Loves.  Reblogs welcome.

[kalico-to-the-letter]

REVIEW: RWBY – Vol. 5, Ch. 10: “TRUE COLORS”

“Girl, come show me your true colors/paint me a picture with your true colors/these are confessions of a new lover/true colors, true colors…”

Yeah, I love The Weeknd. And these lyrics felt somewhat appropriate after this episode.

Before we get to the review, I just have some housekeeping to take care of. In case you missed my recent update, take note of the following:

“I would like to notify you ahead of time about my reviews for RWBY’s upcoming Chapters 11 & 12. I will be travelling when these two episodes are likely to go to air – that being 12/23 and 12/30 respectively – and my reviews for both are likely going to be delayed. It shouldn’t be too bad – for instance, those of you in the US who currently are getting my reviews on Saturday nights are probably going to have to wait until the next morning – specifically Sunday mornings on the 24th and 31st respectively.”

This week gave us: The kind of common sense that only comes with a cane, lethal robot emotions, and a prize fight.

Spoilers, so:

In “True Colors”, RWBY served us a strong conclusion to the Menagerie storyline, one which opted for positivity and unity.

This could have gone a very different way, and maybe, in some respects, it could have benefited with taking more risks, but in the end, the show took the safe option in how it ended this storyline, and the result is certainly a decent one, especially considering how the story has tended to limp through the season; the fact that the show has been able to salvage what it has out of Menagerie is no small achievement, though how much praise should we really give it, when so much of the damage to this storyline has been self-inflicted?

If the storyline as a whole had been better, then I could look back on this journey with a lot of fondness, but that isn’t the case. This is a storyline which had a lot of problems – particularly this season’s iteration of it – but its endgame has come home strong enough for me to look favourably upon it and want to anticipate the sum that this part will help form at the climax of this season.

This storyline has suffered most of all because of the inaccessibility of its plot. Think the second season of True Detective: If you wanted to break it down, then you could see the logical progression and mount an argument for its worth, but the execution on the show’s part shrouds the better parts in a thick fog and leaves you struggling to stay invested for long periods. It doesn’t help when, across the journey, Menagerie has been fed to us mostly in small chunks across two seasons, short vignettes spent doing a lot of foreshadowing and very little storytelling, and making very little use of Blake, its principal figure. The arcing, fully-fleshed stories in Menagerie have been rare.

And the frustration is that this season has shown us evidence that giving a lot of time to this storyline on a weekly basis can result in good things. In the fifth and eight episodes, Menagerie was given a lot of time, and – importantly – with Blake as its anchor. It’s supposed to be her story, after all. We were given hooks to focus on and meaningful passages to take away, and she was allowed to shine.

But most of the time, we’ve been given drips and drabs that just slipped through the hands.

I appreciate what this storyline tried to do in a macro sense, which was have Blake change the attitudes of her people in their isolated corner of the world, and have them realise that they needed to face the oncoming storm together, rather than wait for it to arrive on their doorstep and tear them apart. And of course, in casting Blake as the anchor of the narrative, the show is trying to make you to feel her desperation and anxiety as she struggles to shine the light on what has been long ignored – and the catharsis of her relative success in this episode.

But if I’m being honest, I can’t say that what we’ve gotten is enough to justify how long we’ve been on this road. Did this have to be wrapped up last season? Not necessarily. There was enough to justify continuing on with this excursion, and Adam’s coup definitely gave it a spark (or at least renewed its potential for a while). But the handling of it has been baffling. Often this season, it has felt like a good Menagerie episode has been immediately followed by a letdown, or just not followed up at all.

The only way to explain the spasmodic plotting of Menagerie this season is that it’s events have probably had to line up with what has been going on in Mistral, but even then, spacing this narrative for that long has just exposed what hasn’t been done with Menagerie, that the show hasn’t capitalised on early potential and has simply been content to spin its wheels here while it devoted its attentions elsewhere.

In talking about Menagerie this season, a word that I’ve used a lot is “stuck”, and it has been frustrating to see the clear potential for narrative arcs just be ignored for the inexplicable sake of stringing out this plot an extra week or two; this whole thing could have been wrapped up two or three weeks ago. The counter to that argument is to say, “What else would the show have done with Blake?” and I have to agree with that, because ultimately, it feels like the show just didn’t have anything else planned for her until the season’s endgame, which would be a frankly stunning waste of Blake’s character and everything the show was building in Menagerie back in Volume 4.

With that said, I know you’re reading this and thinking, “Then why the hell have you given this a high grade if there are so many issues with the storyline?” My answer is that yes, the context of the overall storyline’s weakness hurts its conclusion and this episode overall. I would give the whole Menagerie storyline a C+, and that’s generous. But this conclusion is still strong enough to make this a decent and thoroughly promising episode of RWBY.

Because after everything, the way Menagerie was handled in this episode just felt right. The necessary care was given to it, and it showed. Of course, I never believed that Blake’s parents were in any real danger, but there were enough moments to give you a sense of danger, especially where her father was concerned. Man has zero chill in a fight.

Last week set up Blake’s fight with Ilia, and I was very pleased with how it functioned as the hook of this episode. For one thing, the fight itself was staged in a way that maximised both combatants, and particularly highlighted Blake’s fight intelligence – in the beginning, both women were essentially countering each other with their semblances; Ilia took a brief tactical advantage by turning out the lights and using her active camouflage; but in a swift progression, Blake both removes this advantage by lighting the area with fire and takes her own advantage by neutralising her opponent’s weapon. All throughout this, Ilia is strong in her refusal to go along with Blake’s perspective, but it is clear that this defiance is the result of her own desperation and rationalisations; it is only when Blake is able to score a decisive takedown that Ilia’s resolve cracks and Blake is able to reach her and sway her heart.

I wish that we’d had more of them together, because their relationship and history is so fascinating. Imagine if, from Blake’s arrival  last season, the story had been “Ilia and Blake”, all the way through. In some ways, it has been, but Ilia wasn’t a strong enough character last season, and I’ve already written at length about how this season has wasted Menagerie’s potential. It’s just wishful thinking though, because we’ve still gotten a healthy amount of story between these two.

In any case, the plot proceeds from that point as one would expect: Ghira crashes in, Sun and Kali get drawn into the mess, and Ilia completes her hero turn by helping them end the coup. Though lacking in jeopardy, this fight is a fitting end to the conflict.

And of course I enjoy that, in a moment of great uncertainty, and requiring a firm, poised hand, Blake was able to take the responsibility on her back and speak to the assembled masses. She is done with running and letting others deal with the fallout; after all this, she is ready to come back into the larger fold.

The thing is, we know that Blake has always had the desire within her to be a hero, but that a part of her must have felt like she was holding the rest of her team back – that she wasn’t comfortable being forced to take decisive and significant action. Running became the easy choice, but it took the Fall of Beacon, Yang’s sacrifice, and her conflicts with Ilia, for her to realise the selfish and destructive effect that choice was having on her life and those around her.

Ultimately, it is that conflict with Ilia that gets her to see clearly, because in her old friend, she sees an old version of herself: someone scared and desperate, pushing themselves into a box where the only way out they can see is to be the destroyer. It takes encountering that for Blake to finally pull herself out of the box, and pull Ilia along with her.

Now let’s see how this version of Blake fares back in the company of the partners she arguably wronged the most.

Additional Observations:

- In other storylines, it��s nice to see that Qrow and Ozpin aren’t trusting anything that Leo is selling – a bit of sense is always welcome.

- And according to Leo, Raven is actually capable of demonstrating full-blooded emotions. Cue her response: “I’m not afraid – I’m smart.” Ah. There we are – still a nothing character.

-  I’m not even saying that Menagerie’s contribution to last season was a bad thing; everything to do with Volume 4 should be looked at in context of it being such an anomalous body of work, yet at the same time one which was wholly necessary. The way Menagerie was involved in Volume 4 was fine, because that approach was a fit for what the context demanded. It’s the fact that Volume 5 has struggled so clearly that has been the main problem.

-  I’m so glad that Ilia is still around. She started last season as someone whose name I could never remember, and now she has been one of the most consistent features of this season’s Menagerie storyline. I hope the show takes advantage of her by continuing her story with Blake. And, you know, as much as I will argue that anyone in a story can die, I’m very pleased that we haven’t just killed off the only LGBT representation on the show so far. Much appreciated.

- I haven’t checked, but I’d like to imagine that Ilia/Blake fanfiction has been blowing up these last two weeks. You lovely people.

Grade: B+

Final Thoughts: “True Colors” was given the task of wrapping up RWBY’s most inconsistent storyline in years; the job it does is certainly admirable, a finely-staged fight scene and overall great performances from Blake and Ilia serving as the hook of the story – while the season’s final act is all but spoken into existence. Again, the Menagerie storyline has been a unique problem in the show’s recent history, and the weight of that cannot be easily ignored in assessing its conclusion. But with four episodes remaining, “True Colors” stands as a solid and logical way to bridge Volume 5 into its endgame. – Kallie

[tyranttortoise]

*they hate puzzles

*While I’m playing catch-up with the Dating Sim scripts I owe, I thought I’d share something I wrote up several months ago to explore RESETs, Papyrus’s death via Genocide route, and the skelebros’ backstory.  It’s actually part of a roleplay post from way back when, where Frisk was struggling with control against Chara, which resulted in the timeline getting LOADed over and over to just before the Papyrus fight... while Sans watched from the sidelines.

*Angst warning.  

In all of his fragmented memories from other timelines, Sans only saw happier times ahead, times where his SOUL was drawn to Frisk’s as he followed them throughout the Underground, always watching.. always making sure they were safe. And every time, they had always been so good, so full of Mercy, that he just knew they would never--

                                              [  R  E  S  E  T  ] And then Sans was hiding behind some trees in the woods, watching his brother stand across from the human they had discovered. A human coming into the Underground? That was hilarious! And Papyrus interacting with the human was pure gold. His brother was so cool, and Sans getting to participate in the japes alongside him had been a surprising amount of fun. The human had loved puzzles, had gone through all of them humoring Papyrus and easily figuring out the solutions. It was only because of this, and watching the human continually Spare every monster from the Ruins to Snowdin, that Sans trusted them across from his brother now. Papyrus was harmless; he would never actually kill anyone, human or not. And this human, so filled with kind words and gentle smiles, would never raise a hand to Papyrus, either. "ARE YOU OFFERING A HUG OF ACCEPTANCE? WOWIE, MY LESSONS ARE ALREADY WORKING!" Sans watched as the human approached, but something.. wasn't right. It felt like he was missing something important. * they hated puzzles. we couldn't get them to cooperate through a single one. "I, PAPYRUS, WELCOME YOU WITH OPEN ARMS!" * but that's not right.. no, they loved the puzzles. they even solved them so quickly that i think they may have seen them before.. if that's possible. The human was moving closer, and Sans felt.. conflicted, and then berated himself for that emotion. He was being stupid. He may not have known the human that long, but he was observant and an excellent judge of character. There was no reason-- And then Papyrus's body jerked suddenly, a sound much like a surprised gasp escaping him. In slow motion, his body faded away... crumbling to dust in the snow. Sans stopped. Everything stopped. Papyrus's skull continued to talk, but the words were lost on him. He took a shaky step forward before his legs gave way just outside the treeline where he'd be in view, and he crouched over on his hands and knees, hollow sockets staring blankly ahead. A pleasant breeze went by, leaving a trail of dust across his jacket. *  w    h    y  .   .    .   ?

He couldn't be gone. He couldn't.

It wasn't possible.

Sans had watched over his brother since he was just a babybones. For as long as he could remember, it had only been the two of them. He had always tried his best to be a good big brother, to make certain that Papyrus was taken care of before his own needs were met. Thankfully, Sans may have been young back then, but he was clever. He always had some kind of quick money scheme (like the time he gave tours of the Capital City and made up bullshit facts), so he was able to keep his brother relatively well-fed and clothed, even if they had to bounce around from one place to the next as he came up with other scams.

It wasn't until he was able to secure a job in the Lab that their situation was able to become stable, and Sans had done everything in his power to make that possible. By then, Papyrus had nearly been as tall as him. They lived in Hotland for a while, then moved to the outskirts of Waterfall when Papyrus had become enamored with the soft glow of the foliage and the novelty of the Echo Flowers. Sans himself became drawn to the sparkling rocks embedded in the cavern's ceiling, and just like everyone else, he found himself wishing.

Wishing those were real stars.

But everything he had worked for crumbled overnight.

An experiment went too far.

His mentor was lost to the Void.

All attempts to retrieve him proved fruitless.

He moved Papyrus to Snowdin because the town was quaint and it was a chance for his brother's boisterous, Great personality to really shine. By now, Papyrus was fully grown and had a burning desire to join the Royal Guard, ever since he had found out how amazing ("UNDYE IS STRONG, COOL, AND LOVED BY ALL! I CAN ACHIEVE ALL OF THOSE THINGS, TOO! GETTING INTO THE GUARD SHOULD BE NO PROBLEM FOR SOMEONE AS GREAT AS ME!") its Captain was. Sans retained his job at the Lab to support his brother's endeavors, but any joy he had felt with his work had been snuffed out. What was once a passion became mundane, something bothersome. There were no answers to be found, no amazing results to be shared.

Another failed experiment.

And another.

Notes in his basement, blueprints, and a machine that he could never get to work again. Pictures and fragments of notes in his own hurried, cramped scrawl started appearing in the drawer shortly after, ones where he couldn't remember the faces of the monsters or ever writing the contents of the notes. It became clear that there was more going on, that what had meant to be their Salvation was their Undoing instead.

So, he quit.

Sans let his apathy take over and became fueled only by his love for his brother. Papyrus once again became his sole reason for going through the motions, and he took menial jobs and continued with his quick-gold schemes to pay the bills. There were times when he felt as if he had lived the same day over and over again.. and times when he remembered things before they happened. Then, there were the nightmares, the repetitious nightmares that he could never quite remember but gave him a general... uneasy feeling around flowers.

He tried to keep Papyrus away from Echo Flowers after that.

Despite all of this, everything he did was aimed at bolstering his brother's Greatness and generally trying to make sure he had fun, he had friends, he had everything he wanted. It was still pretty much the two of them; nothing else really mattered except Papyrus.

The scent of dust hit him as grit carried by the wind clogged his nasal cavity.

Nothing mattered now.

He couldn't be gone. He couldn't.

                                                   [  R  E  S  E  T  ]

*they loved the puzzles. paps was so happy that a human finally got to use his puzzles. i've never seen him so excited.

Something was wrong. There was panic in his SOUL; he could feel it fluttering restlessly in against his ribs. His thoughts were momentarily disoriented, memories overlapping in a way that felt so wrong.

There was something glinting in the human's hand.

No.. He was wrong.

*they hated puzzles.

                                                   [  R  E  S  E  T  ]

He knew something bad was going to happen.  

Sans was hyperventilating just beyond the treeline.  The fact that skeletons didn't have to breathe spoke volumes for this particular anxiety attack.  

Clutching the front of his white T-shirt, his hand over his SOUL, he doubled over and tried not to vomit magic bile all over the snow.  It took him a moment to try to recall why he was so upset, before a name was uttered between clenched teeth, his body tense and voice strained.

"papyrus.."

He lurched forward, his slippers having difficulty finding purchase in the powdered snow.  His eyelights fell upon the sight of his brother's body just as it crumbled away, and this time, he finally heard his farewell speech.  

"I STILL BELIEVE IN YOU!  YOU CAN DO BETTER!  EVEN IF YOU DON'T THINK SO!"

As the human retched into the snow, Sans clamped a skeletal hand over his mouth to bite back a wail.  

                                                  [  R  E  S  E  T  ]

*they hate puzzles.

He could never connect the dots fast enough to do anything.

Papyrus still believed in them.  

Sans got a faint glimpse at a memory--or wishful thinking?--where he had once had the warmth of the sun on his bones and saw the human (*frisk.  their name is frisk.) give him a sincere smile that caused such fucking HoPe to well up in his SOUL that he realized his world had expanded beyond just him and Papyrus.  He had more to live for now.  They had given him a future, and they were good, they were so good, and full of more Mercy than any monster he'd ever met.  

Was it all a lie?

                                                   [  R  E  S  E  T  ]

"kid..."

He was wearing the expression of someone who'd watched his own brother die five times.  Five.  The number of fingers on a human's hand.  

Fingers that were curled around a knife.

He made it just past the treeline again before he collapsed onto his hands and knees.  His magic prickled to the surface, and one eyelight expanded, casting a vibrant cyan on the pale snow.  He should kill them.  He should make them suffer.  

*even when you ran away, there was a smile on your face.

Glimmering tears rolled down his zygomas, leaving little circular imprints in the snow below him.  His fingers clenched into it, and once again, dust hit his face as a breeze swept by.  

Could a murderer pretend to be a good person, if they really tried?

"stop.”

                                                  [  R  E  S  E  T  ]

*they only pretended to like the puzzles.

*but they were so nice to papyrus. 

Papyrus was dead.  

He didn't even try to run forward this time.  So many overlaps occurring so rapidly had kept the memory fresh in his mind.  Over and over, they'd forced him to watch his brother die.  Did they get some kind of sick pleasure out of knocking off his head?  Out of breaking his complete trust, spitting on his utter Mercy?  

He had once considered them one of his closest friends.  They had gained his admiration, his trust, and even a portion of his heart.  A little while longer, and they could have reached the same status as his brother--of someone that Sans would do anything for.  He had already wanted to protect them, promise or no promise.  He had already put his faith in them, and they had broken the Barrier, but..

If that was the case, then why were they still Underground?

And why was Frisk forcing him to watch this, over and over?

He waited, standing numbly in the trees.  It was pointless to move; he was just going to end up right back where he started, but with one more nightmare.  If this was his life--if this moment was stuck on loop for an eternity--then he would rather be dusted.  But not even that was permanent now.  

No, that would be too much of a Mercy.

                                              [  R  E  S  E  T  ]

[smashbuddies]

Love Bites: Pt. 1

Night was the best time to be out. Hardly anyone was walking the streets, the air was nice and cool without being terribly cold, and it was all around just more pleasant to walk under the stars and the moonlight than it was to deal with the overbearing weight of the sun. Of course, that might have been because the sunlight could literally lead to death, but still.

Daniel sighed, a sealed bag tucked underneath his arm, hands stuffed into his pockets as he strolled along the road. Only one bag every two weeks, what kind of bullshit was that? They were trying to starve him. He was already skinny enough, he didn’t need their fucking help.

But at least they gave him anonymity. That was something.

A howl caught his ears. Werewolf. After glancing up at the now very obviously full moon, he picked up the pace. No good would come out of getting caught up in a werewolf rampage. Especially if it wound up getting someone killed.

Slam!

The wind got knocked out of him as something far bigger then him crashed right into his side. It took him a long moment to regain his bearings, and when he did, he was face-to-snout with a gargantuan, wolf-like beast. Its eyes were glued right to him, wide and curious. Well, at least it wasn’t looking to kill him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed. Werewolf logistics were weird, so he had no idea if they’d even be able to understand him. “You could get someone killed, you fucking moron!”

They blinked dumbly, then licked his face, tongue dragging along his skin tortuously. It was disgusting, and he tried pushing them off, to no avail.

“Get off!” he demanded, managing to shove their face away. “What do you want? Food? Is that it? I have plenty of food at home, you can have some of it if you calm the fuck down!”

After staring at him vacantly for a solid minute, they let out an ear-piercing howl, then backed off of him. Daniel got up and brushed off his suit, then snagged up the food that had thankfully not splattered all over the pavement.

“You’re so damn lucky,” he muttered at the werewolf with a hard glare. “Anyway, c’mon. We’re not too far.”

Carefully, he led them to his house, and thank god it was big enough to fit a fully grown, fully transformed werewolf. Exhaustion seeped into his bones as they bounded all over the living room, like an excited puppy that just got adopted.

But this was just for the night. He wasn’t a charity worker.

He coaxed them into the kitchen, and dragged out every last bit of food that he couldn’t stomach. It wasn’t a whole lot, but hopefully enough to sate a ravenous beast.

“Alright,” he muttered, getting it all out free from packaging and setting it on the counter. The werewolf was definitely big enough to reach it, so no use in being a dick and putting it all on the floor. “Eat up. Someone has to.”

The werewolf gladly scarfed it all down. Honestly, it was pretty disgusting to watch. But his own hunger ate away deep in his stomach, and he eyed up his bag for a moment.

Have some fucking self control.

Sighing, he put the bag in the fridge, and almost let out a yelp when he felt the werewolf’s cold nose nudge against his back. He whipped around and glared at them. “What?”

They cocked their head to the side, then let out a big yawn.

“Tired, huh?” he asked rather pointlessly. Maybe it was nice just having someone to talk to. “Me too. But you need a bath. Badly.”

Almost immediately, they leaned back on their haunches and bared their teeth, letting out a low growl all the while.

“You’re gonna have a hard time intimidating me,” he said with a raised eyebrow, putting his hands on his hips for extra authority. “Just let me clean you up and we can both sleep out your stupid fucking transformation. Okay?”

In the next instant, they whined and butted their head into his stomach. Funny how fast they switched tactics.

“If you let me give you a bath,” he said, giving them a single pat on the head, “I’ll get you breakfast tomorrow. And take you home, how about that?”

The noise they made was one of defeat. Good. Like hell he was going to have some bumfuck wolf-beast dirtying up his home. So he led them to the bathroom, making sure to keep a close eye on them in case they tried any funny business, and actually got them into a warm bath.

“See?” he grumbled while rubbing shampoo into their fur. “This isn’t so bad. Now you smell like a civilized being, and not some neanderthal that’s been living in a hobbit hole for half a century.”

They growled at him, but otherwise seemed to be enjoying the attention. But he was starting to get tired, because they were huge and their fur was thick and honestly? This wasn’t worth having sore arms in the morning.

“Alright, good enough,” he announced, switching to the shower for a moment to rinse all the soap off. Was human shampoo good for werewolf fur? Who knows and who even cares? Not him.

Despite him being kind enough to even get a towel, they simply shook all the water off, splattering not only his bathroom in their dirty wolf water, but him and his beloved suit.

“What the fuck!?”

Happily ignoring his outburst, they sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving him to wallow in his despair. What had his life come to?

He made his way to his room, eager to slip into some pajamas and sleep his misery away. Only to find a giant furry mass taking up his entire bed. He felt his eye twitch while watching him get all cozy with his blankets and pillows. Just even more fur to clean up off his shit.

“You’re not sleeping on my bed,” he told them, pointing to the ground. “Now get down!”

They blatantly ignored him.

“Ugh, you better be off my bed by the time I’m changed,” he warned, voice dangerously low. And to make his point, he gave them a harsh glare. Which they only yawned at. Great.

Well, strangely enough, by the time he got into his pajamas, they were off his bed. He eyed them suspiciously. They were way too happy with sitting on the floor. Plus, he didn’t like the way they watched him. Like they were waiting for something.

Shrugging it off, Daniel got into bed and curled up under the covers, eager to get some rest. Not even a second later, the werewolf practically pounced on him, butting its nose into his side so they could get under the blanket too.

He didn’t have the energy for this. So fuck it, right? After he lifted the blanket up, they quickly got under and laid right on top of him. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about getting cold.

Their nose butted against his neck, then they let out a contented sigh. Idly, he gave them a couple pats on the head, and found himself falling asleep not too long after.

That morning, he woke up feeling way too hot. Like suffocating in a desert kind of hot. Still half-asleep, he tried wiggling away, only to find a strong arm hooked around his waist keeping him in place.

The werewolf.

He looked over. Sure enough, they were back to their... Less wolf-like form. They still looked like a goddamn furry, but at least they’d actually be able to say something now.

“Hey,” he whispered harshly, still a bit groggy, “I kinda have to get up, so move the fuck over or something!”

They only nuzzled closer, the fur on their face tickling his neck, and mumbled, “Love you…”

What the hell?

“C’mon, you werewolf piece of shit,” he said more firmly, shoving them. “Get up! You need to get out of my house!”

With a groan, they pulled back and looked blearily at him. That look shifted into one of complete adoration. Then their eyes widened in a deer in the headlights kind of way. “Who are you?”

“I’m the guy that kept you from terrorizing the city last night,” he hissed, not bothering to hide the scowl on his face. “I fed you, cleaned you, and let you sleep in my bed because you’re a clingy piss-baby.”

Their face scrunched up. “Shit, sorry. I get a little out of control whenever I transform.”

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I found you and not some human,” he said matter-of-factly. “Or else you probably would’ve gotten into some real trouble.”

With narrowed eyes, they scrutinized him, nostrils flaring just a bit. “So you’re saying you’re not a human?”

“You’re pretty dense,” he muttered. Then he took a second to show off the pearly white fangs in his mouth. “If the red eyes and the pasty skin didn’t tell you, I’m a vampire. So there you go.”

It was at this point that he finally realized they were still way too close to him. He squirmed and tried to free himself, but that only made them hold on tighter.

He glared at them and asked, “What the hell is your deal? Let go!”

“Shit, sorry,” they mumbled, finally getting their heavy arm off him. Their eyebrows furrowed together, and they eyed him up like they were trying to figure something out. “So, what’s your name?”

He bristled. “...Daniel.”

“Right, okay. Well, Daniel, there’s something I gotta tell you,” they said. Now it seemed like they wanted to look at anything else but him. “I might’ve imprinted on you last night.”

Imprint. It was a vaguely familiar term to him, if only because he heard it in passing. Still, the ramifications always varied, so it was better to get specifics than to fly off the handle right away.

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked, getting out of bed because he couldn’t waste more time.

While they stammered for an answer, he looked through his closet. What should he wear today? Blue or red? Maybe black? The decision was so mundane it almost gave him a headache.

“It means,” they finally said, right as he decided, “that I might really, really want you to be my boyfriend.”

“Who doesn’t?” he asked, not expecting them to answer because they didn’t know. “My plan was only to let you stay for the night, then get you some more food and take you home so you can finally get out of my hair.”

Their ears flattened against their head, and they looked down sadly. “Right, yeah. That makes sense.”

He sighed and spared them a half-pitying look. “Sorry, but I don’t have time for any kind of relationship right now. I have to work, take care of myself, keep up appearances. It’s hard enough trying to seem human on my own, it’ll be impossible with a wolf-man running amok in my life.”

“I get it,” they said. Despite them shrugging it off, they seemed hurt. “Imprinting’s just bullshit, you know?”

As much as he didn’t want to care, he still felt a twinge of guilt. But he already did more than enough for him. Anyone else would’ve just left them in the streets. Maybe even called the cops on them.

He left them alone to gather their thoughts while he got ready. Hair done, suit on, and most important of all, colored contacts in and foundation applied. Just a normal, average, everyday human.

The werewolf knocked on the door. “Hey, uh, you said you were gonna give me something to eat, so I just kinda helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.”

A surge of panic went through him. He swung the door open. “You didn’t take the blood in the fridge, did you?”

Their mouth was half-full of raw bacon and their eyes were wide. “No.”

“Okay, good,” he sighed out, straightening out his tie. “Well, tell me where you live so I can drop you off.”

After swallowing down the bacon, they hummed, then said, “I live in a forest. I think it’s part of a park? But I know it’s right by the city, so…”

Somehow that was completely shocking, yet not at the same time. And son of a bitch, his conscience would not shut up if he just dropped them back in the woods where this whole mess would happen again in just a short month. And who even knows if he’d be there to keep them in line this time?

That pathetic look on their face didn’t help either. Contrasted with how happy they seemed last night to be in a nice house, it cemented his decision.

“Okay, look,” he huffed, rubbing away the stress in his temples. Was he really about to say this? “I’ll… Let you stick around for a bit. Until you get a place of your own. Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you terrorize a park full of innocent people anymore.”

Their tail went wild, slamming into the door frame while they practically pounced on him. All the air in his lungs got squeezed out as they said, “Hell yeah, I knew you couldn’t resist me! I’ll be the best boyfriend ever, you’ll see!”

“I never said we’d be boyfriends,” he wheezed out. Even with his own supernatural strength, it’d be pointless trying to get himself out of their hold.

But, they seemed to ignore him and just ramble on about all the things they could do together. Daniel wondered if it was too late to take the last twenty-four hours back and start all over again. But the glimpse he caught of their smiling face told him yes. It was far too late.

[spamzineglasgow]

SWAT SIGHT: An Interview with Nasim Luczaj

In this interview, Glasgow-based writer, dj and multidisciplinary artist Nasim Luczaj talks to SPAM editor Maria Sledmere about her recent publication, SWAT SIGHT: a hybrid essay and artist’s book that weaves modalities of lyric, photography and online dialogue to explore Luczaj’s experience of aphantasia and its implications for aesthetics, perception and philosophical enquiry.

~

Can you explain what aphantasia is, and how did you discover this was something you experienced?

Aphantasia is the inability to form mental imagery. To have aphantasia is to not be able to ‘see in your head’ – not the characters of a book you are reading, not the faces of your loved ones, not a random object you’ve been asked to visualise, not the sheep you may or may not be counting. It seems there is a spectrum in people’s ability to do any of these things. Roughly, those without it have aphantasia, while those who are extremely good at visualising have hyperphantasia. Most people fall somewhere in between. I get something imagelike appear when I’m falling asleep or really really tired, and once in my life I visualised while reading (about the Quidditch World Cup – I saw Viktor Krum flying about the stadium!)  – but I had a fever at the time and as soon as I noticed what was going on and got excited about it, I was unable to keep the imaging up. I think I mentioned my imageless way of reading to a friend, probably one of the times we were watching a film (again, probably Harry Potter) and she complained that the character doesn’t look like they’re ‘supposed to’. What did they mean, supposed to? I remember talking to them, shocked at how they claimed to have something like a film unfolding in their head. They were as shocked as I was to find that I didn’t have one, especially since I was a full-on bookworm, and they didn’t understand why I’d ever want to read if it wasn’t a filmlike experience (guess what: I was reading for the words!). I accepted these differences and didn’t think too much about which of us was normal, or whether either of us were not. Then, a couple of years ago, another friend discovered the term and asked me whether I have it – reading my work gave her the feeling I might. I started reading and found out what I have is a rare disorder. I’m still not so sure it is. I don’t think the samples studied so far are big enough for us to come to that kind of conclusion.

Maybe a cheeky question, but what does the SWAT in the title stand for?

Swatting sight is partly a play on catching sight. I can’t do justice to what sight is but trust that I’ve caught something, an angle, a thing among many. It’s also a bit like ‘shot’ in ‘screenshot’ (at first the title was actually going to be SIGHT SWAT), but ‘swat’ is more organic, and invokes a kind of slaughtering of something that’s necessary in order to study it.  I wanted a title that sounded nice, compact, yet violent nevertheless, because as I wrote I became aware I was feeling angry at the misjustice being done to people who are called abnormal or disordered without careful consideration. Only writing fully enabled the sensation to emerge out of a plethora of ambivalent strands to my experience. And then the insect-connotations of swatting work nicely with one of the central metaphors I consider in the work, that is, Wittgenstein’s beetle in the box. I guess all of the above considerations, the rational reasons, were hovering somewhere in the background of my choice, but here’s a short and honest answer: it just came to me once I got to the I-need-a-title-stage. And I felt it fit, although – bad pun – I hadn’t seen it coming.

I’m interested in the mode of address that opens SWAT SIGHT, which features a sequence of questions. It’s unclear whether the speaker is speaking to the reader, or having a dialogue with herself. So many times in your poetry I get to a point where I think I know what’s happening, but then a few lines come and totally throw me off my assumptions. It’s poetry that keeps you dancing through metaphysics, for sure. Can you talk a bit about how asking questions of yourself, of the world, of the reader, is a process or form of poetics for you—and perhaps to what end?

I guess I’ve always been inquisitive but have felt increasingly answerless. I love the questioning stage, and the addressal that it often entails, for its own sake. I’ve kind of given up on answers, I don’t trust them, don’t feel as comfortable in them as I do in the mode of questioning. What I want to be expressing, in perhaps every piece I ever write, is roughly: wow, all this exists and we don’t really know anything, or if we do we can’t confirm whether we do or fit it into a whole that would really be the whole thing. Answering has never seemed as doable, as satisfying to me, as asking. The best poems distil the poise of a question. It’s a shame questions are often rashly associated with despair.

You recently graduated with a degree in English Literature and Philosophy (congrats!), which I know included elements of creative writing. What do you see as the relation between the two, and how has each fed or diverged from the other?

I used both to access a kind of metaphysical vertigo of not knowing what the hell’s going on, as explained above. At first I approached the ‘content’ of this vertigo as a philosophical one. I think I’ve been able to address similar things to myself in a ‘creative’ way and in a ‘philosophical’ way, but I no longer believe that the hard work of philosophical answers is worth anything to me personally. I’m chasing a connection with a feeling partly composed of not accepting answers. I believe in attentiveness and possibilities for elaborate playfulness that do arise in philosophy and always appreciate willingness to take on difficult and deep questions. But I cannot feel devoted to this field, while I can be attentive, elaborately playful, and ‘deep’ through writing, I hope. It’s easier to find works of literature of this kind than philosophy that is honest about its inability to actually answer as much as it claims to.

Poetry seems a totally embodied thing for you, ‘a pinch in relation to the tongue’. Where do you see the body in your poems? Does poetry need more body?

I don’t see it anywhere, ha! But I try to be in the moment, and poetry can very much be the art of the moment, the linguistic equivalent of some alarming glimpse. I like how you can – though maybe not always should – read a poem in a short unit of time, one in which you have not yet disconnected from the physical motions that brought you to this page, because you haven’t and will not repeat it in quite the same way as when reading gripping prose. If something odd happens in the language, as I like it to, I want to be there to feel it ‘oddening’ the body, for it to all amount to a flash, an enacting of the gut that leaves space for me to feel all of these effects.

It strikes me that a lot of this book is about the possibilities of attunement, for instance: ‘a sense of the circuit run through / worldly activity’. What poets for you manage to supplement, enhance, expose or skew particular senses?

This is hard for me to answer. I read in quite a scattered way and try not to distinguish much between the senses, to read in undistinguished frenzy and love for what’s going on in the words without categorising what’s happening on a ‘sensual’ level. Without having any synesthetic tendencies whatsoever, I still struggle with things that are grouped into categories: 5 senses and then their subdomains, such as types of taste. I’m more than a little obsessed with how anything is partly something else, how things affect one another in a way that makes it unhelpful to present things as belonging to clear-cut types. So I don’t seem to fall into noticing what’s going on on the level of the 5 separate senses, but yes, some poetry and some work in other art forms have indeed enhanced and skewed and supplemented my perception, I think increasingly. They make me notice a word, an object, an emotion I may have neglected. I’ve recently been excited by Nasser Hussain’s airport poems. Hussain wrote a whole collection (SKY WRI TEI NGS) of poems written using only existing airport codes. I’m pretty sure I’m going to see the airport world through them for years to come. More than for a synesthetic image, that’s what I’m looking out for: works that change the structuring of my experience, that alter noticing, that leave me interested in some phenomenon.

This is probably the first poetry book I’ve seen (outside of SPAM!) that replicates the architectures of Facebook discussion, including groups, comment threads and private messages. Without quibbling over the term ‘post-internet’, what do you think happens when these kinds of archives are translated onto the printed page? I’m interested in your decision to reproduce the discussions as screenshots rather than, say, collage select quotes in a more traditional poem. What’s the importance of including the context, the avatars, the reactions?

The only one? That’s surprising! I remember wanting to write a detective novel in chatroom form as a child, and the reader would only have these online conversations to go by and figure the truth out (one of the messagers was guilty). Now I’m quite dedicated to my phone notes, in which I mainly write down dreams, funny things people say, and passing thoughts (without ever making note of which category a note belongs or who is its author). I proudly show them to people when we’re killing time. As they are one of the ways in which I feedback loop with my surroundings, one of the things that shape my cognition, I always wanted to use them in my work, and knew they belonged in SWAT SIGHT as soon as I decided to write it. Then I started messaging people about the fact I’m writing something and wanted to engage them somehow,  so I ended up embedding what they say in their own words, partly because of how seriously I treat the beetle in the box problem. I thought that maybe you’ll understand what they’re telling me better than what I tell you they told me, even if you don’t know these people as the reader, and I (think!) I do. I’ll give you exactly what they said and what the context of the words were (by context I mean, in large part, the interface that always affects the way they say it), and you can have fun figuring it out or leave it if it’s not your thing. The chats, forums, websites are a habitat I’m in, the form of communication I am immersed in as I do my thinking, the way I arrive at knowledge, arrangements, humour. They have a massive effect on the way my mind and, I presume, your mind works, for better or for worse, and I want to convey that, even if the craft lies in what the disembodied, timeless-y voice has to say and how. As for screenshotting rather than quoting, I’m also really interested in signs I see in the streets and how they operate linguistically, but that’s also something I’d take a picture of and think of including in a text – something I’m rarely tempted to take out and play with without its context, the pole it’s fitted to, the road it’s next to, the weeds that grow at the bottom of it. The way things are framed is partly responsible for their juice. I really want people to communicate about this in whatever way that is natural to them – so giving this much space to the discussion is a way of counterbalancing the strength of the ‘literary’ voice, of saying: it’s equally important to use language in all sorts of other ways and places.

What was the most surprising thing you encountered within the aphantasia ‘community’ online?

Nothing, really. There’s a divide between people who are genuinely upset about not being able to visualise and those who are extremely affirmative of the way they are, but I expected as much.

I’d love to hear more about your decisions around the book’s design. What’s especially unique, of course, is the palimpsest effect whereby text printed on clear acetate is layered over content printed on white pages. As readers, we can lift the acetate with all its textual clutter to ‘cleaner’ pages underneath. I’m struck in particular with the page of Aphantasia Awareness Group content, lifted to reveal a short passage underneath: ‘research on aphantasia is sparse. my looking into it decorated with a pang. […] what keeps me out and makes me look like this is apparently a lack’. Can you talk a bit more about this lack and how it relates to the play between white space, acetate, page and text?

The lack I’m mostly on about here is a lack of seeing – and then of course there’s a play there. On another page, one full of messages, thanks to the lack in the acetate page I can see the text on paper (as ‘i hope for darkness’ in the passage itself). I can tell myself that I’m missing something, that I don’t have an ability, but it’s not like someone cutting the content of a text box – it’s a reshuffling and change of the relationship of everything else that is giving me this different outcome, and to think of myself as ‘deficient’ is not to think about my cognition as play. Quirks are, to an extent, enabling. The form mimics this. Also emptiness can be good, so I wanted places where a condition for arriving at some sentence is the empty space that allows it to be seen. Sometimes I imagine daydreaming as if it were a film, which apparently people do, and I wonder how that would affect my peace of mind, my mental clutter, my voice. You know the truism: less is more. It’s unverifiable what I’d be up to if my mental processes were different, but I have a feeling that I am gifted with a space that could have been cluttered beyond my control.

I’m also interested in how the book’s design goes some way to dramatising Marshall McLuhan’s point about us directing towards acoustic civilisation, as you put it, civilisation ‘infused with simultaneity’. Lifting a page is a bit like opening or closing a window, and the size of the book replicates that sense of screen. Sometimes light catches the plastic acetate and I’m tricked into thinking someone’s left their iPad on my desk. I also think of screening as in brain-scan. What is the work of ‘screening’ in poetry?

I’ve mentioned this already, but what I like about poetry is containment. I often encounter longer poems with confusion and laziness, at first, which ceases if the work is still at the pitch/intensity of a shorter poem, except, hurrah, longer (as is the work of Anne Carson). Good poetry brings me straight into a space of simultaneity. It gets at something that’s both a detail and sort of everything at once. It makes you look at everything like that. Screening is also a kind of framing. You need something brisk to catch and then place just right on the screen, let it replay.

In a message you include to your mum, you write ‘aphantasia is horizontal again but with a margin that makes it a different kind of rectangle’. For me this speaks, quite beautifully, to the book as a whole. What or where is your sense of geometry in writing, and how does this relate to aphantasia and maybe even the structure of the book?

I love flippability. And maybe it’s in poetry that I get to have a sense of order I’m probably lacking elsewhere. But then most poems are like something that intended to be rectangular and then persists in trailing off. Of course there are all sorts of ways of trailing, many of them elegant. Here I wasn’t really writing poems, but a piece that was self-consciously scattered. Intuitively I picked up the shapes, the widths for each part. Maybe I use a similar intuition to drive and park my car – if you asked me, I’m not actually sure how much or what sort of space I have, I can’t see it, but I can do what I have to do just right. The shapes make or dictate themselves in a similar way.

In being orientated landscape, SWAT SIGHT also has the satisfying feel of a guestbook or ledger. Which feels appropriate, given that you include song lyrics, text conversations, comments, quotes and cross-references from philosophy, poetry (even William Blake is in there!) and what looks like Yahoo! Answers. I see SWAT SIGHT as a kind of experimental archive, or revisionist provocation of the-archive-as-such in the time of social media alongside the ‘traditional’ book. I think within this what you’ve done is quite remarkable: established a vernacular compendium of feedback, testimony and reflection on a condition that is not only rarely heard of but seems (at least until very recently) also to lack research or medical recognition. Do you see SWAT SIGHT as a counter-text to this discursive absence? Who should be reading this book?

Yeah, I guess it’s a form of affirmation – I want to encourage conversation about aphantasia in any way possible, and all sorts seem fit. But I need fun. I need to draw attention in some other way than linking to a BBC article on Facebook, which really doesn’t feel like engagement. I guess I’m also implying: I’m engaged with my environment and its diversity of mediums/registers, even of matter (different kinds of pages, B/W and colour images, shots from classic cinema, scans of my clothes and of plants, memes), as I seek to be engaged with people and their diverse ways of functioning. People work in mysterious ways, like poems – they might ‘work’ for you and one could assume that means there’s something similar about you, you could be part of one book. But it turns out you’re doing (even similar) things really really differently. I want to get some kind of rush from that. As for who should read it – whoever also might get a rush from what I give them.

In this discussion around the book’s holding together of analogue and digital, I was reminded of visual snow: a neurological ‘disorder’ characterised by continuous visual disturbance, often described as miniscule dots that flicker like the noise of a detuned analogue telly. It’s interesting how these conditions ‘glitch’ or interrupt the representations of visual perfection or clarity which culture and technology pushes towards with retina displays, Blu-ray etc. I wonder if you’d come across any other under-studied neurological conditions (especially those of the senses) in your research? Are there any famous poets or musicians who’ve ‘come out’ as aphantasic?

No - I guess that’s the problem with the under-studied! There’s Aldous Huxley, whom I quote in the book. My mum is also an aphantasiac poet. It’s more of a thing that visual artists tend to ‘come out’ with, because it can be counterintuitive and shocking. The conversation comes more naturally than in the case of writing, which doesn’t seem necessarily tied to any traditional sense (one kind of archetypical writer is cut off from the sensual world in a dusty study with just enough lamplight to keep to their lines). An interesting example in the visual domain has resurfaced recently, via the BBC. One of Disney’s most important animators had aphantasia, while his collaborator who worked the identical job was on the opposite end of the visualising spectrum.

Is neurodivergent poetics a term you recognise or identify with? Do you think we’re moving towards recognising the role of neuroscience more in understanding poetry as also a kind of cognitive manifestation or aesthetics?

I’ve never looked into it much. What I’ve been coming to terms with is how much of what I’d consider normal might be identified as ‘divergent’ – it’s interesting that different people might have differing tendencies here, some to distinguish differences and others to widen what the norm might be. I am interested in making people pay attention to difference and to question whether there is not so much of it that it collapses back into a kind of sameness. I guess that’s my poetics. I’m not sure what you mean by ‘cognitive aesthetics’, but the term sparked a thought in me: people find very different kinds of poetry (if any) pleasing, and I wonder about the neurological basis of this. How does a combination of words ‘hit the spot’? If language can get to our emotions even when it’s not someone we are closed to addressing themselves to us specifically, it must do so on the basis of connections that will vary from person to person, and are to do with a multitude of factors, maybe even a kind of genetic memory for the ways their ancestors used language. There’s certainly a lot to investigate and, at the same time, a lot that will resist investigation.

I’m struck by the book’s illumined confusion of paratextual, marginalia, annotation, footnotes or poetic content. At the same time, there’s often a lyric voice weaving through, synthesising things, moving between exemplary media, linking anecdote with theory. There’s a drive towards turning the page, even as each page is also a ‘field’ in its own right. So in a sense I’d say SWAT SIGHT is maybe actually a lyric essay remixed with its paratextual materials. An essay that stages its own research process? What’s the value in this ‘transparency’, did any particular text inspire you to take that risk of reflexivity and assemblage?

Yeah, that’s what I’d say it is. I wanted to write a lyric essay and wasn’t sure how to start. As soon as I did, the voice started pushing me. It had a lot to say and I think it still does. To me of course the voice is the most important part, it’s most akin to my ‘core’ that all the rest branches from, is light that my leaves pick up and comes back to the trunk. But as for all the staging – my voice does that. Another thing I wanted to stage was my need for props, my love for images, designs, the ways of working of different websites, which I find inextricable from my lack of ‘invention’. I look at things out there, I get excited about things out there, and what’s going on in my head is either a tic, or something not quite surfaced, or, at best, that voice of the lyric essay. So the book ends up being my mental process and the world that it takes from, that it reacts to, that it is shocked and moved by and tries, in turn, to shock and move (more feedback loop!).

The whole book, of course, is about ‘vision’. I found that line, ‘to have a song stuck in your head, for some reason, is harder to treat as a metaphor than an image being stuck. […] rain on the trees as jewels. I couldn’t, I can’t’, really emotional. Throughout SWAT SIGHT, you recalibrate what ‘imagination’ is --   in both form and content. How can poetry intervene in what we consider ‘sight’, to be less ocular-centric? Do we need new tropes and metaphors, or more a kind of visual refusal?

I love the phrase ‘visual refusal’! It’s right up my street and I don’t think it’s occurred to me before. Poetry brings awareness to language, and so an awareness of the baggage, the loadedness of any word. If sight has to be visual, and we have words like ‘foresight’, that does subtly hint at how we imagine the future. So maybe we can work on other terms. But I think what is best to do is to remind yourself of your other senses and how much it means to you to smell/taste/hear/feel/pull something sensual from the world, categorised or not. If you pay attention to that, you’ll write differently, thus enhancing others’ attention to those things.

But as you put it, ‘no-one’s looked in anyone else’s box. language doesn’t quite do inner life’. We can’t expect SWAT SIGHT to provide an actual snapshot of the aphantasic experience, any more than we can expect reading Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time to somehow allow us to comprehensively ‘enter’ an autistic mind. I think the fact that you weave personal perspective alongside many other voices and representations (including an art exhibition) makes that clear. I’m interested, then, in what you might want readers to take away from this book in terms of empathy, awareness but also potentially recalibrating their own neurological sensitivities?

I would like us all to be aware of unnamed, unsaid, unprovable diversity. To approach it as a gift, with childish glee, and to know that it cannot be unwrapped. To ask each other questions and listen in to the way we describe each other’s mental processes, and to be aware of the fact that even when we think we agree or disagree there aren’t ‘samples’ of experience we can put next to each other to confirm or disconfirm anything. Also to be aware of the fact that our culture is skewed towards the visual, that it privileges it partly arbitrarily.

Can you talk about the images you chose for SWAT SIGHT, which include a lovely full-colour photo of you lying on a bed of coastal heather, as well as many representations of abstracted or glitched scenes/textures which must’ve taken a toll on your printer’s black ink cartridge. How do you see the relationship between image and text in this work, and are there any other writers who use images in an interesting way who you might’ve taken inspiration from?

The glitchy toner-heavy images are scanned objects from around my room – a top, a leaf, a headline, a daffodil. I really enjoyed their textures, the kind of nightscape of a piece of fabric that barely stands out of the uniform black. I’d achieve the glitches by moving the objects around while they were being scanned just the right amount, at the right time. I was intentionally confusing the printer but not quite in control either. It was both a hectic and repetitive process. It had in it excitement and tediousness – like writing. The images show the world as processed by a kind of system – a printer – thus running parallel to my verbal processing.

In SWAT SIGHT, the relationship between image and text is of course crucial. At first, I was tempted to completely do away with seeing, adornment – to have a kind of unity between sign and signified. Then I started adding the black scanned images as something along the lines of, but never really, illustrations. As soon as I did that, I started craving contrast and thought, to hell with that, I love the visual world and don’t want to be misunderstood as someone who doesn’t, just because I’m making a kind of cultural critique of vision-centricity. I am engaged in the visual world, and this lack of ‘inner’ will not take it away from me, and it does work for my way of perceiving the world, too. The images dispel inner and outer.

I really like W. G. Sebald’s use of photographs as strange hinges on oneiric texts. They complicate the voice by putting pressure on the distance we make for speaker from author, without ever allowing us to identify that voice with the author.

You also run a radio show for subcity, [underthunder]. Can you talk about the ethos behind the show. How important is music to your writing process, and do you think your experience of music has changed or intensified since you recognise your (visual) aphantasia?

At some point I realised that I love contrasting interactions between tones, mediums, textures. I like profound-grumpy-metaphysical things being read out loud and I also like ‘tribal’ energy. I was once editing a poem while listening to some Detroit techno and it struck me that these two things really fit together, that the words are energised, driven, dipped in densely and magnetically. I became increasingly curious about how best to combine these and whether others do it. I started paying attention to uses of language in electronic music, where words have diverse but recognisable, categorisable roles, but are not what you’d call ‘lyrics’. Now my experience of music is changing and intensifying by the day. This happened partly through that discovery, and so through poetry. I felt that it gave me an entry point into music, because I knew I was good at words and started copy-pasting them into other people’s tracks – otherwise I would never have felt entitled to ‘touch’ music. I always feel a bit guilty when I do that copy-pasting, a tad unsatisfied, hungry for something I’ve made from scratch. I’ve not got there at all yet, but it’s poetry that got me to focus on music in its own right. And my being drawn to poetry must stand in some relationship to aphantasia. I think I’m more at ease with oddness, a kind of casual surrealism, because of it, and that’s what often keeps my work going. When I feel I’ve written something good, it’s always because I’ve flexed the world without some specific message or thing in mind.

You write that ‘bliss’ is ‘a current […] i obsess over’. Your website says you are ‘here to make bliss’. What does bliss mean to you, or better still, what’s giving you bliss right now?

I just love the word. I think I fell in love about two years ago, and I’m not sure how, but it happened to me and my mum more or less simultaneously. She also puts that word everywhere; although I don’t know what’s in anyone’s box, including I think the most similar box to mine in this world, it does feel like a shared entity. Bliss is a short word that echoes out, like most poems – present, compact, extending its arm to everyone. A really small thing giving everything else a hug. And it seems like a half-place, a spacious state, not something like ‘joy’ which is much more identifiable with the springing up of some happy hormone, much more bound up with a person and nothing else. ‘Bliss’ is halfway between ‘joy’ and ‘paradise’. It’s something you can have next to you, or visit, or, as my mum says, ‘plug into’.

What’s giving me bliss now? Apricots, speeding tracks up as I DJ, ferry red.

Anything else you’d like to say about the publication, or what you’re currently working on?

I’m working on how to have a lot of time + space. Then full-blown bliss is gonna move in and we’ll split the bills.

~

SWAT SIGHT is out now. To order a copy, drop an email to nasimluczaj[at]gmail.com. 

Images by Nasim Luczaj and Maria Sledmere, all taken from the publication.

Published 8/9/19

[just-kiss-me-you-fool-hehe]

new year reunion weekend ✨

it was the most amazing weekend to get to see my buddy and have soooooooooo much good quality time with him

its the most amazing feeling in the world to be in an apartment and know that the other person is someone who you want to spend every minute with and share every thought with; it was so fun to mess around and watch tv and cook and create random things and go to the gym and have someone that will do all of those things with you <3

kirill did all of the grocery shopping for our empty fridge when he came over and brought me really cute flowers !!!

we kissed and hugged and did really cute things and then things got super hot and we started making out and had sex but i felt really uncomfortable in my post holiday desserts body and so the sex was kinda strange for me i just didnt remember what it felt like to be hot and then i dont know how he did or why he did it even though hes done it before but he just laid down on the couch with me and told me all about how cute i am and how much he loves each and every part of me; its just so crazy because i genuinely forgot how to do things and how i felt when we were in bed together and he just talked to me for a long time and then we napped together in my bed and then i doodled on my bullet journal feeling super grateful to have in my life like i definitely severely underestimate how much of a boost he creates in my every day self confidence i really dont know what i did to deserve him

anyway we went to the gym and worked out together and it was so fun to actually have a buddy not just someone who goes at the same time and then we showered together and watched tv while we waited for our pad kee mao and then devoured it as soon as it was delivered along with the mango sticky rice :P

the next day we actually woke up on time to go to work except for the fact that we were in our couch bed with our bare legs tangled up and feeling super frisky so we got some fireworks there and still got to work at 11! it was so fun getting ready together for the first day of the year and i got to wear my camo jacket for the first time so we matched and he was so pleased and i was stressed about my bra making my boobs look too big which was a fun and (f)risky conversation to have on our way to work ahahaha

we got home and went to mitchs place for smoothie delivery and watch unboxing and it was fun to chills and then went to his place to redo/undo/redo his iphone sync he was such a jumble of ideas and emotions it was funny to watch him speak and i also got the pink snuggie and just hung out watching my own videos in his room

then we finally walked to apple store and got really fun cute looks on the way there and then we were making out and then he says “ok baby im gonna see you in 20 mins” cause we were making out as if we werent going to see each other in a couple days ahaha

i remember walking down the streets feeling so content and seeing the lights of sf and it just felt so warm and cozy to feel so loved in a city that i love walking alone on a fun night; anyway we came home and cooked cauliflower and potato curry and made swausages and it was fun to do everyday things with him

saturday day i went to barre and trader joes and muji with mitch which was super fun and it was just an amazing feeling to come home to a person thats ready to kiss you :D idk its just really nice to make egg and avocado salad with the sesame seasoning !!! and it was nice to have him console me about the eggs not being fully cooked

the afternoon was amazing because we sat in our couch bed and read our books together !!! we read for a long time but i only got through ten pages because i was reading becoming which feels strange because michelle and barack feel like kirill and i for some reason and we talked about all the things i write in my books and he told how amazing it is that im smart and thoughtful and observant and he always wants to know what im thinking and writing about and i literally died inside

i was just in my happy place with the two of our reading on my couch and then eventually he had 15 mins left of his chapter and i was like can we read those later bc i wanna do other things and we had amazing sex i freaking love this couch because it has seen many great times and it was so fun to have sex in the middle of the day and i was def so turned on and there were stains on the sheets from me oh my jesus

so we fell asleep after making really good fruit salad and basically went the whole day just having eaten the tiny egg salad and tried to make oatmeal while kirill fed me chicken from the leftover pad kee mao and got kinda sad that that it was steel cut oats but idk for some reason he just made me less sad than i was and the oatmeal turned out pretty good!

“you know whats really fun this colander sits perfectly across the sink for putting berries in to dry“ “im really happy that thats really fun for you baby”

we ate some of our leftovers in the evening and watched more episodes of the final table and started getting really into in it after a couple of episodes and crossing our fingers and toes for our fave teams to not get cut and it was just so fun to hold onto his finger as we were waiting to see results, it was fun watching a cooking show with him because it felt like something we could do forever; also it was fun to talk about jokes like the rooster came first and finding the ghee spot is hard haha

it was hilarious cause we talked about how wild it is that we still talk about how wild it is that were together !

its also funny because if anyone heard our conversations they would be like what is this they talk about hydration police and bunnies and fruits and fruit salads what is this

he complimented me on having a nice back and nice elbows and nice feet and nice corners of my mouth and its wild bc those are compliments i have never received before !!! and when i told him this he was like “well theyre all missing out” and i was just :DDDDD anyway he said the same thing when i complimented his hands and his feet

we made chia seed pudding with berries and flax seeds and it was super cute because he ate exactly what i was eating on whole30 even though there was bread in the fridge for him1! we watched kalen allen and richard ayoade and talked about how fun it is to understand the things that the other person likes

we slept super late but then woke up kinda early anyway and then i took off my pants cause it was really hot and got into the same blanket and then i took my shirt cause it was really hot too with some help from kirill covering me up with lots of blankets to speed up the process hahaha i had a wad of dollar bills to use for premium services to i gave one of them to him and things were just insanely hot this morning and i was so turned on that my orgasm was just insane and as soon as it happened i told him that he could have all my singles it was amazing; as is probably obvious i was basically screaming and moaning this whole time and one of our neighbors actually knocked on the door and asked “are you okay?” and it was hilarious and i was mortified but it was still hilarious a definite first !!!

by the end of the weekend, like this morning on sunday, i felt so sexy again! it was really all because he managed to make me feel beautiful in the course of a few hours and days its wild

i just love how fun life is when he’s around, even though i try to capture all the fun things that we did together the best part of being with him is just being with him because everything is fun and everything is funny and even if its not its better with him; love you my buddy <3

[masked-fox-creations]

When The Strangers Blew In, Ch. 8

Look at me posting on time and everything. Anyway, who’s ready for surprise date night? Hell yeah you are.

Oh, the song Stanley sings is an old folk song sometimes called ‘Ten Thousand Miles’ or ‘The Turtle Dove’.

Summary: Stanford and Stanley Pines dream of a different life. One where they’re not just tidying their pa’s shop or helping ma take care of the baby. Where they can live freely as the men they know they are, instead of pa hounding them to marry before they become spinsters. They get a taste of that possibility when two strangers blow into town, but with them comes a heap of trouble.

Pairings: Rick/Stan (stanchez); Fiddleford/Stanford (fiddauthor)

Warnings for this chapter: Some mild sexual content, suggestiveness, implied sex, nothing much else.

ao3 link

Chapter 8— There Are Sparks In the Fire and Stars Out Tonight

“Alright girls, I’m off to follow the voice of the spirits,” Ma told them, patting her hair into place. “Remember, I’m meeting your father at the store this evening and we’re going to sheriff Powers’ so we won’t be back until late.” She flashed them a smile. “Have fun.”

“You too, ma,” Stanley returned, the twins waving her out the door.

As soon as she was gone Stanford brought the motor out to the kitchen, spreading his tools and the leprecorn hair across the table. Stanley watched him work, bouncing Shermie on his knee. His free hand was mindlessly playing with his ball and cup toy.

Disassembling the motor was no problem. Weaving the strands of leprecorn hair through the inner workings was a more intricate task. It wasn’t necessarily difficult, more that the process was time consuming. Especially if he took it too fast and tangled the hair up in gears. Finally though, after twenty minutes, he was screwing the motor back together.

“Finished!” he declared proudly, holding it up for his brother to see. “Now the moment of truth.”

“Uh, what are the chances of it exploding? Should I put Shermie in the other room?”

“It’ll work. There’s a ninety-eight percent probability I fixed our issue, and that’s rounding down.”

Stanley decided to trust his twin, adjusting Shermie on his lap both so the curious baby could see and just in case things went wrong he’d be able to quickly shield him.

Stanford started up the motor and it whirred to life. They held their breaths as its insides clanked loudly, filling up the kitchen. Then it sputtered a few times, paused fully as though failing, then suddenly hummed. The twins grinned at each other.

“It worked!”

“Never doubted ya, Sixer.” “I am fully confident that this motor can hold up for what we need it to do now.” A curious expression crossed Stanford’s face, brow scrunching up and Stanley knew he had some complex question running through his mind.

“Something wrong?”

“Not necessarily,” he slowly replied.

When he didn’t offer anything else Stanley prompted, “Stanford, what is it?”

“I just find it all curious. I’ve noticed that some of Fiddleford’s notes have equations that don’t quite make sense to me.”

“They can’t be too smart for you—you’re a genius.”

Stanford gave him a small smile. “I appreciate the sentiment. But no, it’s something else, I just can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like I’m not seeing everything.”

“What, like maybe they’re hiding something from us?”

Stanford frowned, then shook the notion away. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just some old notions they already scrapped.”

Doubts niggled in the back of his mind but Stanley didn’t speak them out loud. Instead he told his brother, “Can’t wait to show Rick and Fiddlesticks.”

Stanford beamed. “The looks on their faces will be priceless. I don’t think Rick believed I could do it.”

He gathered up his tools and put everything away. Then the twins started up their chores, alternating the task of watching Shermie.

Stanley held him as he fixed lunch for the three of them. Stanford meanwhile was outside gathering up the wash before it rained. The sky had darkened without warning, and hung the threat of a storm over their heads.

“Oh, fare you well, I must be gone,” he sung, bouncing the gurgling babe, “and leave you for a while. But wherever I go, I will return—if I go ten thousand miles, my dear, if I go ten thousand miles.”

Shermie dropped his chin onto Stanley’s shoulder as the latter checked to see if everything was cooked yet. His brother made a curious sound so he started the song back up to quiet him.

“Ten thousand miles it is so far to leave me here alone, whilst I may lie, lament, and cry, and you will not hear my—ah!”

Stanley cut himself off with a surprised shriek as hands snaked around his midsection unexpectedly. Familiar lips teasingly brushed against his neck. He settled down, realizing who it was.

“What in hell, Rick?”

“Hello to you, too, babe. Nice singing.”

Stanley tried to face the other man, but Rick held him firm. Feeling no urge to fight against him Stanley relented. He was more intent on figuring out what fool thing had possessed Rick to show up there, anyway.

“What are you doing here? How did you even find out where I live?”

“Gravity Falls is boring,” Rick stated between kisses, “you’re not.”

Something inside Stanley fluttered but he pushed that feeling down.

“Really not answering my questions there.”

“Carla told us,” Rick admitted before nipping at Stanley’s ear. He resisted the urge to melt into Rick’s embrace.

“My pa—”

“Isn’t here. Neither’s your ma.”

Rick’s mouth roamed lower, one hand reaching up to push Stanley’s dress off his shoulder. Stanley let his eyes close halfway, reveling in Rick’s warm ministrations.

“Bold bastard,” he cursed fondly.

He knew Rick was smirking, could feel it against his skin then hear it as the other man asked, “Wh-what was the end of that verse?”

It took a second for the question to register, Stanley’s mind fogging with desire. When he realized what Rick was asking he replied, voice low and strained, “And you will not hear my moan, my dear. And you will not hear my moan.”

“Mm, that’s exactly what I want to hear.”

Suddenly Shermie let out a loud pitched giggle, tugging on Rick’s hair and effectively reminding them he was there. Rick pulled back and quirked his eyebrow at the babe.

“Ah-aren’t you cute, kid. I’m gonna steal your big brother so why don’t we dump you with Stanford? I bet Fidds will get a kick out of you.”

“He’s here too?” Stanley asked, trying to catch his breath.

Rick nodded and led the way out back where indeed Fiddleford was helping Stanford take clothes off the line. Or rather, he was exuberantly discussing something with Stanford, both of their faces bright and eager as the wind whipped the still hanging wash around them, baskets of folded linen laying forgotten on the ground.

Rick took Shermie and thrust him into Fiddleford’s arms with no preamble. The pair looked at them in shock, thrown off by the abrupt interruption.

“Ah, Stanley! I’m almost done here. Fiddleford and I got caught up in a conversation,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Take your time,” Rick told them, already dragging Stanley back towards the house, “I’m going to ravish your twin.”

“Food’s ready,” Stanley added before they disappeared inside.

——

Fiddleford looked down at the baby in his arms. Shermie returned the gaze, watching him curiously.

“Well ain’t you just a sweetheart? What’s your name, little fella?”

“This is Sherman, our little brother. Shermie, this is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Can you say hello?”

“Fih, fih,” the baby happily cooed.

“Aww, ya tryin’ ta say my name?”

Fiddleford beamed at the child and tickled Shermie’s chest, eliciting a delighted giggle. Watching the two, Stanford couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

“You are really good with children.”

“I would love to have my own one day. Hopefully one as cute as this little thing.”

“Feel free to hold him as long as you’d like. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m not very good with children of any age.”

“Ah, ya can’t be that bad, Stanford.”

“I once sat him in the laundry basket and forgot about him for an hour. I dropped clothes on him and he just laughed.”

Fiddleford looked at him aghast. “I’ll hold onto him fer a while.”

“Thank you.”

“Thake!” Shermie repeated, reaching up and grasping Fiddleford’s nose.

A few drops of rain landed on Stanford’s head and he glanced up. One splashed against the glass of his spectacles and they hurriedly took down the rest of the wash before rushing inside.

Setting the basket aside Stanford offered, “Would you like anything to eat?”

“Only if Stanley made enough. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“It’s no problem, I’m sure he made plenty.”

As Stanford fixed them both a plate Fiddleford crossed to the table and settled down with Shermie in his lap. Stanford took the chair next to him.

“I can feed him if you’d prefer.

“If it’s alright with you I’d love to feed the little guy,” Fiddleford told him hopefully. “I always did for my little siblings.”

“By all means.”

Shermie didn’t fuss as Fiddleford fed him small bits of vegetables. Stanford admired the ease with which Fiddleford handled his brother, especially since they had just met. Of course Shermie wasn’t a difficult baby. In fact he was generally happy to meet new people. Fiddleford really seemed to hit it off with him, however.

After a few moments Stanford broke the silence, recalling their earlier, interrupted conversation.

“Oh, the motor! As I told you it should be fully prepared for whatever stress we put it under now.”

“That’s wonderful, Stanford! Isn’t yer brother so smart, little one?” He bopped Shermie gently on the nose, and the baby giggled.

A blush blooming across his cheeks, Stanford cleared his throat. “Ah, well, it was nothing. Tonight we can try it out and make sure I’m as smart as you think.”

“Whether it works or not, darling, I have no doubts about your intelligence,” Fiddleford assured. “But judging by that sky out there we won’t be testing anything tonight.”

Stanford waved him off. “A little storm is no reason to halt our experiment.”

Fiddleford gave him a dry look and firmly repeated, “Stanford, we aren’t testing anything in the rain.”

“You worry too much.” Fiddleford narrowed his eyes further and Stanford had to relent. “Fine, but tomorrow no matter the weather we need to make sure the reinforcement worked.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes and compromised, “As long as it ain’t too bad. I don’t need any of us catching our deaths of cold.”

“Tomorrow it is, then.” Stanford brightened. “So, you were telling me about your other projects.”

Stanford leaned forward, practically forgetting his lunch as he listened to Fiddleford explain different ideas he had been tinkering around with, Shermie curling up against him as he dozed off.

——

Rick’s head was between Stanley’s thighs, kissing them as Stanley’s senses slowly returned. That man knew how to put his tongue to damn good use, there was no denying that.

Maybe it was the thrill of having a man he hardly knew in his room, with the possibility of his parents suddenly coming home hanging over his head maybe it was the euphoria that cascaded over him whenever Rick so much as looked at him or maybe it was the Spanish Rick murmured, words he couldn’t understand even as the tone conveyed all he needed to know, but Stanley had never felt more alive.

Rick finally crawled up as Stanley’s breathing slowed. He grinned down at him, cupping Stanley’s cheek and stroking his bottom lip. Then he swooped down and claimed them with his own.

Stanley forgot what it was like to breath without taking in Rick.

“Que bonito,” he whispered against Stanley’s skin, so soft Stanley wondered if it hadn’t been meant for his ears.

Stanley draped his arms around Rick and gently pulled them flush together. It didn’t take long for their mouths to find each other again, and Stanley tasted the wonderful mixture of himself and Rick again.

Outside rain pelted the roof. Either it had just started, or Stanley had been too far gone to realize earlier. Regardless, it meant the same thing: Rick and Fiddleford would just have to stay until it died down.

Unless pa came home first, in which case they were going to be pushed out the back door before pa saw—and shot at—them.

“Hey, Rick, you hungry?” Rick gave him a lascivious look. Stanley rolled his eyes. Then his eyes fluttered shut as Rick rolled his hips just right.

Food could wait a few more minutes. After all, Stanley couldn’t leave his man high and dry.

——

“How many, ah, murderous machines have you completed?” Stanford wondered. Fiddleford glanced away, seeming to find the wall suddenly very interesting.

“Ah, well, who keeps count of something like that?” he replied with a nervous chuckle. Then under his breath, barely audible, he added, “Except for Rick.”

“I’d love to see your designs sometime.”

Fiddleford turned back to him with a surprised smile. “Well next time someone crosses me I’ll be sure to show ya.”

If it had been anyone else Stanford might wonder if that was a threat. Fiddleford was such a genuinely sweet man, though, at least to him, and didn’t seem quick to anger. Stanford supposed that you couldn’t be if you were traveling with Rick. Otherwise the other man would have been done for long ago.

There were footfalls on the steps and poorly stifled laughter. A moment later Stanley and Rick came into view, hanging off each other and matching mirth across their faces. They sat down at the table so close together one might as well have been in the other’s lap.

“Hey Sixer, hey Fidds. We miss anything good?”

“Hello there, Stanley. Stanford told me all about the motor. And this little guy,” Fiddleford readjusted the dozing babe, “is all tuckered out.”

Stanley reached over and ruffled Shermie’s hair. The babe yawned and nestled further into Fiddleford’s chest.

“Heh, he really likes you. Shermie doesn’t fall asleep in just anyone’s arms.”

“Must not run in the family,” Rick snickered. Stanley elbowed him in the side.

“I have a  knack with children,” Fiddleford said. “Have to, riding with him.”

Rick made a lewd gesture which he ignored.

“Would you like me to fix you a plate?” Stanford offered, already rising from the table.

“S-sounds good to me, Sixer,” Rick replied.

“When are your parents coming back?” Fiddleford asked. “It wouldn’t be too wise for us to be caught here.”

“Yeah pa’s a real good shot,” Stanley agreed. “No worries, whenever they go to sheriff Powers’ they always end up staying late. And since it’s raining they’ll probably wait even longer until it dies down.”

Stanley noticed the stricken look the partners exchanged but didn’t mention it.

Stanford set a plate in front of his twin before sitting back down. As Stanley dug in Rick wondered, “Wh-where’s mine?”

Stanford snorted. “Serve yourself, I’m no servant.”

“You served him.”

“He’s my brother.”

“I’m a guest.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

Rick and Stanford held each other’s gaze, scowling and smirking respectively.

Fiddleford bit his lip, rumbling with laughter. Shermie stirred and he shushed the child back asleep.

With an exaggerated sigh Stanley said, “We can share.” He jabbed a piece of meat with the fork and held it up for Rick who smugly put it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact with Stanford.

“Please behave yourselves, children,” Fiddleford chided.

For the next few hours they joked and enjoyed mindless conversation, sometimes one pair regaling the other with a tale of their escapades. Rick and Fiddleford were half of the time impressed and half of the time in stitches at the twins’ stories of studying the supernatural creatures living in the forest. Likewise the twins were on the edge of their seats as Rick and Fiddleford told them about narrow escapes from angry men who found the former in bed with their daughters or wives, or the time Fiddleford saved their lives by playing his banjo beautifully enough to sooth a wild creature that was part beast part human.

Eventually the rain calmed down to a light drizzle. Fiddleford passed the babe to Rick as Stanford led him out to the stables.

“Th-the hell am I supposed to do with this?” Rick demanded, holding Shermie as far away from himself as possible.

“Not drop him,” Fiddleford instructed before disappearing outside.

Rick tried to give the babe to Stanley but he said, “I’ve gotta put the wash away. Just hold him for a second, Rick.”

“Fine,” Rick grumbled, “but y-you better hurry. I don’t want to hold this thing any longer than I have to.”

Stanley ruffled Shermie’s hair and pressed a kiss to Rick’s temple. Not quite sure which it was for he said, “Be good.”

There wasn’t too much to deal with and thankfully Stanley finished quickly. He hastened back to the kitchen, not wanting to leave Shermie alone with Rick for too long. Apparently his fears were unfounded; when he returned Shermie was sitting on top of the table in front of Rick, gumming the man’s thumb. They were both gazing intently at each other. Stanley watched for a minute, and not once did either blink.

“Are you having a staring contest with a baby?”

“Shut your mouth, I’m winning. His little eyes aren’t as trained as mine. They’ll go down in no time.”

Stanley snorted and set to washing the dishes they’d used. Soon he heard Rick’s triumphant whoop, followed by Shermie’s elated squeal as he was caught up in Rick’s celebration.

“Congratulations on defeating an infant in a game he can’t even comprehend.”

“You hear that, kid? He doesn’t believe in your budding talent.”

“Hey I believe in him just fine. Soon as he can hold cards without chewing on them I’m teaching him poker.”

That comment led to Stanley bringing out his and Stanford’s deck of cards and starting a game. A few hands later the others walked back in. Fiddleford shook his head while Stanford snorted.

“Never play poker with Stanley,” he said, going over and picking Shermie up.

Rick, stripped down to his hat and boxers, and the cloth around his chest, growled.

“Yeah I figured that out on my own, thanks.”

“The rain’s let up,” Fiddleford said. “We should probably head out before your parents catch us.”

“Better not let that happen,” Stanley agreed, tossing his cards face up for Rick to see his three aces, “especially not like that.”

“Y-you cheating—”

Fiddleford smacked him upside the head. “Watch your language around that sweet babe.”

Stanley leaned across the table and winked. “You can’t prove a thing.”

Rick speedily redressed, realizing how late it was. Then the twins escorted them to the back door where Rick and Stanley shared a much slower kiss. Involving far too many roaming hands.

“Alright that’s enough,” Stanford decided, pushing Rick outside.

“Night Rick,” Stanley said breathlessly. “Ah, you too, Fidds.”

“You fellas rest up,” Fiddleford returned. Rick smirked.

“You’ll need all the energy you can get next time I get my hands on you.”

Grinning back Stanley returned, “Can’t wait.”

“Sleep well,” Stanford called out to Fiddleford. Then, to Rick, “Get off my property.”

The brothers watched them disappear into the night. They had to force themselves back inside, and then solely for Shermie’s sake. Without the other men there the house was overwhelmingly silent.

——

As they were getting ready for bed that evening ma came in. Stanley barely had time to throw a shawl over his shoulders, hiding the fresh reminders of Rick’s visit.

“Girls, did you two have a fun day?”

“Yes ma’am!” Stanley answered far too quickly. She smirked in a way that made both twins very uncomfortable, like she was opening them up and laying them bare.

“How was your day, ma?” Stanford asked.

“Oh, uneventful. At least compared to yours.”

Their eyes couldn’t have gotten wider even if a pig jumped through the window and sprouted wings.

Talking over reach other and stumbling over their own words the twins attempted to deny the unspoken accusations. Ma held up a hand, though, effectively quieting them.

“Please girls, don’t forget that I was young once. I remember what it’s like.”

The twins let out nervous chuckles, throwing each other distressed glances.

“Ma, we don’t know what you’re talking about. We just did chores and played with Shermie. No, ah, nothing out of the ordinary at all.”

Martha reached over and pushed the shawl aside just far enough to reveal where Rick had either bitten or sucked too hard. Stanford idly wondered if Stanley could possibly turn any shade of red deeper than what he was now.

Before he could make another feeble attempt to convince her nothing had happened ma replaced the shawl, put a hand on either of them, and beamed.

“Like I said, I remember what it was like to be young. Mm, your father back then swept me off my feet. Made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.” They had a hard time imagining their pa as a romantic young man, but their ma’s eyes gleamed with old memories. Unfortunately she snapped back to the present. “Be smarter than me, Leah. You know I love you two with all my heart, but I would have appreciated you two coming a few years later.”

“Ah, don’t worry too, ah, too much about that, ma.”

Martha patted his cheek. “Good girl. So, what are their names. Let me guess—starts with t, rhymes with double.”

“Ma they ain’t trouble,” Stanley assured. “You’ll like them.”

“Oh, sweetie, if they ain’t trouble then they can’t handle my babies.”

The twins shared a grin and echoed, “They’re trouble.”

“Good. I want to meet them.”

Their hearts stopped.

Ma picked up on their hesitation and said, “You can’t keep them from me, girls. I need ta make sure they’re good enough.”

They knew there was no way around it, unless they jumped on their horses and rode off with Rick and Fidds that night. With a resigned sigh they both said, “Yes, ma.”

“It’s so nice when you decide to make things easy. Now, you two get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

They gulped. Then as ma turned to leave something occurred to Stanford.

“Wait! How did you know there are two of them?”

Ma smirked at them over her shoulder. “Maybe the spirits told me. Or maybe I saw a pair of strange men leaving my house this evening. You’re lucky I was able to distract Filbrick, by the way.”

The color drained from their faces. Ma’s laughter trailed out after her.

——

A bubble of laughter veering on hysterical almost escaped Stanley. He managed to stifle it thankfully. Stanford was asleep next to him, nestled into his side, occasionally letting out a breathy snore. It wasn’t often he fell asleep before Stanley, and it was even rarer for him to look this content. Stanley didn’t want to disturb his twin.

It was just all a little bit hilarious.

Here ma was thinking both of them had a secret beau and now they had to pull off pretending they were sweet on each other when in fact Stanford and Fidds were just kindred spirits passionate about science together while he and Rick… Well, it was just all good fun while the portal gun was getting made.

It wasn’t like Stanley thought of Rick, from day to night no matter what he was doing, recalling his touch all over his skin, the way he’d look through half lidded eyes at Stanley as though the rest of the world didn’t matter. The easy smile that his mouth fell into when he didn’t think Stanley was watching. The look of concentration, where his tongue would stick out of the corner of his mouth, as he worked on the gun. His scent, that strange mixture of earth and musk and some chemical he’d never know the name of.

Stanley shot up.

“Oh no.”

Stanford shifted slightly. Stanley leaned over and whispered his name. When no answer came, not even a twitch to show he’d heard, Stanley shook him once.

“Stanford? Sixer, come on. Wake up, Sixer!”

His brother grunted and nestled further into the blanket.

“Sixer!” he hissed, shaking Stanford wildly until he was staring up with startled eyes.

“Lee, what’s wrong?”

Hands still clamped on Stanford’s shoulders he took a deep breath and admitted, “I think I’m sweet on Rick.”

For a second they just stared at each other. A hard pit of anxiety was growing inside of Stanley, and he could feel sweat coating his forehead. A brief flash of hope shot through him—maybe it was fever, not feelings—but he couldn’t hold onto the nonsensical notion.

“Did you hear me? This is serious, Sixer! I’m sweet on Rick!”

Stanford pushed himself up, his brother’s hands falling off him and hanging uselessly by his side. He reached over, one hand grasping Stanley’s shoulder and the other lying gently on his cheek.

“Stanley, look at me.” Stanford smiled, the smile he always gave to reassure his twin, and held it until it was returned, albeit shakily. Then he slapped Stanley upside the head. “Go to sleep.”

“Come on!” Stanley exclaimed indignantly as Stanford plopped back down. “You can’t react this way after I say something like—something like that.”

His voice had given a funny little hitch at the end which Stanley silently cursed. He glanced away, at the sliver of moonlight flitting into their room. He knew Stanford was watching him, felt his brother’s eyes boring holes into his skull. Finally there was a sigh, and Stanford squeezed his hand.

“Stanley, let me tell you something very important.”

Stanley waited, but Stanford didn’t continue. He glanced down.

“Stanley, I told you so.”

Stanley narrowed his eyes and ripped the pillow out from under Stanford’s head. Stanford let out a small squeak of surprise that was quickly stifled when Stanley smacked him with the pillow right across the face. Stanford burst into laughter and Stanley found himself joining in despite himself.

He plopped back down next to Stanford, and for a while the quiet was only broken by random fits of laughter. If one started the other joined in. It was a long time before they calmed down.

“Lee, I hope you’re not expecting love advice from me.”

Stanley snorted. “Not even a desperate man would sink that low.” The twins giggled again in agreement. “Night, Sixer.”

“Night, Lee.” He reached out in the darkness and took Stanley’s hand again. “It will be fine. Let’s just focus on surviving tomorrow. Or more accurately ensuring Rick and Fiddleford survive ma.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna take all our effort.”

“Indeed. Besides, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The feeling is mutual.”

Stanley’s head snapped to the side as he demanded, “Wait, what?”

“Goodnight, Stanley.”

“You can’t just say something like that and not tell me more!”

“Hush before you wake up pa.”

Much quieter Stanley insisted, “Sixer, please. How does he look at me?”

“With his eyes. Sleep tight, Lee.”

Stanley could see the wide grin on his twin’s face. Frustrated he stared up at the ceiling, letting out a petulant huff. Then Stanford squeezed his hand again. Suddenly all the tension left him in one long sigh.

“Night, Sixer.”

He closed his eyes and managed finally to fall asleep, dreaming about a slick grin and warm kisses.