#so this is all me manually recording each angle

[paintedscales]

Thing that I spent entirely too much time on.

Song -> Snowflakes by Shihoko Hirata (NARASAKI remix) from Persona 4: Dancing All Night

[delirious-donna]

Listen [Multi Fandom]

an: inspired by a few things, mainly an ask about how certain characters would use their voice to their advantage (thank you @virtue-and-beneviolence ) and listening to ASMR recording of Kenjiro Tsuda aka Nanami.

prompt: close your eyes and listen to his voice...

warnings: voice kink, removal of a sense (sight in this case), narrated touching, sexual implications, exploring readers body, reader is female, pussy fingering, orgasm on command

“Listen, close your eyes. Don’t open them unless I say so, understood?”

You shivered at the instruction, the words cascading over your shoulder and into your ear. He knew exactly what he was doing, how you tilted and twisted with each word from his mouth like you were chasing for more - how adorable.

The two of you were sitting on the bed, his legs on either side of your hips and your back resting gently on his chest. Your breathing was pitched into a pant when he let out a low moan, lips teasing your neck and breath fanning over your clavicle.

A hand rested on your waist, the other steadily inched beneath the waistband of your silky pyjama shorts and you felt everything more intensely. Eyes fixedly shut like the good girl you were, your other senses heightened and it was heaven.

“You smell so good, sweetheart. I can almost taste your arousal in the air, are you so very ready for me?”

His voice, that rich cadence that sounded like brushed velvet rippled over your skin. It danced with determined steps over every nerve ending and your lips popped open. You nodded, only a timid whimper escaping and he chuckled darkly in response.

“Shall I touch you… here?” he inquired, sounding suddenly so nonchalant. Not at all like he was gliding over the curves of your breasts, fingertips skimming the undersides before lightly rubbing at your pebbled nipples. Through the thin camisole, his touch was electric but it was his voice that really stoked your fires.

He listened to your breathing, to the wild thump of your heart that sounded so loud that it could have resided within his own body. Your legs wriggled, knees pulling up before stretching out and your hands grabbed onto his thighs as if this would anchor you. He adored you like this, so rapt for his attention and eager to please. You pleased him simply by being you but this was certainly an extra pleasure and he took his time in narrating his journey and actions.

When you were down to only your panties, the trembling set in. How hard you had fought to hold on to your sanity as your man spoke his every action in your ear in excruciating detail.

“You look so perfect like this, my love, so very beautiful and soft. Shall we see how wet you are, hmm?”

“Oh? You want me to slide my fingers beneath this ridiculously thin piece of material, do you? Denying it is so silly, you're practically rutting against my palm, princess.”

The words rumbled into your mind like thunder rolling over distant hills. In truth, he could read you the entirety of an instruction manual and you’d still cum by the time he reached the last page.

Sweat gathered across your chest, the heat rising so swiftly that you gasped for air. Those noises of appreciation grew louder as his middle finger dipped below your panties and spread through your drenched folds.

That first touch against your swollen pearl scattered your wits and you almost - almost - opened your eyes.

“So much for me, oh you’ve been so good. Want to make you feel good. That’s it, spread those legs for me.”

Your legs butterflied on the bed, his own lifting so his knees bent upwards to allow you more space. He was painfully hard, desperate to lift up further onto his lap and impale you on his cock but not yet, you’d cum by his hand alone, only after that.

Little did he know that you were about to cum simply from listening to him and the wet squelch of his finger slicking over your flesh. Your head thrashed from side to side, pelvis angling back as if you were running from his touch and he tsked harshly. His teeth clicked and your spine bowed upwards in a harsh arch.

You were unravelling like a ball of yarn being shredded by an over-eager kitten, barely touched and seconds from exploding. Of course, he had known you were affected by his voice, but to this level… interesting.

His free arm hooked over your stomach, holding you down and his lips found your ear. He waited, the patience of a saint until you stilled your movements. Chest still rising and falling far too harshly but no longer were you struggling for freedom.

“Cum for me.”

Three words and you ignited like a firecracker, white imploding behind your eyes as the tightness in your abdomen burst forth. You were an elastic band stretched to capacity and the recoil was intense.

You gasped and moaned, nails scrambling to his arms and leaving scratches along his skin. He took it all, and held you safe and tight whilst you touched the heavens before falling back to him. He cooed in your ear, and whispered such soft praise and adoration.

“Well done, baby. Now it’s my turn…”

KAKASHI Geto NANAMI Gaara Kiba HANMA Chifuyu TOJI Itachi DRAKEN SUKUNA Zoro Aizawa Gajeel

[bobokitty]

Just saw your latest post about how much you really like to talk about animation pipelines, I also noticed you said pipelines, with an s. Could you elaborate on that, is there multiple?

Also also could you talk about animation pipelines look like? I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to capture the entirety and it’s nuances/complexities in just a singular post (would absolutely love to see you do that tho) but like also just really interested to see what that’s like and if people outside of the pipeline usually have any misconceptions about it

(Hope that made sense 😭 activated me like a sleeper agent when I saw that post because I’m super interested in hearing this stuff LOL)

OH HO HO!!!!! PIPELINES, YES, WITH A S!!

I did a talk last month about that that was supposedly recorded, but I absolutely hate hearing the sound of my voice ahaha. So! Every studio has a different pipeline variation, and within those studios, the shows and projects have their own variations. I'm still kind of new in the industry. October will be my third anniversary. However, I love finding out how things work (I used to work in tech before making a whole career/life switcheroo)~

Here's a pipeline that I made with my personal experience on a show:

And here is one based off the book, Producing Animation:

Each of these boxes requires a team of people, size of course depending on project scale and budget. As part of the production admin (production assistant tho in name only ahahaha I am again someone who sticks their nose into things and work directly with leads and directors), you have to be those lines connecting all the boxes and make sure everyone gets what they need. In the one I made, you'll notice how there is a loop happening in various parts. Pre-pro (pre production) is what gets done before animation. Script, storyboard, character/prop design, and backgrounds. (Interestingly enough, this is not the same for every production! Boutique deals with a lot of short term projects, like ads, music videos, pitch work. Various studios make their bread and butter this way. It's short term work and sometimes you get clients who will pay a lot for like some weird passion project. Think like, The Line, or what Cartoon Saloon does between movies. Anywho! Sometimes things like backgrounds won't get done until it's time for animation!) Anywho! In pre pro, character designs are influencing storyboards which are then influencing design and what sheets need to be made and backgrounds are being made which then set what the board artists can work in but then board artists want to change location angles and suddenly next thing you know, Producers have nuked an entire sequence and all of that work is cut ahaha. You even have editors going in and adding their own touch to the boards, adding in audio recordings and temp sound effects and music to try and get the feel, etc.

Oh god this is a lot of text on my phone and I haven't even scratched the surface LOL!! Point is, there is a lot of back and forth happening. Animation on a larger scale IS a group project. Miss on that production staff glue and oh boy. You will get....something in the end, but it will not be....... I've seen some disasters ahahaha. You got what you got and things could have been avoided. (And sometimes a team can be the best team and then you got these producers who have no idea how animation works but alas they are footing the bill and what can you do????)

...I 100% cannot capture this in a single post lol! I can barely cover it in an hour lecture. We haven't even mentioned spreadsheets and other programs (I have yet to try ftrack or shotgrid but I would love to get my hands on them and see how they work in a production; they also include file management which right now I do manually). Ehehehehe it's fun~~ Every day is something new~ Oh man I want to see what it's like with live action as well! It has to be a completely different beast!!! One day~~

[rainset]

Project Zeus: IV

A glass barrier sits between seated white coats and a miniaturized forest. Sipping on caffeine for the lateness of night. There are two rabbits, deep grey and identical. Together, they devour lettuce. During this process, white coats takes notes on holographic fragments as each second passes on their live recording. A nose bumps the other. The creatures mirror one another with a twitch of the nose and flick of their whiskers. Back to lunch. A transcribed record- "still mirroring" at 3:20. 4:30- Content 5:56- Continued ingestion, subject paused. 7:00- Keeping stare. Control stopped eating. The control rabbit began to huddle down, almost curling in on itself as Subject kept staring. 8:00 9:00 15:40- Subject placed paw on control. Subject keeps it's paw there until it unnaturally tilts its head. Almost angling it. There's a slight bobbing. 17:00- Conclusion: "Subject latched onto Control's right orbit. Blood proceeded from control as Subject devoured its ophthalmic tissue. Proceeded lurching into socket then stops. A second later it's jaw unhinges and shows jaw length protrusions of razor quality lining around its incisors. Subject proceeded to meld into control's skull. Control became apart of Subject's flesh." He sighs and rubs his eyes. His glasses fall back down. "What do you think caused it this time?" He readjusts them. "I don't know. Not hunger. Arousal?" His co-op taps the stylist to their lips. "Maybe..." She shakes her head, shifting over a traditional binder with sheets of paper inside, turned to today's date: 12:83, 7/20; She manually writes into it. "Damn shame.. they grew up together too, it wasn't introduced so why.." She sighs. Lo shakes his head. "Don't." He snorts. "It's above our pay grade." Tau sighs. "Let's get out of here." In unison they mirror one another, Tau gathering her binder while Lo held nothing at all but his own pockets. "Want me to walk you out?" "Sure." Tau smiles. As they exit between two black windows stands a familiar, meek, man with a face of youth. He mops the floor with red tinted eye lids. They pass by him down the clean hallways and all it's liminality. Tau glances over her shoulder. "Why does she keep him down here? Shouldn't it have been disposed of?" Lo keeps his eyes straight on. "Don't. Keep walking." They turn into the elevator.

[ljblueteak]

Steve Holley on working with Paul, from @binderclipdocs’ amazing Understanding McCartney series (all the material described/quoted in this post is from episode 2). 

It’s so refreshing to see a well-rounded picture of what it was like to work with Paul. In a certain kind of bio, you’d likely only get part one of the quote above (and it would probably be edited to be something like “he’d come in with a song and just know exactly what he wanted”) without part two’s “And other times it would be a sketch and he’d let it develop organically within the band.” 

And sure, yes: you see in the doc that Paul sometimes had songs fully formed and would show people how he wanted them to be played. You also see how sometimes he stuck his head in the sand about difficult issues and things weren’t perfect.

BUT what really comes through in multiple interviews is that the members of Wings had fun and wanted to talk about how creatively invigorating their time with Wings was. They also describe how they learned more about and were more involved with the “control room side of things” than they had been before they started working with Paul:

Joe English: “That’s the buzzing I got out of the whole thing...Was being around a songwriter like that and working with him as a producer in the studio. We actually had access to helping mix the albums and stuff. We just didn’t record it and go home, we were there working on the board with him and everything and throwing around ideas. It was a real learning period.”

Laurence Juber: “It was a different pace and it was a different angle on things from being a studio player. Cause I never really saw too much from the control room side of things. I’d seen a little bit, but nothing like I saw with Paul, where I could watch Geoff Emerick or Phil McDonald engineering and really get a sense of how it was put together.”

I’ll quote just one more bit, but here’s Juber talking about creating with Paul: 

“To have the opportunity to work with an artist like that was an amazing experience. I had a lot of freedom. To You is a perfect example. I mean, the solo on that...He was manually operating an Eventide harmonizer. And changing the pitch of the notes that I was playing. So I was playing something and he would change it in real time. It was a fascinating experience. So again, it was not him telling me what to do. It was us working in synergy; each tuning into each others’ creativity. I like that kind of...Outside the box thinking and playing.”

[spaghwetti]

Cherry was in that restaurant thing Joe has. He was dipping dry spaghettis in a glass of wine and then eating them and Joe made the face from that picture every time. Cherry had started doing this just to be annoying but now he liked it more than normal food.

"You know," said Joe, trying to drown out the wet crunching for even a moment, "using Carla is cheating. You can't just have a robonic skateboard that tells you angles or reminds you what an ollie is or says 'look out, there is a wall directly in front of you'." Joe was still bitter about the many times he had been caught out by a wall being directly in front of him.

"Wrong, because you are a gorilla," said Cherry, who was contractually obligated to use the insult at least once per fanfic and figured he might as well get it out of the way. "Carla's assistance is no more 'cheating' than being mentored by a superior skateboarder, or putting a copy of the Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 2 instruction manual under your pillow so the knowledge seeps into your brain overnight. Learning from the best isn't cheating."

"But Carla isn't 'the best'," protested Joe. "She's not a real person who had to learn all this stuff slowly and painfully from within a weak, fallible flesh-prison. She's an artificial intelligence!"

"Wrong again. Twice in thirty seconds. Still not even close to your record." Cherry performed an action that was fundamentally irrelevant to the narrative but served to break up his dialogue a bit. "Carla isn't an artificial intelligence."

"But you always call her an AI!"

"Yes, to throw people off the scent," said Cherry. "But it doesn't stand for Artificial Intelligence. It stands for Apparitions Imprisoned. Carla is full of the ghosts of dead skateboarders."

Joe's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

"Not at all. Every time Adam hits someone in the face with his skateboard, killing them instantly, their ghost goes into Carla. There are millions of them in there at this point." Cherry took a sip of his wine, its rich crimson hue tainted by floating spaghetti bits. "It's like a kind of skater heaven, except that all of them are very much in constant pain. Offering me skateboarding assistance is their only reprieve."

Joe paused for a moment. He had never seen this side of Cherry before, the side that had a bunch of tortured ghosts trapped inside a skateboard. Sure, back in high school he'd had a haunted rollerskate, but that was just one ghost, and besides, they were young. This was on another level entirely.

A thought crossed his mind, and Joe broke his silence. "You're as bad as Adam. Or possibly worse than Adam. I haven't really decided on the specifics yet but the important thing is that a comparison to Adam is being made here so this is the bit where we get mad at each other about it."

Cherry fell silent, but the look on his face revealed his true emotions: angry but also betrayed and upset in a hot way. Adam had hit him in the face with a skateboard twice, once during the TV run and then a second time for the DVD version, but he hadn't died from it and gone inside a skateboard. Why had he been left behind? Was he not good enough? These were the thoughts that swirled around his head every moment of every day, except for when he was thinking of more interesting stuff, which was most of the time. Anyway he was sad so every bad thing he'd done was actually fine.

"I'm glad we could get that settled," said Joe, and now they were friends again and maybe more.

Cherry reached for another spaghetti. He crunched this one without dipping it, a clear signifier that he recognised the residual tension which still hung in the air. "The ghost thing was a lie," he said. "Ghosts aren't real. You can just download Carla on the app store."

"Really? Then how come every skater doesn't have one?"

"She costs £1.99."

"I'm not paying that when Candy Crush is free!" said Joe immediately, repulsed on an instinctual level.

"Exactly," smiled Cherry.

There was a moment of relative peace, broken only by the gentle clinking of dry pasta against wine glass. In the corner, Carla's subtle pink glow intensified for a moment. "The curses of the dead be upon ye," she said.

Joe glanced over. "What'd she say?"

"Nothing," said Cherry. "How much do I owe you for the spaghettis? Because I'm not paying it."

Later they fucked(?)

[a-big-apple]

Whumptober day 6: Hide and Seek

Prompt No. 25 - HIDE & SEEK

escape | flight | hiding

First

Previous

Next

Warnings: This one is pretty mild actually?? But there's some terror (and some daring)

Pearl has never left her Emerald’s barracks before, and so has never returned there. She gets to the door, and finds she doesn’t have the permissions to unlock it.

She doesn’t have the permissions, and there are no other pearls, no other Gems at all inside—Emerald doesn’t keep any help. The barracks—that’s what Emerald calls it, but it doesn’t look anything like the barracks she’s seen in her database—is dark and still, abandoned.

Not sure what to do next, Pearl simply settles by the door to wait. After a quarter orbit she starts to tire and locks her knees.

The street is bustling, a main thoroughfare. Naturally nobody so much as glances her way, but she can watch them, all manner of Gems going by. Hurrying along alone, or strolling in groups, or calling to each other, or splitting in different directions. They all look as if they know where they’re going; each knows her purpose, her task, her destination. Sometimes there are other pearls. Pearls following their owners, but also pearls on their own. Carrying packages or data pads, moving with great deliberateness. Nobody stops them or questions them, or seems to care about them at all.

Her Emerald has never asked her to store anything, but she does have a data pad she was given at the dealership with a copy of her owner’s manual and warranty. She pulls it out, and starts walking.

She walks in a circle several blocks wide, and no one stops her. She could...go farther.

The thought is so horrifyingly audacious that when she completes the route she has to pause in her place by the barracks door again to let the panic drain out of her limbs. If anyone caught her disobeying her Emerald, she’d be sent to thrift immediately. No, she wouldn’t even be sold—she’d be harvested. Disobedience is a defect, and so she would be defective. Is defective. She’s already disobeyed.

Still clutching the data pad, she sets off again, farther this time. So far that she’s shaking with the effort, with the clammy, throbbing terror of it. At last, more than half an orbit’s walk from home, she has to stop and lock her knees again or risk collapsing completely.

A line of other pearls stand waiting for their owners in what looks to be a procurement district. Their owners must also be very important; they’re all lustrous and bright, charmingly dressed. They greet her with tiny inclinations of their heads when she joins their line, politely ignoring the way she's trembling, and return to their own silent conversations. Their owners’ latest frivolous purchases; a joke one heard from a Bismuth doing repairs; the latest rumors about Pink Diamond’s unruly colony.

I’d go, one of them signs, if the Renegade asked me.

Why would she ask you, another replies, her eyelids at a catty angle. You once saluted so fast you smacked yourself in the nose.

Who is the Renegade? Pearl asks, and all their eyes widen as if she’s said something terribly gouche.

You haven’t seen the recording?

Pearl’s brows twitch down into a negative.

The pearl beside her shoots a glance up and down the street. I’ll pass it to you, she signs. Be quick. Then she turns her back to show the deep brown gem between her shoulder blades.

Leaning in Pearl touches her misshapen gem to this pearl’s perfectly round one, and a memory file arcs across. It takes less time than a Gem might take to blink, and just as quickly they return to position in the waiting line.

Pearls’ eyes only, another tells her, and you didn’t hear about it from any of us.

The barest hint of a nod, and then they all fall still and quiet. Pearl is thrumming with curiosity, and fear, and...something, something she can’t put a name to. Something that prompted her to walk away from her post, as if she had the right.

Inevitably, the other pearls’ owners reappear and hand over packages to be carried; in a cloud of high class types and overburdened servants they bustle away, leaving Pearl behind. She has no idea what to do next. She could walk for a long, long time before she would really need to stop again, but that’s not a solution. She can’t keep walking forever, she’d just circle Homeworld and end up back at Emerald’s door. But she can’t just stand here, eventually someone will notice she’s unattended and send her to thrift with the other abandoned pearls.

“There you are!” shouts a frustrated Peridot. “You’re on the wrong side of the street.”

Pearl blinks.

The Peridot is glaring at her. “You’re the courier pearl, aren’t you?”

Pearl hesitates, only for an instant, then gives a modest salute. “Yes.”

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes

Previous Chapter : Alex - Resurgence

Alex is now assigned to the 141 with the task of defeating Nero. Meanwhile, the Scottish Solider, John "Soap" MacTavish is tasked to train the newest addition to the squad. Will he be able to prepare her for the rescue mission bound to happen soon? Why am I asking you questions? Are you really reading this bit of text?

Chapter 2 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

F.N.G.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Task Force 141

Task Force 141 Headquarters - Briefing Room

Nero. 

This was John's first official target after being moved to the 141. He was excited and terrified at the same time. He wanted to run another round at the Obstacle Course right after this brief. He wanted to be 100% fit for this job. He learned a lot at Verdansk and realized that he always had to be ready for the worst.

The briefing ended with Captain Price calling him over. John easily followed the British Captain as they huddled for a small discussion.

"Hey lad. Heard you're beating everyone's records in the training room." Price chuckled and tapped his shoulder, his thick moustache wiggled on his every word.

"Anything to get me in top shape, Sir." he humbly replied, grinning a little at the praise he gave him.

"I got a little task for you. See that girl over there?" he pointed toward a soldier in uniform by the chairs, her straight black hair fell as she took off her baseball hat.

"Aye. What about her." John questioned, his eyes focused on the subject hand.

"General Shepherd wants her in at the last minute. Just make sure she's ready for tomorrow." Price whispered as he quietly left and made his way toward the other members.

"Is she-" John leaned and realized Price already left. 

"Bloody Great." he muttered as he crossed his arms, Price already left. 

John joined the rest of the team involved in the Nero case as they walked a straight line across the hallway, each slowly dispersing to wherever they were needed to be, until such time that the only ones left were Gary or Roach, Alex, the CIA from Verdansk who lost his leg in a fight somewhere, and the new girl.

"Soap?" Gary called. The fellow ex-sergeant looked at him as if he wanted to ask a favor.

"Whatcha got there Roach?" Soap replied, his accent articulated each word quickly.

"I've got my hands full escorting Alex to his quarters. Do you mind sending France here to the training grounds? Price told me you were going that way, anyway." Gary asked politely, scratching the back of his head.

Soap nodded. He's going to help her train anyway, so that's two birds in one stone.

"Aye. I'll take care of her." Soap spoke quickly, nodding at the two as they make their way to their destination. 

"Cool guy huh, wonder what happened to his leg." France mused. Soap rolled his eyes toward her not tilting his head.

"Heard he had to manually detonate a chain of c4 charges. Everyone initially thought he died due to the explosion." Soap replied as he gestured her to follow him to the training area, whose entrance was at the far side of the building.

The walk was too quiet but Soap was sure she's following. Her footsteps echoed the halls right after his steps. He wasn't the best at meeting people but he tried his best to get comfortable, she's going to be a teammate after all.

"So, what's your deal here?" he spoke, his voice echoed across the empty halls.

"What?" she replied.

"You heard me." was all he said.

"Stealth tactics and close combat." She muttered. MacTavish raised his eyes and nodded in acknowledgement. 

"Hmm. We're going to be playing in an open field soon. What made Shepherd think you're up for this?" his question was out of sheer curiosity but the female soldier furrowed her brows and took it differently.

"Maybe he thinks I'm that good." she retorted, emphasizing the word 'that'. 

Soap stopped on his tracks and turned to her, 

at this angle she could only see his left eye, noting the scar that ran across his eyebrows down to his upper cheek.

"Then why are we heading to the training room? You could just take a rest or something. Relax that best condition of yours." he complained. France stared at her angrily, his overall attitude towards her was questionable, and she expected Gary's words were true, guess he lied or he was wrong.

"Formality." she said, her voice felt it was holding back emotion.

"Aye. Then let's go." John turned back and continued walking to the training area. His mind was silently tracking her steps is she's still following. He couldn't help but sigh at the attitude he showed earlier, but what can he say? He wasn't good at people and it's something he wished to improve on here at the 141.

~

"Switching to your sidearm is faster than reloading." he muttered over France who was halfway through the course. He couldn't see it but he felt her roll her eyes as if saying, "I know that already." as she coursed through the area, shooting enemies and evading civilians. When she said she was great at stealth and close combat, she wasn't lying. Soap noticed how she smoothly maneuvered through the area, she knew which walls to hug, which enemies needed to be killed first to allow space and which spots would be the weakest and easiest to breach through. Soap was utterly impressed by her skills and now realized why Shepherd insisted on adding her last minute. This lass got some skill.

"1 minute and forty three seconds. Pretty good for your first." Soap mused noting her time.

"Let's-"

"Wait." she panted, catching her breath and looked at the board.

"I wanna go again." she exhaled. Soap turned his head in confusion.

"Okay. Then ready up." he casually instructed her as she made her way back to the start of the course.

"I'm never leaving this place until I get to that top spot." she waved and jogged to the start of the course. MacTavish chuckled.

"You could try." he boasted, but she was far enough for her to hear him. And that was what he intended.

Second try. Soap noticed a sudden spike in her efforts clearing the first area in as early as twenty seconds. Soap actually felt nervous, he wasn't rooting for her to beat him but at the same time he wanted her to… A little competition wouldn't hurt. He thought to himself

"Stop." she panted.

"Forty-five." He muttered, trying not to sound impressed.

"Another one." she panted.

"You sure? Don't over exert yourself." he replied.

"Just give me water." France demanded, lowering her rifle on the desk. Soap turned to her and nodded.

"Fine. It's over there. I'll bring you there." 

"Great." 

"What did you do to get that record? I tried it twice and I can't find a quicker route without taking a lot of time." she asked as she placed the cup on the desk.

"I could show you, because I can't put it into words." he muttered. France always found his words boastful, maybe because she didn't really like this guy's general attitude or maybe she expected a different John.

"Yeah? The master shows me a live demo?" she mused jokingly. She wanted to get into his nerves, if he's going to behave that way towards her then she isn't backing out without a fight.

"More like, the master teaches you how to ace this course. There's a pen and paper over there if you want to take notes." he winked and ran to the course. France crossed her arms and watched the Scottish soldier take the course. It was impressive, he was quick on his feet and accurate on his shots, never wasting a single second to think what's next. He finished the first part in under 10 seconds, France's jaw wanted to drop but she forced herself not to. She still had a lot of time to beat that record, and she isn't going to stop until she made it to the top.

Thirty-four seconds was all he took to finish the course. He didn't huff or show signs of exhaustion, France only noticed a faster rise and fall of his chest. 

"So, how did I go?" Soap placed his rifle on the table in front of her.

"It was good. You're actually fast. If you give me enough time, I'll beat you and rise on the top of that list." she said proudly.

You got yourself a deal." he chuckled, leaving his hand open for a handshake, a sign of promise. She smiled sarcastically and walked out of the training area, something Soap never expected from her. 

"Finally, some good competition within the base." he muttered as he picked up the rifles, unloaded them and placed them back on the armory. They didn't finish the whole training course protocol, but it's a simple thing to lie about to Price when he asks for it soon.

It was lunchtime when John finally spotted his new found rival. She sat on the usually empty table, which was now occupied by her and Alex, 141's FNGs. A Fucking New Guy and A Fucking New Gal. He lifted his tray and went straight to their table. Gary stopped his funny raccoon story and watched his fellow comrade leave their table and move to the new ones. Ghost didn't mind the move, he didn't mind anyone's affairs anyway. He just sat there and continued chewing on his food while listening to Gary's hometown shenanigans.

"Hey Alex. Do you mind if I sit here?" Soap smiled and asked the former CIA. Alex nodded in agreement and tapped his shoulder. It was a long time since they once saw each other and Alex noted the changes he had been through.

"Whoa MacTavish, impressive gains you had there. Almost didn't recognize you." Alex greeted. MacTavish sat down and placed his tray containing a single red apple.

"Verdansk taught me that I needed to be better." he muttered eyeing at the new gal who wasn't even looking at them.

"You're looking pretty fine yourself!" Soap laughed at Alex's new tan, something he wasn't aware he had.

"Yeah. This is what happens when you miss the beach so much." he scratched his head, laughing.

"So… Nero. I heard you already acquainted yourself to him." Soap informed, Alex turned to him.

"Not directly, but my previous case was about him."

"What's his deal? Intel says it's not classified as terror activity yet. Why are we after him?"

"He's got large connections to the CIA with a serum capable of deleting, altering and extracting memories. Multiple people are already reported missing and reappearing in a trance state and they think it's in preparation for a global threat." France accidentally scraped her fork causing the two to turn to her. What they saw was France, looking down on her plate, tears slowly falling, her hands gripped the utensils tightly ready to be used as weapons.

"You okay, lass?" Soap finally broke the silence.

"Ttthey.. " she sobbed, her sentence was cut off as she started to catch up with her breathing.

"There there…" Alex immediately rushed to her side to console her. Soap tried to reach out to her hand but she quickly retreated it to her pockets.

"They took my sister… and they're going to pay." she spoke softly, continuing her tears. It must be rough to have someone you hold dear get taken away. Soap thought.

"I lost someone too…" Alex whispered, France leaned on him and released her emotions. She found someone she could relate to. Soap realized that Alex may have lied just to console her, making him the second person who's willing to lie for her sake. 

In the middle of all the chaos of the 141 cafeteria, the PA system alarmed the people involved on the Nero case to immediately report to the briefing room.

"Looks like the informants found something." Alex stated.

Chapter 3 : Run Through the Jungle

[brokenmusicboxwolfe]

My internet went out, and for the first time ever the troubleshooter in the app on my phone fixed it. Amusingly it apologized for failing to fix it and asked if I wanted to start a chat about repairs, but it DID fix it!

Of course, other apps are annoying me right now.

Take my photo troubles. I spent four days trying to get 2000 new photos to start uploading to the cloud and ended having to use the browser. (Yes, naturally I lost internet 400+ photos in and now have to manually tell it what photos are new to start uploading  all over again. ) It will be sometime tomorrow before I can even use the computer again as the browser upload is even slower (once started) than the app.**

And writing this the Tumblr app erased everything I’d just written for this post when I made the mistake of leaving the ipad to check something for 30secs. (If I look at another tab or let the screen take a nap or whatever…poof!..there goes everything I wrote!) 

**It has gotten to be this endless cycle. I spend two or three evenings deleting photos off the computer to make space for more photos. Then the next evening I try to get the new photos onto the computer, which takes ages because I tale too many pics. Then I spend a few days trying to get the stupid photos to upload to the cloud. And by then I have another batch of 1000 photos to deal with! I can blame the sculpting photos for the numbers. I take pics from every angle and the camera in macro takes two pics and overlaps them to make the image seem in focus. So I easily end up with 100 pics of each face, which is 700 pics a week. It’s a pain picking up which to post, but I figure in case they break or end up lost (both highly likely with my life) it’s nice to have a record of them for myself. I don’t need sculpting pics  on the computer after I post them on Tumblr, not when I have the external hard drive and cloud for copies. At least for now I know which pics to delete, but one day I won’t have enough sculpting pics left on the computer to remove and deleting is gonna get a LOT more painful. 

[devils-yui]

Yui Talks/Hyperfixates On:

Beast Wars

—-

Part 2 of my little series I’m making and am I gonna be consistent with the names? Maybe, since I’m too lazy to chance my previous one.

You can check out my previous one with Transformers: Prime

But I’m gonna hop directly into it and remember I respect your opinions on the show itself I’m just providing little tidbits of things I like and notice

And this does contain spoilers

• First of all okay wow— the animation and design kind of punched me while re-watching it since I remembered as a kid that that was my idea of peak animation.

• the theme song: “BEAST WARS!!” *epic guitar riff* I love that. It’s so stupid but in a good way

• The intro to how it starts in the first episode is— so funky— and I know animation was like to a limit back in the old days— (and considering this was made in the 90s) but the ships when they were crashing look like someone picked up a toy model of both the ships and are just moving them manually, very slowly, to a green-screened Earth.

• The explosions are “incredible”. They remind me of Deltarune explosions so much—

• ALSO THE FIGHTING SCENES— WHY ARE THE QUALITIES COMPARABLE TO RECORDED SCHOOL FIGHTS LIKE— WHERE IS THE CAMERA ANGLE GOING AND WHY IS IT BOUNCING AROUND LIKE THAT

• my brain understanding and trying to focus the fights are just:

(Two of these gifs combined)

• already saying it, I love Dinobot with all of my heart and I’d die for him

• But on the other end, he’s kind of like a little fucking bloodthirsty— which then again I don’t mind. If he wants to go ape-shit (considering that he’s like got a utahraptor alt mode), then he can go ape-shit I guess

• He reminds me of both Dreadwing and Starscream except with Dreadwing’s form of honour being a little— different(?) kind of. He’s like a tolerable Starscream to me.

• I am going through a love/hate moment with Terrorsaur and Waspinator

• Terrorsaur— I don’t know why but half of my brain says that man— right there— is fruity. Just a little

• Rhinox is literally carrying half of the Maximals in this war also— why the absolute hell does his rhino alt mode have sharp teeth. I just want to know why.

• Rattrap may be a bi-icon but if given the opportunity I’m chucking that bastard like this:

• Megatron sounds like if Robbie Rotten had a deeper voice, I don’t know why my brain decided that

• Scorpinok looks like a SoundCloud rapper— and at best a bulldog or a pittie. No you cannot change my mind

• Arachnid scares me, not like in a genuinely terrifying way just an uncomfortable “eeehh…” way

• Tarantulas too. I thought he was like a simp for the first several episodes for Arachnid and tbh most of the Predacons were. I was getting so many mixed signals about their relationship

• also there have been— so many times. That I’ve seen these characters get incredibly close like LITERAL several inches away from each other’s face, within kissable distance. It’s definitely given me more moments at times of watching where I can literally become hoarse just from saying, “KISS ALREADY!!”

• Optimus Primal in this series still has that Prime dad vibe but he most indefinitely has the “dad that has favorites” vibe.

• Cheetor is— so annoying to me. Maybe it’s that little brother vibe but— I don’t— I can tolerate him but whenever he talks I’m just—-

• The plot armor for the Predacons is— so fricking thick— these people could like— fall apart like Lego pieces and look absolutely destroyed upon recognition but in the next episode after taking a bath in the mason jar

I mean ahem— the restoration pools. they’re perfectly fine.

• Dinobot’s chompers and snarls: 💗💘💞💕💝💝💘💖💘💞💘💘💓💓❤️💝💞 (can’t a man appreciate some good teeth? Okay wait no that sounds creepy—)

• Also I’m most indefinitely gonna keep that headcanon in my mind, that he is most indefinitely a cannibal. HE ATE HIS CLONE?? HOW DO YOU NOT CALL THAT CANNIBALISM??

• Dinobot’s soliloquies are great to listen to. I enjoy them a lot

• Silverbolt and Arachnid’s relationship is.. iffy for me.. Along with Tigatron and Airrazor’s too, I respect those who ship it but I don’t see it— they (Airrazor and Tigatron) probably had time like— off screen to develope that relationship but ehh. Also Silverbolt’s ‘nice guy’ attitude with the “I can’t hit her she’s a lady!” rule kills me inside. Dude, this lady you’re talking about has manipulated people, kicked your comrade’s ass without hesitation, and most indefinitely has committed crimes. What. Are. You. Taking about.

• Inferno might be one of my other favorite characters, since I do find it funny how he calls Megatron, “Queen” but he’s kinda y’know *bonk bonk* in the head. Insane, is what I’m saying but I do love me some unhinged characters,

• Rattrap’s transmetal vehicle mode— his wheels— look like cola bottle caps.

• MEGATRON HAS HEELIES IN HIS TRANSMETAL BEAST MODE AND I AM LIVING FOR IT!

Other info:

• I’m still watching it but you can come back to see if this part has changed… but yeah that’s it

[electronicgrowth]

My Best

Hi! So, I’ve never written fanfiction before, but this came to me and I started writing it and it got away from me. Plus, there is a major lack of Ransom Drysdale on Tumblr, and I’m a thirsty bitch. Please be kind with my very first fanfic. It probably sucks, but here it is! 

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

“How old are you Miss Y/L/N?”

“24.”

“And you and Ransom Drysdale are involved?”

“Yes.”

“How long have the two of you been involved for?”

“About two years.”

“Miss Y/L/N, can you confirm that Mr. Drysdale was with you on the night in question?” 

“Yes.”

“And the video in question was recorded that night?”

“Yes.”

“And you are currently pregnant with Mr. Drysdale’s baby?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This wasn’t what I had ever wanted. I was scholarship kid at Boston College. I got the opportunity of a lifetime when Harlan Thrombey offered me a part time gig as a research assistant. Harlan even let me look over his manuscripts and give him notes. He told me he trusted my instincts. Although, I never knew why that was. 

That’s how I’d met Ransom. I was a good 10 years younger than him, but I caught his eye. It started out simply, flirting whenever he came to the house. Then Nana got sick. 

I went out drinking trying to forgot that the light of my life was sick. And there he was, that motherfucker. 

He bought me drink after drink and listened to me talk of Nana. We fucked the first time that night. 

From then on we fucked constantly. I spent most nights at his place. It felt good to have someone give a shit. Someone who wanted to pay attention to me. 

This went on. I graduated from school. And Harlan maneuvered me to get a job at the publishing company. Much to Walt’s chagrin. 

Ransom and I still went at it. I wondered if he was sleeping with other girls. I couldn’t imagine he wasn’t. But I couldn’t find it in me to care. I loved him, but I knew my time with Ransom was limited. I resolved myself to take what I could get. 

Then Nana died. After 18 months fighting her cancer she died. I had to go to Minnesota. Ransom begged me to come back by Harlan’s party. Saying he couldn’t face it alone. Unfortunately everything at Nana’s took longer than anticipated. I got back after the party had ended. I even had to go back the next week to tie up some loose knots. 

I called Ransom to get me from the airport. 

He looked great. He rolled up in his Beamer. He looked so hot. He smirked at me. When I finally reached him, he covered my mouth with his in a heated kiss. His right hand snaked down to grab my ass through the leggings.

“Missed you, baby,” he growled, “Need to get you home so I can fuck you.” 

“Take me home then,” I gasped. The ride home to his place was tense. I could see how much he wanted me if his pants were to give me any indication. I kept fidgeting trying to get comfortable. 

When we finally pulled up to his place I could barely take it. We barreled into the house.  Into his room. 

“Baby,” he moaned, “Wanna try something new?” His eyes sparkled mischievously. 

“What do you have in mind?” I asked skeptically. 

“I know you have to go back to Minnesota in a few days,” he began, “and I missed you so much this last time. Maybe we could film it.”

“Ransom,” I started.

“It would just be for me, baby,” he begged. 

“I really don’t know,” I said. 

“Come on,” he said, “you know you’re my girl.” I finally looked up at him, eyebrows raised. 

“Y/N,” he said sternly, “I love you.” Three little words and my world was turned upside down. I would like to say that usually I would be more skeptical, that I fell for those words because my Nana had just died, that I desperately needed to be loved in that moment. But I was a fool for Ransom Drysdale. I would have believed him no matter what. 

I looked into his eyes, “Say it again.”

“I love you,” he breathed, he kissed me deeply. He started grabbing my ass again. I reached down and started massaging him. He broke our kiss to start undressing me. It was a frenzy. He took off my sweatshirt and t-shirt. He pushed me back onto his bed and grabbed my leggings and pulled them off. When I was left in just my bra and underwear I leaned up. 

“Get your phone out baby,” I said, reaching for his belt. He pulled off his shirt and grabbed his phone from his back pocket. I unzipped his pants and pushed those and his underwear down just enough that his cock sprang free. I wasted no time. First I teased him. I licked his length then took as much as I could in my mouth. I swirled my tongue around him while he was still in my mouth, wetting as much of him as possible. I hallowed my cheeks and starting bobbing my head. I could feel the camera on me. I looked up through my lashes at the phone. 

“Shit, baby. You look so sexy,” he moaned out. He pushed me back, off his cock. He set the phone down next to me, and removed his pants and briefs the rest of the way and kicked them away. He got down on his knees. 

“Here baby,” he said, “You film me know.”

I angled the phone towards him. He started with kisses on my lower stomach and then my thighs. Finally he kissed my mound. 

“God, you are so wet for me,” he smirked, “I can feel it through your panties.” Very carefully he rolled my panties down and off my body. He licked my opening and began fucking me with his tongue. It was so erotic to watch him do it through the phone camera. When he raised his mouth I thought he was going to give me a reprieve, instead he sank two fingers into me.

“Jesus,” he groaned, “I swear you get tighter every time.” All I could do is moan as he pumped his fingers in and out of me. I could hear how turned on I was. It sounded like a porno in his room. He started to slow down.

“Tell me what I want to hear baby,” he said, smirking down at me.

“R-ransom, oh fuck,” I started.

“What was that, babygirl?” He asked mockingly. 

“Ransom, please fuck me with your cock,” I begged, “I need it so bad.”

“Yeah?” 

“God, I need it so bad, it hurts,” I moaned. He grabbed the the phone from my hands and sprang up. He grabbed one of the bedside tables and dragged it forward. He propped his phone up against some books he had laying on the table. He reached into the drawer and grabbed a condom. I recovered enough to remove my bra. He looked at me hungrily as he got on top of me. He propped himself up on his forearms. I hooked my legs around him, like he liked. He pushed himself inside me and began pounding. 

Ransom was always vocal in bed. He had to say exactly what was on his mind. 

“God, missed you so much. I can’t let you leave me again. You’re my girl right?”

I nodded in response. I couldn’t speak, just moan and gasp.

“I gotta make you my girl. Gotta keep you here. Don’t leave me, babe.”

“I’m not gonna leave you,” I gasped. He stalled a bit. Slowed his pounding to a careful roll of the hips. 

“Promise?” He asked, his eyes were begging. I wondered if something was upsetting him. 

“I promise, Ransom,” I whispered. I reached up to cup his cheek, his hand grabbed mine and he kissed my palm. 

“I love you so much,” he said.

“I love you too,” I responded. He pulled out of me. 

“Turn over,” he commanded. I did. I got on my knees and leaned down so my head was resting on my hands. Ransom gruffly grabbed one hip, I could hear him behind me, he was pumping himself based on the sounds the latex was making. When he re-entered me he grabbed both my hips to pull me back against him. I was a moaning mess. 

“Oh fuck, Ransom. You feel so good,” I moaned. 

“God, this pussy is so tight,” he growled, “and it’s all mine right baby?”

“All yours!” 

“Say it again.”

“This is your pussy, Ransom.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

He growled. I moaned. He pulled me up so my back was against his front, one hand around my neck, the other wrapped around my waist. I could feel how close I was. My legs were shaking. He kissed my neck, in the place he knew made me weak. I reached one hand up to keep his head in place and the other guided his hand down to my clit. 

“Tell me you love me, one more time baby,” he begged.

“I love you, Ransom,” I moaned. With that, he came. Feeling his pulse inside me pushed me over the edge. We both took a minute to catch our breathe. He leaned over to the table and turned the phone camera off, he was still inside me. Very carefully he pulled out. He got up to throw the condom out. I got onto my back. It felt different, like something was coming out of me. I leaned up and looked down. 

Shit.

Was that cum? 

“Ransom?” I asked.

“Yeah, baby,” he called from the bathroom. 

“Did that condom break?”

“Fuck me.”

“It’s okay,” I said, “I’m on the pill. So, I’m sure it’s fine.” He appeared from the bathroom. 

“You sure?” He asked.

“Yeah, totally,” I said. He crawled back onto the bed and kissed me deeply. When he was done, he plopped down and pulled me into him. He grabbed one of my legs and hooked it around his hip. I laid my head over his racing heart. I fell asleep like that. 

The next day Linda called Ransom about Harlan. Everything moved quickly. There was a funeral. 

Ransom and I still weren’t public so we planned on going separately. He wasn’t there. I was confused. But he and Harlan always had this special relationship that I couldn’t understand. Maybe he just needed time? 

I still went to his house each night. And fucked him. Until I had to go back to Nana’s house in Minnesota. 

While I was gone it fell apart. Everything happened. Ransom got arrested for murdering his grandfather, the housekeeper, and trying to kill Marta. 

Linda was frantic. The lawyers his parents hired badgered him about a potential alibi. Getting the recording deleted would help, but with an alibi he would be home free. 

I found it odd, them talking about the recording getting erased. But then it did. The police chopped it up to technical failure. But Linda had someone on the inside that did it all manually. 

On top of that, Ransom did have an alibi. One he could prove. He had a video of him fucking a girl that was timestamped for that night. Granted it was later than when Harlan died. But picking said girl up from the airport was so close to time of death, how could it have been him?

The lawyers didn’t like the angle of Ransom and I just messing around. Not that we were anymore. I was living there, but we weren’t sleeping together. We barely spoke. I was starting to feel like I was there to cook and clean. He couldn’t look me in the eye. 

“I mean, she is my girl,” Ransom had told them, not looking at me. 

“Yes, a girlfriend. Not very substantial for the image I’m afraid,” one lawyer had responded. 

“What if she was his fiancee?” The other bartered. 

“Yes, that is quite good,” said the first. 

I looked at Ransom. Was he actually going to go along with this? As it turns out he didn’t have to. Because I was pregnant. Now, I was his girlfriend he was having a baby with. One he had talked about marriage with.

At least that was how it was presented in court. At home he was distant. I didn’t know what to think. I had known Harlan. Had worked for Harlan. Was I even ready to be a mom? My own mother hadn’t even raised me. What did I know about being a mom?

Ransom’s lawyers played the video in court. At least part of it, to prove that we had been having sex that night. So, he couldn’t have had anything to do with his Grandfather’s death. 

Eventually, I was put on the stand. 

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

“How old are you Miss Y/L/N?”

“24.”

“And you and Ransom Drysdale are involved?”

“Yes.”

“How long have the two of you been involved for?”

“About two years.”

“Miss Y/L/N, can you confirm that Mr. Drysdale was with you on the night in question?” 

“Yes.”

“And the video in question was recorded that night?”

“Yes.”

“And you are currently pregnant with Mr. Drysdale’s baby?”

“Yes.”

With the deleted recording and alibi I provided, Ransom could only be charged with aggravated assault. He received one year of house arrest, with 2 years probation. 

His parents were content with that. The lawyers were downright thrilled. I still didn’t know what to think.

We got home after the trial, and he couldn’t look at me. We walked into the kitchen and he went right for the beer. I set my bag and coat down on the island. 

“So,” I began, “How long is it going to take you to dump me after all this?”

“Excuse me,” he countered, glaring at me. 

“Come on, Ransom. I know the whole family thing isn’t what you want,” I said, “You can barely look at me. And you haven’t touched me since before you got arrested. When you told me you loved me did you even mean it?” I was starting to raise my voice. 

“That night, did you ask me to make that video because you wanted to? Or because you wanted an extra alibi? Did the condom even break that night? Or did you take it off to try and knock me up for this whole family guy image your lawyers used.” I was fully in his face now. But he was finally looking at me. 

“Don’t you dare say that, Y/N!” He screamed with a look in his eye I had never seen. 

“You want the truth Y/N?” He growled, “I did everything I was accused of.” Now I was terrified. Was he going to kill me? I started to back away from him. But I bumped up against a wall. He caged me in with his arms. 

“And yeah, I made the video just in case I needed an alibi. I even took the condom off when I started to fuck you doggy. But I only did that because that night I finally had clarity. I knew that I loved you. That you were the only girl I was ever going to love and I had to do whatever it took to keep you. So, yeah. I took the condom off hoping to knock you up. But don’t for one minute think that I don’t love you,” he yelled. 

“You haven’t been to one doctor’s appointment with me since we found out four months ago,” I argued. 

“I’ve been a little busy here, Y/N!” He screamed. He wiped his hand down his face. 

“Do you not love me anymore?” He asked in a small voice, looking down at our feet. 

I faltered. I shouldn’t love him. He killed someone. He used me. But my heart bled for him. 

“I’m an idiot. But yeah, I still love you,” I said. He looked into my eyes and then he kissed me. He kissed me deeply. When he finally stepped back, he scooped me up and carried me to bed. 

He laid me down gently and got on his knees. 

“Can I see?” He asked.

“See what honey?” I asked cupping his cheek. 

“The bump?” He said quietly. 

“Oh, yeah,” I said. I stood up and walked passed him. I took off my heals and tights. Then I pulled the dress I was wearing over my head. I was left in my bra and underwear, I brushed by Ransom a second time to sit on the bed again. My four month bump was out there. He cradled it in awe. 

“I do love you,” he said, “I know I have a lot of shit to make up for. But I’m going to do my best.” 

“You better,” I said as he kissed my belly. 

[sparxwrites]

(first tma fic, kids, let’s go!! set at some ambiguous point in s3 or something, idfk. massive thank you to @capitola, @hoodienanami, and @ladyofrosefire for beta’ing / looking this over and reassuring me it wasn’t terrible. massive thank you also to mr sims for my life lmao.)

cw for minor body horror, and eyes in places they shouldn’t be

[ao3]

There’s a light on in Jon’s office.

It’s not a bright light, just the soft glow of a desk lamp spilling out from under the door, but still. It’s well past midnight. No one should be working – hell, Martin’s only in the Archives because he’d forgotten his phone when he went out with the others for drinks. And sure, Jon’s known for his late nights and early starts, but verging on one in the morning seems ridiculous even for him.

Martin hesitates outside the door for a full minute before knocking, once.

There’s no response, but Jon’s definitely in. Or someone is, at least. There’s a voice – muffled, but still audible, speaking continuously – from inside the room. Statements, then, probably. Though why Jon would be reading statements at this time of the night is beyond Martin, especially when he’s been at it all day, too.

He hovers for another minute, another two, but the voice doesn’t quiet. The light doesn’t go off. He’s half tempted to leave his weird boss to his weird work hours and just not interfere in what could be some weird Beholding ritual for all he knows. That would be the sensible thing to do, really.

After a cumulative three minutes of worrying, Martin resolves to open the door. Just a little. Just to check if Jon’s okay.

It’s not locked, which – given the hour, and the Archives’ track record with murder attempts and/or supernatural infiltration – seems like a safety hazard. Martin pushes it open, gingerly, nudging his way into the doorway and peering inside, fully prepared to get snapped at for intruding.

Jon’s sat at his desk, which is normal, and has a half-drunk glass of whiskey by one elbow, which is not. His hands are laid flat on his desk, either side of a sheet of paper, and his face lit in strange, sharp angles by the desk lamp’s single point of light. The ever-present tape recorder whirs away in front of him, hungry for his soft words.

It’s a fairly typical scene, other than the lateness. And the whiskey. And the strange energy in the air, prickling, not the usual light touch of being watched, but the heavy weight of something present. He’s trying not to think about that one, though.

Martin watches, silently, unwilling to interrupt. Jon doesn’t appreciate being interrupted mid-statement, he’s found. Besides, it sounds like the statement’s ending anyway – something about an improbable underwater fire at an oil rig, as far as Martin can piece together from the closing remarks.

Politely reminding Jon of the twin values of sleep and of locking his office door can wait until he’s finished.

“…Statement ends,” concludes Jon, voice soft and flat in that way it only ever gets when he’s recording statements. The real statements, that is, the ones that will only go on tape. His eyes are unfocused, distant. He doesn’t even seem to be looking at the paper in front of him, which… unusually, for a statement, seems to be mostly blank. Instead, he’s staring unseeingly at the wall opposite his desk, perfectly silent and perfectly still.

It’s not like Jon’s never worked late before, and it’s not like Martin’s never found him reading statements at some god-awful, unsociable hour of the night or morning, but this… Something feels different about this. Something feels weird, and Martin’s gotten pretty confident in trusting his gut about weird feelings.

“Jon?” he says, softly, nervously. He’s still hovering in the doorway, uncertain, unwilling to cross into the room proper on sheer animal instinct.

He gets no response. Instead, Jon flinches, like he’s been stuck with a needle.

It’s an oddly restrained motion, given he doesn’t seem to be entirely present, a sort of full-body twitch accompanied by a quiet hiccup of sound. Like he’s swallowed down a sob. His breath stutters in his chest, hitches. A high-pitched, drawn-out noise of pain strangles itself in his throat, escapes through his nose instead in a long whine.

His eyes don’t refocus. His hands never move from their place settled flat against the desk. His expression doesn’t change.

“…Statement of Mrs. Anisha Singh,” he says, eventually, his voice still level and calm. It would be almost soothing, if not for that fixed stare, the line of tension in his shoulders, the whiskey on the desk. If not for that strange, heart-stopping moment of quiet agony. “Regarding the disappearance and return of a beloved family pet. Statement begins.”

Now Martin’s looking for it, he can hear the note of strain that colours the edge of each word, pain or exhaustion or some other ragged, aching thing entirely that even… whatever it is that’s keeping him blank and still can’t quite exorcise entirely.

“Jon,” says Martin, a little more firmly, because this is– weird. Even by Jon’s standards, even by the Archives’ standards, this is really, really weird.

“We’d had him for years, you see. Mr. Kibbles, I mean.” Jon’s voice softens as he slips into the statement, pitches up a little into something more female than his usual tone. There’s the slightest edge of an accent to it, though Martin isn’t sure what accent. “Years and years, and he was always so sweet. He was a rescue cat, so of course there were some issues at first, but–”

Martin hesitates and then, swallowing hard, crosses the room and scoots around the desk, until he’s standing at Jon’s elbow. “Jon?” he says again, without much hope. When he gets no response, he sets a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and shakes him, ever so gently.

“–why we thought it was strange, when he went missing,” says Jon, still staring straight ahead, hands still flat on the desk. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond, doesn’t so much as blink.

Martin shakes him, again, a little harder. Then his nerves run out, so he switches to sort of awkwardly rubbing Jon’s shoulder, his back, as insistently as possible. Even through Jon’s customary jumper and shirt, he can feel– bumps, almost, strange raised nodules that he thinks must be scar tissue. Must be from the worms. He shudders at the thought, and distracts himself by calling Jon’s name again, louder than before.

Nothing. It’s like Martin’s not even there.

“Okay,” says Martin, as easily as he can manage when everything in his nerves sings wrong, when there’s a prickle on the back of his neck like Jon’s staring at him. It’s ridiculous, Jon's eyes aren’t even focused, but… “Okay, right.” He unwinds his scarf from round his neck, and shrugs his jacket off, his motions jerky with unease. “I’m– I’m going to go make us some tea, then.”

It seems a bit pathetic, when he says it out loud. But it’s not like there’s any employee manual segment on what to do if your boss gets possessed by his god in the early hours of the morning, and he figures making tea can’t hurt the situation. Perhaps the warmth and steam of a cup on his desk might help… bring Jon back to himself, or something.

At the very least, doing something with his hands might stop them from shaking.

He makes the tea on autopilot, mostly, drifting from sink to kettle to cupboard, retrieving mugs and teabags and milk. His brain is too busy whirring, turning the image of Jon over and over in his head, to concentrate on the process all that much. He’s desperately trying to work out if this is okay, if this is normal capital-A Archivist business, or if this is something new, or something dangerous, or something…

The tea’s oversteeped, by the time he remembers to take the teabags out. Not that it matters, really. Only one of the cups is getting drunk, after all, and Martin’s too strung-out on nerves for overly bitter tea to be anything other than a laughable distraction.

By the time he gets back, Jon’s nearly done with the statement. He hasn’t moved an inch, hands still on the damn desk, eyes still fixed unseeing on the far wall. Martin sighs, and sets the tea on the desk a few inches from the whiskey nonetheless. “There you go,” he says, and immediately feels guilty – because Jon’s doing a statement, the tape recorder’s still running, because he’s ruining the recording.

He figures, as he retreats to a chair tucked against the wall, next to one of the bookshelves, that his priorities probably say something about how badly this job has messed him up. Boss might be possessed? It’s probably fine. Ruining a statement, though? Unforgivable.

“–know what I’m going to tell the kids,” says Jon. “They loved the cat. They were so happy when he came back. But they didn’t see it. Not like I did. They didn’t see what those fleas had done to him. They wouldn’t understand, if I told them what I had to do.”

Martin winces, and takes a sip of tea to try and stop from thinking about that too hard. It scalds his tongue a little. He’s missed the bulk of the statement, but he’s got a pretty good idea of what bugs can do to a person – or a cat, as the case may be. And he’s got a pretty good idea of what Mrs. Singh might have had to do to get rid of them.

“I’d suggest we go to the local rescue this weekend, get another cat to replace Mr. Kibbles, but… I don’t know if I’m ready to have another pet right now, after all this. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to have another pet again.” Jon pauses, unblinking, unmoving – and when he speaks again, his voice is back to his own, albeit still coloured by that awful, artificial flatness. “Statement ends.”

And again he flinches, like he’s been stuck unexpectedly with something sharp, hunching in on himself. He hiccups out another sob, another aborted hitch of sound, and then keens. It’s an awful noise, a long, drawn-out whimper so full of pain that Martin’s on his feet before he can even think about it.

He’s not sure what he can possibly do to help with this, especially when he doesn’t even know what’s going on. But it seems wrong to just sit there, to just watch, with Jon hurting in front of his eyes.

Before he can take another step, though, the skin of Jon’s neck starts to– shift. It’s not a warping or a melting, exactly, nothing like the things the Desolation does to human flesh. It’s more of an unfurling, skin parting and opening as though that was what it was always meant to do. Except it’s that’s not right, because that’s a neck, because skin doesn’t move like that, because necks don’t open–

Jon’s whine finally, finally cuts off, with a frantic gasp.

“Oh, god,” says Martin, faintly, frozen in place with his hands white-knuckled around his mug – because there, on the side of Jon’s neck, is a wide, brown eye.

It blinks, slowly, its thick black eyelashes brushing across Jon’s skin. Then it spins in its– socket? God, in whatever’s anchoring it into Jon’s skin, and Martin really doesn’t want to think about that– and settles its wide and fixed gaze on Martin.

When Martin takes a tentative step to the side, it tracks his movement, smooth and unblinking. He thinks about the bumps under Jon’s jumper, oddly soft beneath his hand, and is abruptly overcome with nausea.

How long has this been going on? How long has Jon sat here, unnaturally still, giving statement after statement with no paper to read from and no pause between? …How many of these eyes are there, under Jon’s collared shirt and long-sleeved jumpers and carefully pressed trousers, scattered across his ribs and stomach and thighs?

From the presence of the whiskey, Martin has an awful feeling that this isn’t even the first night this has happened. That this is something Jon had braced for, from prior experience.

The idea of Jon sat alone in his office, blank paper and a waiting tape recorder in front of him, grimly downing spirits in anticipation of the pain to follow, sets Martin’s chest in an abrupt and unrelenting vise.

“A-aah. Statement–” starts Jon, and there’s a definite waver to his voice now, an unsteadiness apparently even the Beholding can’t eradicate. There are fine tremors starting up across his shoulders, and wetness around the rims of his human eyes. “–o-of Mr. Gregory Freeman, regarding th-the circumstances of his daughter’s death on a family hiking trip. Statement– begins.”

Four statements later – a young woman ravenously hungry for her own flesh, a house that seemed to shrink with every passing day, an elderly man with a sudden and violent phobia of cameras, a woman who had started leaving cobwebs on everything she touched – and Jon is still going. Martin’s made another two cups of tea for them both, out of sheer anxious energy, replacing the undrunk and cooling mug on Jon’s desk each time.

Four more statements. Four more eyes emerging somewhere on Jon’s body. Four more points of pain, sending him flinching and sobbing between each statement.

Martin watches them all and clutches his empty mug, white-knuckled, helpless. He watches Jon finish each statement, watches him weather the pain, watches him start up once again– and he goes to get more tea. There’s nothing else he can do, but be witness to this, whatever this is. Be a witness to Jon’s suffering.

Jon finishes a fifth statement, and is halfway into a sixth, before he starts crying. Thin trails of tears start to drip down his nose and cheeks, over his constantly moving lips. They’re barely visible in the half-darkness, just a faint gleam as they catch the raking light from his desk lamp. His expression doesn’t change, nor his tone, but he cries silently nonetheless. The eye on his neck is not so much as damp.

Martin cries with him, softly, for a while.

No other eyes show up on his face or neck, despite the endless statements, the endless gaps between. One does form on his wrist, though, right over the bone of it, pale blue and half-hidden by the cuff of his shirt. It blinks once, indolently, at Martin, before rolling to stare fixedly at the doorway to the room. Quietly watching.

The one on Jon’s neck still stares at Martin, unblinking, single-minded. He gets used to it, after a horribly short space of time.

The time passes strangely, elastic. Martin drinks his tea, makes another cup, and drinks that too. He replaces Jon’s whenever it gets cold, out of some weird sense of duty that Jon will have at least warm tea when he snaps out of whatever’s going on. He dozes, at some points, lulled into an uneasy sleep by the soothing sound of Jon’s words. He’s inevitably reawakened when the statement ends, though, by Jon’s noises of pain, louder and less restrained each time. By the end of, he’s crying out openly with each new eye, voice hoarse and raw in a way that never carries over to his statements.

It’s six in the morning, by the count of the clock on the wall, before Jon finally stops. “Statement ends,” he says, and Martin waits, patient and exhausted, for him to start again with statement of – but it never comes.

Instead, Jon– collapses. Crumples over his desk with an unsteady exhale, like a puppet with its strings cut. Out of the grip of the eye, the shaking is worse – violent, shocky, like he’s about to fall apart.

Maybe he is.

For a second, Martin’s worried he’s having a seizure, or some more eldritch equivalent. Then he realises Jon isn’t just breathing, jerky and unsteady and on the edge of sobbing. He’s speaking, still, muttering soft and frantic to himself.

“No more. No more. No more. Please. No–”

“Jon?” says Martin, as gently as he can manage, because he can’t bear it a second longer. “Are you–”

Jon goes silent in a heartbeat, and as still as he can with the tremors still running through him. “Martin.” His voice is wrecked, but he still cuts Martin off with such authority. “What– what are you doing here? God, what– time is it?”

He’s slurring a little, under the hoarse rasp, but Martin’s not sure it’s anything to do with the whiskey. There’s a giddy edge to it that rubs up against the exhaustion, like he’s overstimulated and wrung out all at once. Perhaps he is, after a night of being force-fed statements directly into his brain.

Jon drags himself upright again, slowly, painfully, until he’s at least slumped in his seat rather than collapsed over his desk. There are dark bags under his human eyes, and his hair’s a mess, and that wide, brown eye in the side of his neck is still staring. Martin really wishes it wouldn’t. Wishes that it would at least stare at something other than him.

The eye, as though reading his thoughts – and god, for all Martin knows, it is – blinks. Just once.

“I, um. It’s about six, I think. In the morning. I, I came in last night, and you were– aha, well, um, I don’t really know what you were! But it seemed kind of weird, so I thought… I’d better keep you company. In case it got weirder, you know?”

It feels stupid, when he says it like that. What did he do, other than sitting there, watching, making tea? It was ridiculous of him to have thought he could help in the first place.

Jon opens his mouth as if to reply – but his eyes catch on the lukewarm cup of tea by one elbow, and he stops. Swallows. Closes his mouth. “…That was– thoughtful of you, Martin,” he says, in the end, which isn’t quite a thank you but is remarkably close. He grabs the mug of tea, and downs half of it in one long swallow, before reaching up to scrub a hand over his face, his neck. “I suppose it goes without saying that this–”

The moment his fingers touch the eye, he freezes. Then he slaps a hand over it, almost guiltily, and stares at Martin with wide, wild eyes.

“…It’s been watching me all night,” says Martin, and winces as he watches Jon’s expression crumple. “Look, don’t– here.” He grabs his scarf off the back of his chair and stumbles over to the desk, shoves it towards Jon in a bundle. “You can cover it up or something, if you want. And… please don’t freak out, but– there’s one on your wrist, too.”

Jon stares at the scarf for a long, long moment, before laughing hollowly. When he reaches across the desk to take it, he uses the hand that was covering his neck, and that wide brown eye stares accusatorily back at Martin. He doesn’t put the scarf on – just sits there, holding it, fingers white-knuckled against the soft wool.

“I was doing so well,” he says, and he sounds exhausted. When he reaches for a drink again, it’s from the half-full glass of whiskey. “I was doing so well, keeping them covered…”

There’s a comment to be made about drinking on the job, and also about the ill-advisedness of whiskey at six in the morning, but Martin bites his tongue. “Maybe they want to be uncovered…?” he offers, and winces immediately. “Just. You know. Eyes, and all that. Maybe they want to be able to see.”

“They can see whether they’re covered or not,” mutters Jon, sourly. “They’re not– this,” he gestures to his neck, “is just another, another test, or some kind of sick game, I know it. It’s just–”

“How many are there?” blurts Martin, because Jon’s starting to spiral, and it’s the first thing that springs to mind. “–Oh, god, you. You don’t have to answer that, just forget I asked, really. Really.”

Jon hesitates, before standing up abruptly enough that his chair screeches against the floor. “Oh, damn it,” he mutters, setting the scarf down on the desk and knocking back the rest of the whiskey. He pulls a face at the burn of it, but his hands are already fumbling with the hem of his jumper, tugging it off over his head and immediately going for the buttons on his shirt. “Damn it all–”

His hands are shaking badly enough Martin almost wants to help, but the situation is weird enough already without offering to help his boss strip, so he… doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, awkwardly, as Jon fights to get the buttons on his shirt open.

When he finally manages it, Martin can’t quite hold back a sharp, panicked intake of breath.

“There’s more lower down,” says Jon, quiet misery in his wrecked voice. “And on my back. And my arms, and– I don’t know how many. I… I haven’t counted. Maybe– a hundred? More?”

The dozens of eyes across his torso don’t blink, but they do shift, pupils contracting in the sudden light and darting around for something to focus on. They’re different sizes, shapes, colours, peppered across his skin and overlapping with his many scars as though competing for space.

Jon prods at a red-rimmed, newish-looking one on his stomach, scowling, and hisses out a breath of pain at the unpleasant, yielding contact between eyeball and finger. It blinks in retaliation, and somehow manages to look annoyed.

For a strange, nauseating second, Martin isn’t sure whether he wants to run, or to step closer, to fit his hands against the curve of Jon’s too-prominent ribs and feel the soft brush of eyelashes against his palms. In the end, thankfully, he does neither – just stands there, dumb, staring, as Jon reaches for his shirt buttons and starts to dress himself once more.

“You– you should sleep,” he offers, unsteadily, as Jon tugs his jumper back over his head. “I can go set up the bed, if you like. You know, where I slept, when…”

Jon finishes wrestling the jumper into submission, and collapses back into his chair, sighing. “I… yes. I suppose I should,” he says, and the slur is stronger now, without the anger and panic to camouflage it. The trembling, never quite banished from the line of his shoulders, is coming back stronger again. “Sleep would be– nice.”

There’s something bitter in the way he says it, almost sarcastic, but Martin’s too tired to call him up on it. “Okay,” he says, instead. “Okay, I’ll go, um, I’ll go set up the bed then. You just wait here, and, and maybe… drink some of the tea? Might help your throat. Definitely no more whiskey, though, please.”

Jon huffs out something that might almost be a laugh, though it sounds raw and rasping. “No more whiskey tonight– this morning,” he agrees, groping across the desk for the by now rather cold mug tea. “The pain’s fading now, anyway, I’ll be fine.” The words seem to slip out of him, an admission of vulnerability he’s too hurting and exhausted to hold them back. “…Thank you, Martin.”

The hand not currently curled around the mug of tea has found the wool of Martin’s scarf again, fingers curled absently into the softness of it. Martin’s not sure if he’s getting that back. He’s not sure he minds, either.

“It’s no problem. Really!” he says, with a small smile – and, despite the night full of confusion, and worry, and far too much oversteeped tea, he means it. He means it with all his heart. “You’re– you’re welcome.”

[lovelyirony]

B99 au with the Avengers (guest starring T'challa, king of Wakanda, Jennifer Walters, queen of the law firm and our favourite; Carol Danvers, queen of space!)

presenting: the b99-inspired AU, where all the avengers work at a precinct and have fun with it.

“No,” comes the voice of Maria Hill. “We are not allocating funds from the precinct to fund this.”

“But in my defense, it will look cool and prove that we’re cool kids,” Bruce argues.

“I am not ordering a cake that says ‘the government sucks’ with edible succulents surrounding it to prove that we’re ‘cool’. Besides, you work for the government technically, Bruce.”

“Only because I get a good retirement plan out of this,” Bruce argues. “If I could get an amazing pension as a scientist researching for all eternity, I would. But as it turns out, the government doesn’t appreciate people who don’t pay taxes.”

“Criminals?” Maria asks pointedly.

“They prefer to be referred to as wealthy,” Natasha says breezily. “What, are we seriously gonna pretend like rich people don’t dodge taxes?”

“We’re not going to talk about that right now,” Fury argues. “Team, gather up! Here’s what’s going to happen.”

The team gathers around.

“Steve, you are not going to try to do anything impulsive to impress him, we don’t have time,” Fury starts out with. “And Tony, do not act aloof or anything because you think this is a waste of your time.”

“I have Project Runway on DVR, there is something better I could be doing other than my job, Sir,” Tony remarks. Bruce snickers.

“Bruce, you will not be gifting T’Challa the ‘I Heart Dismantling Big Corporations’ t-shirt. I don’t care if you already ordered it.”

“I was a slave to capitalism for nothing,” Bruce mutters.

“Natasha, do not try to intimidate him,” Fury says.

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks, flipping a knife in one hand.

“That,” Fury says flatly. “T’Challa is here to help our precinct look at international issues with nuance. He is not here to be scared away.”

“I doubt I could be,” comes a voice from behind. In walks T’Challa, who smiles genially at the small crowd. “A pleasure to see you all. I look forward to working with you.”

T’Challa is known for his work with other precincts. He’s either hailed as a hero or as a nuisance, depends on what reputation the cops have with the public.

In all respects, the “Avengers” as they call themselves are excited.

But they are also themselves.

Cue Clint Barton falling through a ceiling.

“Fifth floor stole our Keurig,” he announces, dusting plaster off of him. “Oh shit. T’Challa dude was coming today?!”

Fury grits his teeth and turns.

“I apologize for Clint here, but every team needs the country idiot,” Tony says. “And he found our Keurig, which means I have to give you my leave. I’ll be back in thirty.”

T’Challa watches Tony gesture to a man with a metal arm, and they’re racing to the stairs.

“Is that...normal?” he asks.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Rhodey says with a sigh. “I’m Colonel Rhodes. People call me Rhodey. Nice to meet you. Welcome to hell.”

-

T’Challa would not describe it as hell. He would describe it as more of a circus with incredible results.

He’s studied the team. They have amazing arrest records, have the best public image that he knows of, and are incredibly inclusive and investigative.

And...entertaining, if the last six hours are anything to go by.

They’ve received a new case, something about a robbery involving over twenty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry.

T’Challa accompanies Steve, Tony, and Natasha to the crime scene.

Steve examines the footage before beckoning for Tony and Nat.

“What level we dealing with here?”

“Six,” Tony says. “Look at the way they move, they’re definitely here on an assignment from someone else.”

“But they’re new to the business,” Natasha points out. “Look at how that guy’s head turns. He doesn’t know how to angle it away from the camera. Level Five.”

“Concurred. Let’s go see the case.”

T’Challa is...impressed.

But he knows the way that jewelry works; his little sister is particularly an aficinado for “correcting” thievery movies or the secret agent movies, and keeps him updated on jewelry and its value.

“I like to know its worth!” Shuri had defended.

“This is just because you’ve been obsessed with seeing Rihanna in Ocean’s 8,” Nakia had teased her.

“And? Don’t tell me you weren’t having to manually close your jaw after seeing all of the gala looks.”

“Fair point.”

He turns back to the case at hand.

“They stole only rubies,” Natasha says. “Why?”

“Real rubies are so rare that their worth on the market is unspecified, meaning you can define your own value,” T’Challa answers.

“Back to Level Six,” Tony says. “So. Let’s review the footage. Face covered, professional, but new to the business. Who has the power to contract this out?”

“I have someone we need to talk to,” Natasha says. “Let’s head back after witness statements.”

Carol Danvers is a worldwide traveler. If space travel was a thing and they proved that aliens were real to the public, she would most likely be out in space dealing with that.

But she’s well-traveled is the main point of this. Which means she knows international criminals, as does T’Challa.

They greet each other.

“Didn’t know you made housecalls,” Carol remarks, sitting down in Bruce’s chair. He doesn’t protest, just gives her a raised eyebrow.

“On occasion,” T’Challa responds, grinning. “Good to see you again, Captain. Any leads?”

“One,” Carol says. “Red Skull. American, moved to Germany. Really weird, has a thing for the color red and being a genuinely terrible person. Steve kicked his face in once. It was cool.”

“My foot hurt for two weeks,” Steve whined.

“Baby,” Natasha snorts. “Anyone seen Thor or Clint around?”

“Thor is currently negotiating dinner plans with Bruce’s family,” Tony says. “It’s not going well. Thor wants Bruce to have a sit-down dinner and Jennifer wants them to wait until eleven.”

“Why eleven?”

“She has a big court case. Her office hours are basically until midnight. Thor says that’s too long. Jen told him that if he truly wants dinner at seven, she’s willing to let a woman who robbed three different banks to buy luxury cars go.”

“Harsh,” Carol says. “Thor should’ve learned by now.”

“Perpetual lack of common sense,” Bruce comments, walking by. “Partially my type.”

“The other part?” Carol asks.

“Not legally allowed to say.”

“There was an...incident,” Fury responds. “Bruce has limited amounts of conversational topics he can partake in after the great Thirst of Thursday.”

“My creative title,” Steve says brightly. “I am scarred for life!”

T’Challa laughs.

-

They do catch the criminal. Natasha manages to find...someone. Carol moves a car. It’s all quite impressive.

At the end of the night, he is invited with the rest of the group for a round of drinks and dinner.

He enjoys seeing the teamwork, and enjoys being a part of it. Bruce smokes them all in a round of BS (new card game, his father will definitely enjoy it too much), and he’s invited by the ladies to be adventurous in drink choices.

(He ends up choosing a lot of wrong ones.)

But he gets the feeling that this won’t be the last time he sees this team.

Or the last time that Clint Barton doesn’t have pants.

[monstaxsthetics]

Ch. 1

Genre: Angst / Romance / Action

Warnings: Harsh Language / Violence

Characters: Wonho / Lee Hoseok x OC x Monsta X

Word Count: 4.1K

Synopsis: Nara and Hoseok split ways six years ago. She was not a top trauma nurse who couldn’t be happier with her life and Hoseok was head of her father’s security detail. When her father is kidnapped and her life is put in danger, Hoseok and Nara are reunited. What will come of the reunion and will they find her father before it’s too late?

“These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder. Which, as they kiss, consume”

Ch.2 Ch.3

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Nara had just sat down for what felt like the first time in her 18 hour shift, taking a sip of her much needed coffee and a bite from her apple, she felt the familiar buzz of her pager before she heard a code being called over the hospital P.A. system.

“Code blue, trauma room 1. Code blue, trauma room 1.”

Groaning, she chugged what was left of her coffee.

“So much for an apple a day”, she thought, stealing one last bite.

She ran as fast as she could from the break room, through the corridor, down three flights of stairs, sliding over a gurney, and around a corner just as a nurse and intern group were beginning their hospital tour. 

“And that was nurse, Hwang Nara, the resident LUNATIC.” the nurse giving the tour shouted.

“I think you mean badass!” Nara said, tossing a couple of finger guns and a wink toward the group before continuing on her way.

And she was. A badass that is. She had only been a trauma nurse at Ansan Hospital for a short time now and was already making a name for herself. Sure among them were the occasional ‘lunatic’, ‘unhinged’, ‘reckless’, etc. But more than anything she was gifted, and a great asset to the hospital - when she wasn’t being a liability or a thorn in anyone’s side - and any doctor or nurse in that hospital would tell you the same.

When she arrived at trauma room #1, nurses were scrambled around an unconscious man who was struggling to breathe. No amount of oxygen or air being manually pumped from the ambulatory bag were providing any aid to the suffering man.  

Nara looked around and realized she had made it there before any of the on-call doctors. Pushing her way to the front she pulled her stethoscope from her pocket, pressing the icy cold metal to the patient’s bare chest. It only took a moment for her to realize what was wrong.

“Stop the ambu. It won’t work” she informed the others.

“He has a tension pneumothorax. His right lung has collapsed and air is filling his chest cavity. Where is the cardio team?”

All the surgeons were either in surgery or on other urgent cases. Nara knew that the patient wouldn’t last while waiting for them to arrive.

“Give me a large bore needle, please.”

No one made any movements to assist her.

“Anyone? He needs a thoracostomy!”

“It’s against protocol, Nara” another nurse said. “We should wait for a surgeon to get here.”

“We don’t have time for that. If he dies while we’re waiting, do you want to explain to his family and friends that we could have saved him if it wasn’t for fucking protocol?”

Still no one moved to assist her.

“Fine! I’ll do it myself.”

Nara retrieved a large bore needle, a mask, gloves, and iodine from the room’s supply cabinet.

She carefully disinfected the area just above the patient’s third rib on his right side making sure she had located the intercostal space along the midclavicular line. She then slowly inserted the needle into the disinfected area at a 90 degree angle, keeping her hand steady as to not damage any of the underlying blood vessels.

A pregnant pause overtook the room as everyone held their breath. At some point the nursing students and their tour guide had made their way to the E.R. and were now watching the scene in stunned silence.

A moment later, a rush of air could be heard coming from the patient’s chest followed by the sounds of the bedside machines alerting the staff to his stabalizing vital signs.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, smiling, and congratulating Nara for saving the man’s life - well not everyone.

“Hwang Nara!” she heard her superior call out. “Why am I not surprised it’s you? My office, now!”

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Pulling her keys from her purse, Nara trudged up the stairs to her apartment, her legs heavy and energy drained from the brutal 18 hour shift. A shift that mind you, should have ended on a high but instead ended with her once again being reprimanded by her department head effectively killing the adrenaline rush and pride she felt after saving that patient. 

Reaching the top of the stairs, she started around the corner when a hand clamped down over her mouth and a large arm pulled her back toward the stairwell. Panic spread through her body and her blood ran cold. She tried to scream but it was muffled and the stranger shushed her. There was something familiar about this person. Something nostalgic in the way they smelled and they way their hands felt. She knew this person, she was sure of it. But who did she know that would try and kidnap her? She tried to scream again, when the grip on her mouth got tighter. 

“Shhhhh shh Nara, it’s me, be quiet.”

She did know him. It was Hoseok. This knowledge however didn’t alleviate her stress, instead it filled her with rage. She channeled her anger into enough force to elbow him in the chest, his hand falling from her mouth in surprise, but the other still remained tight around her waist. 

“Yah! Lee Hoseok, are you crazy? What in the hell do you think you—?”

In a flash, he had her spun around, looking into her eyes. “Wow”, she thought. “How was he still this beautiful?”

“Nara listen to me, you have to be quiet. You can yell at me later, I promise.”

“Later? Why would there be a later Hoseo–?” Nara was became more indignant with each word from Hoseok.

Hoseok shoved her up against the nearest wall.

“Nara! For the love of god will you please shut up?”

She was going to attempt to argue once more when she realized how anxious he appeared, his body was rigid and his eyes kept searching up and down the halls. “What was happening?”, she questioned internally. 

At that moment three men in black hats and masks ran out of her apartment. Her eyes widened and she was about to scream at them and ask what in the hell they were doing when Hoseok placed a finger over her mouth and shook his head, his eyes pleading with her to stay quiet.

“I swear I heard keys hyungnim. She should be home by now. Her shift ended an hour ago”, one of the masked men could be heard saying.

They were heading in the direction of the stairwell where she and Hoseok were hiding and she was beginning to grasp the situation. These men were here for her. “But why?”

As they quickly made there way towards the stairs, Hoseok maneuvered his body in front of hers, his back facing the men and leaned in close. To anyone approaching it would seem as if they were just two lovers taking advantage of one another in the stairwell. 

The men approached them curiously but the charade worked and they quickly left the apartment building, the elder scolding the younger that he must have been mistaken about her work schedule.

When the danger seemed to be gone, at least for the immediate future, Nara regained her senses. She shoved against Hoseok’s chest with all of her strength. 

“Hoseok, you have five seconds to tell me what’s going on and who those men were.”

Hoseok grabbed Nara’s arm, dragging her inside of her apartment. He checked all the rooms and when they were secured he locked the door. Nara stood with her arms crossed over her chest, still waiting for an explanation. He ignored her and made his way into her bedroom, an increasingly agitated Nara following behind him. 

“Are you going to answer me? What are you doing here? Who were those men?”

He continued to ignored her, opening her closet, rummaging around until he found a duffle bag. He removed the bag and set it on her bed. 

“I’ll explain later, but right now we have to get out of here. Fill this bag with the things you need quickly and lets go.”

“Wooow! You really have lost your damn mind, huh? What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you? I haven’t seen you in six years and you just show up out of the blue all ‘Nara we have to go’. Hell no! You don’t get to do tha–”

“Your dad is missing, Nara.”

Nara stumbled a bit and gripped the door frame for stability taken aback by Hoseok’s words. 

“What did you just say? Th-that’s not possible, I just talked to him last night.”

“I know. We checked his phone records. You were the last person he spoke to. He wasn’t at the house this morning when I got there to pick him up and he didn’t show up for any of his meetings today.  Hyunwoo and the others are searching for him right now and I’m guessing those men who were just here had something to do with it too so we need to go, NOW!”

Nara couldn’t handle the onslaught of information, finding her nearby desk chair to sit down as her legs threatened to give out. Hoseok kneeled in front of her. 

“Nara-yah….”

Hearing him call her name endearingly made her want to simultaneously hurl and throw her arms around his neck and sob.

“I know this is a lot, but I promise you we will find him, okay?” - He swiped a stray hair from her face, brushing it behind her ear - “But right now, we need to get you out of here before those men come back.”

She knew he was right, as much as she hated to admit it so after a few calming breaths, she silently placed all of her necessities into the duffle and grabbed a picture of her father and followed Hoseok out of the apartment building. He lead her to a sleek midnight blue two door sports car. “The car suits him”, she thought. He opened her door for her and placed her bag in the back seat. She slid down into the cool, smooth leather seats and hugged her coat closer to her body.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖✖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖

As they sped through the dark streets, Nara stole glances at Hoseok. He hadn’t changed at all. Sure he was older and bigger, much bigger, but his features were the same, somehow more handsome with maturity. His jaw was clenched and the veins in his defined arms pulsed as he shifted gears and gripped the wheel tighter. His stress and anxiety were clear.

This fact didn’t surprise her. Hoseok had always been close with her dad, even beyond their working relationship and Nara suspected that Hoseok was just as affected by her father’s disappearance as she was.

When they passed the exit for her father’s house, she asked where they were going. Hoseok explained that people were watching her father’s home and that it would be too dangerous to return there. He said he was taking her to their hideout on the outskirts of the city.

“Who are they? I know Hyunwoo of course, but you keep saying them.”

“The rest of your dad’s special protection team. They started after you left. There are seven of us now.” 

Nara shook her head in understanding and stared out the window for the rest of the car ride.

About 45 minutes later, they pulled up in front a seemingly abandoned building, lined by trees on one side and a river on the other, cutting them off completely from the city. The breeze had picked up and Nara shivered as she stepped out of the car, grabbing her bag. She followed Hoseok into the dilapidated concrete structure and toward and elevator, she was surprised to see it actually functioned. He pressed the button for the basement and the two of them descended.

The elevator doors opened up directly into a rather spacious and tasteful loft. Not at all what Nara expected to find in this building or when Hoseok referred to it as a ‘hideout’. They walked in and immediately were greeted by six sets of eyes ranging in expressions from curiosity, to boredom, and others she couldn’t quite place.

Hyunwoo was the first to say anything or make a move. He stood from the kitchen island and enveloped her in a tight hug. He pulled back, looking her over and asked if she was okay to which she just nodded. He was exactly the same. He had the same beautifully tan skin she envied, the same warm brown eyes that creased at the sides when he smiled, and a warmth and feel like an older brother would have. His presence alone instantly comforted Nara and she regretted not keeping in touch or visiting Hyunwoo, regardless of her disdain for his best friend. He ruffled her hair in true big brother style and smiled before rejoining the others around the island.

It looked like they were gathered around a tablet and some blue prints, seemingly looking for Nara’s father, Hwang Ji. Hoseok introduced her to the others and them to her in turn.  He went around the table one by one telling her their names and positions on the team.

First up was Lee Minhyuk a cute blonde who was smiling from ear to ear at her and clinging to the chestnut brown haired man to his right who’s eye smile could rival that of Hyunwoo and who had the deepest set of dimples she’d ever seen.

“Minhyukie here is our infiltration specialist. He’s good at breaking into places and taking things that aren’t his which is how he earned the title.”

“Hey to be clear, I am not a thief. I just so happen to be extremely well versed in acquiring things that don’t technically belong to me. But you know what they say, ‘finders keepers’ and all that.”

“You know that doesn’t actually apply when you break into someone’s home and ‘find’ things right?” a boy with perfectly quaffed hair and looks to match said dejectedly.

“Meh potato, tomato” the cute blonde shrugged.

“That’s no—”

“Just let him have this please” the chestnut haired man Minhyuk was clinging to said before turning his attention back to Nara. “I’m Jooheon, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I’m in charge of the tactical unit.”

Minhyuk beamed whenever Jooheon spoke and never tore his eyes from him. Nara made a mental note that there was definitely something there. Hoseok had given up on introducing the others and thought it best they introduce themselves.

A boy with a kind almost motherly gaze looked at her with what Nara could only assume was some type of sympathy. 

“I’m Kihyun, I run intelligence for the group.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying he’s in charge of the cooking.” a slightly shorter boy with jet black hair that looked almost blue said. He had a devilish grin and it made Nara uneasy when he flashed it in her direction.

A quick hand landed at the back of his neck.

“This here is our little resident psychopath, Changkyunie, who should learn to watch what he says before the cook decides to poison him, don’t you think?”

 Kihyun pinched Changkyun’s cheek harshly until the latter yelped in pain.

“What are you in charge of?” Nara asked as he nursed a red cheek.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know” he said with that same unnerving smile. And for the time being, Nara wasn’t entirely sure she did want to know.

Next to him was the boy from earlier who teased Minhyuk. Nara would have sworn he got lost on his way to a runway show with his modelesque looks, if it weren’t for the knife he held in his hand twirling from finger to finger as he stared at her, disinterested.

“Aish this is exhausting…. Fine, I’m Hyungwon, I work with Minhyuk here on infiltration. But stealing isn’t my portion. I’m more of the……well distraction.”

Minhyuk hopped off his stool, finally releasing Jooheon’s arm for the first time since they arrived and rushed to Nara’s side.

“Noona, are you hungry, have you eaten?”

Noona? Nara thought to herself. They weren’t introduced more than five minutes ago and now she was noona? It was quick but not necessarily unwelcome. Minhyuk had a contagious personality and he made her feel at ease. He was comfortable and she felt her shoulders release some tension as he locked arms with her and led her to the fridge.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖✖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖  

Kihyun ended up whipping up a delicious meal just from some leftovers in the fridge and when they were all full the others retreated back to their earlier conversations and planning on how to find her father while Hoseok showed her to what would be her room for the time being.

It was awkward to say the least. She and Hoseok had not parted on good terms, and even after six years apart, two hours in his presence had brought the emotions she had locked away bubbling to the surface. 

“You should wash up and make yourself comfortable and when you’re up to it, you can come down and we will brief you on what we know so far.”

“Thanks”, was all Nara could manage to mutter, as she tried to keep her emotions at bay. Both over her father disappearing and over seeing Hoseok again.

She spent more time than was necessary in the shower, welcoming the slight sting and pink hue that the hot water brought to her skin, slowly soothing the tension in her muscles. After about 30 minutes, she decided she should leave the shower and face what was waiting for her downstairs. No matter how much she wished to just stand in the spray of the shower she knew she couldn’t remain in denial forever.

She brushed her hair and teeth, pulled on some leggings and a large tattered sweatshirt with her alma mater’s logo on it and headed down the stairs.

They all took turns explaining to her what each of them had gathered on the situation so far. They believed her dad was taken sometime between 8 - 10 p.m. the previous night. The last person he had spoken to was Nara around 7p.m.. He had sent all of them home for the day and only his minimal security unit remained at the house.

Hwang Ji had believed that his home was well enforced enough that he didn’t need them all on watch 24/7 and he was adamant about them all being able to maintain their own lives and rest comfortably in their own home. When Hoseok got to the house in the morning to pick him up and drive him into the city to the corporation, he didn’t answer his text or calls. Hoseok went inside to check on him but he wasn’t in the house and neither were any of the guards from the minimum security team. He thought that it was possible he wanted to get to the office early before his meetings and had the other guards drive him.

Hoseok drove to the office to confirm this, but was told that Hwang Ji never showed up. The guys spent the rest of the day interrogating his known rivals, and combing the streets for him. They checked the house’s CCTV and found that the surveillance and security systems were shut down around 7:30 p.m. and didn’t come back online until after 10:30 p.m.

Hoseok had a feeling that whoever took Hwang Ji may try and harm Nara too which is how he ended up at her apartment building. Nara hadn’t been home in six years, her and her father preferring to meet halfway between their respective homes to catch up. However, the team kept tabs on her and knew her schedules. Protecting her father also meant protecting his family and those dear to him. Since Hyunwoo needed to lead the tactical searches and interrogation for the group and Nara wasn’t familiar with the rest of the group, it was decided that it would be best if Hoseok was the one to go retrieve her as to lessen her alarm. A plan that hadn’t gone as well as planned when the three masked men showed up.

None of their leads or the usual suspects had turned up any promising information and they found themselves starting over from ground zero. Nara found her head spinning with all the new information and trying to keep her nerves under control. Losing her shit now wasn’t going to help find her father any faster.

Later that evening she found that it was only she, Hoseok and Hyunwoo left awake as they sat around the coffee table at 1 a.m. sharing a drink. Nara hadn’t found the strength to fall asleep yet and Hoseok and Hyunwoo stayed up with her out of worry and support.

“So how did you all come together? Where did they all come from?” Nara asked, sipping from her now warming can of beer.

“Heh, where to begin?” Hyunwoo chuckled. “Uhm Hyukie was a runaway. He comes from a pretty wealthy family but his parents have always been sadly disinterested in him or anything he did. He rebelled for a while, trying to get their attention, but eventually he just ended up leaving home.”

“I watched him shoplift from a convenience store one day and charm the panties off the girl behind the register and the security guard alike and so I followed him.” Hoseok said. “I told him what I had seen and he begged me not to turn him in. Of course that wasn’t what I was there for and I explained a bit of who I was. I brought him to meet your dad and the rest is obvious.”

“I found Kihyun” Shownu said. “He bumped into me trying to outrun the cops. He looked so helpless and I didn’t know what he was on the run for, but for some reason I decided to help him evade the police. Turns out the cops were from cyber crimes and they were after him for hacking into the Seoul National Hospital system to clear the debt for his sick mother.”

They went on like this explaining a bit of the other’s backstories and helping Nara to understand the boys she would be associating with for the foreseeable future and who her father had entrusted his life to.

Minhyuk recruited Jooheon from an underground MMA circuit. He fell for him instantly and was shocked when he found out Jooheon shared the sentiment. They’ve been together ever since.

Kihyun recruited Changkyun who brought along his childhood friend and current roommate Hyungwon. It was the only way he would agree to come. Hyungwon was a runaway too and had spent time as a male model and escort for some time before coming to the company. Changkyun was working for another crime organization as an assassin. They were lovingly dubbed the ‘psycho unit’ although they referred to Hyungwon as more sociopathic than psychopathic.

This thought unnerved Nara a bit and she gulped but they assured her that they were deadly to those who crossed them or to their targets but to everyone else they were all bark and no bite.

They spent the rest of the hour in silence, the three of them dozing off while a muted melodrama played on the tv in the background. Nara was finally feeling the exhaustion threatening to take her when,

“A WHOLE NEW WOOOOOORLD. A DAZZLING PLACE I NEVER KNEEEEEW!”

Nara sat straight up on the couch fumbling with her phone and dropping it on the floor.

“BUT WHEN I’M WAY UP HERE, IT’S CRYSTAL CLEAR” 

She looked at Hyunwoo and Hoseok, neither seemed alarmed by the obviously tone deaf dying animal that had broken into their home.

“What in the ever loving fuck is that?”

“Ahhh you mean the sound like someone strangling a cat?”

“Obviously”, Nara nodded at Hyunwoo.

“That would be the incomparable Im Changkyun”, he said with a fancy flourish of his wrist for emphasis before returning his attention back to his phone.

“Wait, what? You’re telling me that the little psycho you just told me about, the one who could kill you in 50 ways in 2 seconds, Changkyun likes Disney movies?”

“OH MY GOD HE’S A REALLY BAD BOY, HE’S A REALLY BAD BOY!”

Hyunwoo nodded, still unphased by the screeching coming from the shower where Changkyun was supposedly “singing”, if you could call it that. 

“Mhm, big fan of Red Velvet too. Even knows the dances.”

“That song is gonna be stuck in my head for a week.” Hoseok added from his spot beside Nara.

Nara picked up her phone and sat back, laughing as Changkyun broke out into a terrible rendition Rainism.

“I’M GONNA BE A BAD BOY, I’M GONNA BE A BAD BOY, I’M GONNA BE A BAD BAD BOY!”

She hoped he didn’t slip in the shower and break something trying to do the choreography. “These boys were going to be the death of me”, she thought.

Head reeling from all the information and Changkyun’s singing, she bid Shownu and Hoseok goodnight and retired to her room where she fell asleep almost as soon as her head met pillow.

Ch. 2

[metalgearkong]

MediEvil 2019 - Review (PS4)

10/28/19

Developed by Other Ocean Emeryville / Sony Computer Entertainment, released October 2019

It has risen again! The original MediEvil from 1998 is one of my favorite games of all time, and one of the games I have completed the most. Like other games from the PS1 era, I discovered MediEvil on a demo disc and replayed it constantly. I loved the Nightmare Before Christmas aesthetics and music, and liked that it stared a cowardly bumbling skeleton. The late 90′s was a time of experimentation for 3D action/adventure games, and while some people hold Ocarina of Time or Super Mario 64 as their favorites of the genre, MediEvil has always been my personal favorite. MediEvil II released two years later, but lost a lot of its appeal for me because it took place in Victorian London instead of the graveyards and spooky locations of the original. MediEvil: Resurrection was made in 2005 for the PSP, but was more of a re-imagining of the original game, and not a true remake.

I had heard about MediEvil being remade yet again a couple years ago, but tried to have tempered expectations, and not buy into what could amount to be rumors. I imagined it would be akin to a big screen version of MediEvil: Resurrection, or at least the developers would butcher the original game. Last year was when I saw the trailer for this MediEvil remake, and I felt more confident in it. While most people were anticipating big triple-A or franchise games for 2019, my sights and hopes were dead set on this. Finally, after all this time of waiting, MediEvil 2019 has released exclusively for the PS4, and I couldn’t be happier with the final product. Other Ocean Emeryville has created a deeply loyal and extremely faithful remake of the original game I cherish so much, but I feel like only true fans will be able to truly appreciate it for the accomplishment it is.

Before I talk about the game proper, I have to elaborate on the unexpected odyssey it took to actually get the game going. Not only do I have to make a three hour round trip to the nearest Gamestop to get a copy, the game had to immediately download a day one patch: version 1.01. This update was a massive 16GB, and with my super slow mountainous wi-fi speed, my PS4 predicted it would take at least 50 hours. There was no option to begin the game without this update. I was floored. It put me in a state of blue-balled depression and denial. So I took my TV, PS4, and all the necessary cords, and physically hooked in my PS4 to my work’s ethernet cable in a public building, hoping no one would disturb it. The estimated time dropped to a meager four hours, and it made me feel a lot better. Ironically, my PS4 only realized I didn’t have enough storage space to download the update, and somewhere along the line it quit. Thankfully, it let me play after giving up.

Expectations mean a lot, and leading up to this MediEvil releasing, I intentionally did not do a lot of research on the game in order to discover it in person as I was playing. I didn’t realize this was a fully committed remake of the original. MediEvil: Resurrection disappointed me because it changed a bunch about the game and left out a lot of my favorite levels. 2019′s MediEvil recreates every inch of the original game with modern graphics. I was so thrilled I can’t even describe how cool it was to see one of my favorite games of all time with a new coat of skin, especially because I never thought THIS game would be chosen to be remade. Not only that, but the game uses the same exact audio for most of the dialog; each and every gargoyle head and character Dan meets plays the same audio as I’ve had engraved in my skull for over twenty years, only with new character models and more elaborate animations.

The developers even used the same music for each level, only re-recorded it with only small differences or flourishes. Even insignificant things like textures on a doorway or on the ground were recreated in 3D to look just like they did. I would have been perfectly okay with the developers simply using modern graphics and textures to remake certain pieces of architecture or focal points in this game, but no, every corner of Gallowmere represented the original locations, and I constantly had to pick my jaw off the floor (no offense Dan). Cinematics also play out exactly the same, with the same camera angles and movements. Part of me thinks about how maybe Other Ocean Emeryville could have taken these short cinematics sprinkled throughout the game and elaborated slightly on lore, but that would veer dangerously close to a “re-imagining” territory, and I’m just thankful everything is kept so faithful in the end.

The banished necromancer Zarok has raised an army of the dead to conquer the realm of Gallowmere. Unwittingly, Zarok also brought back to life Sir Daniel Fortesque, King Peregrine's captain of the militia, who perished embarrassingly years prior in an earlier battle against Zarok and his armies. After Fortesque’s death, fables, songs, and legends told of his false bravery and battlefield accomplishments, but now he has the opportunity to live up to his own mythical status as the hero of Gallowmere. I’ve always loved this story, wherein the bad guy accidentally raises the very hero who would thwart him. I’ve always loved Dan because he’s so unlike most knights and heroes. He has to live up to his own reputation, and prove those wrong who know what truly happened. We play as Dan and travel from the hum drum graveyards of Gallowmere all the way through more exotic levels such as a pumpkin gorge filled with demonic pumpkins, crystal caverns filled with Minotaur-like monsters, an enchanted forest containing a demonic prison, and much more.

The first advantage to the modernization of this game was being able to see the Hilltop Mausoleum (the 2nd level) from The Cemetery (the 1st level). It would make sense if you had an expansive cemetery, and the very next level, adjacent to that level, had a massive building on top of a hill, and you could see it from far away. As a PS1 game I’d never expect to see something like that, but with this remake, they had the care to include things such as this, which only helps the world feel that much more real and connected. The controls and mechanics are nearly the same as the original as well, only made slightly more convenient. Dan can still equip a one-handed weapon and a shield, and switch between weapons in a menu. He can block attacks, but only as long as the shield’s HP holds out, until you need to find a new one. Dan has all the same moves as the original, but the more free-form camera makes the game a bit more convenient to play by making platforming and seeing things easier.

As you slay enemies in each level, you fill a chalice, and bringing back a full chalice to the end of each respective level grants you a visit to the Hall of Heores before the next level begins; this world’s version of Valhalla, where the most accomplished heroes of history drink, feast, and arm wrestle for eternity. A side goal of this game is to collect the chalice from every level so Dan can also become a member of this ethereal warrior’s afterlife (twenty in all). This is something I struggled with as a kid, but in the past many years I’ve always gone out of my way to make sure Sir Fortesque gets into the Hall of Heroes where he rightfully deserves to be. Sometimes items can be found in a level which are to be used in entirely different levels, something the game only hints at. Case in point are the Ant Caves, which is a maze-like level hidden within a level that is completely optional to complete (but not if you want all twenty chalices). 

Some of the original game’s drawbacks could be regarded as similar drawbacks for this remake. Criticisms like haphazard combat and imprecise platforming are somewhat the same case here, but I would argue that’s half the point playing as a gangling hero who hasn’t yet earned his stripes. I honestly can’t take an unbiased position on some of the game’s more objective problems, not only because I’m such a fanatic and have played the original so many times, but also because it’s impossible for me to have a fresh perspective on the game. I can’t tell you how hard the puzzles are or how tough the game is simply because I’ve played the original so many times, I’ve gotten used to any perceived problems and solved all the puzzles so long ago. Reviews for this game seem to be lukewarm, and it’s an opinion I can’t share because I’m so impressed by how faithful one of my all time obscure favorites has been recreated.

In fact the very few changes the developers did make I could count on one hand. Mostly these changes have been made to a few of the game’s boss fights. Most of the bosses have always been very easy, especially compared to today’s obsession where bosses are meant to be extremely punishing. I can honestly say the changes are for the better and improve on these boss fights. For example the fight with the captain of the ghost ship has been improved, allowing you to manual aim a canon before firing it at him, rather than running back and forth between two fixed canons, hoping one of your shots hit the captain as he paces back and forth. Another addition are the “Lost Souls” which are hidden collectibles, one in each level that can be found by Sir Dan. This basically makes you replay every level to find the Lost Souls, as they only appear once you’re already near the end of the game. I can’t say I was motivated to find them, at least not right now, since it appears to be a shallow fetch-quest.

Besides getting the game booted in the first place, I did a have a few technical problems while playing the game. These are probably because the version 1.01 patch never actually downloaded and installed, and I may have been experiencing what the developers were trying to fix. One example was a door not opening once I had defeated all the enemies in the room, effectively trapping me there forever, forcing me to restart the level. The problems were mainly things such as this, and I bet I’m the only person in the world who had to complete the game from beginning to end raw without the day one patch. Otherwise the game ran great, and looks good as Hell.

I’m so glad Other Ocean Emeryville didn’t try to subvert expectations or put a clever twist on certain things, leaving it as is. MediEvil 2019 constantly impressed me, and I don’t think I’ve felt this much fan service and satisfaction since the Shadow Moses chapter of Metal Gear Solid 4 from 2008. The music, dialog, weapons, level design, aesthetics, enemies and controls have been painstakingly remade, giving this cult classic an impressive new look. Its the restrictive nature of the developer’s design philosophy I appreciate the most; this is simply a game for the fans, and very obviously by the fans. MediEvil was my most anticipated game of 2019 and I am deeply satisfied and surprised about how well it turned out. Annoying day one patch download aside, I had an incredible time experiencing this remake. While some gameplay flaws might still exist, and those who don’t already love the original may not see it in the same level of reverence, this was a big payoff for me and I’m sure other dedicated fans feel the same. Thank you Other Ocean Emeryville, this has been a wonderful gift.

9/10

[tarithenurse]

On my Mind, in my Soul - 2

Pairing: Loki x burglar!Reader Contents: Cussing, a bit of violence, some angsting and pining, lemons...and lots of them. Consider yourself warned if you’re underage. A/N: Didn’t plan for the first part to actually be a first part. I’d planned it as a one-shot based on @maladaptive-ninja-returns‘s 3 “prompts”...but then it was nicely recieved and I chatted with them again and we had some fun ideas...so here’s part 2. This time the 3 things have been provided with a sister (who was rather confused as to why I was asking...but it did result in us watching the Bridge of Death sequence from Monty Python and the Holy Grail). Anyhoodles, the things were Earrings. Green. And the song “Put your Records on” by CB Rae. Lyric bits are marked as block quotes.

Challenge

Music’s playing in your ears as you make your way slowly through the museum, keeping the perfect distance to make it seem to the tour guide as though you’re part of the group while to them (a class of history students and their teacher) you’re just some random guest that happens to be going at the same pace. The map of the place in your hand is filled with thin lines by now, indicating camera angles and “alternative” routes.

“And over here we have a temporary collection on loan from London…” the voice of the guide announces through a lull in the song.

He’s beaming proudly as the class oohs and aahs at the glittery reflection of the ornate Crown Jewels. Amateurs. Sure, the lineup of necklaces and crowns looks impressive, but the main items are merely very good replicas made to satisfy the curiosity of people who can’t make it to the Tower of London – the real deal’s safely stored there, only to be removed on special occasions when the queen and her family actually uses it.

However, some of the less impressive items are not fakes. Taking a place before a display case, your eyes fall upon a comparatively drab pair of earrings. Fat, pinkish pearls dangle from golden drops and ovals with a multitude of tiny, white gemstones. Yuck. There are tastier ways of showing off wealth in your opinion, but you also understand that sometimes it’s not about having style per se, rather about flaunting that you can have anything. What in your eyes might be ugly (or at the best of cases kitsch) is probably a blatant show of power because deep down humans are simple creatures that understand a simple language: rarity equals wealth and wealth in turn equals power. And those earrings are rare, no one in their right mind would make more than a single pair.

So why those? Simple. You got a job and the buyer was smart enough to wrap it in a dare, claiming no one could get their hands on that set of pearls. To top the whole deal off, the guy’s willing to do wire transfer but a cash bonus if the job’s completed within a month.

You have to hide a smile as you tug the map and pencil into your purse, slipping your phone out for a moment to skip a tune in the hopes of the shuffle finding something more celebratory for the way out of the museum.

It takes a few tries before you succeed, meaning you’re already back in the grand room by the time you return the device to safety and your fingers brush against something unexpected, causing you to pause in your tracks and glance around, but no one stands out in the crowd of tourists and other visitors. One peek into the depths of the purse’s enough to grant a view of an envelope made of special paper. Or parchment? A cold shudder runs down your spine upon realisation that someone must have gotten close enough to slip it in there although you always keep the damn bag close to your body, even tugged under the arm. Whoever it is…they are good. Too good. It’s as if every camera’s trained on you, like each and every single person’s watching even the smallest movement you make, sending prickly waves of tension to the back of your legs while every hair stands on end.

Forcing yourself to move slowly, you leave the museum. Following the most crowded routes home, you only check for followers a million times. Discreetly, of course, despite the increasing frustration of spotting no one in pursuit or out of place (as much as anyone can look that in New York) not even when walking five times around the block before finally letting yourself into your little flat.

It almost feels safe as the deadbolt clicks into place and you allow yourself to slide onto the floor. Deep breaths tasting of curry from last night’s dinner and book dust helps ground you enough to stop your hands from shaking by the time they pull out the envelope. Turning it around and around, you have to admire the cottonlike quality of the paper and the clearly manually cut edges that shout craftmanship to the heavens. The sender is loaded or makes his own paper.

By the table under the glaring light of a lamp, it’s obvious that the person hasn’t left any other clues on the outside of the envelope, forcing you to open it after a careful examination to avoid any hidden nuisances. You’re holding your breath as you peer into the folds, spotting a photograph which you shake out. What the…?

Trying to pretend that the image’s taken months ago is futile, but still you hurry to the kitchen and slam down on your knees by the cabinet under the sink so hard that you bounce painfully on the linoleum. It doesn’t delay you. Eyes sting with pain as you pull the contents out, scattering the bucket with cleaning agents across the floor. You slam a fist onto a loose board to tip it up, revealing the front of a safe nestled among insulation and rubble. Five beeps and a fingerprint are all it takes for your worry to be proven right.

“Fucking! Alien! Pissflap!” Each exclamation’s punctuated by punches to the cabinet door.

At first glance, the contents could appear to be exactly the way you left them this morning…but the Tiger’s Eye Pendant’s missing.

Maybe sometimes we got it wrong, but it's all right The more things seems to change, the more they stay the same

…

Making the right call can be hard in the heat of the moment, but you managed. More than a week since you’ve been burgled and your thoughts stray all too often to the future and the plans it holds to right the wrong, the only consolation being that the job you have to finish first will be a means to that very end.

Hanging upside down from the skylight, each movement has to be perfectly controlled to stay out of the camera’s view until you’ve reached it and slipped the screen before it. It had taken several tries to get the image just right, but the result was close to perfection. Close enough to get me some minutes. That’s all you need.

Moments later, you’re on the floor. Harness and rope still attached for a quick escape as you work through the hollow pedestal because gods know you’ll be screwed if you disturb the glass encasing the exhibition. Each movement tugs at the restraining tether and gnaws at your skin. You reach carefully through wires for the sensors and lights, the Stark “knife” tugged gingerly away in the palm with nothing but a rubber sleeve to prevent bloodshed. Gloves? Of course you wear them, not only preventing fingerprints but granting a safe grip. Without them your hands would have been slippery with sweat and even now there are a few drops running down your spine before they get soaked up in the top. There. You breathe in deeply a couple of times before unsheathing the knife and cutting through the plate where the loot’s resting. No normal knife would be able to do it and getting this tool had been expensive…but so worth it!

A few more breaths, then you can pack away the fugly earrings and your gear. Just in time, too, as you already can hear the night guard approaching. It’s with a minimal thought of remorse that you ascend, the gears whirring softly as you speed towards the fresh night air.

…

There’s a market for everything whether it’s illegally obtained tools or perfectly made replicas. Studying the simile glinting in the hand, you know that even Loki will have to look carefully to detect the fraud…especially after you’ve added the finishing touch on the back of the pendant.

Part of the bonus has been spent on that piece of work while the rest has gone into setting up your safehouse for a longer stay. You still come and go from your usual apartment, ensuring the façade of a student living there, but everything important has slowly been moved to the other side of upper Manhattan and after the last security measures the place’s close to impenetrable. And impossible to find.

Crouched by the coffee table, you go through the last plans. The private guards’ rounds must have been shuffled, of course, and will take a couple of stake outs to learn. Next, you’re certain that the Asgardian snob must have improved the locks on windows and doors as a pure minimum, leaving a reduced list of access points for a human to use. Question is if he’s considered something like a drone.

…

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song You go ahead, let your hair down Sapphire and faded jeans I hope you get your dreams

The cool air dries the tip of your tongue, but you’re too engrossed in navigating the toy through the chimney to care. Each foot of the descend brings it closer to the smoldering ashes and the thing can only handle a certain amount of heat what with all the plastic components, so as soon as it slips out from the fireplace, you heave a sigh of relief. Now comes the hard part. Orienting yourself through the little screen, the drone whirrs along corridors and through grand rooms in search of a safe entryway fitting a woman. Patiently, you ignore the shingles of the roof radiating cold into your muscles as the minutes tick by until you strike gold in the form of a bathroom window. It’s narrow but not impossibly so and you can’t help but laugh quietly to yourself as you use the flying robot to unlatch it and push it open wide.

Slipping in is simple enough, you only hesitate as you land on the marble floor because you hadn’t expected the dampness of the air. Every hard, cool surface’s laced with a fine condensation, but running a hand over the faucets gives a sense of relief that whoever has showered or bathed must have done this a while ago. It’s disconcerting though. Loki supposedly has a private bathroom en suite with his bedroom, so who would use this? There’s no hamper with laundry, no dirty towels or soaps that have been used. Nothing personal. Perhaps he’s got visitors? It’d surprise you. In fact, you’re almost willing to bet that an employee’s taken the liberty of using the facilities but either way, it doesn’t change the plan.

Silently slipping through the door, you know where to go and within minutes have the display in view from a position in a shadowy corner. There’s still a guard lingering, seemingly taking an interest in a set of blueish daggers. Move…come on…you want to finish the round and get some coffee. Silently willing him on results in absolutely nothing and you can feel anxiousness prickle your back and force you shoulders upwards and forwards. Tomorrow, you’ll need to find a massage therapist to knead the tensions away.

Finally, after agonizing minutes, the guy leaves, whistling a soft tune as if he’s proud of a job well done. At least it might hint of extra time if he lingers in other rooms too.

You’re about to work through the case the normal way when you notice the fault in the glass’s positioning and a brief examination leads to a broad smile stretching your cheeks as you place the glove covered hands on either side of the housing and lift it off – no alarms or boobytraps triggered. The exchange’s quick. A glance on your watch, and then you shuffle over to the nearby shelf with the peculiar knives. Stuck tip-down into a relatively common utensil holder it’s almost as though the eccentric collector only has them for show because he knows visitors might be awed while he himself doesn’t consider them of any specific worth although the blue flaring through the gunmetal-dark material is out of this world. Maybe literally.

It’s when you reach out for one that it shimmers out of existence in a familiar golden haze causing your heart to skip a beat. Cursing inwardly for wasting time, you turn to hightail it out of the mansion but nearly collide with the very same blade you were admiring, the tip now resting delicately on your chest.

“My little thief.” Finally looking past the weapon, your eyes meet Loki’s. “I had almost given up hope that you would come.”

Returning the smirk he grants you, it’s still a careful shrug rolling through your shoulder. “Been busy…but I guess you know that.”

It’s impossible to ignore the quick sweep his tongue makes along the lower lip as he looks you over, the widening of his pupils that sends a flutter through your stomach in anticipation. Never again, you’d promised yourself and still you find the memories begin to team up with the view of the tall figure before you. He’s in command of the situation unless you manage to escape. How? He’s the one with a weapon, its tip felt through the fabric like a pin-prick on the slope of your breast – the tiniest movement and it will be more than just a prick. How?

Looking up at him, you smile innocently to prevent any sudden reactions as you reach out for his free hand. He lets you take it, entwining fingers delicately for a moment before leading it to your face. A tender kiss in his palm, the thin cool skin of his wrist before you let his hand rest on your shoulder, allowing you to reach for him and gently nudge the knife-wielding hand aside though never letting go of the arm. You fingers trace the slender limb lazily, half-forgotten as lips brush along his jaw.

Banzai. Loki’s fingers lock into your hair, folding around the base of your skull to steer you, both your lips onto his but also your body trailing after him as he backs towards the centre of the room. If memory serves you right, there’s some kind of puffy bench or other which means that you only have until you reach that to incapacitate him. Why? I could just go along. Sweet temptation makes your heart flutter against your ribs and a heat pools low in you belly. It’s a dangerous game to play with someone like him and you had promised yourself last time that it would never happen again…just like you had sworn never to return to this place.

A quick glance verifies that you have about four steps before he’ll have you locked beneath him. Grinding against his groin with your hip, the reaction comes immediately in form of a groan and you pray that he’s distracted enough for a few seconds. With a swift snatch you manage to tear the dagger from his grip, brandishing it between your bodies with the tip pointed at his growing cock.

Breathing heavily, Loki’s aware enough of what’s going on to stop moving, his eyes filling with cold fury as he glances towards the alternative hostage situation. “What’s this? Complaints?” Somehow, he still manages to patronize you.

“Consider it a refusal.”

“You didn’t say no last time, my pet.”

He’s right, but you’re not about to give in again and let him get more power over you. “It served it’s purpose. No more.”

“Ouch.” Thin lips curl in a snarl. “It hurts my feelings….especially when you lie that badly.”

It won’t help to discuss past events with him (especially when you don’t want to admit the truth yourself), so you change focus to the situation at hand by ordering the Asgardian to let go of you. Something he only begrudgingly does when you add more pressure with the knife and it slips through the fabric of his trousers with a soft rippling sound as each thread is severed.

You should’ve seen it coming. The moment you step back, creating distance between the god and the weapon, he moves. A sharp pain races up from wrist to shoulder as the metal clatters across the floor, but you don’t have time to register where it lands because your aching arm is twisted behind your back and used as leverage to force you onto the floor with your face smushed into the green velvet of the seat. It smells of sawdust and a hint of camphor, but mostly it just grates against your skin.

A glint of light reflecting of metal captivates you, ensuring that Loki can use less power to hold you still as you stare at the dark grey-blue tip less than an inch from your eye. Shit. You can’t breathe. Can’t move or think. Only one other sentence keeps circling in your mind – unfortunately it’s full of self-deprecation rather than any useful ideas. Shit.

“Don’t mistake my indulgence for weakness,” the cold hiss explains, “letting you go last time was not a show of defeat as you very well know.”

The dagger moves out of sight, leaving you to stare one-eyed at a shade of green you’ll never forget anymore. Then you feel the prick at the nape of your skull. The cocky alien’s in control now even as he lets go of you and this time there’s nothing playful about the current predicament like the previous encounters had been. Sweat’s breaking out all over your body and you have to swallow hard to simply be able to breathe.

“So what now?” Your sneer’s partially muffled by the plush piece of furniture. “Gonna rape me, you sick bastard?”

He hits you so hard that you skid across the polished floor. Black spots dance before your eyes even after you manage to crack the jaw back in place. You’ve been hit before. Hell, it’s one of the reasons you became such a good burglar, but this tops it all and calls forth hot tears that spill down your face. You don’t care. You especially don’t care when he yanks your face skywards by grabbing hold of the messy hair and the freezing length of a by now familiar blade lands on your throat.

“Look. At. Me.” A spark within you wants to resist, but you can’t and your view fills with the emerald irises that burn with hate. “I may be harsh and cruel, but I would never do something like that to you.” He seems to realize what he’s said and adds quickly, “to anyone.”

Just more than I could take Pity for pity's sake Some nights kept me awake I thought that I was stronger

…

The world’s fuzzy and soft in the night by the time you attempt to open your eyes. It takes a moment to get your bearing and another one before the memories return and you sit up with a gasp. You’re back in your little apartment, but you have no recollection of how you got there. The last you do recall are Loki’s green eyes before a sensation of falling.

What did he do? Padding yourself down, it’s with some disbelief that you accept that you not only are wearing exactly the same as when you set out the night before, but there are no other injuries than a few bruises…excluding the deep gash in your pride. No trace of unwarranted contact despite the fact that you must have been completely at Loki’s mercy. Knowing that, you should be relieved. Not afraid. Not shameful. Not…filling with regret as if you had been the one to make advances only to be turned down by him. Messed up. Too messed up. Is it possible to get addicted to a person?

Frustrated, you push off the bed and begin pacing hectically through the small apartment, a scathing, internal monologue running on repeat to remind you of why it’s good you got away from Loki’s mansion without anything else happening.

…

Turning in your bed, you’re vaguely aware that the light has changed to soft grey tones - you must have managed to fall asleep after all. Tugging at the oversized t-shirt to get comfortable again, the feeling of the pendant against your chest solicits a drowsy smile.

…

You near a state of wakefulness in protest of the chill stealing through your limbs. Presuming in the sleepy state that you must have pushed the covers aside, you grope for it. Not covers. The observation flashes through your head and startles you to move quickly for the crevice between mattress and headboard for a knife you keep tugged away there, but cold fingers wrap round your wrists.

“Not so fast.”

Blinking blearily, you stare up into Loki’s face. The glint in his gorgeous, green eyes is mischievous, not unlike the curling smile that broadens as he takes in your exposed form because no, a faded t-shirt and a pair of panties doesn’t count as cover when he’s the one blatantly studying each curve. You see how his eyes darken, hear the shortness of both your breaths, and memories come flooding back followed by a strong heat in your womanhood.

Your attempt at speaking’s a helpless croak until you clear the throat. “Ch-changed your mind?”

The gaze alone could hold you in place as he refocuses on your mouth. Unbiddenly, you wet your lips that suddenly have gone dry.

“I do not deny that I appreciate your body immensely, but that’s not why I’m here.” Loki changes the hold on your wrist with ease, freeing a hand to caress your neck, your throat, before pulling out the pendant from under the cotton. “No…this is why.” Faint embers are reflected onto his cold irises. “I must congratulate you, my dear…your plan was not bad and had I been a mere human, then I would probably not have noticed the exchange.”

The weight of the necklace returns onto your chest, now cold from his fingers that begin straightening the chain. Each stroke ghosts across sensitive skin, sending goosebumps racing over your body and a soft ache warns you how your nipples are initiating a slow uprising against the t-shirt.

“Why d’you want it back? You let me leave with it!”

Your challenge’s meant to distract him from what he’s doing, but he merely glances before beginning to smoothen the fabric. “I knew you’d come back for it.”

“What?” The word pops out hard and mocking. “You think it’s more than financial value to me?” It doesn’t…does it? You’d meant to sell it originally, but then changed your mind and blew of the potential buyers without remorse.

“Pet…don’t pretend we don’t think alike, you and I.” Leaning down, Loki’s lips brush gently against your earlobe and his hair tickles against your chin, its scent of frost and camphor setting off a new shiver that heads straight for your aching core. “You’d come because of your pride. For the challenge. And deep down…because you yearn for something more.”

The Asgardian tugs playfully at your ear with his teeth, hands sliding along your arm and side before reverting and you feel your body betray your mind as it arches into his touch. Cupping your face in a large hand his lips meet yours gently before he pulls back, letting go completely although he doesn’t get off the bed.

“Please…” broken-voiced, you try to formulate what you need.

Light fingertips on your thigh stokes the burning need. “Tell me what you want, kitten. Last time you denied me my fun…what will it be now?”

“I want…I…” Loki stays within reach of your grabbing hands but doesn’t move towards you either. “I want you…need…please?”

“Are you certain?” His grip on your hip’s still soft. Too soft. “I’d like to reward you for the skill it took to swap the pendant, but you have to want it.”

“Just shut up and fuck me!”

Gentleness is obliterated by a bruising urgency as Loki takes over your body. Every inch’s kissed, bitten, licked, or explored with cool hands that booth bruise and soothe the burning traces. Every time you gasp for breath, his lips find yours to swallow each moan that the pressure of his thigh between your legs elicit. Not enough. He’s gotten you to the brink of bliss, but like a mirage it keeps eluding you and the feverish need for more’s burning you from the inside, leaving a hollow sensation that can be filled if only… A whine escapes your lips, warning the god as you reach for the belt buckle in desperation only to feel them snared and forced above your head.

He positions himself between your legs, nudging the knees apart. “So eager…” the growl’s guttural, nearly muffling the words, “longing for more…”

The golden shimmer’s visible even with half-closed eyes, but although you can feel his skin against your legs and arms as Loki repositions himself, your soaked panties still form a barrier between the cockhead as it pushes against your folds, and the old t-shirt insulates you from the chill of his chest.

“Loki…pleeaase!”

Arching against him, you feel the tremble passing through his body and for the briefest of moments it’s as though his eyes are red, but you’re distracted by his skin changing hue and the man, the alien, growing ever so slightly that his physique becomes impressively dimensioned. A scratching like claws diverts your eyes to the now blueish hands where darker talons have replaced the nails. I should be terrified. The logic’s clear yet simultaneously completely irrelevant as icy lips find the tender skin on your throat where they suck, marking a path spot by spot to your clavicle…then past…and as the V of the cotton obstructs the proceedings, Loki shreds it and tosses the scraps onto the floor without taking his burning gaze off your body now exposed beneath him.

“Little pet…if I hurt you…” He forces his gaze to your face, concern simmering in the darkness of lust. “If I hurt you or you want me to stop…say Laufey.”

The request itself is not unfamiliar unlike the word so you nod. “Mighty confident talking wh–“

You don’t get further because he kisses you again, forcefully, hungrily, biting your bottom lip as his fingers slip past the hem of the panties and delve between your soaking folds to the delighted groans of both of you. Perfect strokes mix with circles around the clit and entrance, often with added pressure onto the former that has you crying out Loki’s name like a prayer. Still, he’s got your wrists in an iron grip even if it clearly frustrates him.

“Belt,” you gasp, causing him to pause, “will get…get your h-hand…free.”

The curling smile bares gleaming, pointed teeth. “What a delightfully filthy idea.”

Not only does he use the belt to restrain your hands. No. The god also takes the opportunity to turn you around onto elbows and knees, allowing him to take place behind you. Claws trail your spine all the way to the elastic of the remaining clothes and you can feel it give way, sliding under the curve of your ass and exposing the glistening heat of your cunt. Then they too are torn apart. Cold hands slam onto the butt cheeks, forming an anchor for Loki as he begins to lab up your arousal, his nose nudging at your core with every movement.

Heat and tension builds within you, has you pleading for your god to fill you or let you cum on his tongue and fingers. Again and again, the bastard denies you release. Each time, he chuckles darkly as he has you watch past your own body how the strong hand pumps a nervewrecking huge cock languidly. The tip a dark purple with the exception of the milky pre-cum leaking out each time his fist passes ridges similar to those on the rest of his body. And all you can think of is how badly you want him inside you, to feel the ridges against the smooth walls, and you pout and curse when he returns to the ministrations that has his face glistening.

Balancing on the edge, you nearly scream as he pulls away once more, but this time his strong hands brings your legs together with his knees on the outside, and you gasp from anticipation and the thundering need at the feeling of the cool cockhead tracing your folds, each pass nudging further in until his manhood’s fully covered in your juices and he’s perfectly aligned.

“Don’t hold back, kitten.”

And with that Loki slides into your tight core, stretching you to the very limits which causes a sweet, stinging pain to heighten the sensation of each ridge that delves in and makes you shout with pleasure on contact with your g-spot. Gold shimmers, freeing your wrists so you can brace yourself.

“That’s it,” he growls, “ let me hear you.”

The rhythm’s slow at first, allowing some semblance of adaptation before increasing the intensity. And you let him hear exactly how you feel. Praises and curses mingle with your gasping breath, turning into groans, then shouts until he has you cumming with his name tearing from your throat in a wild scream as you plunge into the darkness of the abyss to drown in ecstasy. Every muscle seizes in your body, leaving it to Loki to hold you in position…and he does as he rams into you haphazardly before reaching his own peak and unloading like an icy flood inside you, stealing the last air from your lungs.

He doesn’t bother with pulling out, rather he tips the both of you, tugging you tightly to his chest as his form reverts to normal. Gasping for air, none of you speak.

Eventually, though, the peaceful silence ends, and Loki abandons you in the bed in favour of cleaning up and getting dressed the same way as when first you’d had sex. Pausing by the door, he looks back. It’s almost a déjà vu.

“I trust we will see each other again, my pet?” The lazy smile negates the questioning tone.