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mrs-gucci · 3 years

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Full Service {Maurizio Gucci x Reader}

author’s notes: hellooo! this idea was rolling around in my brain for a while, but it took a bit for me to get it just right. so, here’s the final finished product!

**I used a translation app for all of the Italian in this story, so I apologize for any mistakes or grammatical errors. all Italian will be in italics, with the translations following the dialogue in parenthesis.

**This is MY OWN INTERPRETATION of Maurizio Gucci’s character, as portrayed by Adam Driver in the upcoming film, House Of Gucci.

warnings: smut. maurizio calling reader “tesoro”™️. a tiny bit of fluff at the very end. maid/boss roleplay (lowkey?? except reader’s actually a maid lol). oral. no aftercare. dirty talk and name-calling/degradation, but in italian ;)

(possible) tw’s: indifelity/extramarital affair. implied age gap (reader is over 21, no more than 10 years difference).

word count: 2.7k

“Tesoro” means “Treasure” in Italian (an affectionate nickname).

You’d just begun cleaning the marbled kitchen when Mr. Gucci arrives home. You turn around and offer him a small smile, which he ignores, shrugging the briefcase off his shoulder.

He immediately walks into his office and shuts the door without a single word or glance, and you probably wouldn’t see him again for the rest of the evening. That’s usually how it went. Patrizia wasn’t home yet, a surprise considering she’s usually home all day when you come to clean.

You’ve developed quite the crush for Mr. Gucci as of late, although you’d never admit it aloud. He was a bit older than you, not to mention married. But, you couldn’t help it, he was unbelievably handsome, successful, and quick-witted when he wanted to be. Usually after a drink or two.

But, he was a man very dedicated to his work, which often left him with a stern demeanor and a harsh tone of voice. He barely paid you mind, especially not when work was waiting for him in his office.

You continued to clean for another hour or so; it was a mansion, after all, and the kitchen was at least three times the size of your bedroom. Plus, the extensive marble surfaces and stainless steel appliances require your full service. You were so immersed in your work that you didn’t even notice Mr. Gucci’s presence behind you.

Only when you turned around did you realize not only him, but the close proximity between your bodies. You gasp, backing up against the cabinetry.

“Oh! Signore Gucci, mi scuso. Non sapevo che ci fossi.” (Oh! Mr. Gucci, my apologies. I didn’t know you were there.)

His eyes look you up and down for a brief moment before returning to meet yours, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

“Va bene, piccoletto. Non volevo farti da parte.” (It’s alright, little one. I didn’t mean to startle you.)

He sighs, looking away.

“Volevo informarvi che Patrizia non tornera stasera. Ha deciso di restare la notte in una casa di amici.” (I wanted to inform you that Patrizia won’t be coming back this evening. She’s decided to stay the night at a friends house.)

You could sense that there was something else going on, but you didn’t prod further, deciding that it was none of your business. You nod up at him, a bit confused as to why he’s telling you this. And why he has to be standing so damn close to tell you.

“Grazie per avermi informato, signore. Ho quasi finito di pulire la giornata, quindi saro via tra un’ora circa.” (Thank you for letting me know, sir. I am almost done cleaning for the day, so I’ll be gone in an hour or so.)

Maurizio reaches his hand up to hold the side of your face, thumb swiping across your bottom lip. You freeze, tensing beneath his touch.

“Da quando hai iniziato a lavorare qui, ho trovato sempre piu difficile concentrarsi sul mio lavoro. Sai perche, piccoletto?” (You know, ever since you began working here, I’ve found it more and more difficult to focus on my work. Do you know why that is, little one?)

“No, signore, non lo so.” (No, sir, I don’t know.)

He runs a single finger down from my lips, tracing a straight line over my throat before it toys with the collar of my uniform.

“La tua uniforme...mi sta distrando.” (Your uniform is...distracting for me.)

The breath hitches in your throat as his fingers rub the material of the smoothed-down collar. His gaze flicks down to where his thumb and forefinger are.

“Quando ti vedo,” (Whenever I see you,)

He begins, leaning in a little closer.

“Trovo che i miei pantaloni cominciino a sentirsi stretti, il che e strano perche ho sistemato tutto il mio costume.” (I find that my pants begin to feel tight, which is strange because I have all of my suits custom fitted.)

You nearly choke on your breath as his hand travels down the curves of your body, traversing the scoop of your hip before resting just above the hem of your uniform dress.

“E strano, sig. Gucci.” (That is odd, Mr. Gucci.)

His hand begins massaging the side of your thigh gently, and he leans down just a bit further, mouth now right in front of your ear. His hot breath sends a chill down your spine.

“Sta succedendo adesso, in effetti. Pensi di potermi aiutare con questo problema, Y/N?” (It’s happening right now, in fact. Do you think you could help me with this problem, Y/N?)

He presses you up against the cabinets, bodies flush together. A small groan escapes his lips when his obvious erection slides on your lower stomach.

You’ve never been as perplexed and aroused as you are in this moment. The burn between your thighs is nearly unbearable, and as much as you hate to admit it, you wanted this.

“Sono al suo servizio, signore.” (I am at your service, sir.)

Maurizio smirks, hooking a finger under the hem and pulling the stretchable fabric of your uniform dress out, then releasing it, allowing it to snap back into place on your outer thigh.

“In ginocchio, piccoletto.” (On your knees then, little one.)

Without hesitation, you slide down onto your knees, mouth watering as you look up at him, awaiting his next command. He cups your cheek, gently swiping his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Bellissima e obbediente, capisco. Bene, bene.” (Beautiful and obedient, I see. Good, good.)

You bite your lip as he pats your cheek, then runs a hand over the bulge in his pants, sighing softly at the contact. His fingers curl up underneath, cupping and squeezing his balls while his thumb presses down on the head, rubbing it. He groans, letting out a shaky breath afterwards.

“Vedi cosa mi fai fare, Y/N? Devo scendere e massaggiarmi cosi, togliendo tempo di lavoro prezioso.” (Do you see what you make me do, Y/N? I have to reach down and rub myself like this, taking away precious work time.)

You’re soaked already, clit throbbing, begging for attention. You whine softly, chewing your lip as you resist the urge to lunge forward and run your face over his clothed length.

He smirks.

“Questo ti eccita, piccolo? Ti piace immaginarmi di toccarmi cosi nel mio ufficio?” (Does that thought excite you, little one? Do you like imagining me touching myself like this in my office?)

Your eager nod only spurs him on, hips pushing forward into his palm. He quickly takes his hand away, taking a small step closer so that the bulge is mere centimeters from your lips. Your jaw slacks and your breath becomes hot and heavy, mouth eager to worship him.

His large hand gently wraps around the back of your head, pushing your head forward, encouraging you to touch him. You don’t require any further invitation, mouthing at his length while your nose drags against it.

He widens his stance, spreading his legs apart as his hips start to grind against your mouth.

“Oh, e cosi entusiasta. Mi piace, merda.” (Oh, she’s so eager. I love it, shit.)

The back of your head begins to hurt as it’s pressed further and further against the cabinet handles, but you don’t care, reaching around to grab his ass to pull him further into you. Even he seems surprised by this, asscheeks clenching as he suddenly thrusts forward with a low grunt.

Maurizio wraps his hands in your hair, keeping you still as he pulls back, chest heaving slightly. His pupils are blown wide and he grabs your chin, thumb pressing down into the flesh.

“Apri bene.” (Open wide.)

He says, grinning down at you as he begins pulling his belt buckle loose.

Soon, he undoes his pants and pulls himself out from beneath the restrictive material, humming in satisfaction as his length bobs in front of you. His hands rest on either side of your head as he guides his weeping head towards your mouth. You open for him, and he leans forward, pushing into your mouth.

You immediately begin choking and gagging, but he just keeps going, pushing inch after inch inside. His abdomen tenses and his back curls when he’s shoved all of himself in your mouth, letting out a shaky exhale.

“Cosi, oh bella ragazza, e cosi bella la bocca.” (That’s it, oh good girl, such a good mouth.)

You’re forced to remain still as your throat constricts, head pinned against the cabinets with his hands on either side. Once you adjust to the new intrusion, Maurizio pulls back before thrusting forward again, growling under his breath.

“Cazzo, e una cosa buona per me.” (Fuck, that’s good, so good for me.)

All you can do is moan as your boss begins fucking your mouth, eyelids brimming with tears at the constant touch of his tip on your uvula. He bends over, supporting himself on the counter with an arm while his hand tightens in your hair, thrusts getting faster.

“Guarda questa bocca che mi allunga per il cazzo. Che brava ragazza, prendendo il cazzo dei capi come se fosse troia.” (Look at this little mouth stretching out for my cock. What a good girl, taking her bosses cock like the slut she is.)

You moan loudly, hand swiftly snaking down between your legs, fingertips pressing on the throbbing nub to provide relief. When he sees you do this, it only seems to encourage him further, one foot scooting forward so that he’s now almost completely bent over you.

His hips are becoming desperate, now, losing their rhythm as his inevitable release builds.

“Ah, sapevo che avresti avuto una bella bocca, Y/N. Ho sempre saputo che saresti ansioso di prendere il mio uccello, disposto a lasciarti usare cosi.” (Ah, I knew you’d have a good little mouth, Y/N. I always knew you’d be eager to take my cock, willing to let me use you like this.)

You’re sobbing around him now, tears streaming down your cheeks at the sheer intensity of the arousal you’re experiencing. He looked so good like this: hair a mess, glasses fogged, panting and grunting with each thrust, all while he slams his cock into your mouth without relent.

Suddenly, he pulls out and stumbles back, hands gripping the edge of the countertop as he catches his breath. He stares down at you with a look of pure hunger, of carnal lust, and it makes you shudder.

“Alzati e piegati al bancone. Subito.” (Stand up and bend yourself over the counter. Now.)

He strokes himself rapidly as you stand up on shaky legs and bend over, spreading your legs. He’s quick to come up behind you, grabbing your hips to pull you back a bit so that your hips were off the edge.

You gasp when he yanks the skirt up over your hips, revealing your creamy globes and the red lace thong nestled between them. He growls, making quick work of your panties, shoving them down off your hips before running his fingers along your folds delicately, just barely brushing them.

Maurizio smirks when your hips try to grind down on him, seeking the friction you so desperately needed. He smacks your ass promptly, causing a choked cry to leave your throat.

“Stai fermo, Y/N.” (Stay still, Y/N.)

Two of his digits suddenly breach your soaked entrance, pushing up into you. You gasp softly, hips jerking slightly as he begins fucking his thick fingers up into you. His hand spreads across your lower back, keeping you still as he curls his digits up to rub and tease that spongy spot on your walls.

“C-Cazzo, sig. Gucci, ti prego. Scopami, la voglio cosi male.” (F-Fuck, Mr. Gucci, please. Please fuck me, I want it so badly.)

He grins, giving your g-spot a few more rubs before pulling his fingers out, smearing the slick over your lips.

“Succhiali, piccoletto. Assaggiati sulle dita.” (Suck them, little one. Taste yourself on my fingers.)

You open your mouth and moan around his digits as you suck them clean, tongue swirling around them before he takes them out. His tip pokes at your entrance and he runs himself over your folds to collect some lubricant before positioning himself behind you.

“Pronta?” (Ready?)

You don’t even have time to respond before he shoves his hips forward, sheathing himself fully inside you. Your eyes almost bug out of your skull before squeezing shut, a loud gasp coming from your lips. He isn’t necessarily hung, but he’s certainly the biggest and thickest you’ve ever taken.

His fingers dig into your hips as he remains still, allowing you to adjust to his size. After a moment, he draws back before thrusting forward again, building a steady rhythm with his hips. Small noises come from his lips as he fucks you into the countertop.

“Si, cazzo. Cosi stretto e piccolo, sapevi di sentirti bene circondato dal mio uccello.” (Yes, fuck yes. So tight and little, knew you’d feel good wrapped around my cock.)

Your insides clench at his whispered words.

“Quante volte ci ha pensato, signore?” (How many times have you thought of this, sir?)

“Troppi per contare.” (Too many to count.)

He growls, hips suddenly bucking forward out-of-rhythm.

“Ogni volta che mi sono toccata, ho pensato a te, a questa stronzetta. Mi chiedevo se fossi stretto e ho pensato che sarebbe bello dividerla a meta con il mio cazzo.” (Every time I touched myself, I thought of you, of this little cunt. I wondered if you’d be tight, and I thought of how good it’d feel to split you in half with my cock.)

Maurizio puts his hand under your thigh and puts it up on the counter, bending down so his chin rests on your shoulder.

“Te lo sei immaginato anche questo, piccolo? Hai pensato a me quando ti sei toccata?” (Did you imagine this too, little one? Did you think about me when you touched yourself?)

You nod.

“Si, signore. Ti pensavo cosi, immaginavo che fossero le tue dita dentro di mi invece che le mie.” (I did, sir. I thought of you like this, imagined it was your fingers inside me instead of my own.)

“Ragazza sporca.” (Dirty girl.)

He snarls, pounding into you harder, hips spurred on by your words.

You’re close, now, walls beginning to pulse around him. He feels this, one hand wrapping around your throat while the other trails down around your front, fingers seeking your clit.

His hand tightens around your neck, fingers gripping your jaw.

“Lo sento, tu sei vicino, piccolo. Forze, sborra intorno al mio uccello. Copri il tuo capo nella sporca fiaca e mostragli che porchetta sei.” (I can feel it, you’re close, little one. Come on, cum around my cock. Cover your boss in your filthy slick, show him what a little slut you are.)

With only a few circles over your erect clit, coupled with his cock stroking your walls rapidly and the dirty manner in which he was speaking to you, your release comes within seconds. You moan hoarsely, lungs depleted of some oxygen as his hand tightens around your throat.

“Cazzo, arrivo!” (Fuck, I’m cumming!)

He ruts desperately into you, chasing his climax as he fucks you through yours. At the last minute, he pulls out, furiously jerking his cock before thick hot ropes of cum shoot from his tip, painting your bare ass. He grunts and groans through the whole thing, stroking himself through it before squeezing the head, letting the final drop land on your skin.

Both of you take a moment to catch your breaths and re-center yourselves in reality. Maurizio tucks himself back into his pants before walking over to grab a paper towel, wetting it slightly. He wipes all the drying seed off of your skin for you, bending down to pull your panties back up and your dress back down.

Your legs are shaky as you stand back up, smoothing out the front of your uniform. Much to your surprise, Mr. Gucci didn’t leave right away, instead turning you around and bending down for a kiss.

The kiss was gentle and tender, a stark contrast to everything that's happened up until this point. His large hand cupped your cheek and his thumb ran along your cheekbone before he pulled away, offering you a small smile.

“Grazie, piccolo.” (Thank you, little one.)

You return the smile.

“Certo, signore.” (Of course, sir.)

Turns out, the marble and stainless steel weren’t the only things that required your full service today.

#adamdriverwriter #adam driver #adam driver character #adam driver smut #adam driver fluff #house of gucci #maurizio gucci #maurizio gucci smut #maurizio gucci x reader #maurizio gucci x you #maurizio gucci x reader smut #tw: extramarital affair #tw: infidelity

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firstofficerrose · 2 years

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May 7

Right off the bat I’m jealous of Jonathan, he got to sleep in! Well, good man, he’s been through a lot recently, and I wish him joy of it.

Oh, no mirrors? How very strange. XD

Then he finds a library. Good for him! Surprise libraries are possibly the very best kind.

Awww, Jonathan sees a list of British lawyers and gets all warm and fuzzy inside. That’s genuinely rather cute.

You know, I was getting bad vibes from the Count, but he does seem rather fond of his library. Perhaps I have judged him too harshly...

I am rather curious, who is this Peter Hawkins of Exeter? Jonathan’s boss, presumably, but how does he kknow the Count? We might find out later, I suppose, but going into this having read part of the novel before, I’m really curious about who knows Dracula/ What is the Count’s correspondence like? Who does he write to?

Ah, yes, the Locked Doors (tm). Very Bluebeard’s Bride. Foreshadowing! I like it.

Wait, the blue flames mark buried treasure? Why does this not feature in pirate lore all the time, that’s heckin’ evocative! I like it!

Unless, of course, he’s telling us a lie and there is A More Sinister Explanation! (I think there’s a more sinister explanation, don’t you?)

The Count being excited about obtaining an old house is endearing, somehow. “I could not stand to live somewhere new.” Priveleged, of course, but also... when you’ve lived as long as the Count has, it would probably be comforting to live places that have seen the world change in the same way that you have. Something to consider when writing quasi-immortal characters.

And, alright, I understand that this:

“ I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young; and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.”

-is supposed to be super ominous and all, but it strikes me as poetic and melancholy more than threatening. I know where this is going, and it foreshadows those things as well, but this is just... sad. I rather like it.

The Count also seems to be taking good care of his newly acquired lawyer, making sure that Jonathan gets up from the books and eats once in a while. Good for both of them!

This is going to start going downhill very quickly, and Jonathan wrote many times of his apprehension, but honestly? This chapter is the nicest one so far, in my opinion.

#progress! I am making progress!#I signed up on may sixth #so this is the first time Dracula Daily is in my inbox #dracula daily #jonathan harker #rose reads #rose rambles

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woodaba · 2 years

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Me and Mother 3

"A story is a series of memories. Memories are remembered with other memories, and in turn, become memories themselves. If you don't take care to preserve your memories, you'll forget them. So, please tell us frogs your memories of everything so far… That is what people refer to as "saving". Now, then… -hop- Save your game?"

One of the all-time best Hard Drive headlines remains "Huge Earthbound Fan Excited To Play It For The First Time". It's a good gag, an playfully teasing dig that is funny because it's true, and could only come from a place of understanding of the EarthBound/Mother fandom. I know, because once upon a time, I was a Huge Mother 3 Fan Excited To Play It For The First Time.

It's hard to emphasize how much of a fetish object Mother 3 was for the western EarthBound fandom, even for the wider JRPG fandom. I became aware of EarthBound through Smash Bros, as I am sure most people my age did, and was immediately taken in by how out-of-a-piece it was with the rest of Nintendo's stable, and my interest only skyrocketed when I searched the internet and found out that EarthBound was super fucked up and weird and scary in a way only slightly off-beat Nintendo games hyped up by 14-year olds who don't really know anything else could be.

(See also: Majora's Mask, and endless features in Official Nintendo Magazine UK swearing that the ReDeads in Ocarina of Time were the scariest shit in the fucking world man you'd fuckin shit and piss your pants)

And then, of course, there was the sequel on the Game Boy Advance, that never left Japan and never would, implicitly because it would emotionally scar anyone who played it and was even more messed up than. EarthBound has a habit of being slightly spoken over by many of it's most ardent fans, certainly those I was privy to in my days lurking on haven for Absolute Unhinged Freaks Starmen.net, but Mother 3 was on a whole other level. Everything about this game was spoken of in terms of absurd religiosity, which was only heightened by it's relative inaccessibility. Speaking about the game in hyperbolic terms practically became a core tenant of the EarthBound fandom, as if an official translation could be physically evoked out of the ether if enough people were enthusiastic enough for it. Entire swathes of the game were freely discussed, both before and after the (also given a kind of quasi-religious status by the fandom) fan translation were released, spoiling every single conceivable thing in the game in order to entice someone, anyone to give it a go and join the chorus, never quite seeming to realize that, mostly, they were was just talking to each other, and to impressionable 13 year olds like me.

I swallowed all of this. It was hard not to. I remember one day, on what was probably at the time the most exciting website ever devised, the Smash Bros. Dojo, which contained daily updates for the sure-to-be greatest Smash Bros. ever made, Brawl, when Lucas and New Pork City were announced. To say I lost my shit was an understatement. I freaked out to just about any of my friends who would care to listen, performing the same role of Eulogist that all the people I saw online do for Mother 3, giving away every possible twist and reveal and plot point to people who, maybe might have actually played EarthBound on their own one day and liked it well enough.

I did play EarthBound, and really loved it, mostly because like 80% of conversation around the game when I was getting into it was about how totally fucked up the final boss battle with Giygas is, and the remaining 20% was endless relitigating about why a game so impossibly magical and amazing didn't sell well enough, which carried the implicit conversation with the unreleased status of Mother 3. Because of this, I found so many surprises and things I found personally resonant, things that I had nothing to bring to other than myself. I didn't even have this feeling with the even-more over-discussed Final Fantasy VII because the things culture remembers of that game are bafflingly at odds with what it actually is and what I took away from it when I came to it.

But with Mother 3? I can't say the same thing. It's partly because it's a much shorter, more focused game than it's predecessor, it's partially because it stands alongside Far Cry 2 and Dark Souls as one of the most over-analyzed games in existence. But mostly, I think it's because the fandom conversation around this game warped my perception of it and turned every step on the Nowhere Islands into charted territory, where everyone had left their mark, and I had no space to make mine, no space to find myself beneath everyone else.

There are a huge amount of things that I love about Mother 3, so many things that I appreciate, and so many things that make me smile. But I've never been able to feel like my experiences of it were entirely mine. I've never been able to find the unique resonances with my own life or experiences that characterize all of my favorite games. Everywhere I look, every corner I turn on the Nowhere Islands, I see the words of others, the perspectives of others. I look at little elements like the doorknob, and instead of being able to turn it over in my head, and place it within the wider whole, all I can hear is a cacophony of voices echoing throughout the years, the interpretations of posters on Starmen.net, Itoi and Brownie Brown's own comments on the subject, drowning out any thoughts I might have.

Yes, I could definitely discuss my thoughts on the fact that the village of Tazmily was in some way doomed to it's fate from the very beginning because of it's pursuit of an idealized vision of a specifically American past draped in western imagery that conveniently ignores the great darkness of that time in material history…but even this thought echoes with perspectives I've read countless times before. Wess' abuse, the Magypsies as a clumsily earnest attempt to explore gender non-conformity as it relates to the social and "nature", the way forgetting haunts the entire game world, as if everyone else on the Islands knows what a terrible mistake has been made by choosing to move backwards rather than forwards…there's stuff I want to say but every time I open my mouth on these things the words of others spill out, so ingrained and intertwined that I don't know which thoughts are mine and which thoughts are creeping in from forum threads long, long ago. Playing this game is like playing with a director's commentary track inside my head that I cannot switch off, commenting on the meaning or intent behind every single pixel on the screen, and it's heartbreaking because I truly believe this kind of voracious all-consuming analysis is completely antithetical to why these games are good.

Mother/Earthbound games are free-wheeling, lackadaisical, and rarely concerned with all-consuming arcs and statements. Those things are there, but the real pleasure of playing one of these games is just meeting the weird and wonderful people of this odd and beautiful world. You can see it in the battle system, in how it is playfully carefree with it's rules and rhythms, with many boss battles being beaten after you have technically been dealt lethal damage, but the game is kinda taking it easy until it gets to you. You can see it in the, frankly, absolutely astonishing soundtrack that freely mixes and matches genres and tones and instruments all processed through the woeful GBA speakers. You can see it in how the macguffin that dominates the first half of the game's plot is basically forgotten about and never mentioned again afterwards, in the lack of interest in connecting the dots between EarthBound and this game. Mother 3 is laid back, at ease and confident in itself. These are games meant to be enjoyed by all ages, people aged 8 to 88. It's irreverent about itself. And I wish I could be too, but I can't help but play this game with the same awkward, nervous, stammering energy that comes with meeting an internet acquaintance in person. I wish I could be normal here, I really could! But my brain is too filled with EarthBound fansite trivia, I'm so sorry. Did you know there's an unused sprite that depicts the creation of the Masked Man, but that it was never used because it's probably just too fucked up and scary f-

Boney attacks!

…yeah, ok, I deserved that.

I've read a lot on games I love, and games I don't, but never do I really feel like those perspectives take me over, leaving me unable to see the game beneath them. Certainly, my perspective has been altered by the perspectives of others, sometimes for good and sometimes for ill (I think I would have liked Yakuza: Like a Dragon a lot more, for example, if Yakuza hadn't developed a bizarre and wholly unrepresentative Wholesome Chungus Kiryu reputation, of if the much-ballyhooed themes of homelessness and social exclusion existed…at all after the opening stretch) but with no other game do I feel so wholly unable to find myself in, no other game has this opaque wall around it made of What Other People Thought About It. Not even EarthBound has this for me. And it makes me really sad. Mother 3 is a special game. A really great one. And I think I do love it but…it's a love with a lower-case L. Despite its reputation as a merciless feels machine, my appreciation of Mother 3 is extremely emotionally detached in a way I find kind of upsetting. There are definitely things I feel strongly about, things about it that provoke profound emotion in me, but I wish I had been able to find those things for myself, instead of my love for the game sold to me by overzealous fans.

No, that's wrong. It's not the fan's fault. Well, not entirely. I do think that a lot of the conversation with these games is kind of fundamentally opposed to what they actually are in a way that speaks to the relative immaturity of a lot (not all) of the people talking about them at the point in time where their critical reception was still cooling. But ultimately, It's not the fault of people just talking enthusiastically about a game they loved, or at least, wanted to love. Mother 3 is just…as a result of my interactions with it, how long it's shadow is cast across my mind as a child…trying to find personal meaning in Mother 3 that relates personally to myself is like trying to find something new in Citizen Kane. When something is that storied, that discussed…what hope do I have?

When people who were there talk about their first interactions with EarthBound, it's so often framed as this unfolding flower of a work, that grew beyond whatever humble thoughts they may have derived from the game's legendarily misguided marketing campaign. They weren't expecting to find one of the best games of all time inside it, but they did. It's the same I feel about when I played my favorite game for the first time. I wasn't prepared for the things it would do and show me. This is not to say that novelty is an inherent facet of a game I love. But at the same time…I don't know how fully I can love something that falls into a dutiful checklist of the things I already expect to find there.

I know Mother 3 to be a great game. I wish I could feel that it was one, too.

#mother 3 #mother series #earthbound

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greyias · 4 years

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Time to go Full Gravedrog

Hey guys. You know what we haven’t done in a while? That’s right! Put on our tinfoil hats, get tangled up in an entire spool of red string, and do a ridiculous deep dive on lore and make up wild insane theories about the upcoming story drop!

That’s right we’ve got some--

First up. If you haven’t watched it already, here’s the trailer for the 6.2 story drop, specifically for the storyline we’ll be doing our deep dive on, Echoes of Oblivion.

youtube

Are you pumped? I’M PUMPED. Let’s do this!

Okay, so there’s a lot to unpack here, and I’m going to state outright, that the chances of this being on the money like Gravedrog is... well. I’ve got no lottery numbers for you this time around. I can’t believe no one took me up on that offer. There’s always the possibility the storyline has absolutely nothing to do with any previously established lore, and they create something wholly new. And hey, if that’s the case, this is just free fanfic fodder for the masses.

But Charles did mention, I believe on the forums(?), that he’s seen one person guess what’s going on. The real question is... WHO GUESSED IT. HMM.

So I’ve been wanting to actually do a post on this a while, at least since Arcann’s voice actor accidentally made the slip up about Thexan being in this story drop. A large part of this theory/discovery goes to the lovely @confettininjabean, who found this piece of lore when we were getting tangled up in red string back in the Gravedrog days, pre-Nathema Conspiracy. Let’s just say, there was a... certain interaction on Twitter that had us thinking this had something to do with NC, and when it didn’t pan out we were like “Oh, weird, guess that wasn’t on the right track” and forgot about it.

Well, sort of. Because we were like, “that really seemed significant considering”, but hey, sometimes you hit upon a Gravedrog, sometimes you think Indo Zal is an evil mastermind playing 4D chess. In other words, when it comes to red string theories, you win some. You lose some.

Anyway. I forget why, but I went perusing on Wookieepedia a few months ago, looking back up this sort of obscure piece of lore for some reason. And something about it was.... FAMILIAR.

The article in question: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Thought_bomb

May I direct your attention, to this part:

Hey. Where have I heard that before?

Aw. Aw shit. Well I mean, that can’t be right though, right? Because it’s Satele and a bunch of Jedi/like-minded Force users that are being possessed right? And besides this is an an ancient Sith ritual thought to be created by...

Oh.

Oh wait.

But that’s a plague right? Not the same thing as a thought bomb. I mean it’s not like anyone in SWTOR has dealt with a Force plague--

Oh. huh. But you might say, “But Grey, that plague was invented by Terrak Morrhage, not Vitiate.” And you would be right! What I can’t seem to find confirmation of, thus far, is exactly when Terrak Morrhage lived, but by me and Jayde’s current reckoning, it seems like he may have been around possibly during the Great Hyperspace War, the end of which Vitiate used in his mad grab for immortality and power, manipulating what was probably a majority of the remaining Sith Lords into his brand spanking new ritual that he just needed a little help with.

Okay, and this is where we leave lore land, and enter into speculation land. I, um, just got sidetracked on Jedipedia (I’ll get to that), trying to find a codex entry regarding Vitiate I know I’ve read but I lost at some point. So, we’re going off memory here, but I’m fairly certain it’s stated in canon somewhere that prior to his ascension, Vitiate was obsessed with Sith alchemy and ancient Sith rituals. So if Morrhage pre-dated him, or was a peer, it’s possible Vitiate was able to learn about his plague, and adapt it to some of his other experiments.

Okay, back to the thought bomb for a moment. Full disclosure, I haven’t read the Darth Bane novels, so I’m going off of Wookiepeedia here instead of the source material (which is always a dicey affair), it says Bane adapted the thought bomb from notes on the ritual Vitiate performed. So, it’s possible the thought bomb is not a 100% Vitiate original, just a bastardization of it. But it’s interesting that the ritual itself gathers up and shreds the Force essence/soul of everyone in its path. Well, I mean, horrifying. But in this theory’s perspective, interesting in that when Vitiate used Zildrog as part of his ritual--where did all of the Force go exactly?

Because as you wander around Nathema, you hear the tortured whispers of every soul obliterated during that ritual.

This is talked about a little in the Revan novel, and it’s been a few years since I read it so I’m kind of going off memory again, but he basically created a void in the Force there. And remember... in the KOTET chapter we went to Nathema, he was actually visibly afraid a few times. Hmm... now why would that be? Was it Vaylin he was afraid of? Was it something else?

If memory serves, there wasn’t an actual explosion like as described with the thought bomb--because he wasn’t using the ritual as a weapon. He was using it to gather power, to shuffle off this mortal coil and live eternal as an annoying spirit who you just can’t quite squash out no matter how many mind mazes you build to keep him locked up. So, and again, this is speculation land, but all of that swirling Force and dead energy had to go somewhere right? I mean, Zildrog had his snack and went omnomnom, but where did the Force power go? And why was there a Void that constantly pulled at him and sapped away his power on Nathema?

Is it because the Force didn’t explode? Is it because he bound it up in his old disgusting decaying old man flesh? And the only reason he was alive because he basically made himself a little flesh horcrux that was destroyed at the exact moment we sent him off to the Void that he feared so much?

Hmm. Interesting.

Wait. Wait a second... I think there was something else he mentioned. Now, what was it?

You know, I had always assumed he was talking about Gravedrog being unleashed, since the whole reason he went to Zakuul was likely to find the Gravestone so he could pair it with Zildrog back on Nathema, and enact his galaxy-wide extinction event.

And maybe he was.

Or was he talking about his failsafe.

The one he knew would happen if someone destroyed his old, withered, icky body?

So... if the ritual/plague is some take on the thought bomb, and it infects any Force user like some prescient, who could have realized this is what 2020 held in store for us pandemic that spread rapidly and consumed everyone who touched it, until it made manifest what was once just thought...

Is the whole entire point of this to bring Valky back from the dead? Or is it just his last revenge? And what on earth would that last revenge be? Well... and just hear me out. Say there was this guy. Kind of an asshole. And he had this whole schtick about killing every single living thing in the galaxy and liked to consume whole planets in a single gulp just for funsies. Wouldn’t it be so funny if he, say, in the unlikely event he possessed some Outlander who happened to go “get out and get a job loser!” and booted him off to the beyond, and at the same time his old indentured servant and that chick he once possessed found his horcrux and destroyed that, wouldn’t it be a kick if that somehow kicked off a plague that consumed every single Force user in the entire galaxy until it had enough power and then exploded and completely wiped out all life in the galaxy, so that if the asshole who’s name totally isn’t Valkorion couldn’t live forever then neither could any. single. thing. in. the. galaxy.

I mean, that or it’s just a ploy to get him into one final boss fight.

But i dunno... I kind of just found the entire cast list of who’s in the Echoes of Oblivion storyline (warning, major spoilers and datamining on that link, and yes, that’s what distracted me on Jedipedia) and I’m kind of thinking. Having to keep the entire galaxy from being consumed by a sociopath’s final revenge kind of sounds like a pretty epic finale, don’t you?

And hey, if not. Free fanfic idea for anyone who wants it.

Oh yeah, also predicting the following:

We’re going on another mindscape adventure like in KOTET Chapter 9, but it’s Satele’s mind we’re in

It’s not actually Valkorion/Vitiate/Tenebrae, but a remnant/essence of him that’s made manifest by the ritual. Also he needs a combo nickname because I’m tired of having to pick one of three names. I shall call you Valkiatebrae. It’s a beautiful name. I know he’ll love it.

Vaylin and Thexan who we see in the trailer are probably also manifestations conjured by the quasi- Valkiatebrae

We’re going to Ossus? Or Ossus in Satele’s mind?

The Knight and crew missed a few of the death cult back in the storyline, and that’s who was either watching Tenebrae’s body, or who hijacked Satele’s ship OR they have some part in the ritual (perhaps the part to physically manifest Valkiatebrae). We see them in the trailer above.

Regardless if any single one of these predictions is right I’m going to die of feels

Because I think Satele and Theron may have a scene together????? OMG

I’m screaming again

I’ll stop now

I’m sorry Charles I hope I didn’t do it to you again I couldn’t help myself, but hey at least I kept it in this long

EDITED TO ADD: Okay guys, I’ve been looking more at Jedipedia. I think I can safely hazard a guess that a LOT of fans of different characters are going to be super happy with this update. Just saying.

#the return of spoilers grey #swtor spoilers #spoilers and speculation #swtor 6.2 spoilers #swtor 6.2 #honestly there's a lot more #but i've been thinking about this for so long #i know i've forgotten to include half of it #and i haven't had time to find all of my source #but here you go guys!#one last hurrah #and i even found a way to shoehorn gravedrog in there for you!

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

From Each According to Their Ability, To Each According to Their Need

A good relationship is just teamwork: everyone has their strengths and some things they can’t or won’t do, and the trick is fitting everything together. Jesper has the charm, the shamelessness, the beauty, and the reckless disregard for his heart and self-preservation, so he’ll be the crumple zone in-between Inej’s morals and Kaz’ cold reticence. He’ll get them through this fight. He’ll make this relationship work.

10k | Jesper/Kaz/Inej | Sun Summoner Jesper AU | content note: explicit sex

Jesper has a good reason for why he’s been sitting inside Kaz’ office while Kaz does paperwork and Inej sharpens her knives. A great, important reason. He’s not a masochist for boring himself to death. Okay, so he’s also miserably bored and jittery and it’s been an hour and he’s already tired of un- and reloading his guns over and over so the motions become as fast as possible. The minutes are crawling like ants under his skin. If he was anywhere else, he’d have left in search for a card table a long time ago, but those busy eyes will focus on his back the second he gets up, and they’ll know exactly where he’s headed, and—maybe he doesn’t want to give them another reason to talk about him when he can’t defend himself. It isn’t spite that keeps him rooted down here, but… close enough.

So if putting his cards to their intended use is out, why not… On the first try, though, the stack of cards that was supposed to take the loose shape of the Crow Club collapses when he’s at the third layer. Fucking ants. Kaz doesn’t even look up from his paperwork, only grits his teeth and viciously swipes away the three of hearts that landed right on the last word he’s written. The word’s smudged, and the card’s back has an ink blot on it. Marked. Ruined.

Before Kaz can get in the customary insult about his lack of work ethic, Jesper huffs, “I’m finetuning my dexterity.” Kaz doesn’t even bother with the easy follow-up insult (“If that’s supposed to be dexterity, you’d better write your will before I send you on the next job. Except you can’t even bequeath anything but your ugly shirt. How long did it take you to lose the last kruge I paid you? Forget dexterity, practice winning a single card game sometime.” But why is Jesper doing all of Kaz’ work for him when he doesn’t even care enough to look up?!)

Either he’s genuinely too busy or still angry from whatever fight he had with Inej two days ago that they stopped the instant Jesper opened the door—and still taking it out on Jesper, who wasn’t even there—or he’s decided that scattering playing cards all over his table is still better than the next form of fidgeting Jesper might come up with. Either way, Kaz leaves him alone to try again. It only barely helps. There’s no thrill in playing with himself—at least this way, but even wanking’s no fun when the only two faces he wants to imagine above him right now are angry and keeping secrets.

No, they need to talk first. That’s why he’s here. Why he’s enduring this agony.

He’s waiting for the tension to burst. He just didn’t expect it to take hours. Kaz and Inej, though, are both some sort of hyper-patient freaks. Utterly devoid of mercy. Trust Jesper to fall for the strangest, worst, cruellest amazing people in all of Ketterdam. They’re not going to make the first move. And Jesper doesn’t want to, either.

It was going so well in the beginning. He had Kaz coming undone—coming, from his hand, in his arms, and passing out from how great the sex was, and then the next day him and Inej and Kaz had a conversation that went incredibly well, too. “Yesterday was so good and I think you liked being able to touch me when I’m glowing, so let’s do it again sometime? And I like Inej as well as you and she likes me too and she adores you, and you love her, so—let’s try this as the three of us?” or however it went in detail, Jesper was honestly too nervous at the time to really remember anything but the way Kaz frowned until his blotchy red cheeks betrayed him and he nodded and Inej said something moving and clever that Jesper wishes he could recall. They agreed, though, he’s sure of it. They agreed to give it a try.

So after that he’s been going up to Kaz’ bedroom in the night sometimes and practicing “unleashing the sun” as he now calls it (no not his dick), and complimenting Inej and kissing her hand like she’s a lady from a penny play, the way he’d usually do anyway but it’s more, now, since they’ve both agreed it can mean something different. It makes her laugh at him, anyway, careless and bright, which is what matters. Calling her darling and love and dearheart. Buying her snacks. And he’s made himself scarce occasionally when Kaz and Inej are together, but they probably didn’t notice neither his exit nor his presence in the first place, caught up in some silent conversation.

Anyway. It went great. Jesper spent weeks almost bursting with joy. He got sent out to intimidate a guy from the Liddies and terrified him into submission just on the strength of how widely he was grinning. He’s happy. Inej was happy. Even Kaz was vituperating failing Dregs with less hatred than usual, and it was all because they’re together now, together as more than a quasi-Barrel Boss and his favoured stooges, which honestly is a rush much bigger than gambling, bigger than alcohol, bigger than going supernova (Reverse order of fun there. Lighting up is the most intense thing Jesper’s ever felt, blotting out every other desire, the only time outside a gun battle when he can’t even remember what gambling feels like, but he does not like it).

And then, a two days ago, the fight. He interrupted something that wasn’t meant for him—that was about him, though, he’s sure, if the way Kaz’ dark eyes back then bored bloody holes into his chest were anything to go by—he saw them and they shut him out and later, Inej materialized in front of him and asked Jesper whether he was okay, for reasons he cannot understand. When he went back up to Kaz’ bedroom Kaz hissed at him to leave, because he ‘just wanted to sleep’. He looked tired, too, but not the exhaustion of work but emotional turmoil, loathing, dread, that Jesper could have helped him forget. Except he didn’t want Jesper to try. He didn’t want Jesper. He’s been avoiding Jesper like the Queen’s Lady, not even assigning him work, and he’s been even more grumpy than usual, too. Vicious, brutal, with everyone. Even Inej.

So now Jesper’s stubbornly sitting in a room with a man who suddenly hates him and a woman who won’t explain, enduring the torture of quiet parallel work until someone cracks, and maybe it won’t even be him.

If it’s not working out, it’s, well—not fine, Jesper’s going to be absolutely heartbroken, but he’s broken up before with people he might not have adored as much, and didn’t work for besides, people who weren’t the terrors of the Ketterdam underworld, but it was okay. He got over it. He’s not a child.

He’d just like to know it’s over before he makes an absolute fool of himself. No. Makes more of an absolute fool of himself. Thanks, imaginary insulting Kaz, but that one was pretty weak. Jesper’s even losing his Kaz imitation skills now, and it’s only been two days of complete disregard and freeze-out. What if he can’t solve this? What if it’s forever?

The cards scatter across Jesper’s corner of Kaz’s working table—one landing right next to Kaz’ pen, again—and they spread out all over the floor and, ignoring Kaz’ hateful glare and Inej’s concerned one, he quickly dives under the desk to pick them up. Kaz’ good leg is tensing rhythmically, as if he wants to tap it, wants to run—except Jesper’s wrong there, because Kaz never runs away—and his bad one looks miserably taut. Yet another thing the Sun Summoner could help him with, if Mr Dirtyhands Bastard of the Barrel Brekker, terror of Ketterdam, inspiration for the sexiest creep in all of dirt cheap fiction, gang leader in all but name, would deign to speak to him. It’s the only thing Jesper’s power is good for. No use, though. Jesper comes back up and sits down with a baleful sigh and expertly shuffles his cards. Shuffles them again. He could invent a few new tricks, but… he checks the pockets of the coat he’s slung over his chair, and he doesn’t have a marked deck in there. He’s stuck with the genuine article. He doesn’t usually play with marked cards after all: if Jesper’s in control of what’s going to happen, it’s not gambling anymore, just work.

It’s just, if Jesper messed it up again, he’d like the chance to make amends. Apologize. Work it out, maybe, if that’s on the cards, get screamed at, or find a place on a boat if it’s so irreparable Kaz just wants him gone. If it’s something in Kaz’ or Inej’s past, he can’t do anything, since Inej barely trusts him with the clean-picked bones of what was done to her at the Menagerie and Kaz doesn’t trust him at all, so. Fuck.

Whatever it is, Jesper didn’t notice because he’s an idiot. He was floating on what he thought was requited love, and the sudden safety of Kaz hiding his identity as the Sun Summoner, and how well they all fit together. Kaz, the miserable bastard, opening up slightly and allowing himself to feel good; Inej being safe and cherished and in control; and beside them, Jesper, laying the world and his heart at their feet. He thought.

But now everything’s fucked, and Kaz and Inej still haven’t cracked. They’re working as normal, if without any of the little exchanges that Jesper’s come to cherish. Still: he’s almost bursting out of his skin with the need to run, to gamble, to fight and maybe even lose, get worked over a little (if he’s lucky, at least Inej will worry about his bruises), and his paramours are both just at work. They’re both okay. It’s not fair. Jesper’s wanted for more money he’s ever seen in every country he can name because he’s the fucking Sun Summoner, but honestly? He’s normal compared to those two. How are they still sitting still? How is anything they do now up to their own exacting standards? Don’t they feel the tension? Can’t they feel Jesper’s agony?

Card houses are boring; shuffling is excruciating. Shooting cards in mid-air? But Kaz will definitely complain if the office smells like gun powder, let alone the potential damage to his precious stolen décor. He’ll complain, which means he’ll look at Jesper. Insult him. Eviscerate him. Order him to fuck off even, probably, and Jesper’s already got his gun out and ready but—it’s no use. It’s not what will scratch this bleeding itch. He can’t bear this anymore.

Someone has to throw themselves on this kindled bomb before it explodes, so it might as well be Jesper. He’s got the least dignity to lose.

He pulls on his most devil-may-care smile, and then he says, “You’re both breaking up with me, right?”

“Jes…” Inej looks up, shocked.

Kaz doesn’t say anything. His face hardens, and he looks back down at his paperwork. Not writing anything, though, so Jesper knows at least he’s paying attention. At least he’s vaguely interested.

“You can tell me. It’s fine.” I should have expected it, Jesper bites back. This is bad enough already. He doesn’t need to look more of a sad idiot than necessary, but they’re just staring up (Inej) and down (Kaz), giving him more time to think: more time to make mistakes, with cruelty so well-aimed it might almost be intentional, time to be to be impulsive, maudlin. I was pretty sure you’re in love with each other even before this started. Fuck, I was great playing third wheel before, and I’m pathetic enough I’ll cheerfully go back to it. I love you. I want you to be happy. The itching under Jesper’s skin is still there, and he needs a gamble, a fight, a—he needs to stop. He won’t hurt them. “Just tell me, please?”

“Jesper, no—”

“You’re both tense and angry, and you haven’t talked to me in two days.” He looks at Inej, who’s furrowing her brow, ready to argue, but— “You asked me how I was doing but you didn’t talk. Kaz won’t even look at me. You won’t even give me work, boss, and I know you don’t tolerate freeloaders. And you shied away when I tried to hug you, Inej. You didn’t do that before. I saw you arguing, and I know it was about me, and—I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’ll go, if you want.”

There. It’s out. He’s done his part. Fighting this would be more humiliating, and if there’s anything that gambling has taught him, it’s how to take a loss on the chin and keep on going. The itching under his skin’s receding, but he doesn’t feel any better. Just tired.

“No, Jesper. Why do you assume—” Earlier, Inej turned her whole body towards Jesper, arranged in a careful pose of openness that couldn’t disguise her nerves and that made Jesper feel more exposed but less alone, at least, but now her body turns as her eyes flicker over to Kaz. They stare at each other, another silent fight, and then he glares back down at his paperwork. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

This time, Kaz should say here, and doesn’t. Fuck, Jesper misses his mockery.

“We’re worried it’s not reciprocal,” Inej says.

“Not reciprocal? What do you mean? That’s ridic—” except Da used to tell Jesper he’s overwhelming in his enthusiasm, just like a whirlwind, when Jesper cried to him about some neighbour kid or other not coming shooting with him even though she’d agreed; that when he got into something it was hard to say no to him even if—fuck. Fuck. And now, Inej had to protect Kaz from—

“No, Jes, not that,” Inej cuts in quickly, shocked by his bare-faced horror. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“What do you mean, then?” Jesper can’t keep himself from glowering, still bruised from the implication.

“You pleasure Kaz and then you leave. You don’t have to do that. You’re not a servant. Not a sla—” She bites off her words, but Inej’s said enough. Jesper knows what she means.

“Something reminded you of the Menagerie, didn’t it?” he asks softly. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Kaz—flinch, as if Jesper had struck him, as if he’d touched him, and he doesn’t know what it means. What it means for them, for the relationship with Kaz that Jesper still wishes he could have. What it means, that Kaz acts as if Jesper can hurt him.

He still doesn’t understand the fight, Kaz’ reaction, but he does know what Inej’s afraid of. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. I really like it, actually.”

“Even so—” Inej looks dubious, and Jesper’s got to move ‘world-class actor’ way up to the front of his truly extensive list of skills, if he’s somehow managed to fool her into missing the torch he’s carried for Kaz for pretty much the entire time they’ve known each other—“you’re vulnerable, Jesper. No, Jes, listen to me—” because of course she’s anticipated his grimace— “you don’t have any control in this situation. The Dregs. The Sun Summoning. The kruge you owe. Kaz has far too much power over you.”

“Kaz is our boss. He’s ordering both of us around.”

“And there are things I won’t do for him. Can you say the same? What if you want to stop one day? Could you?”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.” Jesper chances a look over at Kaz. He’s blank, not even angry, completely still except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. But he’s watching Jesper. Finally, finally, he’s meeting Jesper’s eyes.

“Jesper—”

“Look at me,” Jesper says, and since they’re already watching him more intently than any fat-walleted Pigeon already, he stretches his arms over his head—gratifyingly, despite the tension, both Kaz’ and Inej’s eyes trace the strong lines of his jaw and neck. He pulls his shoulders back when he drops his arms so the open collar of his lush pale green shirt reveals as much of his chest as possible. “Look at me again. I’m the most handsome guy in Ketterdam. The funniest. The best lay. I slept with plenty of people before I started this thing with you, and I could pick anyone if it ends. There were cries of despair all over the Barrel when they realized I was off the market.”

“Stop blowing smoke up your own ass and get to the point.” Kaz, as intended, looks disgusted at Jesper’s ego, but no longer miserably vicious. Viciously miserable. And he’s talking. Inej loses a little of her worry to involuntary amusement, too.

“The point is: I’m here instead. So clearly, I want to be here. I want this, I want you—” Inej wears a tiny smile— “and if you keep questioning me, what you’re really impugning is my incredible beauty and sexual magnetism and superb taste, and honestly, that’s offensive.” Even Kaz snorts, so score… let’s say, five, for Jesper. “Also, really, you should have stalked me back to my bedroom after. The images I get are more than enough for some quality time with my hand.”

(Kaz, flushed and stunned and staring straight into Jesper’s eyes.)

(Inej’s lips on his cheek and on his neck.)

“I’m good. Don’t worry about me. I’ll follow you whenever, whyever, wherever. That’s my job, right?”

“That’s the problem, Jes.” Inej’s rolling her eyes, but she looks much less apprehensive now. Just fond.

“We both know you couldn’t… well, obviously you could make me do something I don’t want to, you do it all the time. I don’t like bouncer duty, especially if no fight breaks out. I don’t like watching card games when I’m not allowed to play. I don’t like sniping in the middle of the night. You think I lucked into a face like this without guarding my beauty sleep? But that’s it, right? I’d be complaining the whole time. I’m not complaining here. I’m an enthusiastic participant.”

“You will kill Mark Heener, even if you have to stay up all night for a month. That’s an order,“ Kaz rasps, and really? That’s what he got out of Jesper (almost) baring his heart?

“I feel safe with you.” He looks at Inej, who’s actually fucking interested. Inej, who’s starting to look less afraid now, and because he’s always going to feed his own heart to hungry dogs to make her happy, he adds, “I like you. Both. That should be obvious.”

Inej glows. Jesper keeps his eyes trained on her, because he really doesn’t need Kaz’ derision, he doesn’t, even though he’s curious—oh yeah, he’s already looked. And Kaz doesn’t look happy exactly at Jesper’s dangerously-close-to-a-confession, but there’s none of the contempt or revulsion that Jesper forced himself not to be afraid of that made him keep his feelings quiet, more—fear. Confusion. As if the problem isn’t that Jesper hopes that Kaz loves him back. But that Jesper loves him.

“Oh, seriously, Kaz, I was never subtle about finding you attractive.”

“There is a vast difference between lust and… this. I can’t give you what you want. I will never touch you. I’m the Bastard of the Barrel. Dirtyhands.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I’ve never actually cared—”

“I know three channels by which to contact the Little Palace,” Kaz hisses. “Five ways to lure you there without you catching on, and at least fifteen to subdue you should you resist. All your fears. Your secrets. Your addictions and abject weaknesses. Should I ever need the money—”

“And yet, I’m still here,” Jesper cuts in, before Kaz can say something that really hurts. “You saved my life more times than I can count. Three million kruge wasn’t enough for you to sell me out. And two weeks ago, you bullied me into promising I’ll only gamble at Dregs establishments because—”

“I’m tired of paying you wages only to watch everything disappear into the Dime Lions’ coffers. You’re the pigeonest pigeon in all of Ketterdam, and I want those fat stacks of money you lose every night to go to me exclusively.”

Jesper grins at him. It won’t help his case much to continue the argument about how only gambling in Dregs’ houses means Kaz can cut Jesper off, or make sure he won’t get beat up by those he owes money to, or that Kaz actually explained his contingency plans for when Jesper’s revealed as the Sun Summoner to Jesper, in person, only a few weeks ago. Kaz knows what Jesper suspects, and Jesper knows that Kaz knows he does, and Kaz knows what Jesper thinks about the fact that Kaz knows Jesper suspects he secretly does like him, and so fucking on and so fucking forth, and Inej does too, probably, even though she doesn’t enjoy the dance, the paper chase for affection, even half as much as Jesper does. Anyway.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, Kaz,” Jesper purrs. The way you look at me when I’m touching your dick, like you want to burn my face you’re your brain. “You’re not as good a liar as you think. You want me too. You both want me. I can’t blame you, I’m gorgeous.”

“I can’t give you what you want. I will never touch you, Jesper. Never.”

He’s so focused on that, as if Jesper hadn’t told him—three times, probably, already that those words won’t hurt him, won’t scare him off. “That’s a fairy tale view of sex,” Jesper says. “The idea that there’s one true way of sleeping with people. That everything must be symmetrical—that within the confines of anatomical possibilities, everyone has to act out their role or it’s not true love, and that it’s penetrative, and naked, and kissing, and with the lights on. Out. I don’t really care.”

Kaz bristles, though Jesper hopes it’s more because he called an aspect of Kaz’ worldview fairy tale than because Kaz actually believes some of that horseshit. He can’t quite read Inej. Impressed, worried, sorry? He ploughs on..

“I’ve never planned a decent heist before. I can’t disappear into thin air like a fucking ghost. Not that good with knives, but neither of you can actually handle a gun—not that well, boss, or you wouldn’t send me out to play sniper. I can’t look at a bleeding wound, but you can. Et fucking cetera. We do different things, and that’s what makes us a lethal team. Sex is just another heist.”

“An interesting philosophy,” Kaz rasps. “Simplified to the point of complete incoherence.”

Fuck him. Jesper’s put thought into this, okay? “There are far more ways to have sex that don’t involve touch. That don’t involve the guy sticking his dick somewhere and rutting until he gets off. It’s only fun when you’re doing it with your partners, not acting to a script.” Jesper smiles at Inej, Kaz, Inej again, open and friendly. Trying not to let his heart betray how desperate he is for them to believe them, for this to work. “You have to trust me, though. Trust me when I say that something gets me going. Trust me when I say I’ll stop you if I don’t like it. You don’t have to understand, it doesn’t have to be something that arouses you, but if I say I like it, I do. And if you don’t like it, if it brings back memories you don’t want or you just don’t want to do it, we’ll stop, of course, but that’s for you. Don’t make my choices for me.”

“I hope this plan of yours is better than the last one you came up with,” Kaz rasps.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Jesper grins widely. Gently. He’s so close now to everything he’s ever dreamed of. “I promise I’ll stop this when I’m unhappy, if you promise the same thing.” Then he offers his hand for Kaz to shake, and Kaz actually takes it. “The deal is the deal.”

He repeats the ritual with Inej, and then watches her and Kaz shake, even though she’s not Kerch enough to put much trust into the oath and also too clever to really need it. This is for Kaz, though: so he can believe he’s not forcing anyone because they’ll veto, and for Inej to see that Kaz sees this as the terms of the deal. Watching the reflections of shadows, et cetera.

His guns, Jesper leaves on top of Kaz’ paperwork next to his scattered deck and his holster.

Then, he saunters into the pitch-black bedroom. It’s probably best the curtains stay closed. Jesper has negative amounts of control over his power at the best of times, and when he’s getting lucky—well it didn’t used to happen, but then, he didn’t used to sleep with Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa either. Kaz lights a candle before he closes the door, and that’s better, anyway. Whatever the situation may warrant—and there’s conflicting opinions, perhaps, because Kaz would laugh if he heard but—it looks romantic.

Jesper undresses slowly. One by one, he pushes the shirt buttons through their holes with deft, deliberate movements. It’s not nerves. He’s not shy about his body: he knows he’s gorgeous, has undressed for others often enough though he’s never had the chance to take his time like this, and even before he tried talking it out with Kaz and Inej today he knew they found him attractive. That, at least, was assured. His body is the one thing he’s always been sure of, and he isn’t baring himself now, not like he did earlier. There are no painful, invisible scars on his skin, not like those his lovers bear. The lines and holes on his belly are from battle or clumsiness. What you see is what you get. And what you see is…

He grips the right cuff of his gorgeous pale green ruffled shirt—worn especially for Kaz today, because Kaz hates it—and then he pulls his arm out before he swings the empty sleeve over his head, stretching, showing off the taut long line of his torso, and then he lets the shirt drop to the floor. He doesn’t look at either of them. He doesn’t need it. He’s not that insecure.

Besides, the utter silence in the room, apart from the ticking wall-clock, is answer enough. No rustling of minuscule movement, no words, no breath. Like awe. Like fear. And so—

“You know, this is usually when the applause starts.”

Two voices in unison. “Shut up, Jesper.”

And that’s what Jesper’s been missing. If he makes this fun, exasperating, ridiculous, then maybe he can steal the tension from their backs. He’ll convince them he likes it. Them. It’s lucky, then, that Jesper’s as exceedingly talented at being a jokesmith as he is as a gunslinger and a lover. They’d never get through this without him.

Jesper bends down to unbuckle his boots. He doesn’t bother with graceful this time, and then he says, “We should hire DeKappel.” A beat so Kaz can start formulating various schemes Jesper might be proposing, and then, “Jurda fields are nice and all, but if he’s trying to capture true beauty… Well, he’s not going to, not until he paints one of me undressing.”

“DeKappel is dead, Jesper,” Kaz rasps drily, and Jesper throws his boots into a random corner.

“I thought you were a criminal genius. You’ll find a way to hire him anyway, for this ass,” Jesper shoots back, and then he pulls his trousers and underwear down with a single, suave movement. Unfortunately, he’s trying too hard to be cool: never a good look, and so uncharacteristic for Jesper who usually does not put any effort to enhance his natural amazingness—he doesn’t need it, but he might be a little nervous—but anyway, he fails getting them off in one fell swoop and tangles up his legs somehow. He hops around the room, trying not to fall. It wasn’t even planned, and Inej’s laughing. Unburdened, bellydeep delight in his misfortune: music in Jesper’s ears. Kaz is scowling, either because of the chaos Jesper brought to his once-pristine bedroom, or because he’s trying not to join her. Definitely the second. Jesper’s lost count of how much he scored already in the private game of putting Kaz at ease.

Inej strips down to her quilted undershirt and her underpants efficiently. No flourish, no stumbling: the master showing how it’s done right, which Jesper tells her, and is rewarded with another huff of laughter.

Jesper preens. Stretches, showing off his half-hard dick, and realizes he’s still wearing his striped socks.

“Leave them,” Inej orders.

And who is Jesper to deny his lady her wishes?

Kaz is still standing by the door. Awkward gloved fingers picking at the collar of his shirt. His eyes meet Inej’s for some time while he loosens his tie, and then Jesper’s. Jesper quickly looks away, before Kaz can get angry at him for seeing something he shouldn’t. Still. “Should I…?”

“If you feel better wearing your clothes, keep them on,” Jesper tells him as confidently as he can with his heart beating against his throat. “Like I said, there are no rules. No implications. No meanings. Sit down on your chair, if you like. Pull it over here, so you can get a good view,” and without even a complaint, with gratifying haste, Kaz obeys. “You’ve never met a rule you didn’t break, creatively, viciously, for enormous profit. We’re thieves. Gangsters. And I like your suit, it makes you look hot.”

Kaz glowers at him, but his cheeks are red.

Jesper grins back. “Very sleek. Modern. I know you’re dressing as a mercher, but honestly, none of them come close to looking anything as good as you, so I’m sorry to say. Failure. You’re too handsome to be a mercher. Have you seen them?”

It’s fun, complimenting Kaz, and it’s even more fun having both of them stare at the way he marches over to the bed and languidly stretches out, lies down, cock bobbing slightly, their eyes tracing up and down his body, but… “Not that you’re not really stroking my ego right now—stroking it hard, wet, twist at the end, just how I like it,” Jesper does his best lustful leer, and nearly ends up laughing at himself because he’s trying (too hard? Not enough? Trying to sabotage it before it even starts?), “but you do know I’m not good at laying still? I’m going to fidget unless we do something.”

“If I minded your need for movement, I’d have gotten rid of you years ago,” Kaz rasps. “These are your rules. I thought you were all about breaking them. If you want to move, move.”

And Jesper hates to admit it, but once again, Kaz is right. “I guess that’s why you’re the boss, boss,” and blissfully, Jesper braces his feet against the footboard, arching his back, dangling the left foot over the edge and then changing his mind, tapping his heel against the wood in an offbeat rhythm.

Kaz is watching him, eyes gone even darker with arousal, and yeah—from his vantage point, he’s probably got a really decent view of Jesper’s ass right now.

“Inej—what do you want to do? Or if you haven’t decided yet. if you’re comfortable, on the bed with me, I just want to lay my head in your lap.”

And then, Inej’s suddenly next to him. Jesper still doesn’t know how she manages it. He was looking at her! Only glancing back over to Kaz to find out how he took the suggestion, and then the next instant Inej’s pushing Jesper up by his shoulders and sliding under him. Jesper lets his head plop down. “You’re such a weird fucking miracle, you know that?”

Inej, grinning, pets his face.

“Hey! I mean it. You’re the weirdest person in this room. The nicest, and you do know we’re all gangsters, so nice is weird. Not the most beautiful, though—I’m afraid that adjective was created just for me,” because if he doesn’t make a joke now he’ll only get sappier, and then Jesper starts lightly touching his own skin, running his hands over his nipples and his stomach and the burls and snarls of long-healed wounds. Inej’s generous hands touch his mouth, and from behind the foot of the bed Kaz’s heated stare completes the tableau. They mocked him for it, but this is safe. This is nearer than heaven. This— “I like this one.”

“You nearly bled out. And when that wasn’t enough, you burned up,” Kaz hisses.

“But I didn’t. Inej got me back to the Slat, and you refused to even look at me for the week I spent in bed until she found a healer. You were so angry. I thought you were going to kill me if the sepsis didn’t.” You were angry because I was showing off and it nearly got me killed, Jesper doesn’t say. Because you wanted me to live. That’s when I found out you care.

Kaz, though, looks far too uncomfortable, and Inej’s stopped petting Jesper. That’s what happens when he gets too distracted. Too comfortable with them. “You don’t have to say it,” he soothes. “I know why. But this is getting boring, so, tell me what you want me to do. What you’d like to do to me. This is a judgment free zone. Except for Kaz judging me, I think I’ve developed a fetish. At this point I don’t even know whether I could get off without a rasped insult or two.”

Kaz scowls at him.

“I could pretend to be deeply embarassed, if you like.”

Kaz scowls.

“I did actually mean it when I said, ‘tell me your fantasies’.”

Kaz keeps scowling. Then, after a while, while Inej slowly grows bolder exploring Jesper’s face, pushing her fingers into his mouth and asking him to suck, he whispers, “I would touch your face first, Inej. Pull you toward me and kiss you, and feel your breasts against my body. Slide down, lick it, while Jesper kisses my neck.”

He speaks clearly, without hesitation, but something keeps Jesper from sinking along into the fantasy. Kaz, naked, caressing Inej and licking her tits, while Jesper sucks bruises into his neck… something feels off, wrong, and Kaz is smiling confidently but then, he’s a great actor when the heist calls for it. He’s a great actor. He’s acting. Kaz, naked… This isn’t him, or if it is his genuine fantasy: this is him wishing he wasn’t himself.

He’s sharing his fantasies but—

“How about something a little more practical. Inventive. We don’t need to skip straight to touching. I have plenty of fantasies where you’re not touching anyone at all, or not touching me with anything but your gloves or your boots or your cane. A letter-opener. The Crow Club’s expense filings. I’m not picky.”

Torn between disbelief and—intrigue, Kaz looks intrigued, and that’s going to fuel so many nights now, that cane head trailing down Jesper’s naked chest, the idea that Kaz might actually want…

“You can use a lot of things to touch people. You do it all the time, Kaz. It’s not a power thing,” because he doesn’t want to worry Inej right now, and if the idea of Jesper stroking Kaz off reminded her of bad experience he might need to talk to her in private before he expands on this. If only the two of them actually trusted him and told him, out loud, what fucked them up and how Jesper can reconcile both of their issues. He’s running blind, though, and the only safe territory is jokes. “Not always, anyway, and not right now. Right now, object insertion’s called being practical.”

But Kaz has fixated on something else entirely. “Expense filings? How the fuck would I use paper to get you off?”

Jesper just threw it in there for fun, but actually, “Paper bends. You could wrap your dick in it, get a layer between yourself and my lips, and I bet it’ll feel at least as weird as getting touched by the sun. You could make an entire paper suit, too, it’s thinner and stiffer than cloth so it’ll distort the sensation of Inej’s hands. With a nice paper tie, too, and maybe a paper hat.” He’s really getting into this, now. Kaz, stripping down, and then slowly building up a new armour just so Inej and Jesper can touch him… “In solidarity, both Inej and me have donned paper suits as well. Inej doesn’t even rustle when she moves because she’s ridiculous, and mine has strategic cut-outs. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of all this beauty. It really makes a dent in Kaz’ paperwork, anyway—at least halves the amount of things he has to read tonight, so he has much more time to spend with us. Which is good, because it takes hours to construct all our suits.”

Kaz looks sincerely disturbed. Inej’s hiding her face in her hands. She groans in despair, and the sound goes straight to Jesper’s dick. At least one out of the three of them’s getting off on his hard creative work.

“Oh, come on! At least half of Kaz’ schemes are more convoluted and incomprehensible than this. And yet, they always work. I really think I deserve the benefit of the doubt here. I’d really like to wrap my lips around a roll of those dull reports you read while you’re ignoring me. Slick them up with my tongue. Bleed the ink. Lick all the way down to the signatures…”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not, boss. But improvising a million plans with whatever’s available is your job, boss. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Stick to your strengths, Jesper. Thinking clearly isn’t it.” A beat. Kaz looks both impatient and strangely, uncharacteristically unsure. “You don’t mind? Not that. Using gloves?”

That’s what spurs Jesper into honesty. Overcompensating with humour keeps him safe, but if one of them must be embarrassed here—well, it’s just wrong when it’s Kaz. He flushes. “The leather’s hot, Kaz. It’s what makes it special. They’re a part of you, and I wonder what it would feel like, those gloves on my body. The cane’s you, too. And I think about you, not some person you could have been. You, and if that’s feeling your gloves… I’ve imagined it.”

“So that’s what you like,” Kaz rasps. “Being fondled by a cripple.”

“Kaz—”

“The last person who said something far less insulting about my boss, I shot in the head,” Jesper snipes back. “You should know, I don’t tolerate anyone dismissing Kaz Brekker like that.”

Inej looks angry, but now that she can see Kaz’ quick incredulous flush, far less angry than she was back then. They’d both gone out for pastries, and in the queue a couple of patrons had been talking about the Dregs’ recent expansion into Liddies territory and the woman had made the unwise choice of talking about the Dregs’ de-facto leader in front of Jesper. Inej had tried to pull him home quickly after they bought their gemberbolussen but Jesper’d waited for the woman outside the shop, and—

Kaz, though, swallows what might have been pleasure. He probably doesn’t like being defended, or being seen to like being defended, or… Anyway, he hisses, “Are you ashamed of the monster I am? We should end this farce now, then. The idea that I might become anyone but Dirtyhands, just for you, is illusory.”

Inej hides her face in her hands. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s exasperation or an attempt to hide her laughter.

Jesper, at least, is hiding both. “Kaz, I just said I kill people for mocking you. I meant—well, most of what I said about using objects. I’m not claiming the moral high ground. And you know I don’t mind Dirtyhands—I even found Matz Drescher hot and he was way more of a dick than you. Sorry, he was a much smaller dick,” he says, when Kaz starts scowling. “I meant to say—he had a much smaller dick.”

Kaz still looks hilariously offended—or offended again for a new reason—and so does Inej, who’d complained to Jesper at length after Pim brought The Misfortunes of Virtue to the Slat’s eating room and then explained to her what it was about. Jesper couldn’t really understand then whether she disliked the impropriety of reading pornography in a common room or the blasphemy more, or how funny Pim found the Kaz caricature, but he didn’t care: he went out and bought it the same day.

“But Kaz. I don’t mind a single thing about who you are,” Jesper spells out, because Kaz is a genius, but if he’s still hung up on the idea that Jesper’s not totally in love with him, he’s also the stupidest man alive. “I’m game for whatever you need. Gloves, no contact, dickishness, whatever. What either of you need. I’ll be the crumple zone. I’m committed to figuring this thing out.”

Then, because Kaz is still just staring, surprise, want, grief and so much more flickering over his face: and Jesper hadn’t dropped out of university he’d probably be ready to write a monograph or two about his chosen field, Kaz-expression-ology, now… Because Jesper could watch him forever and it still wouldn’t tell him any more than he knows right now, he hides his face against Inej’s quilted undershirt.

And quickly emerges again, because Jesper doesn’t hide from his feelings. Often. More than once a minute, at least, but he’ll force himself to make this one of the occasions. Because if he doesn’t, if everything grinds to a halt here, they’ll realize what lies below what he just said, the abject love, and so he puts cheer in his voice and says, “But anyway. Back to business. We were in the process of having sex.”

Inej’s still watching Jesper far too keenly.

“How about I eat you out?” Jesper allows his eyes a quick dart to Kaz—who looks hungry, no problems there right now—before he stretches his head back as far as it’ll go, looking up at upside-down Inej now grinning down at him. “I think you might like it. I’m very, very good. What do you think, o invisible silent Wraith, robber of all Ketterdam’s secrets? Ready to find out why every nonnevot is so incredibly lucky to be devoured by me?” He raises his left hand with pointer and middle finger spread, and licks, slowly, all the way up from the v to the tips and down again, while giving his best, most intense smoulder to Inej. Inej, who’s giggling at him again.

“Stop, stop,” she begs, hiding her face in her hands.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Kaz rasps, sounding fond and just as amused as Jesper wants him.

“Sorry.” Jesper licks his lips and drops his voice even lower, a suave rumble he can’t hold for long until he’ll have to gasp for breath. “I forgot to mention. The Jesper Fahey Seduction Experience is limited to Crows who haven’t already agreed to go out with me. You get the leftovers.”

“Fair.” Inej shimmies out of her underpants as well and drops them off the side of the bed. She pats the blanket in-between her thighs when Jesper, stunned into silence, doesn’t react for a second. “As long as you only wildly exaggerated the skills of your tongue in terms of talking. Not… Come here, Jes.”

She laughs at him again when he crawls slowly closer like the caricature of a hunting cat and when he softly caresses her right leg, then pulls it up and deposits the thigh atop his shoulder.

He licks a slow stripe up along the outer seam of her cunt, then again, focusing on the trembling in her thighs and the laughter and the shy hand that settles in his hair, just trying to get a feel for it. Not the act itself, but Inej’s reactions. In his eagerness he’s chosen a tactically stupid beginning: he can’t monitor Inej’s minute expressions from down here with his face buried in her sex. If he could completely trust she’ll stop him when it gets too much, or, alternately, if he could trust this will never hurt her at all, he could lose himself, but so… She’s wet already, and that’s good. Jesper doesn’t know what Kaz is doing at all, either, except for the drag of the chair that may be him finding a better place to watch.

He pulls one arm up slowly—and maybe Jesper’s overthinking this, but these are the most important people in his life: he needs to protect them, and his mind won’t shut up—slowly, he reaches for her, I’m not restraining you don’t worry, and starts toying with Inej’s lips, not penetrating, while he laps at her clit. Gently, at first, while he learns the way she squirms—while he guesses what might mean too much pressure and no, here please and anything she’s not saying, because Inej’s far too quiet, and only her hands digging into his hair and pushing him down give him the certainty to not try and look at her face for clues.

Carefully, he puts his hand into service. One finger, then two, curling towards the front, massaging, matching the movement of his mouth, and again and again until Inej’s body curls all around him when she comes. Silent, of course.

Kaz is utterly silent as well. Maybe he’s not even there. Maybe he went back to work, and Jesper turns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and— “So you are enjoying the show!”

His arms are hanging down straight and his hands are balled into fists, and Kaz is hunched forward, but still—those trousers are bulged a little more than usual. (It probably says things that Jesper’s got a yardstick for ‘usual’ here. But—)

“Why don’t you take care of this? For me… us?” Inej, asking gently somewhere above Jesper’s head.

“It’s easier when you do it.”

Jesper can’t help it. He snickers at the way Kaz glares-pleads at him, and apologizes, and tries hard not to crow with delight but— “Kaz Brekker, admitting I’m better than him?! Don’t be ashamed. You can’t excel at every single thing, and hand jobs happen to be one of my areas of expertise.”

“You’re scrubbing the floor in my office tomorrow, Jesper.”

“Is that what Inej meant with the dangerous power—“ Jesper bites his tongue. Just in time. Kaz looks pissed, but neither Kaz nor Inej have stormed out yet, though they might if he gives them time to process… “Give me a pillow, Inej.”

She pulls it out from under her back, somehow making that appear dignified, and Jesper throws it at Kaz’ face. Kaz, unfairly, catches it.

“We’re practicing a new trick today. It’s a shame, I’d love to watch that erection but it might not be enough to get you off. Hold it against your crotch and hump it. More friction.”

A beat. Kaz just sits there, clutching the pillow against his lap, and then— “You said after you finish getting me off, you touch yourself thinking about us. Show me.” His voice is even hoarser now. It’s unfair.

Jesper was so focused on him and Inej and making sure neither of them got hurt, all along, that he almost forgot he had a body. Now, though—now, with Inej still slick on his lips and Kaz’ rough voice and the knowledge he wants to watch Jesper—wants to watch Jesper jerking off, it all bleeds back with a vengeance. He’s close already. He’s so close. He squeezes the root of his dick tightly, staving off the end, thinking about wounds, open, bleeding, full of pus—squeezes, lies there, eyes closed, breathing, breathing, and listens to the soft rhythmic rustling of a pillow. Which doesn’t help.

“You’re in the right position,” Jesper whispers, when he dares softly trail his hand up and down his prick again. “Look at me. That’s how I imagine it, usually. I’m on my back in my room, and you’re both watching. With interest.”

Kaz laughs at him. It sounds more than a little breathless. “I should have known you get off on being the centre of attention, you egotistical asshole.”

Jesper doesn’t look across at him, or up at Inej. It would be over too soon. He can’t stop feeling the heat of Inej’s thighs underneath his head, though, and that… Kaz could mock him, for how incredibly turned on he is right now, for the certainty that if anyone was to touch Jesper’s too-sensitive skin now it would be over—but Kaz doesn’t know shit about sex. Point, Jesper. Instead, blindly, he starts needling, “You’re doing well, boss.”

“Fuck you.” Kaz can’t even muster his normal bloodlust. He sounds vaguely humiliated, and shouldn’t.

“No, you’re fucking you.”

Inej actually slaps Jesper’s head, and Kaz groans—and the smack and the sound travel down to Jesper’s dick, better than anything he could imagine, so he’s down a couple of points again, or up? It’s hard to tell now. It’s hard to tell, because his hand’s sped up without giving Jesper notice, and he can still smell Inej, all around his head, on his face, and Kaz is breathing audibly now, moaning, then not, because he’s biting either his glove or his cheek again Jesper thinks and honestly, either—and the pillow’s still thwacking, thwacking away and—thwack, a groan, a word that’s definitely not Jesper but still it’s—

And Jesper bites his own lip bloody when he comes because any word he might say can and will be used against him.

Inej starts petting his head.

Before Jesper even has his breath back, he can hear the quiet scratch of Kaz’ chair: can hear the cane and the limp, coming closer to the bed, a drawer pulled open and then shut again. Movement towards another corner.

“Kaz,” Inej says. She sounds neutral. Carefully neutral. Viciously neutral. Not like she’s sounded the rest of the night.

“You interrupted me before I finished reading my reports,” Kaz rasps. “I need to get back to work. Stay here.”

Inej shifts under Jesper’s head, jostling him off. She’s about to go after Kaz. Jesper touches her arm: turning the grab into a telegraphing move just in time, showing his intent to pull her back into bed without actually doing it. “Leave it,” he says—pleads, probably, he doesn’t have his shell fully back, and then he shouts after Kaz with as much obnoxious enthusiasm as he can muster, “That was fun, right? I had a great time. Let’s do this again!”

The door shuts.

Jesper burrows his head back into Inej’s lap, and then he says softly, “Let’s give him a little time to calm down. We all have our troubles.”

“I don’t know how you can do this,” Inej replies, stroking his hair. She sounds sad now: the last thing he wants for her, and Jesper doesn’t know how to make it better. “How you’re so reckless with your heart.”

“It’s nothing.” He’s laid out far more tonight than he’s ever intended, and that’s probably the answer. Jesper just doesn’t know when he should shut up. He gambles with everything. He’s only here because he gambled away the kruge he would have needed to escape Ketterdam, and because he carelessly lost his heart, too. Why not give everything else away when he’s not paying attention? He’s tried, Ghezen knows; he’s been watching Kaz and Inej for signs and made jokes and he weathered this pretty well for someone who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, who isn’t even trusted with their demons, but at the same time, when he’s trying to disguise and reveal so many things at once, something real’s bound to slip through. He whispers into Inej’s soft thigh, “Someone had to do it. That’s the point of partnerships: finding the person who can do what you can’t, and forcing them to do it.”

“Let me up for a second.”

Jesper doesn’t know what he’s going to do when Inej leaves too. Find another card game at the Crow Club, probably. Maybe even the Kaelish Prince, to really piss Kaz off. But Inej just pulls the duvet out from under him and gets onto the mattress again, spreading it over both of them. She puts her head on his shoulder and lies awkwardly half on top of him, the ribbing of her undershirt balancing out the mattress spring digging into his back, wrapping her arms around him. It’s almost too much.

This, more than anything that’s happened tonight, is too much. Jesper turns his head to the side. He rests his hands loosely on Inej’s back, then starts tracing random shapes.

“I’m sorry,” Inej says suddenly.

It takes a moment for Jesper to catch up. “For being concerned I was letting Kaz have his sordid way with me?”

Inej pokes him in the ribs, hard.

“You’re looking out for me, that’s good. I’m glad we talked. But I’m not as weak as I look, right? I know what I was getting into. I know how to take risks. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Jes, you’re the worst risk-taker I know. You don’t make many good choices. I’ve never seen as much money as you’ve gambled away. Don’t just gamble away your heart. You’ll get hurt,” Inej whispers.

Jesper, bravely, pretends to have suddenly fallen asleep.

Jesper’s hand is tangled in Inej’s hair. He uncurls it and then, his whole body, stretching out his arms and legs and the neck that’s aching from a severe lack of pillows. He uncurls, and regrets it immediately. Those long dark strands were the only thing that’s comfortable here: Inej must have moved a lot during the night, fighting for her place, and now she’s with her back to Jesper taking up more than half of the already narrow lumpy mattress, and she’s also wrapped up tight in Kaz’ thin duvet. The only duvet. Kaz could surely afford more, and Jesper doesn’t ever sleep with fewer than two blankets and a duvet and his old throw from home, not in the dank Ketterdam nights, but Kaz is an austere bastard who luxuriates in suffering, other people’s and his own, apparently, and even if he had another duvet then Inej would have stolen that one as well.

The bed smells of sweat: Inej’s, faintly, Jesper’s own, but below it, the soft sour odour of a certain someone not changing his bedclothes often enough after—knowing him, unpleasant dreams.

At least Jesper’s feet are still warm. Unlike everything else about him, because he’s still lying buck naked except for his socks in Kaz Brekker’s bed after getting him and Inej off and also singlehandedly solving everyone’s relationship troubles. His feet are nicely toasty and the rest is an icicle, goosebumped and shivering and he’s so lucky the room is pitch-black thanks to the curtains and Inej’s asleep and Kaz is gone, because roosting on top of the Slat may be a power thing on Kaz’ part but it’s also far draftier up here than down in Jesper’s room, so frigid that Jesper’s dick’s probably shrivelled back into his body. Not that it matters, and given the stuff they’ve been doing… Not that it matters, probably, to anyone but him. But hey, there’s value in being a little vain about your beauty. It got him into this bed, after all.

If Jesper let his teeth clatter so loud it woke up Inej, that would be pretty funny. She’d be mortified about hogging most of the mattress and the entire duvet. She’s also the one who had to do actual work the past two days, though, and probably even more than usual because Jesper was on his non-consensual vacation, so it all depends on how much of an asshole Jesper is. She was pretty sweet to him this night, so—

Jesper’s pulse jumps when a thin stripe of light appears on him, growing thicker, and then he closes his eyes and starts feigning sleep. A heartrender would call his bluff immediately, because his pulse is still racing: but a heartrender would know he’s awake even when he’s calm, most likely, though he’s never actually asked one about their powers. Maybe he should. At least find out whether it’s possible to force the light back under his skin when it’s started glowing out. But the only place where he’s gonna learn that is the Little Palace, and that’s the last place Jesper’ll ever go to.

If a heartrender got into this room, they’d have much bigger problems than whether Jesper can convincingly pretend to be asleep, though. It’s Kaz’ bedroom. No-one’s supposed to come in here uninvited. Except for Inej. Also, the door didn’t squeal when it opened. Someone knows those hinges intimately.

The quiet limping gait and the cane seal the deal. It’s Kaz. No reason for Jesper’s heart to gallop with terror, and at the same time—the best reason. What’s Kaz doing in here? Apart from this being his bedroom, and him probably needing to sleep too. Time to kick Jesper out, probably. Thanks, until next time, by the way why haven’t you sniped the Liddies’ treasurer yet. Should Jesper have gotten up as soon as he realized he was awake? But Inej’s here too, and Kaz wouldn’t just kick her out of bed.

He wouldn’t… this close, Jesper can hear the faint creaking of his leather gloves somewhere over his head. Somewhere to the left of him, where Inej’s sleeping, roughly where her head should be. Jesper doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he’d bet a thousand kruge Kaz is very softly petting her hair. He’s not jealous. He’s not hurt. He isn’t. He always knew what Kaz feels for Inej. Besides, Kaz is already hiding him and giving up a lot of money to keep his secret. Asking for anything more would be far too greedy, the kind of greed that costs everything: and Jesper doesn’t mind losing that much when it’s gambling, but Kaz… So he’s definitely not jealous.

He's opened his eyes, though, to confirm his suspicion, and sees Kaz pull back his hand and raise the tips of his gloved fingers to his lips. It’s too intimate. Jesper was never supposed to see Kaz like this, and he screws his eyes shut again, keeping his breathing free and even.

Fingertips ghost against the corner of Jesper’s mouth, so hesitant he almost misses them.

He might have, if he was still asleep; but those fingers are warmer than the air, and the rich earthy smell of leather tinged with the iron of old blood—the odour and sensation burn into him like the dark spots on his retinas when he once looked at the sun, and though he can’t taste any wetness, any spittle, he imagines them anyway. The glove touched Kaz’ lips before Jesper’s. He never imagined that Kaz would kiss him. Kiss Jesper. He licks his lips, because if these are the only traces of Kaz he’ll ever have inside him then—

“You’re awake,” Kaz hisses, still quietly enough not to wake Inej. “Get up.”

Jesper’s never managed to deny Kaz anything. The bed’s uncomfortable anyway.

He tiptoes quietly out into the office after his boss.

Kaz is proffering Jesper’s holstered guns, when Jesper turns around from trying to close the bedroom door as quietly as possible. It still made a tiny screech, but maybe, if Kaz lets him spend more time here then he’ll learn it well enough to…

“It’s a little past three bells. Mark Heener of the Liddies tends to leave his house at four to visit Lispet at the Sweet Shop so his wife won’t notice. It’s a good opportunity, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, boss,” Jesper mumbles, still too mellowed by the scent of leather and old blood to come up with a decent riposte. “You got it. Anything you want.”

“Change the socks first, though,” Kaz rasps, and lets his eyes trail slowly up from Jesper’s feet to—yeah, Jesper’s still as good as naked.

“You know enough about anatomy to be aware that dicks shrink when it’s freezing, right?” Jesper means for it to come out more teasing and less self-conscious than it does, but Kaz is just staring at him. And not at his face, either. “You’re basically the Dregs’ boss. You can afford more than one duvet. In fact, I insist, and more pillows and a new mattress as well. When we’re doing this again I want to be actually comfortable.”

Kaz’ ears are slowly pinking up. It’ll have to be answer enough, because instead of reacting to Jesper’s unspoken question, the bastard just rasps, “It’s fifteen past now. You might need to hurry if you want to catch Heener before he gets to the Sweet Shop. And get to your room before anyone in the Slat wakes up, because I’ve already sent yesterday’s clothes to the laundry, so you can’t even slink to your room in my cast-offs.”

“I could protect my modesty with one of those gorgeous sweaty socks.” Jesper waggles his toes. In the green-and-yellow stripes, his feet look almost like grotesquely distended caterpillars. Sometimes he really misses the farm.

Kaz scowls.

“Don’t worry, boss.” Jesper buckles his holsters around his hips and winks at Kaz again. He’s too off-balance for a mock-seductive pose, but this will have to do. “This is all yours.”

#behold: the jesper character study pretending to be a pwp #jesper fahey #kaz brekker #inej ghaja #kaz x jesper #kaz x inej #jesper x inej #kaz x inej x jesper #sun summoner jesper au #dimtraces makes things #shadow & bone #shadow and bone

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sleepingpatterns · 4 years

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“Should I use InDesign to lay out my books?” - A Passionate Guide

Ok, if you are like me, you recently stumbled upon @armoredsuperheavy‘s brilliant blog about bookbinding and fanfiction, and now you are excited to throw yourself head-first into bookbinding.

This also means that you are about to invest a fair amount of time into figuring out how exactly to lay out books. What you end up getting comfortable with will most likely be what you end up using long term, so it is worthwhile giving it some thought. The question really comes down to this: who's name will you be cursing for the foreseeable future? Adobe? Or Microsoft?

Full disclosure: I only started using InDesign because I was forced to. I worked as an editor at a newspaper, and that was what we used. The beginning was hell. I won’t sugar coat it, it sucks. In the end it was worth it. Once you figure it out, InDesign’s potential far outstrips Microsoft Word (in my opinion).

That encouragement means very little when you open this treacherous program for the first time and see THIS:

“What?! I will literally give you $100 if you guess what all the buttons on the left are for. How the fuck do I make the margins disappear!?”

So, if using InDesign means figuring out what at least one third of the tools on the left are for, lets talk pros and cons.

Let’s get the cons out of the way.

It is expensive. Adobe is not fucking around. This puppy costs 20 bucks a month (Canadian) to RENT. If this is out of your price range, do you still have options? Yes. Do they range in legality? Also yes. I think I could potentially get in trouble for telling you to find your friendly neighborhood torrenting site and steal this software. I will say, outright, that no one should steal software ever. Got it? I would be very upset if someone were to message me for specifics. As you naturally wish to be law-abiding, there is also the quasi-legal option of repeating the 14-day free trial. My friend works at a professional print studio in Russia, and this is the tactic they use: every 14 days they uninstall all of the software from all of the computers, and reinstall it with a new trial. Every 14 days! At a professional operation! My friend hates working there.

It is not initially intuitive. I’ve covered this, but it bears repeating because it is a serious hurdle. Keep in mind, that with time, InDesign becomes more helpful than other software. Now when I use Word I find myself reaching for keyboard shortcuts automatically, and feeling bereft at the lack of my favorite tools. Nonetheless, expect a time commitment up front learning how to harness this glorious and confusing computer program.

It can run kinda slowly, depending on your computer. Up until two months ago, I had the world’s most precarious laptop. I bought it for $200 in 2015. It once took half an hour to restart. Inexplicably, when it got stressed, it would switch to Spanish. It was literally and figuratively falling apart. And yet, it ran InDesign. Granted, it worked slowly. If I asked it to process too many images at once it would panic (again with the Spanish), but for the most part, it worked. If you have a slow computer and are patient, then InDesign will probably work fine on your computer. If you are not willing to suffer, stick to Word.

You will also need Photoshop (sometimes). Part of what makes InDesign glorious is that it is professional software that is designed specifically to work with print and anything text-heavy. I love that about it. It even manages to do some handy things with images! But, inevitably, you will need to learn some Photoshop to punch up your graphics. I have, admittedly, only learned the bare minimum Photoshop in order to feed my InDesign addiction. It was a pain in the butt. For example, inexplicably, Adobe has not standardized keyboard shortcuts across the suite. As with InDesign, now that I’ve learned the tricks, I adore it. But you should go into this knowing that with Adobe, the fun never ends.

Printing signatures is the WORST. Adobe, please explain to me, in front of God and everyone, why the hell you would make this software specifically for laying out books etc. and not include a method of printing signatures?! I’m livid. This is absolutely where Word wins the day. It is almost worth using Word just to print the signatures so nicely and easily. I’m not kidding. Me—a person who has used InDesign professionally—almost wanted to switch software entirely just because of this. Hands down, InDesign’s biggest goof. Despite this crime against bookbinders everywhere, you have options. You can export your design to a PDF and literally print each signature separately (I am fucking livid) or you can complain enough to your friends that they offer to buy you a lovely program called BookletCreator for your birthday. It costs $20 bucks USD and it was worth every penny. However, Adobe, FOR THE AMOUNT THAT YOU CHARGE FOR YOUR PROGRAM, I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO PURCHASE ANY ADDITIONAL SOFTWARE IN ORDER TO PRINT MY BOOK. Did I mention that I am livid?!

But InDesign must be worth something, right?! Otherwise why would I be writing a long post encouraging people to use it? Let’s talk pros:

The horsepower on this baby will blow your mind. Forget what I just said about printing signatures; imagine using software that was literally made for this. You wanna do a thing? InDesign has got you. Are you a perfectionist? This software was designed by people as pedantic and obsessive as yourself. It gets you. Dream it, google how to do it, and InDesign will deliver. This is really the main reason to use InDesign; it is the professional standard for a reason.

There are so SO many resources available to help you learn. Almost everything I’ve learned about InDesign I learned from Google or YouTube. Honestly, if you have a question, I promise that other people have already asked and answered it. The advantage is that because this software is specifically for laying out books, there is lots of information available specifically about how to do what you want to do. (This may also be true for Word, but I’ll be honest, I only used Word for a book layout once, so I can’t say for certain either way.)

Once you figure it out, InDesign will give you back hours of your life. Things like master page spreads, clipping paths, tint, the eyedropper tool, and the one-hundred-percent adjustable text are just... lifesavers. My experience with Word is limited, so my frustration using it was probably due to my own ineptitude, but honestly, when putting together my thesis, the tears I cried trying to get page numbers to format correctly were some of the most bitter text-related tears I have ever shed. I can take care of the whole operation in InDesign in a matter of minutes. Hours. Of. My. Life. Saved.

This is an actual marketable skill. Ok, bear with me here. I have used InDesign for every single job I have had since I worked at the newspaper. That includes working as a bookkeeper and a kindergarten teacher. Hell, I even made my resume to get those jobs in InDesign. There is no job that I forsee in my future that doesn’t include some form of text-based design. Even when my work has absolutely nothing to do with layout (see: kindergarten teacher) I still found some way to use it. My previous boss was actually so thrilled about my InDesign skills that she had me run a 101 seminar for the other employees. (Did any of them end up using it? I suspect not. Did they look at me strangely for being so enthusiastic about design software? Absolutely.) I’ve even managed to use InDesign to branch out from freelance editing to take on design projects as well. In short: if you learn how to use InDesign, put in on your resume. You will be surprised at how much mileage you get out of it.

With Adobe, the fun never ends. I know I joked about it before, but really, I love seeing what this program has in store for me next. For example, thanks to bookbinding, I discovered that InDesign will do a lot of things that I had previously assumed were the domain of Word, such as spell check. I literally stumbled onto a measuring tool today that I wish existed irl to help me glue my covers together. Part of the beauty of this software being so intricate is that there is always something new you can do. I love learning how to harness a new feature, and then watch my design improve over time. Using this program you really get the feeling that the sky is the limit. Look, just the fact that I’ve now resorted to saccharine platitudes about computer software tells you that InDesign is remarkable. Considering that this program has made me suffer so significantly, I have either seen the face of God, or I have Stockholm syndrome. Take your pick.

TL;DR, at long last:

How complicated would you like to go? Either way, for bookbinding you’ve got to learn to use software in a new way.

Do you just want to get your book laid out reliably with little fuss? Word is for you! Are you interested in delving into the details? Do you have the patience of a saint? Try InDesign!

Both work. Both are good. But you can pry InDesign from my cold dead hands because I adore it.

#Honestly #No shame towards Word or anyone that uses it seriously #Like I said I have little experience actually using it for laying out books #But InDesign is very good.#Bookbinding #fic #fic binding #If people want I can start putting together tutorials about how to do all of this stuff #And all of y'all can learn from my mistakes and hopefully learn faster than I did.#Аня есть что нибудь здесь про тебя #заметишь?#InDesign

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dontasktheradiodemon · 4 years

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Quasi-Confession

Alastor visits @hiss-and-vinegar Sir Pentious in the boiler room and then shit hits the fans.

Listen. Some of y’all are following for the relationship drama, right? For the soap opera action? That good good telenovela shit? This is the thread you want to read. This is the thread you’ve been waiting for. It’s got what you want. It’s got what you crave. It’s got this:

Sir Pentious moves back, out of the way suddenly, staring at Alastor like he's a different person. Was this even possible? He.... "ARE YOU IN LOVE WITH ME, ALASSSTOR???"

Brace yourselves for an emotional roller coaster.

Sir Pentious

Local snake is waiting in the boiler room, which is still pretty difficult to navigate. Watch your head, you might bump it on a pipe or cable. Or some slab of metal. Sir Pentious has an easy time moving around in here, CLEARLY you are just clumsy. He's flicking about on his phone, sending another message to Alastor to let him know where he can be found.

He sends his usual tophat :3 emoji along with it.

Alastor

It’s mere seconds before Alastor replies with a “🎶 ✔️✔️✔️” and only a few more seconds after that before he’s arrived, knocking on the door before letting himself in with a cheery “Hello~!”

He COULD have just teleported straight into the room rather than in front of the door. But he remembers how that went for his double. He’s not risking it.

Sir Pentious

Ah! There's that familiar radio voice. Penny's head swivels towards the source and he leans back against a workbench, flicking his tongue as he waves to the deerman.

"GREETINGSSSS, ALASSSTOR! GIVE ME YOUR HAND! OH, AND, I WANT TO SSSSEEE THE MUG, AS WELL."

Alastor

"Of course!" He offers over the travel mug with stacked layers of unhappy sinners depicting the rings of hell printed around it. "All of Hell, just for you, as well deserved. And mercifully free of any sad excuses for watered-down tea."

Although he was briefly tempted to fill it with hot water and claim it was one-second tea.

“Left or right?” He holds out both hands anyway, Sir Pentious can take whichever one he wants. (Also check out that bling on his left wrist. He’s got that watch Sir Pentious stole for him.) “You know I’m always eager to lend a hand, but I didn’t think it was going to be so literal!”

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious reaches over to take the mug, purrrrring as he looks it over. It is absolutely just a travel mug, but it was an offering! He is going to put it on his workbench.

Oh, and he does notice that watch! A large toothy grin spreads upon his face, and he takes hold of Alastor's left hand. That's more common for rings, isn't it?

The ring from Valera is clearly visible on his own hand. It shines in the warmth of the boiler room's lights.

Sir Pentious adjusts those multiple lensed glasses of his to get more accurate measurements, careful yet at the same time, rough. He squeezed at finger joints and pinched skin... He could be taking measurements for all kinds of things at this rate.

"GOOD TO SSEE YOU'RE GETTING USE OUT OF THE WATCH, ALASSSTOR! HAS IT HELPED YOU?"

Alastor

He got a horrible rasping cobra purr! He'd steal every tacky gimmicky mug from every cheesy souvenir shop in Pentagram City if he thought they'd earn him more purrs. (He didn't *buy* the mug, obviously.)

“Yes indeed!” He’s enjoyed admiring it. And listening to it tick. Sometimes he even checks the time with it, although he’s generally got a razor sharp internal clock. A big help. “And quite a handsome accessory it’s made, too! But then I knew I could trust your sense of style.”

He tries not to get overly lost in the sensation of his hand being manipulated. Those were such PRECISE measurements... By this point he has no idea what in the world Sir Pentious needs these measurements for, but considering the quantity he’s taking... After a moment of hesitation, Alastor asks, “How precise do these measurements need to be? Would taking my glove off help?”

Sir Pentious

The question stirs him, and Pentious tilts his head in thought. "WELL, NO... I CAN BUILD ANYTHING *UPON* YOUR GLOVE." There's that grin again, "I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU WITHOUT THEM! IT WOULD BE *INVASIVE*, WOULD IT NOT?"

Alastor

What in the world is he building? Alastor’s current best guess is a weapon. Some kind of mechanical robot glove. Something that needs fairly precise but not skintight dimensions. “It would only be invasive if you *demanded.* I’m freely volunteering it! But, no, I wouldn’t take my gloves off around just anyone.”

Sir Pentious

Tongue flick. Once. Twice. Sir Pentious takes the other hand, checking for any inconsistencies.

"UNLESS YOUR HANDS ARE GROTESQUE IN SSSSOME WAY, I NEED NOT SSSEE THEM! MY CURIOUSSSITY ISS NOT PIQUED!"

Is it weird to offer that? He's going to think on it idly later.

Alastor

“They’re shockingly normal,” he reassures him. “So if your measurements don’t need to be that precise, there’s no need for it!”

He’s not quite sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. Relieved, probably. He said it wouldn’t be invasive, but in truth he would feel more than a little exposed with his ungloved hand in someone’s grip.

Sir Pentious

He finally seems to finish up, and Penny scribbles down all the measurements he'd taken, with a barely legible scrawl. This was not the writing he used for letters, this was definitely his engineering scrawl.

"THERE WE ARE!! ALL FINISHED!!" Prr prr prr prr, "WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO NOW?"

Alastor

He’s studying Sir Pentious’s handwriting off and on as he scribbles, until he stops writing and Alastor focuses directly on his face as he speaks.

Oh—happy sounds. Alastor automatically echoes them in pulses of static. “Well—a fine question! What’s there to do down here?” He glances around the boiler room... then settles his gaze on Sir Pentious’s throat. “How about you give me that bow tie you promised me weeks ago, hm?”

Sir Pentious

Oh the eyes on his neck get a squint out of him, but the words that follow are more reassuring.

"OH, THAT OLD THING? I'D NEARLY FORGOTTEN."

Luckily he kept a bunch of random things in his jacket, and he began to fish around for it, "YOU SURE ARE GOOD AT REMINDING ME ABOUT THINGSSSS THAT HAPPENED WEEKSSSS AGO, ALASSSTOR."

Alastor

He opens his mouth to snark back—something about *having a working memory*—before he realizes Sir Pentious is referring to Alastor’s referring to Broadway. His mouth shuts with a click of his teeth like a dial turning off. “Hm.”

Sir Pentious

He's right, Sir Pentious' working memory is generally tied to the immediacy and things that pissed him off. The serpent continues digging around before he retrieves his old bowtie, holding up the accessory and looking at the yellow pendent in the center. He holds it up as if he were dangling a piece of meat, "HERE YOU ARE, OLD CHAP. THISSS ISS WHAT YOU ARE SSSEEKING, ISS IT NOT?"

Alastor

He feels a little bit like a dog being prompted to beg for a morsel. “If that’s what you’re offering!” He holds out his hand, palm up, for Sir Pentious to drop the bow tie in. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that if he tries to grab it, Sir Pentious is going to jerk it back.

Sir Pentious

*He would be right because Penny is that bitch.* But instead he drops it down into Alastor's waiting hand, "I HAVEN'T WORN IT SINCE I REMOVED IT WHEN I PUT ON YOURS. BUT I HAVE KEPT IT WITH ME, SSO! SSTILL WARM. NYA HA!" That's a weird thing to say. He won't think on it anymore.

Alastor

Alastor won’t think on it either. Which is to say, he will think on it A WHOLE LOT, RIGHT NOW, just not on the implications of the fact that Sir Pentious felt the need to point it out.

He tugs off his current bow tie with a flourish and slides the new one in place. “I’ll have to start wearing a little yellow so it doesn’t look out of place.” As he ties the bow tie, he casts a critical gaze down at his red-on-red-with-red-trim outfit, looking for something he can switch out or somewhere he can accessorize.

Sir Pentious

He's wearing a lot of yellow and black himself, so the red bowtie does have a bit of an out of place look, but to Sir Pentious, it was the prize that mattered. He had something of Alastor's, and those who were in the know would be able to recognize that much. A symbol, a victory, perhaps. Spoils and all that.

"A LITTLE YELLOW WOULD SUIT NICELY! MIGHT I SUGGEST A BLACK COAT WITH YELLOW PINTRIPES? NOT THAT YOU COULD SSSTEAL MY LOOK IF YOU TRIED! YOU'D NEED MORE EYESSS FOR THAT."

Alastor

He’s not quite so bold to ask if Sir Pentious has any old coats he’s willing to hand off—although the thought crosses his mind. “Ha! And look like one of your minions? Not if you don’t plan on hiring me full time.” He finishes with the bow and drops his hands, tipping up his chin to show it off. “Am I straight?”

Sir Pentious

A SHARP laugh, and Sir Pentious gestures to Alastor fondly. "NOT AT *ALL.* BUT YES, YOU LOOK FINE!! VERY STRIKING."

Alastor

He blinks a moment as he tries to work out why he’s being laughed at; then huffs. All right, fair enough. “Good to hear!” He stows away his recently-removed bow tie in the collection he’s been carrying around in his pocket.

Sir Pentious

What a shit eating grin from Pentious, who leans in suddenly VERY close to Alastor, much larger than the twig of a man.

"YOU MAKE IT SSOUND LIKE YOU'D ENJOY WORKING FOR ME! BEING BOSSED BY BETTERSSS? NYA HAHA, I MEAN THAT *AFFECTIONATELY*, OF COURSE. YOU'RE NO SSSTRATEGIST."

Alastor

He doesn’t lean back an inch. He just tips his head back, smiling up at Sir Pentious. “I don’t have betters.” And for a moment, his smile is very menacing. There are ways of teasing he’s fine with. That’s not one of them.

But the moment passes. It was, after all, intended affectionately. “However, I also don’t have ambitions! Not any more glamorous than entertaining myself. And I won’t lie, I’ve never found better entertainment than assisting with someone else’s grand ambitions. The drama! The pathos! It’s why I’m here, after all!” He gestures vaguely above them, indicating the hotel.

Sir Pentious

While others might realize their teasing fell flat, Sir Pentious remained in that competitive space, looking over The Radio Demon's wide, dangerous grin. He was no stranger to danger, not at all. Though Alastor did not consider him a rival, Sir Pentious couldn't help the sheer thrill he felt from the possibility of the two at one another's throats. Part of being in Hell, you know.

He follows Alastor's vague gesturing and makes a face, "YES, WELL, EVERYBODY KNOWS YOU DON'T ACTUALLY *CARE* ABOUT THE BETTERMENT OF *SSS*SINNERS. YOU ARE ALWAYS IN IT FOR YOUR OWN ENTERTAINMENT. BUT IF YOU WORK FOR ME, A MAN OF YOUR POWER, I WOULD PREFER IT IF YOU *DID* CARE ABOUT WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO!" Though he doesn't get too uppity about it, preferring instead to adjust his bowtie, "YOU'VE PUT IN A LOT OF EFFORT TO HELP ME WITH MY AIRSHIP, SO, I SHOULD HOPE IT ISSSSN'T A LONG CONFUSING GAME."

Alastor

A game? At that, Alastor draws back a little. He still thinks—? Well, of course, still. Of course still. It’s only been a few months. He’s going to be proving himself for years. He’s going to be proving himself for DECADES. “Oh, I get most of my entertainment from schadenfreude, that much is true—but with the hotel, I’m hoping to get my schadenfreude by watching it crash and burn. Around YOU, I get my schadenfreude from all the people you’ll be crushing on the way up.” A dark smile—almost a conspiratorial one, as if they’re discussing secret plans rather than goals that Sir Pentious regularly announces at top volume. “There’s very little interesting about man challenging the devil and losing—it’s what everyone expects, isn’t it? It’s the inevitable, the status quo. I can watch an overlord fail at that any day of the week. But man OVERTHROWING the devil—a mere mortal, rising up from the mud, becoming something greater than one of the very celestial powers that govern the universe—now THAT, that IS a show worth seeing! I want to see hubris rewarded!”

His eyes are glowing brighter as he leans closer to Sir Pentious. “And all of us who are so strong because of our postmortem superpowers, we dealmakers and bargainers—I don’t think any of us stand a chance. We’re just borrowing a measure of the power of infernal demons and fallen angels. A moon can’t outshine the sun whose light it’s reflecting. The only one who can do it must be a master of the one completely human power of creation: invention. It’s you or nobody. And ‘nobody’ is a terribly boring story.”

Sir Pentious

Their faces are practically together, these weird old men. His hood floops outward, and he stares at Alastor with all of his glowing red eyes. Menacing man. Sir Pentious cannot hold back the shrill cackle of glee that escapes his throat. "OF COURSE, YOU ARE CORRECT, ALASSSTOR! I BROUGHT INNOVATION TO THIS INFERNAL CESSPOOL-- EVERYTHING THAT I HAVE, THAT I AM, I BUILT IT MYSSSSELF, I WORKED FOR IT!!! THEY WILL ALL REGRET LAUGHING AT ME ONCE MY FACE IS *EVERYWHERE.*"

He loved to be praised, so much. Look at him preening again, it gave color to his patterns and his ego hungered for more. Power coursed through his veins at the mere thought of being better than everyone else. His blood would taste sweet with ambition.

Alastor

“If one knows where to look, in one way or another your influence is visible in every building down here. You’ve already shaped Hell! Anyone who doesn’t recognize that is an idiot!” And that kind of technological prowess MATTERS to Alastor, whatever the TV/satellite/computer/Internet bozos think to the contrary. He lived a life on the technological cutting edge. “Once your face is everywhere, if you command it, they won’t be AROUND to regret it anymore.”

And oh, he can’t wait to see it.

In the meantime, seeing Sir Pentious with his ego freshly fluffed is nearly as good a sight. For a moment Alastor swears Sir Pentious looks more *vivid.* Alastor has to force himself to lean back before he does something stupid.

Sir Pentious

He's polishing his talons on his suit, then admiring them as if they were freshly painted. Sir Pentious *purrs*, looking over to Alastor without turning his head, and all of his eyes follow suit.

"MM. YOU KNOW JUSSST WHAT TO SSSAY. I'VE MISSED HAVING YOU AROUND, MY FRIEND."

Alastor

“I’ve missed *being* around.” There’s an edge of desperation to his tone before he reels it back in. Professional charismatic radio host voice. “Everyone else down here is so boring. You can’t imagine!”

Sir Pentious

"HA!" He wiggles his talons as he begins to slither around, over and under various pipes and cables, maneuvering his lengthy body with ease and fluidity. "OH, I ASSURE YOU, I CAN! I HAVE BEEN HERE MUCH LONGER THAN YOU, ALASSSTOR. THERE WAS A TIME I USED TO BE EAGER TO ENCOUNTER NEW ARRIVALS, TO SSSEE HOW THE WORLD HAD CHANGED AS TIME WENT ON, BUT THEY BECAME SSO MUCH MORE **BORING**. TRUE CLASS AND SSTYLE HASS BEEN LOSST TO THE LIVING WORLD, YOU UNDERSTAND."

Alastor

"True enough! Everything's so... *cheap* these days." He watches Sir Pentious slither around. "Somebody's got to show these sinners some proper class and style. And if you want something done right..."

Sir Pentious

Glowing eyes in shadows, anywhere that's not lit up by the extra lights Sir Pentious has added. It's a stark contrast from light to shadow, and he beams, coming up behind Alastor, though carefully. He doesn't touch him, "YOU NEED ONLY LOOK TO SSSIR PENTIOUS! HA!!"

Alastor

He glances back over his shoulder without turning, beaming back just as brightly. "And truer words were never said."

Sir Pentious

Just two guys being dudes.

"ALASSSTOR, IT REALLY IS INTERESTING THAT YOU DON'T WANT *MORE.* YOU REALLY COULD HAVE IT ALL... OH, BUT THEN WE REALLY WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO CHAT LIKE THIS, EH? WHAT A SHAME! CAN'T HAVE THAT."

Alastor

“Can’t have that!” He turns to lean back against a table so he can see Sir Pentious directly again. “I COULD, but I don’t WANT it all. I’m an entertainer, not a... a mad scientist warrior king. YOU could have a stupendous career as a circus contortionist, but I doubt you’d be any more content with that than I would be stuck on a throne making tedious decisions about infernal infrastructure and Hellish cabinet posts. I don’t want subjects—I want an audience.”

His smile twitches toward a grimace. He mutters, “I wouldn’t mind more of *that*—but I certainly wouldn’t get it as a conqueror.”

Sir Pentious

"WELL, I COULD GET YOU AN AUDIENCE! ONCE I'VE TAKEN THIS EMPIRE FOR MYSELF, THERE SHALL NOT BE ANY EMPTY SEATS TO WORRY ABOUT!" He beams, spreading out his arms, "AND THEN! OH, WELL, WE'D HAVE TO CHANGE THINGS UP EVERY FEW YEARS, SO IT DOESN'T BECOME BORING."

Alastor

"Would you?" Alastor brightens again. "I mean, I know you COULD do that, no doubt there—but would you really?"

Sir Pentious

Look at him smiling. He's smiling so much at Alastor. "WHY, OF COURSE! IF WE ARE WORKING *TOGETHER*, THEN I HAVE NO ISSUE WITH THAT. IT WILL BE *FUN* WATCHING WHATEVER YOU DO TO THEM!"

He flicks his talons this way and that, slithering through the pipe maze again. *Enrichment.*

Alastor

His eyes glitter at the thought of it. A captive audience, provided by no less a personage than the ruler of Hell. True, he’d rather his audience listen to him out of adoration rather than fear—he’s an entertainer, after all!—but they can work out the details later. He was adored before. All he needs is to be listened to again, to be given a chance to prove himself, and he’ll be adored again. He’s sure of it.

“I’m counting that as a promise!” Oh, he’s excited just as the THOUGHT of it. He taps a foot on the floor as some bouncy Harlem stride plays in the background under his words. “If you’re irritated now at me for remembering things you did weeks ago, you’re going to hate me when I remind you about this promise in a few years! Ha!”

Sir Pentious

A cackle from the rafters as Sir Pentious slithers around up there.. He finally hangs upside down in front of Alastor with that large familiar grin.

"OH, I AM CERTAIN I WON'T HEAR THE END OF IT! BUT I CANNOT IGNORE THAT YOU HAVE *HELPED* ME. I DISLIKE BEING INDEBTED TO ANYONE, BUT I CANNOT PRETEND OTHERWISE!"

He tips his hat, which is miraculously staying on his head.

"I DO NOT SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU, BUT I COULD PUT IT IN WRITING."

Alastor

“Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary!” Pause. “But I’d love it if you did!” He scoops up the nearest blank-looking piece of paper and a pen, steps sideways into an unexpectedly large shadow, and somehow emerges from it next to Sir Pentious, standing upside-down on the ceiling next to him. “So it’s to be a formal agreement, then, is it!”

He looks all dramatic standing there upside-down for a grand total of three seconds, before his clothing remembers gravity and the tail of his coat fwoofs down to dangle around his head.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious watches him standing upside down, and he smirks, waving a dismissive hand. "A *PROPER* CONTRACT, ALASSSTOR. I AM A BUSINESSMAN! NO BLANK PAPERSSS HERE. I DIDN'T RUN MY FACTORIESSSS ON BLANK PAPERSSS."

Alastor

“Well, you need a blank paper in order to write the contract on it, don’t you?” He offers over the paper and pen, go on.

Sir Pentious

"I CAN'T WRITE THAT *HERE*, AL! WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR??" He huffs, "I WON'T FORGET, AND IF I DO, YOU WILL REMIND ME!"

Alastor

"Not if you're going to get on my case about reminding you." He drops the pen and paper. The paper flutters slowly down to the ground. "It was a nice sentiment, all the same."

Sir Pentious

Oh look at Alastor getting huffy. Sir Pentious frowns, slithering down to retrieve the paper and pen, "DON'T THROW A *FIT*, I AM NOT GETTING ON YOUR *CASE.* I SAID WHAT I MEANT! YOU WILL REMIND ME, I AM COUNTING ON YOU."

Alastor

Only very lightly huffy; and more for the drama of it than anything else. Still, the idea of being *counted on* makes him perk up. Doesn't that sound all official.

He melts back into the shadows to reappear again next to Sir Pentious. "Then I guess I'll just have to pester you about it sometime!"

Sir Pentious

"YESSS, THAT ISS THE POINT. I HAVE A LOT OF THINGSS TO KEEP TRACK OF. ONCE I AM PROPERLY IN MY AIRSHIP, AND IT ISS OFF THE GROUND, I WILL SET UP THE CONTRACT AND TYPE IT UP ALL NICE. SCRIBBLING IT DOWN ON SSOME BLANK PAPER HARDLY BEFITSSS A HELLISH GENTLEMAN SSUCH AS MYSELF." He gestures to Alastor's suit, "YOU MIGHT ENJOY A PATCHWORK SSTYLE, BUT I DO NOT! NONE OF THAT 'MAKE DO' ATTITUDE, SSSIR."

Alastor

"I happen to like handwritten legal documents! It makes them feel important. Like the Declaration of Independence." He pauses and thinks that over. "That doesn't carry much weight with you, does it? All right, typewritten it is! But I expect to see a draft before you ask me to sign. I have to make sure the terms are equitable, after all."

Sir Pentious

He leans all close to Alastor again.

"OH? EQUITABLE HOW SSSSO? WORRIED I'LL SSSIGN YOU INTO FORCED LABOR, ALASSSTOR?"

Alastor

"Worried you'll let me off too easy," he says dryly. "What if you do something like say you're going to do this big favor for me on the basis of our current friendship and my prior services rendered? What about future services? What if I never do anything else for you ever again, but this contract still holds you to helping me out? No no no, I won't stand for it! You're offering me an enormous favor, my friend, and I intend to earn it properly!"

Sir Pentious

... Oh. Usually people were expecting Sir Pentious to be the one to pull the rug out from others--this was something he... Somehow didn't see coming at all! Alastor wanted to make sure that he was held to the right standards. Don't mind Sir Pentious, he's just going to be having Feelings over here, looking away. Friend...

"YES, WELL. GOOD! THEN. IT WOULD BE A BIG MISSSSTAKE TO TRY TO MAKE ME LOOK THE FOOL, ALASSSTOR!"

Alastor

"I wouldn't dream of it!" He hesitates; then decides, well, all right, as long as he's saying friendly things already—and knowing Sir Pentious keeps asking for directness—

"Truth be told," he says, casually examining his claws like he's only half paying attention to what he says, "if I ever offered to shake with you on something—and I know you've already said you'll never shake with me, that's fine, but IF I did—that's what would be on the line. No souls. Just an unbreakable guarantee that I can't—betray you." He leaves off the *again* and adds a shrug, like it's no big deal. "I don't think you'll ever want to shake even under those conditions. But, all the same, I thought I'd let you know! Since you keep bringing it up like you think I'm just waiting for some clever opportunity to trick you out of your soul!"

Sir Pentious

There's a sound in his ears, like *ringing.* Sir Pentious could swear he could feel his heart pounding in his ears but only briefly. What was *that* sensation? Generally, he felt aches in his chest like that with Valera when she said something *particularly* caring...but this was Alastor. This was probably just another example of a good friend, and what good friends do. Good friends don't betray one another! Yes, of course.

But he couldn't let it go that easily, his brow creased as he looked the deerman all over. "*WHY?*" It was extremely likely that this Alastor had betrayed the Pentious of his own Hell before. Penny was certain every Al was guilty of that at this point... But why try SO hard? Why be so afraid of angering him? Could guilt alone be such a driving force? It felt like there was a very obvious piece of a puzzle missing to him.

"WHY ARE YOU... WHY DO YOU CARE *SO* MUCH?"

Alastor

"Because you're thirty-three percent of my circle of friends—and the only one of them I viciously, violently backstabbed!" He laughs shortly, and his stomach twists and churns as they delve back into that topic that he always feels lurking just under everything they say.

"I don't know how bad things went in your universe, but here—I... it's no exaggeration to say you might well have been ruling Pentagram City by now—maybe more—if not for me. And if we're going to be friends again, we—I know you still don't trust me fully. You can't. You shouldn't! *I* know I'm not going to betray you again, but am I just supposed to say 'take my word for it'?

"On the other hand, a bargain that means I can't betray you is *cheap* for me—in fact, it's *absolutely free*—because all I'm doing is promising not to do something I wasn't going to do anyway! But for you, why—it would give you a little reassurance without your needing to trust me a lick more! And if it costs me nothing but gives you that much... Speaking as a professional dealmaker, that's a bargain if I've ever heard one."

Sir Pentious

Well, that settled that, didn't it! For friendship. Alastor said it himself! And he made quite a big deal (pardon the pun) of it too. He always talked so much, you'd hardly want for a conversation with him around.

.... Except. That feeling gave Sir Pentious some *concern*. It was still lingering, not as strongly but it was there. He's thinking over something the talkative deerman had said...

".... NOT *ME.* I WAS BETRAYED, YES, AN ALASTOR BETRAYED A SIR PENTIOUS, INDEED.... BUT IT WASN'T *ME*." That was something that had always stuck around, lingered in the pit of his own long intestines. The serpent wrung his hands together, unconscious of his own idle fidgeting.

"IF THE ONLY REASON WE ARE FRIENDSSSS ISSS BECAUSE OF *RESIDUAL* GUILT, ISSNT THAT BOUND TO FAIL, TOO?"

Alastor

He shrugs and nods, granted, yes; they’ve both been content to treat each other as substitutes, even though each knows the other is different. Haven’t they?

But he doesn’t get a chance to address that before a question demands his full attention. “*No!*” The question horrifies him enough that he takes a step closer to Sir Pentious, hands half raised, like he’s bracing to try to stop him from swinging around a knife. “No no no, I—w—if I was motivated by avoiding guilt, then I’d be avoiding *you!* I’ve felt more guilt in the last two months than I have in the last twenty years! No. We’re friends because I *want* your friendship.”

He lets out a rattled laugh. “And you can see how well I’m proving that! I try to reassure you, it makes you worry about something else, now I have to re-reassure you.” He gestures between the two of them. “*This* is why I’m trying so hard. Because I can’t quite get it right yet.” He holds up a finger. “*Yet.*”

Sir Pentious

He's startled by the other's sudden movement, and his hood opens up. Alastor's insistence, that earnest way of speaking. It made that feeling even *stronger.*

He almost expected Alastor to grab his hand, but that didn't happen. Sir Pentious rubbed at his arm.... He's feeling guilty, too. For being so paranoid, skeptical. *Afraid.* It was a lot to think about.

"YET..." He looks away. "... I. AM SORRY, THAT I AM. LIKE THIS."

Alastor

Alastor blinks, then leans back against a work table again. Taking in the apology, turning it over in his mind. It feels like needles lining the inside of his ribs, stabbing when he tries to inhale. “For—for what, a little healthy suspicion? I didn’t get you and you didn’t get got by me, but—your suspicion is more than justified. I don’t hold it against you.” The corner of his mouth twitches weakly. “I’m amazed you’re giving me a chance at all.”

Sir Pentious

A little healthy suspicion? Sir Pentious makes a face, digging his talons into his arm further, scratching now.

"IT *ISN'T* HEALTHY, THOUGH. IS IT." This was a.... Decidedly more vulnerable topic, but this was the boiler room. No one came down here anymore, not since Penny set up shop.

"I AM NOT HEALTHY, NOT IN THE LEAST."

Alastor

Alastor tenses as he sees Sir Pentious’s talons tighten on his arm. He wants to reach out. Instead he just grips the edge of the table with both hands, claws digging into the bottom of it.

“If I were the one in your sh...” No shoes. “... If I were standing where you are? I would never so much as *speak* to a Radio Demon again. No matter what dimension he’s from or what promises he makes. So... I know you've said your mind is unhealthy, but *that suspicion*, I don’t think *that's* unhealthy.” He leans a little closer, not quite getting off the table. “If *you* think it is, I won’t know how unless you tell me.”

(He’s dimly aware that the radio distortion modulating his voice has been ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach—but like the tide going out, steadily declining. He can’t remember the last time he spoke so plainly for more than a sentence or two.)

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious doesn't lean back this time, but he's scrunching up more. His skull is *abuzz* with activity, and what feels like pressure on his brain.

".... YOU WOULDN'T, AND YET, WHEN I BECOME SSSO SSSKEPTICAL, I CAN... *FEEL* LIKE I'VE FAILED. IT TURNSSS ME AGAINSSSST THE ONES I." Love. "THE ONES THAT ARE IMPORTANT TO ME. AND I." Lose them.

He can't even finish his sentence, dragging his talons down his arm, a grounding technique that was more self punishing than helpful.

Alastor

Alastor automatically guesses what the first word left unsaid is. His heart leaps into his throat. He swallows it back down; the word isn’t meant for him.

He can’t watch that clawing anymore. “Maybe I can’t help—I think I’d make a poor alienist—and I can’t speak for everyone else important to you” (he feels daring just including himself on that list) “but, for what it’s worth... I’m hard to break and harder to scare off.” He’s gonna. Just. Carefully reach out, and put a hand on Sir Pentious’s wrist. Hi, can he take that? He’ll even let Sir Pentious claw up his arm instead if he wants. It’s fine if not, he’ll just wait and see.

Sir Pentious

The second his wrist is taken, Sir Pentious' eyes widen *considerably.* There's that rush in his chest, a dull *aching.* The puzzle piece was just out of reach, he could *feel* it.

He doesn't even fight it, even as his mind screams at him, *you failure, you absolute failure, look at you! Might as well offer your neck for the chopping block, you miserable failure.* He *winces*, though it isn't at Alastor. Stressed out tongue flicks, he's having a hard time maintaining eye contact.

".... YOU. PROMISE. YOU HAVE TO *PROMISE* ME THAT YOU WILL NOT... LEAVE." With every second that passes, it is like an eternity of ache in his chest. Similar to when Valera held his hands, rubbed them and spoke to him so softly. Grounding him.

Alastor

Alastor flinches when Sir Pentious winces, but Sir Pentious isn't pulling back, so Alastor isn't either.

"I promise." His voice is so blatantly, embarrassingly human. "I promise that I won't leave." He'd seal it in magic if Sir Pentious would let him. Instead, he just squeezes a little more firmly. "I'm your friend and your ally. I promise."

Sir Pentious

*But why?*

Why did Valera have so much patience? Why did Alastor not hate him? By all rights, he should infuriate them, but instead, they always reached out to him...!

... His eyes snap open wider than ever, and he feels like the last puzzle piece slips into place.

"ALASSSTOR. ARE YOU...?" OH, boy. He wants to be wrong, right now, more than ever, he wants to be wrong. If he *isn't* wrong, then... All of those moments, all of those playful snuggles and schemes.... Well they weren't just friendly, were they?

He's looking very pale, suddenly, a grit teeth sort of look. He's realized it. The reason why he stuck around was the same as a Valera's.

*Love.*

Alastor

Something went wrong. He can see it. "What?" What did he do? What did he say? Was it—?

Is his hand too close to Sir Pentious's? He jerks his hand back. "Sorry! I'm sorry, that was—It's a unilateral promise, not a bargain, I wasn't trying to shake on it."

In his heart he knows that's not the problem. But he can't see what the problem is—unless it's the worst.

He hopes it's not the worst.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious moves back, out of the way suddenly, staring at Alastor like he's a different person.

Was this even *possible?* He.... "ARE YOU IN *LOVE* WITH ME, ALASSSTOR???" Even if the deer said no, Pentious wasn't sure he'd believe him this time. Everything they did together, the way Alastor had warmed up to him, sooner than most others ever would consider...!

He liked him *like that.* And Sir Pentious, lonely Sir Pentious, had never questioned it.

Alastor

His stomach lurches. What did he say wrong? What pushed it over the line? He tries to deny it but all that squeezes out of his throat is static. After months spent trying to reassure Sir Pentious that he DOES value him, that he IS his friend, that he would NEVER betray him again... denying the accusation now would be too much a rejection of everything he's tried to prove.

He sinks down on a bench. He didn't say anything wrong. He said what Sir Pentious needed to hear him say. This was unavoidable.

He tries to give the same response he did to Valera—*no, I'm not; just with someone who looks the same*—but words catch in his throat as he suddenly realizes they're not true anymore. He knows this Sir Pentious too well to still see him the same as his own; but that's done nothing to break his fever. *Damn it.* He twists his hands together and stares down at them, defeated.

Just a few minutes ago, they were...

But Sir Pentious is never going to touch his hands like that again.

Sir Pentious

Of all the things Sir Pentious had expected to come out of this meeting, he couldn't have predicted that Alastor, the Radio Demon, was in love with him. This explained *everything...* Eager for friendship? Wanting so desperately to be around him, to not anger him, to spend as much time as possible?

Love was the *only* answer that made sense. Friendship was difficult enough with the serpent, but love! Oh, this was so much to process. He could only stare down at the deerman. For once, for *once* in his entire unlife, he'd never seen the other so *silent.* Unable to speak, unable to say a thing. Static choking up from his throat, and Sir Pentious found his hands at his own, remembering how it felt to be unable to speak. What to even feel? What could he feel?

Shouldn't he be laughing right now? Feeling so *powerful* for being the object of *Alastor's* affections? This should be making him feel unstoppable, but instead it felt like daggers plunged into his back, dragging down. Every breath wrung with *pain.* Sir Pentious' teeth grit, and he glared, flexing his talons out toward Alastor.

"I LET YOU *TOUCH* ME, I THOUGHT WE WERE *FRIENDSSS*, BUT YOU WERE JUSSSST USING ME, WEREN'T YOU!?" There it was--that hatred for himself bubbling up, paranoia clawing its way out of his throat, "YOU SSSSAY YOU WANTED TO BE MY FRIEND, BUT YOU WERE TRYING TO-- YOU JUSSSssT WANTED--" Wanted what? Alastor hadn't *lied,* he just hadn't been forthcoming. But here, Sir Pentious felt wave after wave of feelings that he couldn't describe. Why did he feel so *betrayed?* "FROM WHENCE DID IT **BEGIN???** HAVE YOU ALWAYSSS BEEN LUSssssTING AFTER ME!? I AM *ENGAGED*, ALASSSTOR!"

He was starting to be so cruel, and he could taste his own venom on his tongue now. Why did it matter this much?

Alastor

He can already see how this is going to end: with Sir Pentious throwing Alastor out of his afterlife completely; with Alastor alone again; with Alastor having merely been taunted for two months with the hope of getting back the best friend he's ever had, before being rewarded for his audacity in daring to think he'd found a cross-dimensional loophole around his rightful punishment for his betrayal.

He can save them both time by apologizing for inconveniencing Sir Pentious, walking out the door, and never coming back.

"I'm sorry." Start there. But he can't let go. (Isn't that the whole problem?) And he can't be the one to turn his back on Sir Pentious. If Sir Pentious throws him out, so be it—but this time, at least, it's going to be for the truth, not for what Alastor leaves Sir Pentious to assume. "For—for what little it's worth—lust never factored into it. And I never—I do—we *are* friends. I've never thought otherwise. I'm not trying to come between you and your fiancée. I've always—I've tried to let you take the lead, to... to decide when and how to touch—*because* we're friends, I—it was your right to set the limits."

Sir Pentious

*For what little it’s worth … we are friends.*

These few words were enough to send stabs of agony through his chest, and Sir Pentious wasn’t much for subtlety. His eyes widened again, and he clutched at where his black heart ought to be. He shouldn’t be feeling enraged, betrayed at all! He shouldn’t be! *Penley, you idiot, what are you doing? So obsessed with yourself, you’re making this all about you, too. Looking for reasons to be alone again, aren’t you?*

But it DID hurt. It *did* hurt. There was something here, something that hurt beyond all measure–if Alastor truly wanted to be his friend, if Alastor, of all damned sinners in this inferno of suffering, truly loved him… wasn’t that a lie? It wasn’t him that he loved, it was… a different man. The same man, but different.

Rage wet his eyes, and he brought up a sleeve to wipe at them–*no*, do not *cry* in front of ~~*your enemies*~~ *anyone else* you damned old fool. Least of all The Radio Demon! Do you want to get laughed at???

*He wouldn’t laugh at me. He is my friend.*

*HE IS NOT* YOUR *FRIEND. YOU ARE A* SUBSTITUTE.

With that wicked quickness the King Cobra is known for, Sir Pentious closes the gap between them, his hood flared out as he bares those yellow fangs of his, “DON’T **FUCK** WITH ME, YOU BASTARD! HOW COULD I SET LIMITS WHEN I THOUGHT ALL IT WAS WAS SSOMETHING WITHOUT SSSUCH FEELINGSSS INVOLVED!? THOUGHT YOU COULD GET A LAUGH OUT OF ME, THE LONELY INVENTOR!!! I WAS JUSSST A SSSSSUBSSSTITUTE FOR YOUR SSSSERPENT. IF YOU HADN’T **FUCKED THINGSSS UP** BACK THEN, THEN WE’D NEVER HAVE BECOME FRIENDSS!!!!”

Oh, he was going for the jugular now. All of that pain was coming out now! And though he’d wiped his eyes, the tears brimming were unmistakable. Lonely Sir Pentious was crying.

Alastor

Alastor leans back when Sir Pentious looms over him, gripping the edge of the bench as he fights down the automatic instinct to defend himself.

*If you hadn't fucked things up*—He flinches like he was slapped. Sir Pentious is right. He's right, and Alastor knows it, and they're the same words he's told himself for the past fifty-four years; but they hurt so much more in that voice. They hurt so much more seeing the fury and pain and tears in Sir Pentious's eyes. The last time he saw Sir Pentious like that, it was among the ruins of his flagship, begging Alastor to explain why he'd just destroyed everything they'd worked for.

And yet, Sir Pentious is *wrong.* "You—think I've been laughing at you?!" He lets out a high, nervous, hysterical laugh—NO that is the EXACT WRONG PANIC REACTION for this situation—he claps a hand over his mouth with the sound of a radio dial firmly clicking off and just shakes his head *no* until he's sure he can control his voice.

"Maybe we wouldn't have met—and maybe you started out as a substitute for mine, but—you aren't now! I know you, not well enough, but well enough to see that the things I value in him *do* exist in you, and where you differ, I value you on your own merits! And if mine slithered in right this second, said all was forgiven, invited me onto his airship, and promised everything I've ever wanted—it would hurt to leave! I'd *miss* the picnics, sitting around watching ASMR videos, sparring with you, figuring out how to cook for you—even how you *breathe.*" He's digging himself the deepest grave Hell's ever seen. At least let Sir Pentious hate him for the right reasons.

Sir Pentious

That was most assuredly the worst possible panic reaction, and it would have ruined whatever it was Alastor was trying to do here–had he not continued. Sir Pentious stared, watching him explain himself, watching him dig a hole so deep he might as well have ended up in Heaven after all.

Perhaps that hole would have made Penny hate him more, but instead… he felt his chest ache further, and he grabbed at his hood, *pulling* it *harshly* to compensate for the pain, to try to keep himself grounded. Alastor was listing off things about him, things that he and Al had done together. Things that were somehow special between the two of them.

Picnics and silly little videos and making ridiculous jokes about things nobody else would care about nor have reference for. Alastor had been the closest in years for someone that Sir Pentious could have related to—he wanted so badly for that companionship, that *understanding* with another demon in Hell who *really understood him.* And now, more than ever, he really had it.

Valera would often list things that Penny did, talked about how much she loved him. The way he is always making some kind of sound, his mannerisms for talking, the way he cares so deeply for her… Every time she’d do so, he could feel his chest swell with such love and passion. It was always too much for him to handle in those moments… words always failed him, he could think of naught to say except “Thank you”, which scraped the bare minimum of how he felt about her.

And Alastor… he had begun to do it, too. It was obvious now, to Sir Pentious, that Alastor had since stopped talking about things that likely *any* Genius Inventor Supervillain had done, and rather had began to talk *specifically* about him. It made him feel seen in ways only Valera had made him feel before.

They *loved* him, and he *hated* himself.

One hundred and fifty years of self loathing

was having a difficult time combatting all of this **love.**

Sir Pentious leaned back, and attempted to speak–he pointed a finger at Alastor, fangs bared as he prepared to let loose into another barrage of insults, of *cutting* words… only to find himself *unable* to speak.

He tried again, and again, to no avail with each attempt. Here he was, forcibly speechless, as panic began to steal him away. His eyes widened further, and he began to scratch at his throat, *furiously ashamed* with this total failure he was showing himself to be. *How pitiful, Sir Pentious. And you wonder why █████ left you. You can never be counted on when you’re needed most.*

Alastor

It's a barbed wire-wrapped sword through his heart when Sir Pentious's expression of fury melts into panic and he starts clawing at his own throat.

"No, oh no." He automatically reaches up, grabs Sir Pentious's hands, and pulls them down. His hands feel like they're holding red hot irons.

"*I'm sorry.* I shouldn't touch you. But I'm not letting you hurt yourself on my account." It's the first time this whole conversation he's felt like he sounds like himself, albeit an unusually serious version of himself. "If you need someone to claw up, let it be me."

Acid blood, Sir Pentious had called it; brain-storms, they were called in Alastor's time—temporary bouts of madness brought on by distress too great for a rational human mind to endure. And Alastor is the one who pushed Sir Pentious into this one. His mind races as he tries to figure out how to fix his damage. (Stupid question. He doesn't fix it. He knows that. Didn't he himself tell Sir Pentious he's better at knocking things down than setting them back up? Didn't Sir Pentious call him a wrecking ball?)

Sir Pentious

They might as *well* have been red hot irons–Sir Pentious’ eyes were glowing brightly, wide as they were. At this proximity, Alastor would be able to feel the tremor running under that grip–He tried so hard to mask it, but he was trembling from the intensity of his emotions.

Still, that *smile.* It wasn’t quite as strong as he knew Alastor was capable of, but the fact he could see it at all cut him to ribbons on the inside. Sir Pentious, in his haze of self loathing and fear of being a joke, took that smile as confirmation despite Alastor only saying the opposite. How many times must he say it before you *believe* him, Penny?

So close now, and he could easily pull away–but instead, he sought to cause pain. This was his way of coping, and he always managed to hurt the ones he cared about. Why should now be any different? He had bitten Valera when he was like a feral beast, and here he would tear Alastor apart in just the way he wanted. After all, he *offered.*

His hood flaring out and a monstrous *hiss* escaping his throat, Sir Pentious lunged his head forward, burying his fangs into the base of Alastor’s neck, right where it met the shoulder. He easily penetrated the flesh, sinking in to the gums as his eyes carried *madness.* Not only had he bitten him, but it was the same place he’d bitten him before, two months ago.

Alastor

He gasps in with an awful feedback noise, pain shooting across his neck and over his shoulder. On some level, he isn't surprised. On some level, he realizes, he was hoping for this.

He doesn't know if Sir Pentious intends it as his forgiveness, his penance, or his punishment.

And between the pain and the uncertainty and the knowledge that even though it's agony he's still not worthy of it—he finally breaks. He bursts into noisy, crackling sobs, his voice hardly audible under the distortion, shaking so hard he might not be able to sit up if Sir Pentious himself wasn't inadvertently holding him up by the shoulder.

"I'm sorry!" He clings desperately to Sir Pentious, he can't stop himself. He's talking fast, words spilling out, trying to get it all out before Sir Pentious stops listening to him for good. "*I'm sorry.* I know you hate how I feel, I hate it too. I'd shut it off if I could! It's why I ruined everything and *ran*, because I'm a *coward* and I was *afraid* of what love would make me—I was afraid of being *this.* I'm sorry you have to put up with it too!"

One hand curls clawlike into Sir Pentious's lapels to pull him closer and his fangs deeper. This is going to be the last time. He has to make it hurt. "I wish it—I *wish* it could have been something good for you. I'd fantasized about confessing someday—when you needed proof of my loyalty, I could have made some—some grand gesture—"here, here's your proof, here's how you know I'll never betray you!" Even if you don't reciprocate, I'd hoped you could—could draw strength from it! Here's one more person who esteems you so highly! Here's one more more person who would give you Heaven and Hell! Here's one more person who would do anything to see you happy and triumphant! But I can't even do that much for you, I—I'm so *sorry*—"

He can't get any more out. His last few words break up like a signal in a tunnel, and all he's left with is wordless sobbing and shaking.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious had a chance now, to spill his venom into Alastor. He had a chance to watch him *writhe* in physical agony to match the swirling intensity that the serpent felt inside. But it was clear, from the way the deerman broke so suddenly in his jaws, that Penny realized there was no need.

Alastor was *shattered* in a way that Penny had never, ever seen him. Never heard him. This man, who carried himself with such superiority and class, now a broken, sobbing ruin of a demon clung to the hellish gentleman’s body. He wasn’t goading him, he wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t destroying everything he’d built only to run off or laugh in his face.

He was just… miserable. And it was misery that Sir Pentious could not enjoy… it reminded him of his own wretched wailing when Valera had been there to hold him, too. Suddenly, Alastor stopped being The Radio Demon to Sir Pentious, and had become something else.

*Al. My best friend. You’re not so bad, you old bastard.*

But he wasn’t in the right mind to forgive him, just yet. Forgiveness… what a laughable thing for a *demon* to consider. He pulled his teeth from Alastor’s neck, staring him hard in the face as tears of his own ran down his cheeks. That horrid smile of Alastor’s, twisted with intense sadness…

“Ssstop *sssmiling*, you imbecile.”

He brings his hands up, grabbing at Alastor’s face with both of them, and *forcing* the corners of that mad grin down, to the best of his ability, even if his talons pinched that face. Once he was done with that, he’d return the hug, tightly, his tail slowly wrapping up the other as the most grounding thing he could think of. Emotional intimacy was not his strong suit, but Valera had taught him some things, too.

“… JUSSST… BREATHE… AT THE SAME TIME AS ME. FOLLOW *MY* LEAD.”

Alastor

He can't meet Sir Pentious's gaze; he squeezes his eyes shut automatically. And immediately opens them again when Sir Pentious touches his face. He's distantly surprised to be told he *is* still smiling. He can't feel it at all. The crumbling remains of his smile collapse effortlessly under Sir Pentious's hands and he bites his lower lip, the corners of his mouth twitching like he doesn't know what to do with them when they aren't twisted up.

Why is he being *held*? He doesn't deserve this. But he leans into it, eyes shutting again, face pressed to Sir Pentious's shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his back. He can feel Sir Pentious's chest rising and falling with each breath—it's the most reassuring feeling, the most reassuring sound in the world. He can breathe. He can do that.

His shuddering reduces, his sobs slowly stop. He isn't sure if he's still crying or if it's just the old tears clinging to his face. But he's breathing. And he's—god, how did this happen?—he's exactly where he's wanted to be for the last fifty-four years.

He croaks, "If you're planning to exterminate me, please make it now." Cue the world's tinniest laugh track.

Sir Pentious

Satan himself, it actually worked. He managed to… calm Alastor down. He’d done exactly what Valera had done for him before, and… well, he sold himself short, now didn’t he? He’d calmed down Valera before, too. Maybe he didn’t destroy everything he touched. Maybe… he was good at maintaining his relationships, after all. Why, these two thought he was good enough to willingly be around, so… maybe he could give himself a chance, too.

The love aspect that was added on… Pentious still wasn’t sure what to do with that. Could he handle knowing that Alastor loved him? That every action between the two of them had this tension? Or would it only have tension if he allowed it to? Sir Pentious bumped his forehead to Alastor’s, a little rougher than usual to at least show he was irritated…

“YOU ARE OFF THE AIR. GIVE YOURSSSELF A BREAK.”

He adjusts the deerman’s monocle, and straightens up his suit, before he reaches into his own suit jacket and pulls out a handkerchief. Penny moves to undo the neck portion of Alastor’s suit, so that he could place the handkerchief inside and on his shoulder–but he stops himself, instead just handing him the cloth.

“…I AM ANGRY WITH YOU. I AM FRUSSSTRATED AND I DO NOT KNOW WHEN I WILL FEEL ABLE TO BE COMFORTABLE WITH YOU AGAIN. BUT I WILL WANT THISSSS HANDKERCHIEF BACK, DO YOU UNDERSSSTAND? SSSSO. DO NOT RUN AWAY FROM ME, ALASSSTOR. I WILL NEVER TALK TO YOU AGAIN IF YOU EVEN *THINK* ABOUT RUNNING AWAY FROM ME.”

His own voice was hoarse, despite how loud it was, and he was clearly tired from crying and shouting. Sir Pentious looked thoroughly tired, as if he had been drinking and yet he’d had not a drop. Emotionally drained, and all out of spoons.

Alastor

Alastor is more than capable of tidying himself up, and under any other circumstances he *would,* irritably pushing off whoever dared try to fuss over him—but it's such a shock that *Sir Pentious* is doing it, and it's so *nice*, he just stands there in stunned silence, letting him.

He numbly takes the handkerchief, and for a moment stares blankly at it before figuring out what it's for. He quickly undoes his bow tie—his fingers twitch when he remembers whose it is—and then hastily undoes his collar and slides the handkerchief under.

"I can send it back this evening after I launder it." His voice is filtered through a radio again—Sir Pentious is wrong, he's *always* on air—with the crackles and pops like an old phonogram record complimenting the hoarseness of his own voice. He looks down to avoid meeting Sir Pentious's gaze, realizes that doesn't solve the problem, and glances to the side. "If you're trying to use the handkerchief to say that you see this ending some way other than never wanting to speak to me again... then be more direct."

A few members of the invisible studio audience weakly chuckle. Alastor waves them off with his free hand, muttering, "Shut *up,* not the time," then winces as the gesture makes his shoulder sting.

Sir Pentious

Ah, he was called out. It gets a frustrated look out of him, but… you know. That’s exactly the kind of thing he’d have said to Alastor, before. Sir Pentious folds his arms, flinching a little as the pain from having scratched at himself reminds him that it is still present.

“… I DON’T WANT YOU TO RUN AWAY FROM ME, BECAUSE I WANT TO SSSEE YOU AGAIN, ON MY TERMSSS. BUT IF I SSEE YOU TOO SSOON… I MIGHT HATE YOU FOREVER.”

A deep inhale, and slow exhale. Sir Pentious slowly unravels his tail from around the other demon, though it remains behind him in case he cannot stand on his own, “… I REQUIRE TIME TO PROCESS THISS, ALASSSTOR. PERHAPSS YOU ARE RIGHT, THAT I SHOULD NEVER WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU EVER AGAIN. BY ALL ACCOUNTSS, I OUGHT TO AGREE WITH THAT AND NEVER SSSPEAK TO YOU AGAIN!”

His tail lashes with some irritability, and now it’s his turn to avoid any kind of eye contact. “… But. I sstill want to. I do not want you to leave. I have… *fun* when you are around. The kind of fun that I never had before… Because. I do not have friends. There are very few people who would want to be around me.” Blast it he was rambling on again. He covers his face with a hand, grimacing as all he can taste on his tongue is Alastor’s blood. It made him dizzy with misery. “I will be on Okkylk. When I am ready to take back the handkerchief, I will pick it up in *person.*”

Alastor

He listens to the half-threats as stoically as he can with his smile missing—he feels naked and raw and exposed—and he fears that with his face twitching after every sentence, it's not nearly as stoic as he'd like to think.

His heart nearly leaps into his throat when Sir Pentious says he wants Alastor to stay—then plummets back down. It's not because it's Alastor's friendship, specifically, that he values; it's because he needs anyone's friendship, and Alastor's the one offering it. Piss-poor and putrid though it is. He already knew that, didn't he? Hadn't he said to Valera that Sir Pentious doesn't like Alastor—he just likes that Alastor likes him? He wishes he could bring anything more to the table than this desperate last resort friendship—but he shot any chances of that in the head decades ago.

He nods wearily. "You know where to find me. You won't hear a peep out of me until you come calling, barring emergencies—overheard assassination plots or the like."

Sir Pentious

How they hated themselves. If he'd known that Alastor had come to that conclusion, well... maybe he'd have said something else. But as it stood, right now, Sir Pentious was beyond exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself up in his fiancee, to breathe her in and feel some form of comfort after all of *this*...

It wasn't fair to think of it that way, he knew that Alastor was suffering, but what could he do? His cup was empty, and he could not pour from it. His eyes looked back up to see that pitiful expression, and... he gestured with his index talon--a smiley face. "... YOU CAN SSMILE AGAIN, ALASSTOR. YOU'RE NOT DRESSED WITHOUT IT." Ha...ha. Ha. He immediately looks like he regrets the sentence before he turns, and begins to slither back through the piping.

How he hated himself, but they loved him.

Alastor

He attempts a smile. He fails. He isn't surprised. He almost responds "*No, I can't,*" but Sir Pentious is dealing with enough of Alastor's personal problems. He doesn't need another.

He watches Sir Pentious go; pulls the bow tie out from around his collar, drops it on the workbench beside the travel mug; and then melts into the shadows.

#hissandvinegar #chat log

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ghoztlinkblot · 3 years

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Chapter 2 - Hero Schools

The Government-Hired Heroes, shortened simply as the GHH for convenience, was a specific branch of the police born around the 12430s as an answer to the growing rise of superpowered crime; if the future of felony was in individual personalities with outstanding traits more so than in large organisations of nameless, faceless crooks, as it had appeared back then, authorities would adapt and follow suit. Originally rather small, it soon imposed itself as a signature part of the police force. As the years passed, and the GHH solidified its political importance and cultural impact, one would have expected more and more abilitied folk to flock to its doors every year; and, though, in some regards, that wasn’t inaccurate, the truth was a bit more complicated.

While back in the first few months of 12417, abilities were brand new, flashy and rare, assuring anyone who had them to be put into the spotlight, advantaged regardless of what the ability actually was, the First Supervillain crisis just half a year later proved how unstable the status of abilitied people was. Even after the abilitied revolt, Scarlet Maylis’ government and reforms, and abilities becoming an everyday thing, over the following century, this trend only worsened. The GHH had more stories wherein everything went wrong than of normal, successful heroes, it seemed. The truth was, the media simply made more noise for those trashy tales, but that was enough to stain te GHH’s reputation. And it all had started with its inception.

Scarlet Maylis, or the iconic “magical girl” Bleeding Heart, generally seen as the de facto leader of the First District, a movement spawned in response to the First Supervillain discourse to offer the discriminated abilitied an outlet, and that had eventually grown to carry out a full-on coup d’état, defending the rights of her kin all throughout the country, had gradually grown more and more extreme in her views once put in charge of the government. While many still remembered Bleeding Heart, and that cute little cheerleader chant - “B, L, E! E, D, I! N, G, ♡!” - fondly, her role as a quasi-dictatorial leader was controversial, splitting the public opinion to this day. And the Government-Hired Heroes, born under her jurisdiction, were stained with a similar reputation. One of the first big GHH controversies was that of Adrian and Luna Maylis, Scarlet’s own children and some of the first-ever GHH heroes, enrolled in their youth and who’d both run away from that responsibility before they’d even hit their coming of age - sixteen years old. Though they both eventually returned and enrolled back into the force after all just a few years later, the damage was done.

But besides the GHH and its leaders’ own faults, heroism just didn’t have as favourable an image as many other jobs. As a result of Maylis’ politics, abilitied folk had become the majority; it was no longer a standout category that ensured you an edge others didn’t have on the job market. Plus, heroism didn’t pay all that well, and the interviews were infamous for being especially harsh. Many parents therefore advised their offspring against pursuing such a career, and even if many GHH-philes still enrolled by dozens into the GHH, it found itself short on staff by the turn of the century.

The government needed to find a way to solve this. While heroism itself was in deficit, the capital’s culture, tourism and advertising depended on its theatrics. They had to make heroism more appealing, to stop abilitied people from picking other careers, or worse, using their abilities for crime and further overworking the GHH. Investing remarkably high amounts of money, they came up with an eccentric solution : hero schools.

Entirely government-funded, they were free, well-furnished schools who, on top of teaching typical subjects, promised to raise children into the GHH-compliant heroes they were always meant to be. In other words, they were free schools that ensured a stable, guaranteed job to anyone who passed with decent honours, right upon graduation. Heroes, vigilantes and villains had always been most popular amongst children; to them, there was a certain prestige to attending such a school, which made them brag about it to their friends and peers, who in turn whined to their parents to let them attend as well. Add in a few meaningless advantages and coupons, and the formula was complete; not only that, it was successful.

The GHH went from accepting any old resume that still dared come their way to reaffirming its cutthroat reputation as a prestigious organisation; it seemed nearly impossible to be hired for one who hadn’t graduated from a hero school. The two institutions grew almost indissociable over time; The hero-school grading system - C, B, A, S - became a standard of the GHH itself, which now categorised its numerous employees in the same way; C rank, B rank, et cetera. These ranks were made public as well, as fans loved to tier and compete, and reflected a difference in workload, work ethic and efficiency expected from different heroes, as well as the way they were treated. Salary, leniency of their superiors, general authority within the workplace; a bonafide hierarchy formed between employees that, on paper, shared the same contracts and jobs.

The rankings became more and more central to the GHH’s inner workings over time, and would determine things such as which heroes were paired up together; Bs with Bs, As with Cs, and Ss by themselves. In other words; As got to boss Cs around, Ss had private offices, and Bs did most of the work on their own. There were exceptions - the Golden Trio was allowed to work together, thanks to the influence of Bonnie’ family - but they were few, and didn’t change the overall situation.

The inequalities leaked out of the GHH’s walls, spreading to the capital as a whole. Non-abilitied folk, who had already become a minority, were now further disadvantaged; while, technically, one was not required to have an ability in order to be hired by the GHH, as that would’ve legally counted as discrimination, it was indeed a requirement in order to be enrolled into hero school, as that legally counted as a necessary credit. Thus, non-abilitied kids would often be shunned by their classmates, or even their own parents.

Still, it wasn’t as though every kid wanted to pursue that career path, nor like every parent was willing to support such a choice. Many abilitied people still led typical studies; such was Neville Elire Schifozzo. Born to a lower middle-class family, he had no interest in heroism; he’d attended public education, been taught plumbing, and worked as a plumber from age sixteen to age thirty-two, married and divorced. Somewhere along the way, he’d longed for something else. Something more. Anything, maybe. Or something specific. Either way, that desire had led him to the GHH. But how could he hope to be hired given his education? Simple: His ability.

Though it looked like simple teleportation at first, it was completely different, and unlike anything that had ever been seen before. Manipulating space was as close to reality warping as abilities had gotten since the death of Providence, a sister-in-arms of Scarlet and the rest of the First District, who had the ability to manipulate events, people, probabilities and their consequences themselves. While nothing as all-encompassing as that, Spatial Plumber’s ability was still leagues above average, with endless potential for defense, offense, sneaking, information-gathering and all other purposes. And yet… his unwillingness to speak up about it and lack of proper experience in the heroism field landed Neville at a solid B. Thus, he ended up teamed up with another B ranking hero: Bubblegum.

She was what Neville had been looking for. Not in any romantic sense, but more generally, in his life. She had the spunk, the energy, the optimism that he had lost, if he ever had it. She quite simply lit up his life. She liked his company too; he was entertaining, honest, simple, and polite. Their friendship was clear to see in how they worked together. Something tied that quiet, unassuming man and that loud charismatic girl together, whatever it was. Maybe that was why they would both, separately, end up quitting the GHH to do their own thing.

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#superhero #capepunk #thriller #ongoing series #novel #online novel #oc #original character #writer #independent #writting #creative writing #character drama

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pandoraimperatrix · 4 years

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I’ll Take Care Of You, If You Ask Me To

@pcgasuss asked me for jealous Dick. I’m not very good writing about jealousy, but I tried.

Summary: Dick should have known that Kory and Bruce talking was not the best news to him.

1,7K | DickKory | Fluff | Read on AO3

The echo of Kory’s laugh grabbed Dick’s attention in midsentence. She was all the way across the room, actually not in the room at all, but you could see her, and Bruce, talking through the glass.

“Dick?”

“Hm?” He turned attention back to the boys slowly. Conner had his whole face frowned in confusion. It was hard to make Gar smile these days, but he had an amused glint in his eyes.

“Forget it, Con. He’s gone outer space now.”

Conner looked even more confused. Dick sighed and pretended he didn’t hear it.

“Anything else?” Dick asked dryly.

“Yeah, like you could even remember we were talking about.” Mocked Gar.

“Of course I remember.”

“What was it, then?”

“It was…” Kory laughed again, this time a little bit louder, Dick had to bite the insides of his cheeks to control the urge to just nap his head in her direction again.

“Exactly.” Said Gar very pleased with himself. “Come on Con, let’s play some videogames.”

“Only an hour, then bed. I want you both well rested tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Goodnight, Dick.” Dick gave the boy a tight smile and nodded, Conner turned back to Gar. “Should we invite Hank and Rose?”

Gar answered something, but Dick didn’t listen as they walked away. He took a sip of his orange soda, wishing it was something stronger than sugar and watched them with the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t ignore the fact that both his surrogate father and his… Well, Kory wasn’t his to begin with, but they were both naturally flirty people. Kory was just too charming to her own good, no, scratch that, she was too charming for everyone’s around her own good. The charisma that Bruce so meticulously learned to perform, the same that he tried so hard to make Dick copy and never quite succeeded, Kory had it effortlessly. And Dick knew Bruce very well, there was no way he wouldn’t make any moves, even though the probabilities of him following through with them were quasi none. After all if Batman had something was work ethics. And yet… What was he saying that was so funny? A voice inside his head that sounded terrible like Donna was calling him a paranoid freak and explaining to him in painstaking detail how he had no claim for the feelings brewing in his chest. But it shut up in silent panic when he saw Kory touch Bruce’s arm. When Dick noticed he was already getting hit on the face by the cold wind as he reached the veranda.

“Hey.” Greeted Kory, the easy smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes.

“Nice of you to joying us, chum.”

“Chum?” Asked Kory in obvious delight. A little too much. She was not drinking orange soda.

Dick winced.

“Can you not call me that?”

“Why not?” Was that a little bit of genuine hurt that he was seeing on Bruce’s eyes?

“Because I’m not twelve anymore.”

“See what I was telling you, Miss Anders?”

Kory fell in a fit of giggles, and Bruce smiled fondly at her. Dick felt panic bubble inside him. He hated how Bruce would make him feel like a teenager ager just by being around.

“What? What is happening? What were you telling her?”

“About how adorable you were as a child.” Managed Kory holding on to Dick to keep straight. Her hand on his shoulder was cold. Dick frowned. It wasn’t like he spent hours and hours of what should have been sleep reliving every time she touched him but she never felt cold before, actually, she used to be almost feverish. “Nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“I can’t help but doubt it.”

“Don’t you trust me, Dick?” Asked Bruce prying Dick’s eyes from Kory’s.

“With my dignity? Not at all.”

“You hurt me, son.”

“What did you tell her, Bruce?”

“Oh, this and that.”

“Kory?”

“Oh, cool off. It was nice to hear about baby Dick Grayson. Even though by the stories you didn’t change very much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bruce here was telling me about how seriously you took yourself, and that, what was her name? Selena?”

“Selina.” Corrected both men together.

“Yes, Selina, she was the best at making you lose it and act like a kid.”

“That’s because she was infuriating.” But when he looked at Bruce his face was softer and when he asked had a note of hopefulness. “Heard from her lately?”

Bruce straightened himself slightly, an act that would pass unnoticed to anyone, but that brought a tiny smile to Dick’s lips. So that explained the whole easy mood of lately.

“Yes, actually.” He cleaned his throat. “She has been around. But we were talking about you…”

“Around? How much around? Is she okay?”

“She is, yes.”

“And you both…?”

“What?”

“Come on, Bruce!”

Bruce just took a sip of his drink and pretended to look at something else far away. Kory just watched their back and forth like it was a very entertaining game.

“Did Jason meet her?”

Bruce sighed.

“Yes, they’ve met.”

“What? They didn’t get along?” Dick’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “They are so alike…”

“Maybe too much you could say.”

“Sorry to hear that, B.”

“It’s alright.”

Deciding to give Bruce a break, he turned back to the woman by his side.

“What else did he tell you, Kory?”

He tried to pretend he didn’t notice that her hand haven’t left his person, slipping from his shoulder to his arm, and that now she was making doodles with the tip of her fingers giving his tingles. Bruce also noticed, but besides making sure to let Dick know he did with an inquisitive look, he didn’t say anything about it.

“Well… He showed me picture too… of your first suit.”

“No…” His eyes widened in terror.

“The little short was so cute, Dick! And the booties. Adorable! I sent a picture to Rachel already.”

“You did not!”

“I did! My batteries died so I don’t know her reaction yet…” She pouted.

Horror spread over Dick’s face and he turned to his mentor.

“Why? Why do you have that with you?”

“To look at it, of course, since I so rarely get to actually see you these days. I carry it in my wallet.” Said Bruce proudly.

“You!” He pointed to Bruce. “And you Koriand’r, I thought you were my friend.”

“Such a drama queen.”

“I know.” Agreed Bruce, “and you believe he never even took acting lessons?”

“No. You two talking was a horrible idea.”

“Well, I thought it was loads of fun. But you, Dick Grayson. You have no such concept.” And to Dick’s complete shock she gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight, Bruce. It was lovely to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, Miss Anders.”

“If I have to call you by your first name, you can just call me Kory too.”

“Very well. Goodnight, Kory.”

She just smiled before leaving, her hand lingering on Dick’s arm before she was completely gone.

“So…” Said Bruce when Kory was far-gone. “There is no chance you are coming back, then.”

“I can’t leave the Titans.”

“The Titans?” Bruce scoffed. “Sure.”

“Why are you insinuating?”

“Me? Nothing. But well, I always thought that eventually you and Barbara would settle down, I can see now it will hardly happen.”

“Bruce… Me and Babs haven’t been a thing since high school.”

“I know… I know. But Kory is really a formidable woman. Take good care of her.”

“I’m not seeing Kory either, Bruce.”

“Whatever you say, chum. I’m also going to bed. Long trip back home tomorrow. Goodnight, son.”

“Bruce, I’m not-“

But the man completely ignored Dick, leaving him alone with his feelings and the cold air.

Later, when Dick arrived at his room, he learnt that there was already someone occupying his bed.

“Kory? What are you doing here?”

She purred softly, he had to ask her about that one day. And opened one shiny green eye.

“Dick? Shit. I think I got rooms wrong.”

“Kory, are you okay?”

She sighed, trying to lift her body starting from her head, but no such luck.

“No… Not really. Can I… I mean. Just for sleep?”

He should say no. He really should say no and help her to her room.

“Yes. Sure.”

“Thanks.”

And she didn’t say anything else for so long he was sure she was asleep.

He washed himself and joined her in bed. As soon as he got under the covers, her static form gained movement and she turned to him, pushing her face against his chest. He felt a sense of familiarity and relief so strong, he wondered if it was like that when Hank took heroin.

“I’ve missed you.” He heard she whisper sleepy.

He leaned into her hair, letting himself inhale her scent.

“I miss you too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“So many things…”

Dick kissed the crown of her head, his fingers getting used to the new texture of her hair. It was so silky now, he missed the fluffiness from before.

“Me too.” He sighed. “Rest, Kory.”

He was sure she was sleeping when he heard she giggle softly.

“What is it?”

“Your dad is hot.”

“Oh my god, Kory.”

She giggled again and looked up to him.

“You are hotter.”

And then she kissed him. He held her impossibly close, and her hand felt warmer when she cupped his face, not hot as it used to be. But her lips didn’t taste the same either, the taste was somehow stronger, more intoxicating, and as he bite them softly they were even more thicker than he remember or fantasied about, her tongue even more talented. But he forced himself to breathe before the kiss consumed them both. Kory was acting so weird. He couldn’t. Not like that.

He pulled away avoiding her seeking lips and kissed her forehead.

“Go to sleep Kory, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

She sighed and got more comfortable against him.

“Goodnight.”

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Another fluffy piece. It’s my headcanon that the reason why Titans Bruce is like that is because he eloped with Selina and is living his best life lmao. Kory in this story is a bit OOC, I think she is so out of it because all her recent losses that she is trying so hard to feel anything else that’s why she is acting so weird. It was nice to write this one. I hope you enjoyed to read it too, and if you did, let me know.

Likes are awesome but if you want to support me please reblog <3

#dickkory #robstar #dick grayson #starfire #koriand'r #kory anders #dcu titans #titans live action #batcat #my fic

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higuchimon · 3 years

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[fanfic] Fair Won Prize: Chapter 1

It wasn’t much of a tavern, really. One room, a dozen or so tables scattered around, all of them battered and knife-scarred, and the chairs set before them not that much better. On one side a fireplace kept the room warm, or made a reasonably good attempt at such anyway. The chimney was in good enough condition that the smoke wended its way out of it instead of into the tavern itself.

Vector sniffed at the sight of it, lip curling. “There isn’t anywhere better?”

“Not around here,” Durbe replied, catching the eye of the tavern owner and gesturing him over. “And not that we could get to before that storm breaks.”

“Are you sure it’s going to be a storm?” Vector wanted to know. He wasn’t pouting by any means; this place just looked like trouble waiting to happen.

Vector had no problems with trouble. He just preferred to be the one starting it.

“Gilag is and that’s good enough for me,” Alit said, hands on his hips. “You wanna argue about that?”

Vector sniffed once again but subsided, for the most part. He followed the rest of the group over to the largest table, suitable for seven people only if they were close enough to one another.

Vector made a point to sit next to Mizael. He’d made a point of doing that everywhere they could for the last three months, since they’d formed their little band of adventurers. For one thing, Mizael was the absolutely prettiest of the seven of them, and Vector saw no reason to deny himself an attractive view.

Sitting here also provided him with the chance to remain hidden from most of the other people in the tavern, because they weren’t alone there. With Mizael in his sight and the various groups of thugs, mercenaries, and dimwits out of his sight, Vector thought spending the time of the storm here might be tolerable.

“What can I get for you fine folks?” The tavern owner asked once they’d settled in. “Gotta tell you, we probably don’t have what high-born folks like you are used to.”

Durbe offered a smile. “You might be surprised what we’re used to. But a good round of ale should do for a start.”

Mizael cleared his throat and Durbe chuckled. “I’m sorry. A round of ale for everyone else and if you have some sort of wine, my elven friend here would much prefer that.”

The tavern owner peered at Mizael, who peered right back, head held up high and with a light tilt to his head, asking without words if there were some kind of issue to his presence there.

“A genuine elf? We don’t get many of your – we haven’t seen too many elves around here in the longest time,” the tavern keeper declared. Vector did not like the sudden switch of words, nor did he like the way the keeper kept on staring. Granted, Mizael was attractive, but he was also Vector’s.

He just hadn’t gotten around yet to admitting it. But Vector had plans on that score.

Before the tavern keeper could scurry off, Gilag raised his hand for attention. “Could you bring me some water?” His hand dropped back down, petting Ponta, and the keeper’s gaze followed that way, blinking at the sight of the tanuki.

“O-of course, sir! I’ll be back right!”

He hurried out of sight, eyes still a little round in surprise. The tavern just had one room, but a curtain hung in between the majority of the room and where he presumably kept his stock of liquor. They could hear him moving around back there, pouring out ale, wine, and water.

“So you’re an elf.”

Vector turned back to see half a dozen grungy guys, who looked as if they at best had a nodding acquaintance with a toothbrush and a comb, but probably hadn’t bothered to see a tailor about mending their clothes in some time. Patches and stitched up tears were all done in a very slapdash, haphazard fashion. But to make up for that, every one of them stood a minimum of six feet tall, with muscles on top of muscles, and they all wore nearly identical sneers.

The one in the front, who’d spoken, had his eyes burning toward Mizael, who barely gave them so much as a look. Alit, however, grinned mischievously.

“You’re an elf, Mizael? Why didn’t you tell us?” He reached over to poke at the blond. “Do we really know you, then?”

Mizael rolled his eyes. “I would’ve thought the evidence would be obvious.”

The leader of the intruders glowered at them both. “I was talking to him. No one said you could interfere.”

“You were talking at him,” Ryouga said, his voice dangerously quiet. “I don’t think any of us are interested in a conversation with you.”

Mr. Muscles – as Vector mentally dubbed him, for lack of neither knowing nor caring what his actual name might be – glared at them all, rolling his tattered sleeves up to expose his arms. “I wasn’t talking to you, either!” He took a better look at Ryouga, then started to laugh. “What are you, some kind of a musician? Get out of here with that kind of junk.” He turned his gaze back toward the others. “Can any of you put up a decent fight? It gets boring around here when the weather gets bad.”

He sneered for a moment. “Well, any of you except the pretty elf and the musician.”

The looks exchanged were quicker than lightning and ended with Ryouga rising to his feet.

“Oh, no, I said not you!” Mr. Muscles laughed raucously. “I wouldn’t want to break your delicate hands!”

Ryouga sounded more annoyed than anything else. “If you want a fight, you’re going to get it with me.”

The whole bunch of toughs laughed even harder. Mr. Muscles shook his head and cracked his knuckles hard. “Well, if that’s the way you want it. Just don’t blame me when you can’t warble a tune or play an instrument anymore.”

Vector leaned forward, a gleam of mischief in his violet eyes. “Let’s make this more interesting. I’ll wager a silver that Ryouga puts you on your back in under three hits… and that you never lay so much as a finger on him.”

Mr. Muscles stared at Vector as if he’d never seen someone like him before. “You’ve gotta be joking! What, are you new?”

One of his buddies leaned forward as well. “I dunno, boss, I think we should take his money once you’re done.” A greedy smirk twisted his lips. “I say we take all of his money when you’re done.”

Vector smirked right back at him. I am going to kill you. “Let’s see how this fight comes out first.”

Mr. Muscles and Ryouga moved to the center of the room, Muscles’ minions moving the other tables and chairs out of the way to clear a space. Muscles flexed.

“Remember, all the pain you’re going to have is your own fault. Don’t blame me for it,” Muscles declared. “Got it?”

“Got it.” Ryouga looked more or less bored with the whole thing. Vector wondered where their ale was; it couldn’t take that long to pour out their drinks.

Then Muscles threw a fist at Ryouga, a hit that if it had connected would’ve probably hurt most people.

Ryouga stepped back and moved around, still looking as if this were the worst way to spend an afternoon he could think of, and not out of fear of being beaten up.

Muscles snarled at Ryouga’s near-effortless dodge, and the three or four that followed. “Stop running away! You’re not fighting!”

“All right, if you insist.” Ryouga shrugged before he powered one fist directly into Muscles’ chin, packed with every ounce of his strength behind it.

Muscles blinked. His eyes slowly rolled up to the back of his head and he fell over, not moving. One of his toughs dropped down next to him, hand to his throat. Vector approved of killing a leader while he was down. Perhaps this one showed a little sense.

Then the tough moved back. “He’s alive. He’s just out like a candle.”

Vector mentally sighed. It was so hard to find good assassins these days.

Then he smiled, looking at the rest of them. “I believe I won our wager. Hand over my money.” His eyes flicked from one to the other of them. “I think one silver from all of you will do.” And it would pay for their drinks, too, once the tavern keeper finally brought them out.

Two of the toughs dragged Mr. Muscles out of the tavern while the one who’d spoken up before now started to count out pieces of silver. Vector recounted them openly before he swept them into a neat stack.

“All right. The fun’s over, go away now.” He gave a little flick of one hand before he settled back into his dark cozy corner, quite satisfied with events so far.

The tavern keeper hurried over, carrying their drinks on a tray, and settled it down on the table in front of them. “Sorry for taking so long,” he apologized. “But I heard what was going on and I didn’t want to get in the middle of it and mess your drinks up.”

Ryouga shrugged, reaching for one of the mugs – which at leas looked clean – and tossing it back so fast Vector doubted that he even tasted it. “Sorry for any damages.”

The tavern keeper only shrugged. “Bejt and his group do that kind of thing whenever there’s new people in town. I’m used to it. Your drinks are on me tonight, and just tell me when you want to stop.” He turned toward Gilag, mouth open to ask something else, and froze.

Gilag set the bowl of water he’d been drinking from on their table, while Ponta peered up from where he held the mug of ale in his own paws. The tavern keeper blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then hurried out of sight, leaving them to their drinks.

“I don’t care how much money he could bring in if he’s a real bard,” Bejt growled, staring into the spotted mirror and trying to decide how much of what he saw was because of the low quality of the glass and how much was from that one hit that ridiculous musician landed on him. “I’m going to kill him and I’m going to have fun doing it.”

One of his assistants reached as if to pat him on the shoulder and got a death-glare sharp enough to cut paper from his efforts. He pulled his hand back and managed a quick smile. “Of course you will, boss. Doesn’t matter how good they are, once they finish drinking the good stuff, they’re not gonna be going anywhere we don’t want them to.”

Bejt grinned, showing a mouth that wasn’t nearly as full of teeth as someone without his lifetime of brawling would have. “That elf’s not going anywhere, not until I’m done with him. I’m going to have some fun and then when he’s nice and obedient, I know a goodplace to sell him. He’ll make us enough of a fortune to last for the next twenty years!”

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” One of his other assistants spoke up, a nervous twitch to one eye. This wasn’t surprising; Olan twitched about everything. “I mean, they’ve got horses. And one of them is a winged horse. And all that armor. And weapons.” He shuddered, ducking his head. “They look like they know how to use them.”

Bejt shrugged. “They wouldn’t be the first traveling mercs we’ve taken down. Won’t be the last, either.”

“I don’t think they’re just mercs. I mean, winged horse?” Olan shuddered again, staring up at his boss. “I think they’re heroes.”

“Yeah, right.” Bejt snorted. “The whole bunch of them don’t look like they’re together enough to kill a slug, let alone a dragon.” Heroes did things like that. At least they had in all the stories Bejt had ever heard. Killed dragons, rescued princesses from ravening monsters – or monsters from ravening princesses. He’d heard a lot of weird stories.

But that bunch? A musician, a pretty elf, what looked like a priestess, some short kid with maybe half of Bejt’s own muscles and too much of a sense of humor for Bejt’s tastes, someone in armor who might’ve been a down on his luck knight, some guy who had even more muscles than Bejt did but spent his time talking to some sort of fuzzy raccoon thing, and that idiot in the back who never let anyone get a good look at him.

That wasn’t what heroes were made out of it. Heroes had lots of good armor and didn’t stop in places like this, no matter what the weather looked like.

They might’ve thought pretending to be heroes would keep people off of them, but Bejt wasn’t most people. Once they had two or three rounds of the house special, they wouldn’t be awake enough to do anything at all.

That brought his thoughts right around to the pretty blond elf. Elves lived a very long time, he knew, and he couldn’t help but wonder what that elf had done in his life and how much he could be taught. Bejt looked forward to keeping him for at least a few years. He’d need to get properly trained before he could get sold, in order to make the most money, didn’t he? Bejt hadn’t ever trained someone before, but it couldn’t be that difficult. Smack ‘em when they did what Bejt didn’t want them to do until they learned better, that was it

It would definitely be a lot of fun. He looked forward to finding out just how much fun it was. He’d always had an eye for pretty faces of every kind, and there weren’t too many people prettier than an elf. He’d never had the chance to have one like this before, and he looked forward to finding out what it would be like.

All he needed was another hour or so, and then he and the others would be set for life.

Vector sniffed at the mug, then set it back down after taking a tiny taste of the ale. He’d never been much of one for drinking in the first place, at least not drinks that came from places like this. He wondered if it would be too much to ask if one of their mage-types could do something about the storm so they didn’t have to stay here at all.

We could get some decent food and drinks somewhere else. Maybe even a good bed. He knew that being on the road didn’t entitle him to the comforts of home, but they could at least have some comfort of some kind.

He leaned his head back against the wall and winced at the shock of thunder that rolled on by a heartbeat later. No one else looked bothered by the rain at all. Gilag sat on the outside of the table, closest to the door, and from the way he kept looking out there, it wouldn’t have been too surprising if he got up to wander out there. Druids did things like that, soaking up the rain. Vector had no idea of why druids couldn’t invest in some kind of weather protection. Maybe it was a religious thing.

He’d never wasted his time on religion and until he’d come to join this group, he hadn’t associated with religious types of any sort. But traveling with a druid and a priestess meant that he got more than he’d ever wanted of the whole concept.

He let his gaze drift back to Mizael. He could think of one or two gods he’d like to thank for the creation of the elven race and for Mizael in particular. Along with one or two he’d consider offering up a tribute to in order to get the elf compliantly in his bed, without risking Jinlong having him for dinner or the rest of the group getting furious at him.

Which meant he would have to keep on courting Mizael so that it was all willing on his side.

He wasn’t used to having to ask for what he wanted. Or who he wanted. He’d commented once at breakfast that he’d seen an attractive person the day before in the marketplace and that evening, that same person awaited him in his bed, courtesy of his father.

That had been an enjoyable few months, all things considered. If it had been possible, or workable with his father’s plans, he didn’t doubt that he would’ve already enjoyed time with Mizael.

I think this might be more interesting, though. Frustrating, but enjoyable in the end, once he’d achieved his goal. There was something to be said for getting something desired by hard work instead of being given it.

Vector glanced to the others again, the sound of the rain battering against the side of the building, making it plain they weren’t going anywhere right now. He suspected Rio and Gilag would both insist that they shouldn’t try to mess around with the weather, something about natural causes and not interfering. That made no sense to him at all. What good was magic if you couldn’t use it to twist the world around to the way you wanted it to be?

His eyes narrowed suddenly as he took in what was going on with his companions. He wasn’t surprised to see Gilag’s eyes drooping, let alone Ponta’s, not with that rain. If it didn’t call a druid out to dance in the rain or whatever, it would probably put them to sleep.

But Ponta spent so little time being visible when they were in civilized territory that Vector almost forgot he even existed. There he was, having finished his ale – you’d think a magical creature would have better taste than that! - and now curled up on Gilag’s lap, sound asleep.

Vector checked on Alit: already asleep. Durbe was as well, eyes closed and chest rising and falling evenly. Ryouga still had his eyes half-open, and Rio looked as if she were fighting off the urge to sleep herself.

He looked at Mizael then, and knew something was wrong.

Elves don’t sleep. Not like that, anyway. Mizael had explained it once, but Vector had been too wrapped up in admiring the way the sunlight glinted off the elf’s golden hair to pay attention. He sort of wished that weren’t true now.

But Mizael’s eyes were as tightly closed as the others, even as Ryouga’s slid all the way shut, and Rio followed him into slumber in another few moments.

This wasn’t right in the slightest. Vector’s thoughts raced before he chose his path, closed his eyes, and let himself sag a little more, as if he’d succumbed as well. There wasn’t any use in trying to wake them up. They’d be too sluggish to do anything for too long. Not to mention, Vector had a feeling he knew who was involved in this, and he swore he’d paint the walls with their blood.

He couldn’t see what was going on, but after what felt like forever, he could hear footsteps entering, and a sense of shadow fell over him. He kept himself from moving, no matter how much he wanted to, and listened.

To Be Continued

Note: And now we return to the world of the Order of the Outcasts. This is that little interlude piece to explain something. A larger piece revolving around Yuuma, Kaito, Haruto, and Astral will come at a later point, on SilvorMoon's profile. But until then, I hope you enjoy this.

#fanfic #higuchimon writes #YGO ZEXAL #mizael #vector #Vector x Mizael #mizael x vector #chapters: fair won prize #series: order of the outcasts #au: fantasy

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adamwatchesmovies · 5 years

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The Best of 2019

What a year. By the time 2019 ended, I had seen over 130 new movies. It's actually probably closer to 150 but I lost count. There are a few titles I missed, such as The Dead Don’t Die, The Fanatic and Honeyland so obviously, this is not an all-encompassing, definitive list of 2019’s best, but it should give you a good idea of which films you need to check out if you haven’t already.

I usually like to save the #10 spot on my list for a movie that’s just for me. Normally, this would mean a giant monster movie, an off-beat creation nobody else saw, a comic book movie that spoke to my particular tastes or maybe a Canadian movie I know didn’t get the opportunity to shine like it should’ve. This year, that’s not happening. Trimming my list down to 10 was hard enough. I certainly wasn’t going to sacrifice one more to make it just 9. Let's dig in.

10. The Farewell

It’s been weeks since The Farewell and I’m still thinking about it. If I was put in the same position as Billi, I'm not sure what I'd do? Is it better to tell someone that's dying that their days are numbered, or should you spare them from that burden? Is it really them you’d be sparing, or is keeping the secret for your own selfish needs? Writer/director Lulu Wang asks serious questions about culture I had never contemplated before. There’s a lot for you here and even more if your family comes from mixed backgrounds.

9. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I heard some complaints about Fred Rogers (Tom Hanks) not being the main character of this film by Marielle Heller, from writers Micah Fitzerman-Blue and Noah Harpster. It was the right choice. The plot has a cyical reporter meet Rogers and through their relatively brief interaction, learn what we knew going in. It delivers a moving character arc without having to stain its subject with flaws we didn't want to see. The quasi-meta presentation is what elevates it into top-10 status. That extra touch means it does a lot more than simply re-iterate what we saw in the 2018 documentary Won't You Be My Neighbor?.

8. Knives Out

Knives Out is one of the most entertaining films all year. There are no profound moments of meditation, no earth-shattering realizations about yourself, just a mystery to be solved. All the suspects are so intriguing they could be the stars of their own movies. Put together in the same house as a dead body and you’ve got no idea who did it. Its screenplay is excellent. The twists are juicy. Everything ads up in a satisfying manner. Rian Johnson is already working on a sequel. I can’t wait.

7. Apollo 11

There are few holdovers from the list I made halfway through the year, which either says something about the strength of the second half of 2019, or the weakness of the first. Either way, you’ve got to see Apollo 11. It’s the closest thing to going back in time and being there when man landed on the moon. The tension and anticipation are overwhelming. Knowing what happened doesn't matter. The way the footage is assembled is nothing short of incredible. Why this documentary wasn't present at the Academy Awards is beyond me.

6. Uncut Gems

Adam Sandler should’ve been nominated for an Oscar. He wasn’t. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts it's because of his association with all of those brain-dead Happy Madison Production comedies. His history with cinema shouldn't matter. The movie is what matters. The fact is, this was the perfect role for him. It isn’t even that Sandler’s doing something different, it’s that he’s being used to his full potential. If you weren’t glued to the screen, eager to see what’s coming next, this movie would have you jumping out of the window screaming - anything to escape the anxiety the Safdie Brothers serve up with devilish grins.

5. The Lighthouse

Next on my list is The Lighthouse. Right away, the aspect ratio and black-and-white cinematography lets you know you’re in for something different. You have no idea. What I love so much about this film is the way it handles madness. At the end of the day, I’m not sure if I could tell you if Robert Pattinson’s character was crazy, if Willem Dafoe’s character was the nutty one, or if they both were. It shows you just enough to make you doubt your own sanity. It’s also unexpectedly funny, which makes it feel oddly genuine. In one scene, Robert Pattinson's Ephraim Winslow gets a hold of the lighthouse's logs. In it, his boss, Thomas (Willem Dafoe) recommends Ephraim be disciplined for masturbating excessively. Considering Thomas has been cavorting with some kind of tentacle creature up in the lighthouse (at least that's what I think I saw, I'm not so sure anymore), all you can do is laugh. What kind of loony bin is this turning into? One I'm looking forward to revisiting.

4. 1917

Shot in a way that makes it all look like one take, 1917 is a technical marvel. It hooks itself up to your circular system and steadily replaces your blood with pure, undistilled stress. As you're about to flatline, it stops and gives you a breather. A shot of a meadow untouched by the ravages of war; a reminder of what the soldiers are fighting for and of how utterly devastating armed combat is on humanity as a whole. Gorgeous cinematography, powerful emotions, magnificent production values.

3. Joker

Along with Godzilla: King of the Monsters (a movie they basically made for me), this was my most anticipated movie of the year. To get ready, I watched Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, two Scorsese films Joker director Todd Phillips drew a lot of inspiration from. For some reason, it seems as though many critics took offense to the similarities. Sometimes I understand differing opinions from mine. This time, I don’t. It’s a great film that warns of the dangers of letting people like Arthur Fleck (brilliantly performed by Joaquin Phoenix) fall through the cracks. Left unchecked, he discovers that by doing terrible things, he becomes a “better” version of himself. It’s not a drama. It’s a horror movie that spins the familiar Batman archenemy in a new direction but also stays true to the character. There are several scenes in this movie that are going to be permanently imprinted in my brain. Those stairs. Need I say more?

Runner-ups

Avengers: Endgame

Even if every single Marvel movie going forward is awful, this caps off the whopping 22-chapter saga epically. A couple of aspects bugged me enough that it could only manage to make the runner-up list but it's a terrific film.

Booksmart

The funniest comedy of the year. I think back to Amy and Molly using their hairs as masks and still can't manage to hold back a few chuckles months later.

Toy Story 4

This one was hard to cut. The only flaw I could find was that it isn’t on the same level as 3… even though they’re both 5-star movies.

Midsommar

I’ve heard the extended cut is even better than the original. I wish I’d had the chance to see it in theatres.

Jojo Rabbit

Audacious and heartfelt. I loved those scenes of Scarlett Johanson being a mom. Her agent might've dropped the ball getting her cast in Ghost in the Shell but she sure knew how to pick great work in 2019.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

Quentin Tarantino brings us back to a time when Roman Polanski was simply a good director instead of a convicted rapist, movie stars were untouchable, and the death of someone’s wife under mysterious circumstances was nothing to raise eyebrows about. It’s not a movie that screams “here and now”. If anything, it’s regressive. That said, I cannot deny the experience I had watching it. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime kinda thing and I doubt even Tarantino could pull it off again. I wonder how many people went in knowing what happened to Sharon Tate like I did.

Marriage story

It’s nothing but raw emotion and powerhouse performances in this drama about two people you love going through a divorce. I always make it my goal to watch movies all the way through without any interruptions. Several times throughout, I was tempted to hit "Pause" so I could catch my breath.

Internet lists are everywhere. You know why, don’t you? They suck you in and when you get down to it, most don’t require all that much effort to put together. Except when I make them, apparently. These bi-annual lists always turn out to be difficult to put together. 2019's proved particularly arduous. I’m fairly sure that my #3 movie belongs there. Out of all the movies on this list, it’s probably the one I’m going to go back to most often. The other two? I’d say that technically, one may be better than the other but I think the other one is “more important” so that gives it the edge. What I’m trying to say is, they’re all winners and on a different day, I might even swap them around.

2. Little Women

I have only seen three of the seven silver screen adaptations of Louisa May Alcott’s novel and I don’t expect any of the others to top this one. The secret ingredient to this one's success is Greta Gerwig. Writing and directing, she does so much more than merely translate the classic to movie form. She re-arranges the story to give the events a greater punch than they would if they were shown chronologically and puts a little more emphasis on a couple of key moments (that tear-jerking Christmas, for example) to crank up the emotion. She also makes it more modern without having to change anything about the setting or characters. Admittedly, the back-and-forth between the past and present is a little jarring at first - makes you wonder what Greta Gerwig could’ve done had she been given the de-aging budget Martin Scorsese was given - but that’s where the performances and costumes come in. It takes mere moments before you get what the movie is doing. I’ve said it already but it made me cry.

1. Parasite

To make this list, I didn’t go through all of my past reviews and check which ones were rated what. I thought back to which movies gave me the most vivid memories, which ones gave me the biggest reactions. I’m still not sure how I feel about the final final moment but there’s so much about Parasite that I admire. This would be a great one to watch with others just to see their reactions to the reveal about the bookcase.

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youllallriseintheink · 4 years

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Audrey and the Dark Revival, chapter 2: Open Loop

Audrey and the Dark Revival is intended as a sequel series for Bendy and the Ink Machine. May the actual sequel come out soon and completely blow mine out of the water.

This one is where the plot gets real.

Also, I’m using a few of @mwolf0epsilon‘s fantastic monster designs, and plan on using more of them in the future.

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When Allison removed Audrey’s blindfold, they are on separate sides of a metal door. The door had once been for a now-defunct meat freezer in an industrial kitchen, but it was now defunct, as the lack of cold and the massive, albeit boarded-up, hole in the door told her.

“Sorry about that,” Allison said, “It’s hard to trust anyone around here. I’d normally have just kept an eye on you and let you be, but you have no idea how valuable humans are down here. I really couldn’t just let you go. If you could help us, I would owe you the world. Of course, the fact that you’re on Nathan’s side could cause some challenges... but let’s at least try to work something out.”

“Woah, wait...” Audrey said, “I’m not on Nathan’s side. I’ve been here half an hour and I already regret coming. Nathan and I aren’t on good terms... Anyhow, what I really want is information. What is this place? What are you? And why are humans so valuable?”

“For a long time, I didn’t know what this place was either. Then, a few years ago, I found an audio log from Nathan Arch explaining it. A man named Joey Drew made this place. It’s a representation of how he feels about his failures as an animation visionary- that’s what most of this place is, anyhow. He didn’t create the people. They’re people he murdered, or who got poisoned. Part of the reason this place exists is as a storage device for them. A lot of the space isn’t his creation, either. This place used to be a lot smaller, and after it had been around a few years, Joey Drew put it in a time loop. The only reason I escaped it is because the ink demon chased me into one of Nathan’s areas. The new areas- they aren’t affected by the loop!” Allison’s face brightened considerably. “For a while I thought that the spell was breaking. That it was the world opening up to us! Tom told me otherwise, but I was sure.” Allison darkened again, and Tom laid a hand over her shoulder. “Then, over time, Tom and I kept running into worse and worse monsters. The world has expanded... but it’s also gotten darker, and more crowded. So, Tom and I took to doing what we’ve always done- survive, and look for solutions. We found your father’s lair, complete with new monsters coming out of it. But no toon could ever get into it- it’s defended by ink canons made to melt any other creature of this realm who comes close. And since there were no humans around who were up for the task... since then we’ve just been surviving. Waiting on a hero. Audrey, will you help us to get your father out of here before he makes this place any more of a nightmare?”

Audrey was overwhelmed. “I- I’d love to. But I’m just a random civilian. I don’t know how to fight monsters. I don’t know the lay of the land.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn that if you want to survive here, whether you want to be a saviour or not. I can teach you to fight, and the names of monsters.” Tom whispered something in Allison’s ear. “And there is another human in this realm. If you won’t be our hero, maybe you can convince him to be. He’s proficient at combat and knows the place like the back of his hand!”

Audrey was silent for a while, weighing her options. A part of her didn’t see much other choice. While she had no reason to believe these strangers, they were clearly strong, and the world was clearly dangerous, and she wanted them on her side. And if they were telling the truth and could lead her to Nathan, all the better. “I’ll do it,” she decided.

“Excellent,” Allison beamed, smiling excitedly, and they let her out. After gearing up in the industrial kitchen that they’d made into a base (complete with cots and even a fish tank, Audrey noticed), they headed out. Allison led- she clearly knew the lay of the land. Along the way, she pointed out a number of monsters. She pulled Audrey away from a ledge, warning of the balls of wool, horns, and hooves that might ram her over the edge. From a safe distance, they witnessed a huge, quasi-canine abomination with hooks for hands dragging an exhausted, monkey-looking abomination into a puddle of ink, in which it dissolved. Allison called these creatures “rammers,” “catchers,” and “pipers” respectively. Along the way, there were also opportunities for Audrey to practice using her shock powers with Tom and Allison as back-up. She was getting quite proficient.

Finally, they arrived at what appeared to be a storage area for amusement park equipment- “Bendyland,” as Audrey learned about it from tapes. Just past a roller coaster ride was some sort of ethereal boundary. Their side of the boundary was the some dark, gloomy blue-toned white that everything in this realm had been. The other side of the boundary was somewhat better lit and sepia-toned. “That’s the area affected by the loops,” Allison explained. “And Henry- the other human- will be passing through there.”

“Great,” Audrey replied, clicking the button of a tape recorder that she’d found sitting on a workbench.

The death of the Great Bertrum Piedmont was a tragedy, truly. He was a great boss. But I’m not so sure about sticking around. Seems like there’s been an awful lot of murders among the Bendyland staff since then... and yet the rides keep gettin’ made faster than ever. It’s like they build themselves after the lights go out. I have half a mind to go pokin’ around... but I don’t have that much of a death wish.

Suddenly the roller coaster began to rattle. A piece of the tracks disconnected and swiveled towards the trio, and a duck-shaped cart hurtled towards them, sending them scattering to avoid being crushed. The duck carts- approximately a dozen of them- split off in different directions, going to various spaces in the vast, area-consuming roller coaster. Tom found a round, foundational bolt, and barked to get Allison’s attention before smashing it with his metal first. Allison turned to Audrey, who was attempting to shock a duck to little effect. “Audrey!” she shouted, “find the foundational bolts!”

“What?” Audrey yelled back, dodging out of the way of a duck.

“These!” Allison yelled, stabbing one opposite to the one Tom had destroyed. The entire section of roller coaster collapsed, falling onto another and taking it out with it like dominoes.

“Okay!” Audrey called out, before returning to the weave of dodging ducks, never staying in any one place too long, and finding foundational bots to takeout with her lightening powers. Her power’s range was very useful, but she still needed to constantly be on the move. When the carnival music finally stopped, Audrey looked around her to assure that there were no more pieces of roller coaster left to destroy. Then, she collapsed, first sitting, and then sprawling out on the floor.

Allison rushed over. “You okay?” she asked.

Audrey nodded. “Tired.” She wasn’t used to this kind of activity, but took solace in the fact that even Allison and Tom seemed pretty worn out.

“Well, you’re in luck. A break is the next thing on our to-do list.” Allison helped Audrey up, and they went over to a little selection of carnival games. “Henry will come over here. It’s a part of his loops. It could be five minutes or days. In the meantime, this room has no monsters, so we might as well relax. Wanna see if you can beat me at this shooting game?”

With that, the three of them spent the next couple hours playing games and hanging out. “Wait-” Allison said after Audrey had shared a little story, “You have memories of the outside. You can tell us about the outside!”

Audrey reached for Allison’s wrist. “Well, sure, I-”

As soon as Audrey made skin contact with Allison, Allison’s face went into blank shock. Audrey’s first instinct was to look behind her, but there was nothing there.

“Allison? Allison?”

“Give me a moment. Oh my God. I remember everything.”

“Sorry. Nathan gives me powers like this. He’s probably trying to sabotage us somehow.”

“How could this possibly be sabotage?” Allison beamed, smiling widely. “I don’t know anything about Nathan. Maybe he’s stuck and wants to escape. But this is great. You could work your magic on Henry this way! Speaking of which- over there!” Allison pointed to the entrance of Bendyland.

Through it, a man emerged. It wasn’t the hero that Allison had promised. The man looked to be in his mid-fifties, and was fairly athletic but nothing special. More notably, he was stained head to toe in ink, and had an extremely bored, weary expression on his face. He saw the trio, but ignored their presence entirely and plodded over to one of the games.

“You first, Audrey" Allison whispered, “He’ll think that we’re a hallucination, but he’s never seen you before. I guess I should tell you now, though- he’s not the man he once was. These time loops have damaged him greatly.”

Audrey headed over to him and the other two followed. Allison grabbed his arm, which Henry still didn’t react to, simply trying to play the game despite Allison hanging off of him. Audrey touched him, and he spasmed out, gasping, but afterwards went right back to his game.

“Henry, this is not a hallucination. Come with us,” Audrey said.

“Yes you are, Allison,” Henry sighed, still looking at the game, “you aren’t from this part of the loop.”

“Henry. You’ve never seen me before,” Audrey said.

Henry turned to her. “You’re right. I haven’t seen you. Sorry, my memory’s a little... spotty, although after what you just did to me...” Henry drifted off into space. “Maybe you aren’t a hallucination. So... what do you want?”

Considering the revelation he’d just had, the man’s voice conveyed considerably little emotion. Audrey chose her next words carefully.

“Henry, we can’t get you out of the studio- not yet, anyhow. But we can get you out of this time loop if you come with us. And we need your help.”

“Henry, come with us and we’ll save Boris" Allison added, “We know a way into chamber he’s being kept in.”

Henry’s eyes immediately lit up. “I’ll come!,” he said, showing the first signs of hope and life that Audrey had seen in him. “If we can do that, then I’ll know this is real!”

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #Audrey Arch #Henry Stein #Allison Angel #tom boris #Audrey and the Dark Revival #my fanfiction

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marithlizard · 4 years

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Ace Attorney: Rise From the Ashes (part 1)

A couple of people expressed interest in a writeup as I play through the game, so I thought I’d give quasi-liveblogging a try. It might have come out to be too detailed - let me know if the result is amusing enough to go through the next part.

(I knew this already, but wow liveblogging is a lot of work. And it must take twice as much effort to do this for a show and to include screencaps.)

(I’ve tried three times now to put proper line breaks/spacing in, and they’re just not displaying, at least on desktop. I’m sorry.)

A brief, stylized opening designed not to give away much, except that a creepy-looking doll is involved.

Two months? Phoenix, you haven't taken a single client since Maya left? a) are you depressed, and b) how are you paying rent on the office?

Ookay, you're not going to tell us why you've been moping around. I don't think it's that you have a crush on Maya. Are you just not able to function without a partner? That's not great for your ability to survive, but I can sympathize.

New perky assistant, right on cue. (A partner who isn't a young girl would be a nice change now and then. (But not Larry. Anyone but Larry. In fact, I take it back, this girl with the pink sunglasses will do just fine.))

Oof, Phoenix still not being able to say out loud that Mia's dead.

In the first two minutes pink-glasses girl has asserted that he's his female boss, the coffee boy, and 'better than nothing'. Aha! The problem with all the clients he turned down was that they didn't insult him enough.

Kid, you can't be more than sixteen, and you have silly face buttons on your lab coat. You are about as much a scientific investigator as Photography Girl last episode was a journalist. ...But apparently you have a future job lined up in forensics, so you're more organized than she was. And this world certainly could use more competent crime scene analysis.

"I promised her I'd bring Mia Fey". Huh. Is Mia's murder not well-known to the public, then, even though the Edgeworth case apparently got famous enough to earn Phoenix a bit of a reputation?

A murder charge with an eyewitness, and an assistant who "kind of hates" her sister the defendant. Sounds hopeless, let's do it! Off to the Detention Center.

...Did we just overhear the defendant threatening their terrified guard with a pay freeze? Is she their boss? And if she's someone that high up, why doesn't she already have a better defense attorney?

I like Lana Skye's character design. She looks as though she should be starring in a Takurazuka revue show, swearing eternal star-crossed love to a princess.

She insists she did it. By genre convention we know that can't be the case; my first assumption is that she's being forced to cover for someone, blackmailed or coerced by someone higher up in the system. But it would certainly be interesting if it turned out she was covering for Ema.

Must....resist...plotbunnies...

Oookay. A prosecutor should certainly know ways to commit murder without getting caught, and this sounds like the opposite of those ways. WHY does she claim she did this? You're not even going to ask her, are you? *headdesk*

Ema: "Please ignore that totally gay statement by my sister, because I certainly plan to!"

Lana: "No don't help me, go away go away go away go away go awa-oh fine."

Hmmm. From Ema's description of the behavior change, Lana has been being blackmailed or coerced for a long time now.

Time to go investigate the underground parking garage.

Attorneys aren't supposed to examine crime scenes, and defense attorneys aren't entitled to a copy of the police investigation reports. What does a "normal" defense attorney in this world do for their clients then? Always assume a loss and try to negotiate a plea bargain? I wonder if we'll ever get to see one in action.

It's...a cop with a cowboy fetish? Do police not have dress codes here? Maybe they're waived above a certain level, and some people take pride in cultivating a unique style to show off that they can. It would explain Edgeworth.

You are dramatically pretending to shave in front of us. Also you just called Ema a baby cow. Although you know her and seem sympathetic - I guess Lana brought her little sister to the office sometimes? Not sure what I think of you, Jake Marshall.

I am revising my stance. Being Phoenix's partner on a case requires precise and narrow qualifications. Specifically, just enough sense to stop him from doing something breathtakingly stupid, but not enough sense to take the badge firmly away from him and do the job themselves. Ema fits the bill perfectly.

Ooh, new mechanic! And an ID card number for a Bruce Goodman who dresses like a white-hat agent in Spy vs Spy. (I was trained on games that would require you to write that number down and remember it later, but AA will certainly be more forgiving.)

Using the new mechanic on Phoenix's attorney badge, I deduce that at some point this game it will be stolen.

It doesn't explain Lana's supposed actions, but that red sports car does kind of scream "My owner is a jerk, stuff a body in my trunk." Instead of a chalk outline, they seem to have outlined the hanging body with string? Is that actually a technique, and how do they get the rope to stay put in precise outline?

And the cowboy gives them a hint. So he's on their side but constrained by rules?

Lady put the boobs away. Why are you selling sushi in a negligee under a fur coat, at a crime scene? And why would anyone trust food from someone whose nickname is "the Cough-Up Queen"?

Angel Starr, dominatrix lunch lady. It says something that this is not the weirdest witness in an AA game so far.

She hates prosecutors, and therefore especially Lana. Not a trustworthy witness. But it's probably no fun to cater for a group of (relatively) wealthy and powerful people you despise. Especially if they're smugly giving awards to each other as they eat lunches. (Eeeevil lunches. She probably coughs on them.)

"The rhythmic beat of Lana Skye's knife"... very poetic, but didn't Lana say the victim was stabbed only once?

We can't get back to the car, phooey, so up to the prosecutor's office we go.

Pink...everywhere...no question whose office this is, even if one of his outfits wasn't framed on the wall. (why do you frame an outfit?) I see a very ugly trophy on the sofa, so he's the one who won the award.

Ema: "this is the kind of room that just screams 'I can do the job'. Actually it screams 'I don't need to pretend to be heterosexual', but the two aren't unconnected.

Is it just me or is that trophy broken off at the top?

Edgeworth did you just roll with being insulted and make a joke about it? I'm so proud of you, you've clearly relaxed since your murder trial!

BWAHAHA of course it was Edgeworth's car.

Wendy the security guard from the Steel Samurai case is sending Edgeworth expensive presents?? a) that's both funny and a little sad, b) how can she afford it, and c) he keeps and displays them which is very courteous.

WAIT did you - did this game just heavily suggest Gumshoe hangs out in the office a lot? Twice, once when you look at the shelves and again when you look at the desk? I don't ship it, but this is the point where I start to see why people do.

Awwww he's embarrassed about the trophy, that's cute. So he's the one who "devours the evillest lunches of all", hmm? I wouldn't have thought the Cough-Up Queen's weird not-even-fresh lunches would appeal to Edgeworth's refined tastes.

Ema actually has a bit of a crush, from the way she's rhapsodizing about Edgeworth sleeping on the sofa. d'awww. And I definitely want to know the story behind the outfit. Made by his mom and too precious to wear?

Edgeworth, no one thinks you did it. Sheesh. He certainly doesn't sound happy about having to prosecute Lana, even though he believes she's guilty. His car, his knife... it almost seems like this is a plot aimed at him, or perhaps a plot against Lana with a healthy dose of fuck-you-too-Edgeworth to it.

Huh. Maybe it *is* aimed at him. I've been assuming all this time from his behavior on the stand that Edgeworth has indeed been messing with evidence to convict obviously innocent people, and also assuming that it's common practice in this corrupt justice system. (Much as it is in Japan and in the US). But the way he's talking about rumors right now, it sounds more like he's being slandered. And he thinks the award he was given was out of mockery. Ouch.

So yes, the trophy is broken. (In RWBY, you assume everything is a gun; in AA, you assume everything is a murder weapon. It probably broke when it was used to hit someone over the head.)

Evidence transferal day, huh? Was the murder timed to draw attention away from a case being closed? And Edgeworth parked his car only three minutes before Goodman was stabbed and thrown into its trunk? No way. He was there for the murder, or more likely that's not when the murder happened. (Is he being coerced like Lana? I don't think so, but it's possible.)

Enter an idiot mailman with a bandaged hand. And exit, with sniveling. What was that about?

And a hint to go investigate at the police station. Is Edgeworth being friendly, attempting to signal something, or merely aware that the most efficient way to get rid of Phoenix is to give him a clue to chase?

The police department entrance, with some sort of plywood jester figure in front of it. We're offhandedly informed that it took 30 minutes to get there from Edgeworth's office, which means that will be important later.

This is the creepy doll from the intro! It's clearly meant to be a mascot. Was it made by the sniveling mailman? There's a certain resemblance...

No, I should've guessed that Gumshoe made it. I mean ... mechanically it's pretty clever for someone who's not a craftsman or engineer? Moving articulated limbs and all. It's just the aesthetics and design he shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near.

Yes, yes it is odd that only the top-ranked people are being allowed to work on the case. Are they all in on it? A patrolman in charge of the crime scene instead of a detective - that suggests Marshall is part of the conspiracy. I'm thinking the dominatrix lunch lady is too.

Gumshoe is so happy about the prosecutor's award - Edgeworth probably didn't have the heart to say that for him it's a mockery. Daww. (Also there's something endearingly cheerful about his hopping-caterpillar eyebrows.) He's also being much more helpful than his superiors would want, probably just because he thinks of Phoenix as an ally in general now.

Back to the parking lot, with a letter of introduction in hand this time.

I genuinely can't tell if the lunch lady is a sex worker, if she actually has multiple boyfriends, or if that's code for her professional contacts in whatever she's really doing here. (And that's an interesting cultural bit, isn't it - any of those options seem possible, and I'm not expecting any of the characters to question her competence or morality because of it, not even in court. If this was a US-made game my expectations would be...different.)

"Good men always die young"...I see what you did there, Marshall.

Autopsy report confirms one stab wound. Lana and the victim worked together on "a case a few years back", ding ding ding. Someone didn't want the evidence for that case transferred. Or looked at.

Marshall used to be a detective but got demoted? And he's lying about why he was assigned to the crime scene, and telling us Gumshoe is off the case because he's friends with Edgeworth. The police chief, whoever he is, is now at the top of my suspect list.

Happily, the game will let me do dumbass things like show off Goodman's ID card without consequences. Marshall seems very uninterested in it and why it was found so far from the spot of the murder, which I take to mean "we have our official narrative, don't go messing it up with facts or evidence."

Finally we can examine the car! First up, Lana's cellphone. The whole business about hitting redial and somehow not knowing that Ema's phone rang was weird. Phoenix’s lie couldn't possibly have fooled Marshall, who is bizarrely claiming there's no way to know who the last call was made to. It's an odd thing to conceal, even given the “no facts please we have our narrative” stance. Maybe he's trying to protect Ema somehow?)

Marshall said the rumors about Edgeworth came from Lana. And we have a note found in the trunk: 6-7S 12/2, on a piece of Goodman's stationery.

Er, yeah, Ema, why didn't you mention your sister called you 3 minutes after the claimed murder time? If Lana hung up right away that's hardly incriminating for either of you.

End of Day One! We are, as usual, completely unprepared for tomorrow morning's trial.

#ace attorney #rise from the ashes #ace attorney spoilers

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