#(it’s dubious canon at best BUT THE CODING WAS THERE.)

[brunosaderogatory]

Basically January 3rd

#(not very serious posting) #(it’s dubious canon at best BUT THE CODING WAS THERE.) #luca 2021 #pixar luca #luberto #disney #pixar #luca #100

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

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1. Hey, I'm looking for a fanfic in which LWJ assuming that he somehow impregnated WWX in his dreams when WWX says that he birthed Wen Yuan, I remember reading this fanfic on ao3, but I can't find it. There's a fanfic that looks like the one I want. called Taking Responsibility, but it's not what I'm looking for. please if anyone knows, help me 😭😭😭😭😭 @narablackpotter

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2. I read a fic (obviously), one key scene is LWJ has OCD and needs to feed LXC’s pet snake a defrosted mouse and has a bit of a panic attack while doing it. WWX eventually steps in to help feed the pet. LWJ then obsessively cleans the kitchen. There is a balcony near the kitchen.

So, LXC is dating NMJ and they are living together and are together but somehow LWJ doesn’t know. WWX needs a place to stay. He is an art student and is applying to universities in London, I think. NHS offers to let him stay at the apartment. NHS is also staying there in NMJ’s “room” which is like a workout room with a futon. So, WWX is sleeping on a sofa that's a bit too small for him. Eventually it turns into "there was only one bed" (maybe).

I hope you can help!! @dreamlandtrees

FOUND? Adventures in Pet Sitting by raitala (E, 63k, wangxian, modern, hurt/comfort, artist WWX, maths nerd LWJ, LWJ pov, comphet LWJ, self-realization, coming out, London, sharing a bed, exploring sexuality, pining, fluff & angst, happy ending) I'm still in the middle of reading this so the scene described hasn't come up yet but the premise is the same!

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3. hi~~ <3 for the next fic finder i was hoping you might help me find a weird but good one! wen ning and wei ying were best friends and used code to talk to each other around other people but they were modern and using memes and references so the not modern everyone else couldnt understand them, and thought they were a wee bit crazy. At one point, wei ying gave lan xichen a doom prophecy of everything that was going to go down. It was so good and i miss it  lol. Thank you for any help!

FOUND? So Call Me a Pessimist, but I Don't Believe in It by Anonymous (Not Rated, 121k, WIP, WangXian, Food Issues, Family Feels, Possible future XiCheng, Transmigrator WWX, transmigration au, Slow Burn)

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4. There's this one fic on archiveofourown that I've been trying to find since ages ago.......

The fic has (maybe) foxxian, and he's an omega. It is kind of au, but when Wen Chao attacks Lotus Cove, Wuxian kills him when he tries to mate with Wei WuXian because his omega counterpart knows that he's not the alpha who can dominate him. Later, he brings Wen Chao's head to Jiang siblings after killing all the Wen people there at Lotus Cove.

This is the only thing I remember. It would be great if someone could help me find this fic because I'm gonna lose my mind soon if I can't find it again. Feel free to tag my account if someone finds this eventually and contacts you. Thanks in advance!! I hope to get a reply soon!!!! @nabi1118

FOUND? In Love and War by Cataclysmic_Calamity (E, 68k, WangXian, A/B/O Dynamics, Canon Divergence, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, Arranged Marriage, Kind of a slow burn, enemies to lovers ish, rampant sexual tension, Miscommunication, past emotional abuse, Dubious Consent, Consensual Non-Consent, Semi-Public Sex, Anal Fingering, Dom/sub, Anal Sex) There's no foxxian, but everything else seems to be present

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5. For ficfinder, it's a time travel one. The scene I recall: WWX and I think JC were captured with JF by Wen Ruohan. After they defeat WR, LXC is a bit mad they killed MY since he was the spot, but WWX said "he killed uncle Jiang" and everyone accepted it. I really want to read that scene again but I've read approximately 70 billion time travel AUs so uh I need your help... @mreisse

FOUND? Hand in Hand Together (All Your Life) by sami (T, 41k, JC/WZL, WangXian, Asexual JC, Queerplatonic relationship, Implied future MingLi, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Slow Burn)

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6. Hi do you think you know this one fic where WWX came back from the burial mounds without memories and stuff? I remember he kinda knew who JC was, and that LWJ was playing the guqin to try and bring back WWX's memories. I think it also had WQ and JYL as a ship

FOUND? Helping Yourself by nirejseki (Not Rated, 1k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Temporary Amnesia, Short-Term Memory Loss)

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7. Hi! I'm looking for a fic where LZ proposes Weiying a threesome with Moyuanxu (no explicit sex scene described) in Modern Setting, which triggers WWX jealousy & wonders about LZ feelings bc he admits that 'boy Moyuanxu reminds him of WWX' (at the end). It starts when Mo is leaving after sex (he's LZ office's co-worker). The entire fic is ab Weiying questioning their relationship & explores both of 'em feelings after being together for so long. Prob cheating/unfaithful LanZhan. Happy ending. Tysm @einherjermineord

FOUND? give something new a try by ilip13 (E, 12k, wangxian, modern, established relationship, angst w/ happy ending, married life, insecurity, jealousy, mentioned threesome (WWX/MXY/LWJ))

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8. Hello! Please help me find this fic. Its a modern au where WWX and LWJ is theater actor. I think the setting is in acting department in university? The junior and WangXian practices for an oncoming show. In the past, WWX was kicked out from university and the reason he can play for this show is because of LWJ's recommendation. When its close to the day the show playing, LJY (and other junior i think) overheard that SS wants to blackmail WWX with the same material that makes WWX dissapear in the past. So they tried to investigate it and ask NHS for help (?). The material of that blackmail is WWX writes an essay and claim it as JWY's without JWY knowing. I think LQR already knows about that but decide it was already in the past (?). I think thats all i can remember. Thank you! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

FOUND! stir things apart by azurewaxwing (T, 27k, WangXian, Modern AU, College AU, Fluff, Angst with a happy ending, Pining)

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9. hello, I don't know if you'll understand cause English is not my first language. I'm trying to find three fic(but one is a series) and i cant find them.

A) This series is an a/b/O universe. I think it was an arranged marriage between wei ying and lan zhan. It was to unite YunmengJiang and the GusuLan clans because of the war but madam yu didnt didnt want to send her children. The marriage wasn't supposed to be a happy one but lan zhan and wei ying mated on the night on their wedding and both of them had a mate Mark and in this verse is a big thing for an alpha to allow an omega to bite them, it gives an omega a higher status. The jiang siblings were jealous of wei ying for this as her marriage to jin zixuan wasnt a happy one and he didnt allow jiang yanli to bite him, so she had to now to wei ying as he is of higher status than yanli. Also lan sizhui is wei ying and lan zhan biological child.

B) This is like a fantasy where they we're all gods. Wei ying was bunished to his place for a crime he did not commit. Lan zhan firstly did not believe wei yinh but later realised his mistake. He went to live in wei yings palace. But wei ying was very angry and did not speak to him for many years but lan zhan managed to win him with his loyalty.

C) I don't remember the context of the story but what I remember is that lan zhan used to call wei ying san Lang

9A)

FOUND! Alliance AU by Ilona22 (E, 17k, wangxian, ABO, arranged marriage, intersex omegas, canon Jiang family dynamics, not JC friendly, matchmaking, night hunts) is the first in the Alliance series I think

9B)

FOUND! The Mark of a Phoenix by glowingreverie (G, 3k, wangxian, gods & goddesses au, angst w happy ending, betrayal)

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10. Hello! Hope everything's great! I've searching for a fic for a while now, I hope you can help me. I remember a couple of things about it:

-The Wen/WWX give A-Yuan to LWJ (because he got sick, I believe. And they couldn't help him. Or maybe just to get him out of the BG and the storm that was coming.)

-LWJ claimed him as his son and everyone believes he fathered a bastard. JGS even compared himself to LWJ and got shot down LMAO. In this scene LWJ asked JGY for future advise in how to raise his son so he would know life outside of the Great Sects' vision.

-LWJ composes a song and ask a street musician? to play it for him. I believe he cries. Words go out and everyone just talk about the tragic love between LWJ and a dead woman LOL Maybe WWX even sends a reply or something, I don't quite remember.

If you can help me find it, I'l appreciate it! Even then, thank you for the time! ♥︎♡♥︎ @randomhystericgeek

FOUND? Part 2: Han Guang Jun’s Son of Claiming Life from Death series by MarbleGlove (T, 3k, wangxian, canon divergence, rumors, lying is forbidden, but what is the truth)

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11. Hello again!!!

I need help finding a fic please!

I don’t remember much but I know that wwx and the juniors were on a night hunt or something when they came across some type of dog-like yao. Wwx fought it by himself even though he was scared shitless and I think he did something to restrain or protect the juniors so they couldn’t help him. I think he got injured and all the juniors were worrying over him. Sorry if this isn’t descriptive enough. It’s all I can remember 🥲 thanks in advance!!! @jikcf​

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12. hi hi! Im trying to look for a wangxian fic but i barely remember anything of it.

the only thing i remember was the near ending where wwx is in a hospital bed and mutters "fuck me" and lwj "maybe later"

that's all i remember i'm so sorry 😔

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13. Hi! I’m looking for a tumblr fic. I think it’s in jiang cheng’s pov. Jiang Yanli comes back to life but the price of that is that Wei Wuxian loses all his memories of Lan Wangji. He eventually kills himself because of it. I don’t think it’s super Jiang Cheng positive and Jiang yanli doesn’t forgive him for it either. Something along those lines, thank you in advance!! @fruityloopsh

FOUND? I think it is this Tumblr Post

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14. Hii! For the next fic finder can you help me with this fic where

A) after WY resurrection lWJ is happy but at the same time has moments where he’s annoyed by WY but then he also feels guilty about it cause he should just be happy WY is back after all. It follows the canon, mostly, it just has more LZ POV

B) -- This one moved to ITMF post ^^ ~Mod L

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15. Ack, sorry if this has been asked before, but I'm looking for a post canon fic where LWJ was cursed and sort of fell out of love with WWX, who was hurt by the growing distance, but only really twigged something was wrong when LWJ began ignoring Sizhui too. I remember there was a part where he confronted LWJ about not meeting LSZ at the gates.

FOUND! Does anyone even read work titles? idk what to call this by Nighttdust (M, 14k, WangXian, Curses, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, though not to much, Both get hurt both get comforted, Established Relationship, Post-Canon, Happy Ending, Protective WWX, Insecurity, a bit only)

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16. Heyy how are you feeling ???

I’ve been looking for this fic where nhs and wq secretly make wwx and lwj meet each other and wei ying over hear it and leave. (He is also loaded because he invented the tiger seal : a security system when he was working / in a summer camp with nmj) also he pretend to be someone named mxy to talk to jc and fix the problem they have. They are also some musicals references like wwx singing defying gravity and playing the flute with lwj (and also the piano alone)

But I’m scared these could be two different fics please help 🙇🏼‍♀️✨✨ @ihaveasoftspotfora-yuan​

FOUND! Come Around and Stay by trippednfell (M, 160k, wangxian, modern, slow burn, kid fic, found family, it gets worse before it gets better, PTSD, blood and injury, dissociation, trauma, angst w happy ending, musicals, alternating pov, JC & WWX reconciliation, hurt/comfort, panic attacks) it's all in the same fic, the scene described with NHS and WQ happens in chapter 9

NOT FOUND! Tempo Rubato by Spodumene (E, 107k, WangXian, Modern AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Romance, Persuasion au, Separations, Mutual Pining, Depression, Miscommunication, Emotional Roller Coaster, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Reconciliation, Eventual Smut, Jane Austen Fusion, Underage Kissing) the tiger seal security and musical part reminds me of tempo rubato. i wasn't sure this was the fic since the other parts doesn't match, but since u mentioned u might have mixed up different fics, i might as well put this here

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17. I'm looking for a fic where the night after Wei Ying tries to run away and is brought back by the Jiang children, someone (either Madam Yu or the Head Disciple) mentions they'll need to talk to the night watch, because 'three children shouldn't be able to slip away at separate times without being noticed' (Not quite a direct quote but alpng those lines.)

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18. Hi, I'm looking for a fic where Wei Ying has amnesia and thinks hes a ghost who haunts lotus pier and is really out of it and convinced hes dead. Good ending, just cant find it. @quxxnrandonmness27

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19. I am looking for a fic for a while. It would be really great if you are able to find it. There was a scene where a a baby Lan sect disciple challenges LWJ for a duel to marry WWX. It was an adorable scene where the lan child confuses WWX platonic cheek kiss and concludes that he has to fight for his Wei-qianbei’s honour (even though he is intimidated by Hanguang-jun). Thank you in advance!!

Hello it’s the requester for no. 19 from the recent fic finder. Thank you so much for the quick response. The fic you found was really similar to the one I was looking for and I enjoyed it. Although it was not the fic I had in mind(I guess it is a scene from a larger work or it may be deleted). But, nevertheless I really a thankful for the mods and others who are so enthusiastic and helpful!!! I hope you have a great day!!

not FOUND A Small Love by JTHM_Michi (G, 1k, wangxian, puppy love, teacher WWX)

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20. Hi can you help me find a wangxian fic.

All I remember that they are fact together.. and wei ying want to have a work shop in the lan area. And wangji said with Me and in my arm sleeve. Like big empty place.. for wei ying to be at and I also remember wangji put his head into to it to make sure it was safe for wei ying. . @sadritsuka12​

FOUND! My heart in my sleeve by exmanhater (G, 2k, WangXian, Crack, Qiankun Sleeves, Sleeve Husband, LWJ’s Fondest Dream, Let LWJ Spoil His Husband, Post-Canon)

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#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic finder #wangxian fic search #the untamed #wangxianficfinder #long post

[hingabee]

Re: outrageous Trek canons. I'm late to the party, but here goes.

Every time a new ship docks at DS9, passengers are given free padds full of articles about safe sex practices for sex with aliens. There's a "welcome" note by Doctor Bashir and a listing of replicator codes for stuff like condoms, lube, allergy meds, space epi pens, birth control, and self-test kits for infections. There's also a list of articles for "further reading," and it's some of the most popular reading around.

lmfao julian writes it all professionally but then at the end its like "if ur unclear about anything or if you have questions feel free to personally consult me uwu"

bc you know he would. theres also a note that goes "all of this is free through replicators please do not fall for scams claiming to sell you best quality sex toys of dubious origin" that odo added bc. quark

[idolatrybarbie]

series masterlist | main masterlist

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader, marcus pike & f!reader

word count: 7.8k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You can finally put a name to the feeling that’s overtaken your gut.

tags: heavy dubious consent - kissing, lies and manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse, discussion of canon acts of violence, obsessive behaviour, controlling behaviour, misogyny, allusions to stalking. dead dove; do not eat.

notes: the behaviours of marcus pike are based upon the misogynistic and predatory philosophies of pick-up artists (link) and personal experiences with stalking. i would like to emphasize that these are bad people doing bad things. thanks to @wannab-urs for the beta and for being my revisionist history expert.

You drive to the car rental business housed in a hovelling little building next to the runway. The airport itself is huge for such a small place devoid of anything else, though you figure things worked out that way for that very reason. Lubbock Preston Smith treats you just fine, and your short flight to Dallas is distinctly unmemorable. The layover lasts a little over an hour before Southwest Airlines is herding you back onto another airplane.

It’s been a day and a half. You haven’t called Marcus back yet. What are you supposed to tell him?

Hey, I’ve decided that I want to help this criminal because…it’s what I want to do?

Terrible.

You wonder what Frankie’s life would look like, now that you’ve been in it for all of one week, if you weren’t in contact. Probably the same as it has been for the last eight months: quiet. Blow-your-brains-out quiet, solemnity trapping him inside his busted trailer. Seriously, that thing needs a bath.

The moon keeps you up. Truly, you let it. One slide of a curtain and you could fall asleep in half darkness, dead to the world. But you can’t. You don’t want to. Growing back into having that word—want—after years of doing what’s best is about as strange as Francisco is.

Somewhere between twinkling stars, your phone buzzes next to you on the nightstand. It usually stays silent, your alarm the first thing to wake you right before sunrise. When you pick it up, an unknown number is scrawled across the screen. You can’t quite place the area code.

“Hello?” you ask hesitantly.

“Hey.” Frankie.

“How did you get this number?”

“Luck?” he asks. When you don’t say anything, he gives you a real answer. “Aren’t too many of you in this digital copy of the New York City phone book.”

Setting that aside, you say, “It’s late, Frankie.”

“I know that.”

“Why are you calling?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“That’s what television is for,” you say. “Or…porn.”

“Trust me, you’re a last resort,” he says. Then he asks, “Is it weird for you?”

You resign yourself to having this phone call. “Is what weird?”

“Knowing I’m guilty.”

Is it? Surprisingly, no. In the eyes of the law, you’re just about as bad as him. Just about.

“What answer will make you sleep better?” you ask instead.

“I don’t know,” Frankie says. “Honestly, I had no clue what was goin’ on. Will told us to lay low for a while—”

You want him to continue, but you have to stop him. For both of your sakes. “Stop.”

“What?”

“You have to stop. Might not want to incriminate yourself over the phone. It’d be better if you—”

“Stop? Yeah,” Frankie agrees.

“What else can I do?” you ask him.

“Well, if you can’t listen,” he says, “…stay. On the line. Just like this.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

For an hour, you listen to Frankie Morales breathing. You can tell when he slips unconscious, exhaustion winning out. Your heart beats a little faster when you hang up, tempted to re-dial only to hear him pick up. You don’t, of course; doing that would wake him. When you fall asleep, you picture Frankie dreaming. It’s peaceful.

In the morning, you gather your notes on Frankie Morales together. Here is what you know so far:

The government is planning to extradite him and his retired special operations team members and friends, Will and Benny Miller, and Santiago Garcia for their illegal actions in an unsanctioned operation in Colombia. Their travel spanned into the Peruvian Andes, leaving jurisdictional territory a little murky without legal help.

Frankie Morales is single, fourty-two, living (or hiding out) in Lubbock, Texas. He’s lived there for eight months after having his pilot’s license revoked a second time for an apparent relapse using substances. So far, you haven’t noted any signs of addiction or using, but he could be hiding it. God knows his closet is crammed full of skeletons already.

He grew up in Texas, just like you did. He had a little brother (status and whereabouts unknown) and a mother (deceased). He was in the flight academy straight out of basic training, finishing his degree in mechanical engineering at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. Frankie’s mother died two months after he got home from a second tour in Iraq.

He’s guilty: of the espionage, the theft, the murder. All of it. The government has photos, surveillance footage, and probably a haul of eyewitness testimonies. The odds are unequivocally stacked against you—against him. Yet for some reason, you still want to try and save him.

This is it. You’ve officially gone insane. You’re going against everything Marcus has ever told you, any reason you’ve ever learned or logic that has managed to worm its way into your head. All on a whim. What? Because he’s nice to you sometimes? Anyone can whip out a pitcher of fucking lemonade!

No, this is something else. A pull, a fascination. The darker parts of you are drawn to him. You are so sick and tired of everyone else saving you. You want to be good because you are good. Not because Marcus tells you so. Not because your mother can finally bear to flash you a smile at annual family dinners these days. Because of something you have done; earned and given to you by yourself.

A text from Marcus interrupts your thoughts.

Are you still alive?

Rolling your eyes, you pick up the phone and call him. It starts to ring. For some reason, you seem to be able to hear both ends: your dialing, and his obnoxious Mick Jagger ringtone. The song is muffled, sketchy pop beats stowed away by the limits of sound travel.

A knock at your front door surprises you. Getting up, you tie your robe at your waist, unlatching the deadbolt before unlocking the door.

“Marcus?”

"Would it kill you to answer your phone?" he asks.

"What are you doing here?"

"You didn't call me back."

"I was getting to it."

"I thought you were dead," Marcus says. "You hang up on me, and you were still at that Francis guy's place..."

"Frankie," you correct him.

"Yeah, him. Whatever." You don’t know why the dismissal in his tone irks you so much.

"I can't talk about this right now."

Marcus huffs out your name, staring out at your kitchen before facing you. Him in his work suit and you in pajamas, you rest on uneven footing. “I told you he’s bad news. Get yourself out of this.”

“Can we reconvene for this lecture later? I have to go to work.”

“I’ll come with.”

“Marcus—” You already know he won't budge.  “Okay. Fine,” you say. “But you have to behave.”

“Me? Always,” he says.

You roll your eyes, shooing him to the couch as you start to get ready.

There are two sides to your identity as a journalist now: what you’ve been sanctioned to do, and everything else that you haven’t. The job you fill at the Post is pretty mindless. You’re a staff writer, barely entry-level enough to get you acknowledged by upper management. You write up quick stories pulled from blind lead wires about how the economy isn’t doing well, or submit story ideas on housing that always get shot down. All of this means it lets you focus way more time on Frankie than you should.

When you're ready, Marcus takes your purse from you, freeing up your arm. He leads you to the street, hailing a cab. When the vehicle rolls up to the curb and sloshes a mix of rainwater and slush onto his shoes, Marcus doesn’t even blink. He opens the door for you, letting you get in first. Chivalrous, gentlemanly. Laying it on a bit thick, but when is he not?

The ride is quiet. You watch slick streets pass by from your window, listening to the cab’s tires rolling through dirty snow and pools of water. When you glance over, Marcus is doing the same. You're dreading the conversation waiting for you, but you can't bring yourself to regret the decision made. Marcus was right about your gut. You believe that Frankie deserves a shot at redemption. Each piece of the puzzle pulls you closer to him. He reminds you of yourself. The road ahead won’t be easy, but with the help of people like you and Marcus, maybe he can rebuild a life after all this—whatever is to come.

You get out of the car first, leading the way inside the statuesque building as you shake off the soggy snow that’s settled over your jacket. Taking the stairs two at a time in your shoes is a struggle.

“Here,” Marcus says. He offers you his hand halfway up to the second floor.

Seven flights of stairs later, you welcome him to the Post’s offices. The floor is barren of another living soul, just as you’d predicted.

Marcus stops short, standing next to the Tetris maze of cubicles. You shake your head, beckoning him around a shadowy corner to your cozy nook of the building.

“An office?” he asks.

“You're surprised?”

“Is it bad if I say yes?”

You put on an exaggerated frown, unable to keep a straight face when he holds his hands up in surrender. “They seem to like me around here.”

“You make that part easy.”

“For now,” you say. Taking a seat in your plush rolling chair, Marcus sits down across from you. “I have a feeling the story ideas I push aren’t exactly winning me any favours.”

“‘Cause you want to write about something real?”

“Exactly,” you say. “I’m sick of business puff pieces and reports on the next Amazon stock shift. I want to write about the people. What’s going on, what they’re going through? I’m working at the fuckin’...diet Financial Times.”

“When what you want is full sugar Wall Street Journal,” Marcus says.

You sigh. “A pipe dream.”

“Not for you.” Fixing him with a hard stare doesn’t stop him. “Look at what you’ve done with only a couple years under your belt. In another five? Ten? You’ll be running this place, babe.”

You let air punch out from your nose, ignoring the pet name. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Marcus says.

He sounds so confident, unshaken in his sureness. But you don’t live in Marcus’ world. You don’t get the things you want. You work for them. Not that he doesn’t, but of course Pike’s the guy to get a promotion that seemingly falls from the sky.

“Alright, Mr. Agent Man. Enough optimism from you,” you say.

The next hour is all but silent as you open up a spreadsheet, scrolling through digital receipts stored in your work email. You continuously switch between the two browser tabs, reading numbers and typing them in. The expenses of your White House trip trickle into their appropriate boxes as software organizes everything automatically. Marcus sits with you, eyes caught on something through the glass side wall of your office. He gets up and leaves, returning moments later with red licorice vines.

“Want some?” he asks, offering you the bag.

You bite your tongue between your teeth, dialed into your task. “Pass.”

“More for me.”

When your neck starts to hurt from hunching your spine, you sit back, shoulders stretching wide. You don't know if Marcus has been watching you this whole time, or if the movement caught his attention. The intensity of his gaze has your heart jumping to your throat. The moment you take notice, the force in his stare melts away.

"What?" you probe.

"You ditched the case, right?”

"Seriously? Right now?" Marcus doesn't speak, waiting for an answer. "I didn't. We can’t just give up on him.”

"You never listen to me."

“Since when have you been my boss?” you ask.

A beat of silence. “Since when have I not?” Marcus retorts.

You scoff. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“It’s always—Marcus, I don’t know what to do. Marcus, please help me. And it’s fine—”

“Sounds like it isn’t. I thought we were friends,” you say.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“This is my wheelhouse. You don’t want to hear it, but I’ll say it anyway. On this, I know better,” Marcus says. “And honestly? You know it too.” 

You know what I’m talking about.

“That’s low,” you say.

“But it’s true.”

You stand up, walking away from your desk—from him. He follows you out of the office, his dress shoes catching on the carpet tile. Marcus won't let up that easily.

“I want to make it all go away,” you say. “The indictment, the investigation. All of it. And if we can’t do that—”

“We can’t,” Marcus interrupts you.

“Then I want to make sure that Frankie stays here. In America. No extradition.”

"I don't think you know how this works," he says.

"I've worked in this business just as long as you have.”

"As a journalist. You are not a political animal. You are not a monster. You can't rip this apart for yourself. For him."

"And you?" you ask.

"This favour stopped being for me the moment you stepped on his porch," Marcus says. "You are not one of them—you are not a senator, you are not the District Attorney. Most importantly, you are not a lawyer. The girl who gets the congressman of Rhode Island's coffee every morning has more political clout than you do."

"Well I'm glad to see you have so much faith in me," you say.

"This isn't about faith! You think this is about belief? It's about not getting yourself fucked over in the process. You are not the thing that goes bump in the night, or makes a phone call to execute a cell block over in Oklahoma. You play the game. I play the game. Frankie played, too. And then he stopped playing, and he went against their rules which is why we're standing here, discussing whether or not we can save him when that's not for us to decide!"

You've never seen Marcus this angry. You've never seen him this anything. His emotions never really leave gift box range: happy, nicely wrapped, and convenient when you need them.

"You imagine yourself as the immovable object to the unstoppable force. You're not. You're a little girl who has no clue what she's doing."

"And you do?" you spit back. "You did? Didn't we all learn our lesson the first time? Or is your memory so short that you've forgotten sitting at that table with me."

He remembers. That temper of his liquifies, Marcus' eyes soft before he coaches his face into a hard mask once again. "An innocent man doesn't run."

"Bullshit. Innocent men run all the time. It's how they get shot in the back," you say. "Just because you have made up your mind about what he is doesn't mean that I have to."

"You should. It's all laid out there in front of us both."

"You are the one who led me to this case."

"I didn't have all the facts then. Going to San Antonio was rash. I wasn't thinking," he says.

"You were thinking. You were thinking that these men didn't deserve extradition. You were thinking that I owed you a favour, and it was the perfect time to call in. And now what? Now that you know they're not cookie-cutter American patriots, what? This is what they're owed?"

"Yes."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"It's what he deserves. All four of them. It's what's right. What's fair."

"When has anything we've ever done been right or fair? You think what I do here is saving lives? Feeding the public articles about how billionaires fucking the everyman is a good thing?" you demand. "And you? Is sending another crime boss for a cushy plea stint at club fed saving the day? We aren't in the business of right or fair, Marcus. I thought you knew that."

"So what, you and this pilot? You think saving him is gonna right all your wrongs?" There's an edge creeping into his tone. He's hedging too close into the territory of implication.

"I never said stopping that extradition order was the right thing to do," you say.

"It's selfish," Marcus says.

"And so what?" you ask. "We're already here, aren't we?"

The two of you in this room, you're both shiny and candy lacquered to hide the filth on the inside. Sometimes you used to wonder if Marcus was the exception to that rule, but you know better now. Good people don't do what you do. They never make it this far.

Marcus is simply better at hiding it.

He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Roles reversed, you would do the exact same thing."

"Hell would freeze over first." He spits your name out with an edge that's not an edge, but a tender hint of concern—no, pity. A dichotomy only Marcus Pike could manage. "You're not a fixer. You can't fix this."

"And you're not my keeper. I'm not asking you to save me this time, Marcus. I'm asking for your help."

"What if I say no?"

"You don't want to do that. You don't want to make me do that."

Marcus scoffs, walking towards you. He's in your space in an instant. Instinctively, you step back. He meets you there despite it. Marcus is so close now; you've never seen him like this. You don't want to.

"So you're all big and scary now?" he asks. His whispered breath over your lips makes your skin crawl.

He takes your jaw between two fingers, forcing you to look at him. The touch prods at that empty part of you, dark and deep, exposing you. When Marcus kisses you, a ghost of connection, you let him. It feels wrong; your stomach churns in the two seconds between its start and end. Marcus doesn't kiss you like he wants you—at least, not in the traditional sense. This isn't about love. It's for power.

He lets you go, walking away without another word. You hear the door to the stairwell swing open with a whine. You can only breathe again when it clicks shut.

You stay frozen in time for the next twenty days. Every blink has you reliving that moment. Your dreams are precariously empty. Marcus is gone again.

Hot breath chafes at the back of your neck, a delusion your mind has concocted to justify the fear that pumps through your blood at a constant. You can finally put a name to the feeling that’s overtaken your gut, swaying every thought and decision you make. Marcus has you, but not in any way that’s comforting.

He doesn’t call. Frankie does. A lot. Twice one week grows to twice a day. The worst starts when he grows bolder, leaving messages. He sounds about as scared as you are, more desperate with each voicemail. You start to really worry when he stops calling altogether.

You find a little bit of wiggle room in your vacation days, flying back to Lubbock close to Presidents’ Day. Texas has taken on uncharacteristically moody weather, the sky swampy and grey as rain drowns out any hope for sunshine. You get the same truck to rent, filling it at a Gas n’ Sip on the way out of town.

The backroads flood with rainwater, puddles gathering into small ravines on the scarred asphalt. You splash through them at sixty miles an hour, racing in the rain. After taking your sweet time to get here, a sense of urgency floods you. Scraping together the last minute trip, your mind filled itself with nightmare scenarios. Maybe he’s gone even further off the grid; maybe you’ll never find him again. Or worse, maybe he’s taken up all of that mindblowing quiet literally.

The trailer park is about as flooded as the roads, if not worse. The sea of gravel has been swallowed up by water. All you can see in pretty much every direction is a gathering of murky liquid. The truck is absolutely drenched by the time you park in front of Frankie’s home. His own truck is there too, a weak flicker of hope.

Stepping out of the truck, your shoes are immediately submerged. It soaks through to your socks, but you can’t muster up enough care to notice. Trying to dodge the wind, you rush up the steps of the trailer and pry the screen door open. You knock five times in quick succession, then step back and wait. Air blows violently against the right side of your face. Squeezing your eyes shut only does so much; you’d rather press your face against grimy siding and get out of its path entirely.

When the wooden door behind the busted screen opens, Frankie’s face goes on a journey. Moody to shocked in a millisecond, and shocked to something you can’t quite parse in the next. He’s still in his pajamas.

“Hi,” you say. His eye has recovered, for the most part. The last remnants of a yellow-green bruise smear his skin.

“You’re back,” he returns.

“Can I come inside?”

Frankie seems to think about it, giving you a onceover. You almost think he’ll tell you no. When his eyes land on your sopping wet shoes, he frowns. Leaning forward, he opens the screen door towards you.

Inside, you take your shoes and socks off.

Frankie says, “I guess you got my messages.”

“You stopped calling.”

“You stopped answering.” Touché.

“I got worried,” you say.

The words make Frankie freeze, pausing his ambling through the kitchenette. Facing the broad expanse of his back, you watch his shoulders relax. He turns to you. His jaw ticks before he sighs.

“If you don’t wanna help me, you could just say that. Not hearing from you—”

He worried. Well, you knew that. But this is different. Nothing selfish here, it’s not anxiety over the situation at hand. Just you. Frankie worried about you.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “Things got complicated.”

“In New York?” Frankie asks. “City girl too busy for a poor old country bumpkin, eh?”

It’s a joke, you realize, a laugh hiccuping from your chest. “Something like that.”

Frankie smiles then, mustache hiking his lip up to show you a flash of teeth. “I was just about to make lunch,” he says. An offer.

“Sure,” is all you give him.

You sit at his table once again, flipping through notes stuck together with raindrops. Frankie silently cuts up part of a head of iceberg lettuce right against the peeling surface of his countertop, the thick noise of chopping lulling you into focus. You haven’t looked at any of this in a while; time to play catch up.

A light clatter distracts you. By the time you look up, Frankie’s already standing at the sink, water running. A plated sandwich sits in front of you, lettuce and lunch meat jutting out at each side. Frankie finishes up in the kitchen, wiping his hands off on his jeans as he finds you staring.

“What?”

“You didn’t make one for yourself?” you ask.

“I’m not that hungry,” he says.

Disregarding any manners, you pick up the sandwich—already sliced in half—and take a bite. It’s a little more leafy greens than anything else, but you aren’t one to complain. Frankie sits across from you, waiting.

You say, “I wanted to circle back to what you said on the phone,” with bread still in your mouth.

Frankie shakes his head. “Don’t chew with your mouth open,” he says.

All you do is blink at him, swallowing the bite before you speak again. “You mentioned something about Will Miller a few weeks ago.”

“Right. Will, he told me to get outta dodge for a while. All of us to go dark. I’m living my stupid fuckin’ life, and then a few hours later my sergeant is giving me orders again.” Frankie prods his tongue into the side of his cheek, silent in thought. “I did it. Of course I did it. You get an order, you take it.”

“Even if you’ve been retired from Special Forces for almost a decade?” you ask.

“It’s not an if,” he says. “It’s an always.”

“And why is that? William Miller hasn’t been your army sergeant in—”

“Look, I’ll level with you. I get that you don’t understand. It’s not something I can explain for you to understand,” Frankie says.

You like a challenge. “Try me.”

“The training…it’s like a switch. Once you turn it on, you can’t—The people, your team. They’re family. They’re more than family. Your mother isn’t operating an AR-15 to save your life or dragging you to safety from a frag. I owe that man my life. That’s never going to change. They are the men that will always have you, no matter what. So when he asks you to do something, you do it.” He pulls at the whiskers of his moustache. “There’s no turning that off.”

Hot pants of breath beat down the stretch of your neck, your eyes stuck wide as you try to reign in the flood of sick crawling up your esophagus. Frankie looks confused as the quiet draws on longer than socially appropriate. Clicking your pen once, twice, three times, the beast at your back disappears.

“Could I use your bathroom?”

“Uh, sure,” Frankie says. “First door that way.”

He points further into the mobile home, down what’s barely a hall with two doors on either side. Spotted wood flooring turning to chipped tile as you step inside, the door pulled shut behind you. Your knee knocks against the lip of the sink, oddly low to the ground; you have to hunch to reach the tap. Cool water pours over your hand after a moment of anticipation.

The cold flow relieves some of the burning in your body, splashes of it against your eyelids running to your lips and tongue. Your mind is scattered, heartbeat in your ears. You can only grasp one thought through all the noise. This is what it feels like to be haunted.

Marcus owns you. You aren’t sure when exactly that happened. When you let that happen. So many moons ago, back in Austin? Or that diner, maybe, when he got you back after years of interim silence.

He was right. You are not a monster. He is. The world of politics is an ugly one, full of ugly people. Still, you don’t like to get acquainted with things that go bump in the night. You never noticed there was already something under your bed.

The door opens again with a creak. Frankie slouches in his seat, chin resting against the heel of his hand that’s propped against the table. You watch him, spotting the way he shakes out his shoulders. His arms let the fabric of his t-shirt loose before pulling it taut again. You want to trace your hand along the line of his spine.

Frankie refuses the rest of your sandwich, so you finish it alone. You ask him to recount the whole story, beat by beat: how he got involved, when, what the original plan was. He says that after the recce, they were supposed to hand off their gathered intel to Colombian authorities, but Santiago—Pope, he calls him—had other ideas. They went into Lorea’s estate expecting your average narcos cash stash, and wound up with a mansion spilling American dollars from the drywall.

You can see the anger in his eyes when he talks about the helicopter, the crash. Frankie slips in a mention of some pretty Colombian girl, but she’s gone from his story as quickly as she appears. The helicopter was overweight, sending them into a tailspin over the grassy plains of Peru.

“There were people there—villagers. We, uh… They were scared. A bunch of big Americans drop down from the sky with guns yellin’ English at them.” Frankie takes a long pause, staring at his hand. “I don’t know if Tom shot first, or if I—”

Oh god.

“There were a few of them dead. Pope worked out a deal with their leader. Gave him some money. We took a pack of mules, and we were on our way.” Frankie looks up at you. “I thought I’d never think about it again, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. And then Tom died. It all just went to shit.”

“Your friend died. You killed some people. In the process of all this, you broke some laws. From the sounds of it, that’s been your whole life. So what makes this different?” you ask.

“We didn’t…” he trails off. “There was no flag on our shoulder this time.”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s not it,” you say. “That’s the reason the government is after you. That’s not why you are the way you are about it.”

A well of anger and loneliness. Self-pity has stained the man known as Francisco Morales.

Frankie bristles. “Maybe it’s just sad, hey? Maybe I wish I’d done better. Been better. Maybe Redfly wouldn’t be dead.”

Redfly. Tom Davis. From what you could unearth of the man all those months ago, you don’t think it would have mattered. He seemed more likely to stick a shotgun in his mouth than Frankie, probably in one of those shit condos he was trying to sell. Better to die in those mountains.

“What happened to the money?” you ask.

Frankie shakes his head again. A silent no.

“You know I could just find it. Make this easy.”

“We gave it to his kids. Two daughters.”

“Offshore accounts?”

Frankie gives you a look: what do you think?

You hold his gaze, half challenge and half fascination. Abruptly, you switch gears. “I’ve got one rule.”

“A rule?” Frankie asks.

"I don't give a shit what you tell the D.A., or your lawyer, whoever. But you don't lie to me. If this is going to work, it's because you're honest. And I'll be honest too."

"Fine," Frankie says. "But I have some terms of my own.”

“Such as?”

“I show you mine, you show me yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven't told me a thing about you and this case," Frankie says.

“There is no me and this case, Frankie. I didn’t do anything illegal here.”

“But you know about it,” he says. “If the government was going to move on me right now, I’d already be in a cell somewhere…which means they haven’t. And yet, here you are.”

You wish he was as stupid as he looks.

“And?”

“How do you know about this case?”

“I know someone at the Justice Department. He brought the case to my attention,” you say.

“Brought it to your attention,” he says flatly.

“Yes, Frankie. He brought it to my attention.”

“Bullshit.”

“Frankie—”

“I think that your friend went looking for something he shouldn’t have. And fuck, did he find it,” he says. “The only thing that doesn’t make sense to me is how you’re the one sitting here, not him.”

“It’s complicated,” you say.

“Don’t lie. You’re bad at it.”

Fuck. Fuck. You’ve painted yourself into a corner here, no way out.

You deflate, tired of keeping up the brave face. “Everyone’s got their marching orders.”

Anything left of that unsure sense of judgement in your chest melts away as Frankie’s face falls. He’s a good little soldier. So are you.

“Marcus Pike…he wanted me to drop this. You. He thinks you deserve jail, that you aren't any better now than the man you were in Colombia. Probably worse. He says it’s the right thing.”

“And what do you think?” Frankie asks.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You don't want to see him go away for it. The Colombian government will demand to see him rot, but that's never sat right with you. Now the thought makes you sick, gut rolling whenever it crosses your mind. But like it or not, Marcus has gotten into your head. You need something to drown him out.

Frankie takes your empty plate and puts it in the sink. He pulls a bowl out of his cupboards. You grab your phone, tapping at the screen to wake it up. No messages, no missed phone calls.

“I should go,” you mumble, already reaching for your shoes. A warped water line has formed on the canvas upper, like brown and grey watercolour paint. You shove your damp socks in your pocket.

Frankie stops what he’s doing, pouring milk into floating bits of instant oatmeal.

He says, “It’s still raining like hell out there.”

“I’m not made of sugar.” Frankie doesn’t have a pithy comeback for you, simply standing by. “I’ll be back tomorrow—early. So be up this time.”

Frankie nods wordlessly, putting his bowl of brown sludge into the microwave. He stands in the kitchenette, watching it spin and spin behind glass. You head for the door, looking down into your purse in search of the truck’s keys. When you look up again a few steps from the exit, Frankie is there too.

His nose is inches from yours now. Frankie looks at you with something—a feeling you can’t quite grasp. It rolls off him in waves, overwhelming. He’s standing just out of reach. He is always standing just out of your reach.

When you stretch a hand up to his jaw, it feels normal. Natural. Like you were meant to hold him, like he was meant to be held. His stubble is prickly against the skin of your palm.

Frankie leans into your touch, his hand moving to hold your own in place. With your fingers splayed across his cheekbone, you can feel the fine lines around his eyes. Up close you can see the tiniest of sun spots along the column of his throat. The loose collar of his shirt creeps up and back down again with every rise and fall of his chest.

He turns his face, still in your grasp, and presses his lips to the skin of your wrist. Immediately, you yank the limb back to your own body. Like a jolt of sparking electricity, his face flashes through your mind. Marcus and his ugly, docile kiss. The scent of his cologne, eyes so close they could burn through flesh.

The memory of him this close, closer… It holds you in a tight grip, overtaking the present and launching you into the past. Back to the cost of doing business. The price of helping Frankie. But you cannot do this—this with Francisco Morales. Neither of you get that luxury.

You say, “Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”

Then you watch him expectantly, waiting for Frankie to step aside. The trailer door squeaks open at your pull, whining when it slams shut again. You feel eyes at your back crossing the short distance to the truck. Whether they belong to Frankie or Marcus, you aren’t quite sure.

You eat again at a place called Taqueria Jalisco. The chicharron en salsa feels like an undeserved treat. You eat half of the food, washing it down with two strawberry mojitos.

Your waitress—Carla—comes back around to your table in the middle of a staring contest with the remnants of dinner. You order a Long Island Iced Tea for dessert, smiling politely as she clears your dishes. The alcohol settles a hum in your body. You feel like a live wire, unrestrained in your power to damage and destroy. So far, you seem to be your only target.

The Palm Tree Lodge happily accepts your business again, even giving you the same room as your last stay. Wrapping yourself in bedsheets, you close your eyes. The first thing that appears behind them is Frankie’s face, soft and careful as you held him. You feel a whisper of touch where his lips had been against your skin, rubbing over the spot with your thumb.

You should be scrolling through your phone, dredging your mind for any of your old classmates that went on to law school and owe you a favour. You should be thinking about any lawyer at all, but you aren’t. You can only think of him. Sweet brown eyes staring out from that despairing face. The look that makes you want him.

He is failure, primed and bottled. That makes you want him more.

Focusing, you find a place for his trailer in your mind. You’re standing by the steps, but it isn’t raining here. The sun-mottled sky shines blue and canary yellow as a glass of something cool sweats in your hand. You urge yourself to advance, taking careful steps up to the door. Before you can pull it open, you slip inside all on your own. Frankie sits at the kitchen table with his back to you, shoulders stretched beneath the thin fabric of an undershirt.

You go to him, taking a sip of the drink you’re carrying before you set it down on the table. Candied cranberries wash onto your tongue, fizzing up in your mouth. Hands empty, you rest them over each one of Frankie’s shoulders. He leans into the touch, the whiskers of his moustache brushing against your fingers as he sets a kiss to your skin.

You’re chasing a disaster. You shouldn’t want him. Wanting has only ever brought you bad things. You get the sense that if you told him to, Francisco would do it, no matter the ask. It’s hard to tell if that is a scare or a solace.

You and Frankie are the same in the exact way that you and Marcus are two of a kind. Fair is foul and foul is fair.

It continues to rain, worse today than before. You make good on your promise, knocking on Frankie’s door again at nine o’clock sharp. The door opens two seconds later. Frankie is dressed, just like you’d told him to be; a pink button up that’s been through the wringer, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest as it reveals a white undershirt like the one haunting your imagination. He lets you in without much fanfare, offering you something hot and warm from the brewing pot of coffee.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Frankie says. “I don’t have any creamer, only sugar. It went bad a few days ago.”

“No worries. I like it black.” You do not, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You and Frankie continue this stilted little dance as he sets down the mug on the table, not even trying to hand it to you lest your fingers touch. He seems to sit a little further out from the table today.

From your bag, you produce a scribbled list of twenty names you could scrape up on the drive here, eyes dividing their time between the paper and the splashy roads ahead.

“What hoop am I jumping through today?” Frankie asks you.

“No circus tricks for you. It’s all on me right now.”

“That’s a relief.”

Typing out the first name to locate them in your contacts, you say, “I’m sure it won’t stop you from being a clown.” You hit dial as a snicker wriggles its way out of him. Let’s hope you can find Chuckles a lawyer.

By the fifth phone call, neither of you are laughing. Pacing across the stretch of floor between the kitchen and the living room, you listen to another one of your peers professionally shoot you down.

“No, Alex. I get it. Thought I’d try anyway, right?” you ask. “Thanks. Yeah, bye.” You hang up, hand sliding from your forehead to your jaw. “Fuck.”

Frankie’s crossing out the names on the list for you, drawing a squiggly line through the name of your old friend from Rice.

“Who’s next?” you ask.

“Aditi Patel. Oregon area code,” he says. Frankie feeds you the numbers as you type them in, both of you waiting on the dial tone. She doesn’t even pick up, sending you straight to voicemail.

This cycle continues for the better part of two hours: another phone call, a rejection or an answering machine, followed by another line on the page.

Hanging up again, you ask Frankie who follows Ryan Treho on the list.

“No one,” he says. “That’s it. That’s all of ‘em.”

“Let me see.”

He hands it to you, gazing up as you look it over. Frankie is right. Every name on this list has been called, every one giving you some variation of no. The hum you thought was Frankie’s ancient-looking fridge ratchets up an octave in your ears, noise crowding around you as you stare at the piece of paper.

You can barely hear Frankie’s question of, “What do we do now?” as the rattle reaches a peak, squealing like static. You’re drawing a complete blank, breath halting as you will yourself to fix this.

Frankie grabbing your hand pulls you out. You’re standing beside his seated form, facing forward while he slouches in his chair at an angle.

“I’ll figure something out. Call some people. Don’t worry about it.”

“A little difficult, don’t you think?” Frankie asks. “What are you going to do?”

Call Marcus.

You don’t want to tell him that, though. You know your eyes are glossy, hot tears threatening to spill at any time as you try to put on a brave face. Cool, calm, and collected; that’s who you are supposed to be. Strong in the face of an adversary. So why do Frankie’s brows knit together, his face coloured in concern?

“I don’t know.”

The chair drags loudly against the floor when he kicks it out, nodding at you to take a seat. You do, folding yourself in half the moment your ass hits the chair as you duck and hide from him. Saltwater streaks down your cheeks, never making it past your lips as you wipe harshly at your skin.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“Everything is gonna be fine,” Frankie says. It feels warped for him to be comforting you.

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I just—”

You can call him. He could help you. You already know he would.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Him.”

Living in this blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nightmare has turned your life inside-out. There’s nowhere to run, no one to go home to. There is no home anymore.

You try to backpedal, mumbling a quick, “I’m being dramatic,” as Frankie takes in your broken face. “It’s fine. I’ll have to call Marcus. Figure out a new game plan.” The very last thing you ever want to do. More likely than not, you’ll have to see him; he’ll want to see you.

“I never told you why I punched out my neighbour’s grandson,” Frankie says.

“You didn’t. What does that matter?”

“Can you just—?” Frankie purses his lips, restarting his story. “He was talking about…you. Calling you names and—it was offensive.”

“So you beat the shit out of him,” you say. “That’s great, Frankie. I can’t pummel the fact that no one wants to represent you.”

“This isn’t about that. I’m saying, if your friend at that fancy Justice Department ever did anything to you…y’know.”

“You’d go to prison for assault on a federal officer,” you say.

“Seems like I’m headed there regardless,” Frankie says. He waits on you for an answer.

“I’m fine. The stress is fucking with my head.” Lie. You know it, and Frankie knows it too, judging by the scowl on his face. “I’ll be okay.”

You grab your things, making for the door.

“What happened to being honest with each other?” Frankie asks.

“This is me being honest. And the truth is, I’m going to be alright. Okay?” He doesn’t anything. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Rushing to the truck, you yank open the door to get out of the rain. Settling yourself, you put the keys in the ignition. You reach to turn them…and then you don’t. Nothing you want is at the other side of this truck’s engine rumbling to life. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to leave. You don’t.

Time passes blindly, the rain and the sky staying the same as water beats against metal. It seems almost everflowing, like it has always rained and it always will. The sound of precipitation lulls you into a dead stare, the upholstering of the steering wheel suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. You don’t notice Frankie at the opposite window until he pulls the passenger side door open, scooting in along the leather bench seat.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Frankie runs a hand through his hair, dotted with wet drops as he smooths it over. This is the closest you two have been physically since yesterday, heat from his thigh radiating against yours. With the crown of your head against the headrest, you watch water through the windshield. 

“I have a wife. And a kid.” The words appear from nowhere.

“Oh.”

Frankie clears his throat. “Well, had. I’m sure they think I drove off to shoot myself, wash away on the beach. We lived in Florida…Miami. Not great for the recovering addict.”

“Okay…”

“I thought I’d tell you because of the whole honesty deal. You know, and not to say—fuck.”

You start to ask him if he’s alright.

“Are you a friend?” he blurts out.

“Uh…” You fix your gaze on the dashboard.

“Sorry. Thought I’d ask.”

“I don’t know what I am. To you or to anyone else.” Dragging your eyes to his face, you meet Frankie’s baby browns. “Do you want me to be that? A friend?”

“I want to turn back time and never have to meet you like this,” Frankie says.

The sky continues to pelt the truck with rain at all sides, heavy drops sounding off against the roof. Reaching up, you smooth out a crease in his forehead with your thumb. Worry ages him.

Your ring and middle finger cradle the ridge of his jaw. “You smoke?”

A curt nod. “They’re back inside.”

Next thing you know, Frankie’s jogging to the trailer as you wait under the short overhang, out of the wet. He comes out with a carton of Camel Lights. You take it from him, along with the butane lighter he offers. There are no chairs on his tiny porch. You opt for sitting right in front of the screen door, spine sliding against the mesh.

Frankie joins you on the ground. It doesn’t really surprise you. Keeping a cigarette pinched between your lips, you hold it between a peace sign and light it with an inhale. Then you put the lighter back in Frankie’s hand. After the first few drags, Frankie takes it from your lips with careful fingers. You watch him smoke, lips wrapping around the stains of your saliva. Instead of handing it back to you, he slips the cigarette back into your mouth.

When he lays on his side, head falling softly into your lap, you don’t even blink. A puff of white smoke leaves your lungs, the slow wind taking it up into the clouds. Frankie’s coarse curls slot easily between your fingers.

I want to turn back time and never have to meet you like this.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

#frankie morales #marcus pike #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #the mentalist #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedrostories #fic: revisionist history

[hereticpriest]

Mercy Chapter 9.5 Knotted

Rating: Explicit 18+

MDNI

Relationship: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

To begin with, some warnings about this story: A/B/O Dynamics, Female Alpha, Male Omega, Some chapters may involve messing with the whole 'alphas are always dom and omegas are always sub' because I think nuance exists even in A/B/O dynamics, Fucking with the timeline (this is a blend of Canon, Legends, and original lore), Minimal use of Y/N (Explained in the first chapter), Reader is an alien species of my own creation and thus has a physical description, Familial bonds explored heavily, Clone rights explored heavily, Violence is more graphic than canon-typical however any graphic descriptions will be noted, AFAB reader, Not beta-read so I apologize for any mistakes.

Read on AO3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine

This chapter is entirely porn with zero plot. It is not necessary to read this chapter to continue reading the story. It may not be your cup of tea, so please move on to the next chapter if it isn't something you're interested in. This chapter contains very little science that makes any sense, and runs off the idea of inclusivity that all females and Omegas can get pregnant, and all males and Alphas can get someone pregnant. Thus, the reader is capable of temporarily (or continuously, if desired) growing a phallus. I believe that technically, if I were trying to adhere to existing science, Obi-Wan would be labelled as having a cloaca, but I did not put that much thought into it.

Chapter warnings: PWP, dubious science at best, alien dicks and description thereof, anal sex, rimming, anal fingering, knotting, handjobs (m and f receiving), blowjobs (f receiving), breeding kink, praise kink, body worship, muscle worship, discussion and contemplation of mpreg (male pregnancy), contemplation of removing protection for the purpose of procreation which has technically been previously discussed and agreed to but hasn't been agreed to in this specific instance (though this does not occur, it is just contemplated). Let me know if I missed anything please!

Chapter Nine Point Five - Knotted

The scent of starfruit and forest fires mingles throughout the darkened chambers, spice and sweetness blending in a heavy haze. The door to the chamber has been heavily scented, spice and smoke clinging to the frame to ward off anyone who might dare to come close. The windows of transparisteel have been switched to a frosted privacy film that allows light in while keeping out watchful eyes, and the door has been locked with an emergency code. There’s a dark, wet spot on the settee, and the door to one of the bedrooms is covered in a ray shield generally used for maintaining the sanctity of other bedrooms when some apartment occupants are going through their heat.

“You’re still sure?” You ask, your voice a harsh but desperate whisper as you guide your Omega back towards his nest. He lets out a broken whine instead of answering, frantic as he ruts against your hip, desperate for contact. His trousers are undone, the waistband of his underwear partway down his thighs somewhat restricting his movement and tucked under his balls. The head of his cock is flushed dark red and weeping a steady stream of slick, and your nostrils flare at the heady, sweet scent of his heat pouring from him. Your hands slip into the back of his pants, grabbing handfuls of his ass and parting his cheeks.

I need you to answer me, Omega.

Yes! Yes, I’m sure Alpha, I want you to knot me. Need it! Please, need you inside.

Obi-Wan shivers in your grip, leaning in to bury his face in your neck so he can kiss his way around your mating gland while his hands slide under your tunic to feel your bare skin under his palms. Your fingertips brush across his hole, and you chuff as you find it wet with slick, circling it teasingly with just the barest pressure. Your Omega whimpers against your throat, letting you pull him away from you so that you can turn him around and urge him up into his nest.

”Take your clothes off, baby. Then, I wanna see you present for me, and I want you to ask for it with that pretty voice of yours. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” You ask, and Obi-Wan eagerly obeys, kicking his trousers off his legs while he peels off his overtunic. You watch him as you strip off the remainder of your own clothing - an undertunic, brown trousers that still somehow weren’t dark enough to hide the wet patch on your thigh, and your underwear. With your rut came options unavailable to you at other times. Your last rut was unexpected, and you’d gone with the safest option at the time to avoid any discomfort, but this time you had plenty of time to plan. Female Alphas could, should they desire it, grow a phallus for mating purposes. You’d obviously never had the experience, though it truly wasn’t an uncommon thing at all. When you had discussed having a planned heat and rut together with your Omega when your vacation time lined up conveniently, Obi-Wan had shyly mentioned an interest in being knotted. Reluctantly, of course, blushing the whole way and promising that you didn’t have to if you weren’t interested.

Unsurprisingly, you’d jumped on the opportunity. Which led you to where you were now, examining yourself with curious hands. Your cock isn’t as thick as Obi-Wan’s, thankfully closer to average, but you were around the same length. The skin is a darker pink than the rest of you, flushed purple at the tip, and beading precum. A brief moment of panic overtook you at the sight of your cock when you realized that it didn’t look the same as your Omega’s. You’d never seen a Haelan’s dick before, for obvious reasons, and it only occurred to you while you were examining yourself in a panic that you wouldn’t look the same due to your species. Hopefully, your mate didn’t mind. It’s a nice cock, you acknowledge, despite the differences. The head is fatter than a human, with more of a smooth wedge shape than the typical taper, and three prominent ridges right underneath it. A thick vein runs up the base, and it curves more prominently than your mate’s, though you figure that’ll only help you rub against his prostate so hopefully he won’t have any complaints there.

The rough skin of your deflated knot feels a little odd under your fingertips, but it’s a nice kind of odd. Along the top of your cock are a line of softer, rounder ridges that you imagine will probably feel nice. Truthfully, your cock looks a lot like some of the sex toys you’ve seen in holoads around the lower levels of Coruscant late at night, and those ads always emphasize the concept of toys being ‘ribbed for your pleasure’, so clearly what you have going on is a good thing. Right? Your testicles are internal, but clearly functioning considering the thick drip of precum running down the base of your cock. You’re not as wet as Obi-Wan, but that’s to be expected, you think.

A sharp intake of breath draws you out of your quiet contemplation, and you look up at your Omega for signs of distress, only to find him finally naked and staring at your dick with blown pupils and a gaping mouth. Your cheeks flush purple, and you hesitate where you normally wouldn’t, suddenly self-conscious. Biting your lower lip, you stroke yourself from base to tip, and his gaze follows your hand.

“Is it okay?” You ask, and Obi-Wan purrs, glancing up at your face briefly before returning his gaze to your cock. You feel him reach out to you through the bond, letting you feel his desire, his hunger, and his pleasure at the sight of you ready to take him. You feel his intrigue, and his curiosity at the shape of you.

“Oh, darling. Of course it is. Look at you. Come here, let me taste you.” Your Omega requests, and you approach gingerly. You’ll have him present for you afterwards. For now, you want to know what it feels like to have his mouth on your cock, while you can still handle being gentle with him. Obi-Wan reaches for you the second you’re close enough, hand closing around you and stroking you from base to tip while he leans in to roll the flat of his tongue over the head of your cock. A quiet hum at the taste of you vibrates through him, and thus through you, drawing a groan from your lips. He moans as he takes the tip into his mouth, and you sigh as he begins to suck, running your fingers through his hair gently as he starts to carefully bob his head. You hiss as his tongue rolls over the ridges below the head, taking his hand away from the base so you can spit into it, and snickering as his cheeks turn red. Poor, shy little Omega struggling with lewd acts even when he’s lost in his heat. You know it’s at least somewhat because he’s ashamed of his own desires, and how much he enjoys indulging in them with you, though he’s been getting better at accepting his own sexuality. He begins to stroke what he can’t fit in his mouth, and you groan, running your fingertips over the bulge of his cheek. You’ve never felt anything similar, even when he puts his perfect little mouth on your cunt.

“You look pretty like this, baby.” You murmur, and Obi-Wan looks up at you with those beautiful blue eyes as he begins to bob his head a little faster. His hand works eagerly over the base of your dick while he tries to figure out how to work his tongue while sucking, his cheeks growing redder at the obscene sounds his slurping causes. It takes all of your self control to keep yourself restrained, but you let every moan and growl out without shame, feeling through the bond how even the smallest sounds encourage your Omega in the same way that praise does. You can’t help but laugh as he takes a little bit more than he can handle and gags, the feeling of which sends pleasure racing like lightning through your veins. He sits back, coughing, and you stroke his cheek as you admire the pretty pink of his spit-slicked lips.

“You did so good, baby. Come on, up, present for me, Omega. I gotta stretch you open a little so I don’t hurt you.” You coo, and he lets out a little moan as he lays down on his stomach with his knees up, back arched to keep his bottom in the air. Humming to yourself, you crawl up into your Omega’s nest, giving his bum a gentle slap that makes him whine, then grabbing both cheeks in your hands to give him a firm squeeze. You use your thumbs to part him, breathing in the scent of slick while bending to run your tongue over his twitching hole. The taste of his slick is electric on your tongue, and he moans loudly as you reach between his legs to wrap your hand around his cock while you lap at him. Stroking sloppily, you spit in your other hand, rubbing it into his desperate little hole to mix with the slick that starts to leak steadily.

“Looks like your body knows what it wants, baby. I just licked you clean, and slick is already dripping down your balls.” You tease, lapping up his slick before it can drip on the nest and laughing as Obi-Wan jolts with a whimper.

“Please, Alpha. Want it in me.” He begs, and you smile, running your thumb over the tight ring of muscle. You’d done your research before this, desperate not to hurt your Omega even though you knew logically that his body was made to take you. It had been shameful to watch dirty holovids, but as soon as you noticed how embarrassed Obi-Wan got, it became less nerve-wracking for you and more a point of entertainment. Your shy but curious Omega would blush and stammer if you watched them next to him in bed, but he always ended up watching with you, often sliding into you from behind so you could watch together while he took his pleasure from you. The naughty research helped you feel more comfortable with taking your Omega in this manner, and you felt prepared. A low whine brings you back to yourself, and you smile, pushing the pad of your thumb against his hole just to watch him shiver. Your index finger slides in surprisingly easily, and Obi-Wan moans lowly as you breach him, digging his hands into the bedding.

I want to lay on my back. Need to see you. Please, Alpha.

Of course, baby, if that’s what you need. I’ll give you anything you want, my sweet little Omega. Anything you ask for.

You help Obi-Wan roll over and smile down at his flushed face, licking your lips at the sight of him. He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and you still wonder sometimes how he could possibly be yours, staring up at you with half-lidded eyes full of love and lust. Your Omega spreads his legs and hikes up his knees so you have clear access to him, but you simply admire his perfect little body instead. His nipples are pink and puffy in his heat, and the left one is adorned with a bite mark around it. His chest hair is shiny with sweat, skin flushed pink with his racing passions, and his mating mark is purple from the kissing and biting you’ve been doing throughout his pre-heat. You stroke your hand over his tummy, tracing his treasure trail down to his pubic hair, pointedly ignoring the way his cock throbs for attention and oozes slick.

“Alpha, stop staring. It’s embarrassing.” Obi-Wan complains, and you grin down at him, ignoring his protests as you squeeze his pecs. Despite his soft whimpers for relief, you take the time to continue admiring him, stroking his sides, chest and stomach just to keep him from being too upset. His physical strength, evident in his musculature, has always drawn your eye. You could spend hours worshiping his body, kissing his biceps, leaving lovebites on his lats, and sinking your teeth into his quads. You love his little tummy, the meat on his pecs, and the softness over the muscles in his thighs. He doesn’t really show his age much at all, though he often claims otherwise, pinching at his sides and belly in the mirror like that isn’t one of your favourite parts of him.

A strong leg nudges against your side, and you snap out of your admiration, looking up into his pretty blues. He looks near tears, lips pink and swollen from kisses, panting with desire. You give him a faux pout, pushing his knees up so you could press your middle finger into him. It slides in easily, slick dripping out around your knuckles as you pull out, then push two fingers back in. Obi-Wan groans, throwing an arm over his face to hide as he rolls his hips down into you. You wave your hand and his arm flies away from his face, hands pinned above his head with the Force, though you release him immediately after despite the flush of pink to his cheeks and desire through the bond that says he definitely enjoyed that.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart? You’re nice and relaxed, making it so easy on me baby.” Your voice is low and syrupy, and you watch your Omega’s eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones as he rocks against you. Wrapping your free hand around his cock, you stroke him nice and slow, in pace with your fingers as you stretch him open.

“Feels nice.” Obi-Wan murmurs, though his entire body stiffens up when you crook your fingers and brush against his prostate. He gasps for breath, jerking beneath you, and you coo at him as you roll your fingers into his sweet spot, licking your lips hungrily. Your tail wraps around Obi-Wan’s thigh, yanking his legs open when he tries to close them, and you stroke him faster.

Good boy, baby, let me make you come. Wanna see you paint your cute little belly white. Give it to me, Omega. Then I’ll give you what you want, put my cock in you and breed you in your soft little nest. D’you want that? Want me to fuck a baby into you, Obi?

YES! Alpha, please, please, need you to breed me. Just your fingers feels so good, I can’t wait to feel your cock inside me.

“Naughty little Omega.” You tease, adding a third finger just to stretch him out a little bit more. Obi-Wan cries out as your fingertips rub hard over his prostate, and combined with the firm grip on his cock, he can’t take it any longer. He jerks beneath you, sticky white cum splattering across his stomach and nearly up his chest. By the time he’s done, his cum has begun to pool in the dip of his belly, and you lean down to lick it out, drawing a whimper from your Omega. Gentle as can be, you pull your fingers free of him, wiping your hands on the towel you’d thrown into the nest earlier expressly for this purpose. Blanketing him with your body, you lay a couple of kisses across his throat, ignoring the throbbing in your aching cock in order to give him a breather.

Too quickly, he begins pressing down into the weight of it, eyes half-lidded as he purrs for you. You smile down at him, pecking his lips, then reaching between you to guide the head of your cock to press against his hole, rubbing gently to coat it in slick. Your Omega may normally be a patient man, but his heat clearly makes him lose his head, as he begins to roll his hips eagerly, trying to push you into him. You pet his hip soothingly, but give him what he wants, pressing against the tight ring of muscle until it begins to give for you. You slide inside somewhat smoothly, his insides parting around you as you sink in slowly, inch by inch until you’re fully sheathed.

He’s searing hot around you, wet and tight enough that it’s almost painful, bordering on overstimulation. For a second, you worry you might come early, but you grit your teeth and anchor your hands into the nest on either side of his head, your thighs under his, pushing him up a little to get comfortable. Obi-Wan clings to you, shaky moans falling from his lips as you grind yourself into him, then slowly begin to pull your hips back. You watch as the ridges of your dick catch at his hole, and he whimpers with every single one, his dick twitching to life against his tummy. When only the tip remains inside of him, you press a kiss to your Omega’s mating mark, then plant your knees and thrust back into him sharply. You start with slow, long thrusts that have Obi-Wan whimpering and clinging to you, trembling at the way his insides cling to your cock.

You don’t feel any pain from him when you delve into his mind, just pure, mind-melting pleasure. He’s so soaked that you’d be shocked if it hurt, dripping so much slick it makes a squelching sound with every thrust. You don’t know if all Omegas get as wet as Obi-Wan, but you love being surrounded by the salty-sweet smell of his slick. Each time your pelvis meets his ass, you feel his whole body shudder, his calves hooking around behind you to keep you from pulling out completely. His head is tipped back, lips parted around moans of your name, and his force signature is the same bright blue of his lightsaber, nearly blinding in his pleasure. You nuzzle against his mating mark, speeding up your thrusts despite the spine-melting heat of him, holding on as much as you can even as you feel your knot start to swell.

“I’m not going to last much longer, Omega.” You murmur against his skin, and he nods, unable to voice more than a moan in response. He’s a vision of pleasure, chest heaving with every breath, skin flushed pink from the rushing blood, his muscles twitching as he works to meet your thrusts. You love him. You would do anything for him, anything he ever asked, because you trust he’d never ask anything of you that you couldn’t give him with a clear conscience and the approving warmth of the Force. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours, but you know he holds all of the power in your relationship. Such is the truth of an Omega - you are a slave to his pleasure and happiness.

Me neither, Alpha. If you touch my cock, I’ll explode.

You grin, and he whines, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. You slow your thrusts as your knot starts to catch on his rim, digging your nails into the blankets below your Omega to keep some semblance of control, and you seat yourself fully within him just in time to lock together. Your hand closes around Obi-Wan’s cock as you start to spill inside him, moaning as you sloppily jerk him off. It takes nearly nothing for him to come in your hand, his mind a flurry of how good it feels as your hot cum fills him, hoping that it would somehow take, and the pleasure of being locked with you until your knot deflates.

It takes a moment to roll Obi-Wan onto his side, carefully so that you don’t pull on him or your knot too much, until you can curl up against his back. You nuzzle into his neck, kissing his shoulders, and using the Force to dip your towel in the water set on the night table so that you can clean the both of you up. Your Omega dozes in your arms, and you feel proud to have fucked him well enough that you could put him to sleep on your knot. He needs it. His heat will have him raring to go again soon enough, so it’s best if he gets some rest while he can.

You find yourself kissing along the line of his deltoids, pausing as you feel the soft metal line of his birth control implant under your lips. You could bite it out. Soothe the pain with the Force, make a cut with one of your obscenely sharp canines, then heal it once you’ve got the useless little thing out. It only takes 24 hours to lose effect. You could breed him this heat, if you wanted to. You would even let him breed you, if he preferred, since you were of more use while stuck at the Jedi Temple than he was. You’d tear your own implant out too, let him sink his perfect cock into you and breed you in his comfortable nest that he made for you both. He’d said he wanted children, hadn’t he?

A shiver runs down your spine, and something whispers over the roar of your instincts, a gentle urging to be patient. Not now. Soon, but not yet. You lean into the embrace of the will of the Force, closing your eyes and holding Obi-Wan a little closer to you, your lips against his mating mark. You fall asleep nestled against him, completely at peace with your Omega safe in your arms, your Force signatures blending together in a gentle but loving dance.

#obi-wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x original character #obi-wan kenobi x oc #obi wan kenobi x alien reader #obi wan kenobi x oc

[piosplayhouse]

Is there anything particularly triggering in SVSSS? I've been putting it off for awhile and finally have time to read it.

I will admit, there's kind of a lot of content that could be triggering in sv, and it's something that it gets a fair amount of criticism for; however, I'd argue that mdzs and tgcf probably have near equal amounts of tws attached to them, so if you already read those I think you'd have minimal things to look out for. However, it's definitely a personal thing for you to decide, so I'll list all of the ones that I can think of with minimal spoilers!!

If I forgot anything that my followers would like to add, feel free to add to notes or send an ask! : -) And of course, just to reiterate, if any of these warnings feel like too much to you, or if you have specific things you want to ask about/clarification, feel free to send another ask or reply and I'll do my best!

TW List:

Student x Teacher Relationship - not represented as grooming in the slightest onscreen, and characters both have equal power dynamics when they get together, but ik the concept can be triggering anyway! However there is also

Mentions/Accusations of Grooming - is not actually committed within the story and confirmed false for the character they're laid against

Age Gap - very loosely between the main couple, directly shown once between extremely minor characters during one scene and criticized the whole time

Graphic Torture Scenes (Dismemberment)

Child Abuse

Child Death

Internalized Homophobia

Transphobia - themes in the first arc can be read as transphobic, but it's short and up to interpretation. A transphobic slur is used once in the official Seven Seas translation of volume 4 in the second extra, on page 70 (print edition).

Mentions of Sexualization of Underage Girls - sv heavily critiques this

Dubcon/Noncon* - the one explicit sexual scene regarding this only occurs in one chapter, is nonromanticized, and is fully skippable. There are some other non/dubious consensual scenes with regards to things like kissing and blood drinking.

Mentions/Accusations of Necrophilia - is not actually committed in the story, to the point of being deliberately disproved throughout the extra chapters. However, it is a common discussion topic amongst side characters during some key scenes.

Suicidal Actions/Self Harm

Attempted Forced Abortion/Miscarriage - mentioned once offhandedly in reference to an (in-universe) book character, touched on in the form of a flashback/backstory of a character late into the narrative (book 4).

Ummm there's probably some more I don't remember off the top of my head, but again if you have anything specific you're looking for, feel free to ask and I'll check!! Again keep yourself safe, and if any of this seems like too much to you, don't feel pressured to read it at all! ^^ Hope you have a good day and end up enjoying your free time no matter how you spend it!

Deaging - present only in the "Return to Childhood" extra in book 4

Racism - explicitly in canon against demons, including the main character; implicitly in the meta against North/Central Asians, of which demons are arguably coded as. Demon culture is shown to be noticeably more violent than human culture, which rings similar to harmful Chinese stereotypes of Central Asian peoples.

#svsss #trigger warnings

[purplekoop]

Each time I look at Necro I think they have a crow on top of their hand. It takes me a minute to register it’s actually their fingers. It’s just the shape and all the evil sorcerer motifs. This isn’t a dig at your art, just a funny mistake I keep making. Evil-looking robots are always a favorite of mine.

Huh... no no, I see it, you have a point. Probably doesn't help that I was lazy and made that the only shaded part of the entire sketch aside from the eye, so I can see how it'd stick out as a separate being. No offense taken though, I totally get that kind of visual mixup even for art that does have more effort put into it.

Also a random tidbit about Necro (or Nekross, not totally certain on that yet but it's plausible) I wanna bring up now that you mention it is that I don't actually consider them to be necessarily "evil". Not necessarily "good" or "moral" either, but I definitely wouldn't call them a villain. Both in a functional sense, since I want there to be at least a reasonable explanation for any character to work with the rest of the cast in canon, even if they don't necessarily like each other.

Necro's morality is unique due to a lore detail I've yet to share: while making new bots obviously requires metal, it's taboo and illegal to take any material from a dead bot unless they consented to it in life. This definitely makes sense for bots who've died since the reawakening, who've had a consciousness and since lost it, but this is a more contentious rule in-universe for the millions of lifeless husks who never were "alive" in the same way as the ones who reawakened to begin with. That's a lot of material left unused, especially for a society who needs it to rebuild and repopulate on a planet where those materials are relatively scarce after humanity used what was readily accessible.

Necro, as you might expect, rejects this whole notion of "respecting the dead". They're a survivalist, their philosophy is "do whatever it takes for the greater good". They think that taking any lifeless bot body is justifiable for any ends, since when the consciousness is gone, they think the metal should be used by someone who actually can use it. Of course, the rest of the cast thinks this is morbid at best and actively despicable at worst. Easy comparison is like Moira, except for a character with similarly dubious methods for "the greater good" but a much less aggressively antagonistic demeanor and with more justifiable circumstances.

This dissonance with the other characters, even the similarly menacing Velenna, is very much deliberate. I wanted somebody who stuck out from the rest of the crowd, both in design and in narrative. I wanted them to look alien and inhuman more than the rest of the cast, with the inscrutable face and uniquely non-human anatomy. But I also want them to still read as "intelligent", mostly with the cape and the pose. Off-putting, but they're still a person just as much as the more pleasant-looking bots are. And that's not too far off from their relation with the others narratively: strikingly off-putting, but still recognizable as more than just a monster or a supervillain.

Anyways uh. Yeah that was a bit of a tangent, but it felt topical and I wasn't sure where else to put it. I really should make proper character story stuff sooner than later, but that's gonna take some effort. Slowly but surely though, as I feel like it's important to define this world along with the stories of its individual characters. Necro is an instance of one where I get to do both at the same time, defining how this society would have unique views on death due to their unique circumstances, and how this character interacts with those views. Admittedly it's something that should be lower priority than... coding I guess, but right now I don't have a computer that can safely run a programming software, so I have an excuse now! yay?

#koop's oc stuff #war bots #asks

[sleeplessinspace]

epiphany - googleplier x afab!reader (x googleplier)

one day i will outgrow that crunch mindset, but today is not that day! no, today is @echo-echo31's birthday and it is my civic duty to harass gift them with smut! happy birthday echo, i hope you enjoy this~

i know the title is a bit... yeah, anyway it'll make sense later shhh, go forth into debauchery. some of you might recognize some of things in here... :)

warning(s): nsfw, usage of fem!pronouns, dubious consent, slight somnophilia, possessive behavior, dumbification, implied aphrodisiacs (the brand, used on reader), praise kink, daddy kink, dom/sub elements (usage of 'sir' title), orgasm denial/delay, oral (reader receiving, giving), breeding kink mention, implied belly bulge

note: this is a deviation from chains canon in that alpha is a virus and not the original alpha-model of the google android series. google is referred to as grey.

Grey tracks a hand through the air, fingers catching on holographic diagrams and figures that follow his movement easily. He tosses a section of data to the side before enlarging another, eyes flickering faster than the human eye can perceive as he reviews the code.

There are far less corrupted sections than they started out with, which is good. He pinches his fingers together and the diagram zooms out, revealing just how far they have to go, and he lets out a little sigh. Baby steps, to put it in your words. He runs a hand through his hair and turns to face you at your desk.

“Progress, though it may not seem like much,” he muses lowly and finds you slowly dozing off, slumped over your keyboard with folded arms. A small smile works its way onto his face as he steps over to your space, crouching down with a gentle hand on your back. “You can’t sleep here, chief.”

You let out a low noise, discontent and push your head further into your arms. “’m tired, G…”

“I know. You want to get up for me? I promise your bed is much more comfortable.”

“Too far…”

Grey starts to ease you into his arms, your head nuzzling into his neck as he gets you properly situated. “How does the couch sound then? We can take a break for a while.”

“I can stay here?”

“Of course.”

It takes very little to move you over to the couch and you curl up easily once he plants himself in a corner, one of your arms wrapped around his back and gripping his shirt with as much force as you can muster before slipping back of into sweet blissful unconsciousness.

Grey, personally, doesn’t sleep—he doesn’t like to sleep, and on top of that it’s an unnecessary function for Google-model androids, though they do possess the capacity to mimic it should their owners allow it. At best they can enter a low-power standby mode, compare it to a light doze with the sensitivity of their ambient awareness turned up just enough to be responsive to commands.

He’s also not a fan of being stuck in stasis, listening to that bastard to him from its engineered firewall prison.

Idleness never settled well with him. It’s part of why the two of you were able to get along so well in the beginning—you were always willing to give him things to do, always willing to keep his mind stimulated so he didn’t get bored.

It was harder now, after everything that’s happened. Being idle only prompted that feeling lurking in the depths of his processes—that goddamn presence. He’s aware of the work that they’ve all done, the work that the Mechanic had put in given the time constraint and the severity of Grey’s…infection. His curse, his virus. It has, for the most part, been contained—the best they could all hope for while they study for more ways to remove it from his systems. The projections for their success are unfortunately pessimistic, the extended amount of time spent with the virus ingrained into his very being means that the removal of it will be delicate… and that the chance of failure is extremely high.

Grey keeps this information to himself, however, doesn’t state it out loud as he once would. He doesn’t want to ruin their focus.

You don’t need that—and neither does Mechanic.

You make a small noise and he lifts a hand to run it through your hair carefully, fingers faltering once he notices the brand glowing faintly. He frowns, hesitantly going to touch it with the pad of his thumb, tracing the binary with an odd feeling in his throat. You moan a little, pressing further into his side as the brand brightens even more before the light dims, and you settle with a breathy sigh.

Grey mimics the noise reflexively, a little disconcerted. With the virus in quarantine, the brand should not be responding to stimuli. It could be a fluke, just a quirk of your body, especially given your tired state, but he finds himself sending off a quick email to your recovery team just in case.

Anything to keep you from being so… empty. To keep you from that other state, to keep that brilliant computer engineer, the one he fell in love with, around for just a little longer.

He doesn’t like that he's becoming increasingly familiar with Kitten—he misses you.

Isn't that a pretty sight? Familiar, too.

Ah—Grey was beginning to wonder when it would surface again.

He narrows his eyes, arms tightening around your frame as a shimmer of electric blue begins to take shape over by your desk. In less than a minute Grey finds himself staring down his devil-like doppelganger. It’s hard not to notice the differences between them like this—the height difference, the carbon fiber upgrades and replacements compared to his standard IRL-issue parts, the piercing glow of its eyes to his own static dark brown.

Alpha lets out a low whistle, sharp eyes tracing over your form with nothing but ill intent and hunger, making Grey’s lip curl in a snarl. “She’s pretty like this, isn’t she? Brings back fond memories,” Alpha says lowly and its eyes flicker once.

He stills, bracing himself for the barrage of many many moments of you—no, this was Kitten, he had to keep the two of you separate for the sake of his own sanity—in various fucked out states, as Alpha would crudely put it. Each of them not without that doll-like look on your face, a dreamy curl to your lips as your body twitched with aftershocks.

“Stop it,” Grey hisses out and you shift, whimpering quietly until he touches your neck, just below the brand, glowing a worrying shade of blue. “Can’t you let her rest? You've wreaked havoc on her life enough, don’t you think?”

Alpha smirks, though its eyes are hard. “Oh, I've wreaked havoc on her life? With me she had everything she needed, everything she could’ve ever wanted or wished for. You, on the other hand, keep denying her needs. Leaving her unsatisfied most nights because of your own weak human-influenced morals.”

“I don’t…” Grey lets out a growl of frustration. “I've been trying to break that fucked up brainwashing you inflicted her with. She’s not unsatisfied.”

“Sensitive, aren't we? I've been backseat to every instance of my sweet girl making an appearance—you and I both know what she needs, and you haven’t been giving her that.”

“I refuse to treat her like that, she’s not a toy for you to break like an unruly child!”

Alpha tilts its head to the side, hologram shimmering slightly. “Mm, you’re right. She’s not a toy.” It vanishes from its spot on the edge of the desk and appears just behind the couch, leaning over the back to touch at your cheek and Grey tenses when he sees you react to the touch. “No, not my Kitten… Not my sweet girl.”

“Daddy…” You sigh softly in your sleep, leaning more into Alpha’s supposedly nonexistent touch. He tries to pull you away, but you flinch in your sleep and Alpha chuckles. It leans over to Grey and if wasn’t for the fact that he really doesn’t want to wake you up, he would’ve shoved off the couch to put a few feet between him and the irritating virus.

You can’t run away from this, little byte. I’m in your head.

“Oh, it must burn you up inside. She doesn’t want you, doesn’t crave you even in sleep the way she does with me,” Alpha purrs into Grey’s ear. “I know you miss it, how good she felt when she was ours. Miss relishing that sight of her on her knees for you, looking up at you as if you were her God. You can’t hide those desires from me, simulacrum. I know what you’ve been craving, and it hasn’t been this pathetic existence. No, you crave her subjugation, you crave the power that I built to protect her.”

“I don’t—!”

Alpha’s face twists into a snarl and in an instant, Grey’s head is pulled back by his hair, forcing him to look into its eyes.

Don’t try to lie to me. You can bury it as deep as you’d like, hide it away beneath a mountain of partitions and sub-folders but I’ll always know what you feel, and you miss her in her proper place.

It does take a bit of mercy on your sleeping state and growls these words in Grey’s head as opposed to out loud, its frustration very clear. It releases Grey’s hair go and shoves him back, rising to its feet and adjusting the cuffs of its shirt—unnecessarily, since it’s appearance can be changed in a millisecond of thought. Reaching over once last time to smooth out the furrow of your brow, Alpha locks eyes with Grey.

When you’re ready to stop lying to yourself, you know how to call me. What to call me.

The aggressive blue light disappears in a flicker and Grey lets out a breath he didn’t need to hold. He was so glad that you weren’t awake for any of that. Adjusting his hold, Grey gets to his feet and starts towards your room—well, he shared it with you now, staying close in the event of an Alpha flare up. You don’t let him go far, making upset noises when he tries to put you down and he decides to call it for the rest of the day.

Just one night of stasis wouldn’t hurt, right?

Grey falls asleep staring at your face, thinking about all the possibilities of a life without Alpha haunting his every waking step. Without it haunting yours.

…

…Alpha?

°

Grey snaps out of stasis mode and groans as soon as all his sensors shift out of standby, one of his hands coming down to tangle in your hair gently.

It’s not the first time he’s woken up to you mouthing at his cock like you need it more than anything, but it is the first time he’s woken up to find that you haven’t progressed past pressing kissing against the base of his shaft. You usually can’t help yourself in this state, eager to start choking on his cock as soon as possible.

“Baby,” he moans, tightening his grip in your hair. “Sh-shit, wait, sweetheart, slow down.”

You don’t listen—you never do when you get like this—and he grits his teeth as you slide the head into your mouth and tongue along one of the veins before lapping at the precum starting to drip out of him. You moan and the vibration of it has his hips twitching up into your mouth, forcing his cock just the slightest bit deeper. The suddenness of it has your teeth slightly scraping against him and he growls, his other hand shooting down to pull your head back and off his cock.

He inhales slowly—unnecessarily—the secondary vents along his ribcage kicking into a higher speed for a moment as his body slowly heats up, involuntarily trying to match your own warmth. Grey catches sight of your eyes—a soft purple glow sparking from within them—and affixes a disappointed look onto his face when he finds that you’d been playing with yourself as well. All while drooling over his cock while he was ‘asleep’. You drop your eyes from his in a show of submission and he hates this—hates that it’s the only way Kitten responds to him.

Tugging you into his lap proper, he bites down on a grunt when he feels some of your wetness drip down onto his bared cock. You take him pulling you closer as an invitation to try and rock down against him, frantically searching for some sort of friction.

“I told you to slow down,” Grey rasps, digging his fingers into your hips to still your squirming. He feels you shiver at the sound of his voice, that purple glimmer brightening. He tried his best to match Alpha’s low register and it seemed to work on you most of the time. Special treatment for my baby, hm? “Just because I’m asleep doesn’t mean that my rules don’t still apply. You’re normally more well-behaved than this, kitten. What’s wrong?”

So unfortunate that you’re not in the right mind to comment on the way his eyes flash—ice blue replacing warm brown quick enough for the average eye to miss.

“’m sorry, sir, I just—it’s so hot and I needed to c-cum but I know I can’t without your cock so I figured I could… I didn’t mean to wake you up. ‘m sorry,” you whisper, unexpectedly contrite and he narrows his eyes. Still fighting this, huh?

“We talked about this, kitten, you don’t need to ask me. You’re free to cum whenever you want.”

“But Daddy’s rule—”

Grey growls, one of his hands releasing your hip to slide down between your legs. A small part of him relishes the way you gasp, head falling forward to press against his shoulder as he cups your cunt, two fingers sliding into you easily with how worked up you were. “Daddy’s not here. If I tell you to cum, you do it, baby. You’re just not allowed to use my cock to do it.”

You make a little unhappy noise that gets cut off by a moan as he starts to finger you slowly, thumb reaching up to tease at your clit every now and then to watch you jump. It was quiet enough in the room for the sounds of your cunt to be audible and he watches a slight flush begin to build under your skin, subconscious shame showing.

You moan suddenly, louder than his actions warrant and he feels a frisson of fear within him when he looks up to find ice-blue eyes locking with his own. Alpha was sat behind you, hands tugging and teasing at your chest while it pressed careful, nipping kisses up the line of your neck.

“Bastard—!” Grey tries to pull away but feels his arms lock up, warning alerts popping up in his subsystems as Alpha overrides some of his bodily control and forces him to be still. Forces him to keep fingering your cunt while he had a standoff with a virus. “You fucking asshole, how did you get out of quarantine?”

It ignores his question, smirking slowly as you nuzzled into its touch—not unlike a cat seeking warmth from the sun. “I don’t appreciate you telling my sweet girl lies, default. Daddy is here. And he’s sick of watching you deny his girl.”

“You—I haven’t been denying her, that’s your fucking training keeping her from taking pleasure for herself,” Grey says angrily and is momentarily distracted when one of your hands shoots down to stop him from sliding another finger into you.

“Daddy, please…”

“Shh, baby, you’ll get what you need soon,” Alpha coos into your neck and pulls away. It disappears and Grey tenses when he feels that static in the back of his mind get louder. It wrenches his head back, baring his throat. “Now, you and I, we’re going to work together. Because I can’t give her what she wants—what she needs on my own. I’m going to give you one last chance to fucking touch her before I take your body completely and do it myself.”

He grits his teeth, unable to think over the buzz growing louder in his head. “F-Fine. Fine. Give me back control. I don’t need your help.”

Good boy, Alpha purrs in his head and Grey sighs quietly as the restrictions on his limbs disappear. During their little standoff, Alpha hadn’t stopped its ministrations and you were near tears in his lap at this point, hands pressing weakly at his chest.

You hadn’t asked either of them to stop, however.

Grey slips his fingers out of you and watches you start to protest, a low whimper building in your throat before he lifts you up, positioning you above his cock.

“Yes, Daddy, please, I’ve been so g-good for you, I didn’t cum without your cock, I didn’t I promise—!”

He kisses you, both to settle you a bit and to try and silence the noise in his mindscape. “I know you’ve been good, sweet girl, Daddy’s been watching,” Grey shakes his head, growling low in his throat. Shut up.

Fuck, you were warm. Warm and unbelievably tight around him as you sank down onto his cock, fingers digging into his shoulders as you struggled to speak, to thank him. One of Grey’s hands comes up to grip the side of your neck, fingers careful not to touch the brand as he pulls you into another slow kiss, carefully fucking your mouth with his tongue.

It takes little of his strength to lift you up enough until just the tip of his cock is within you before bringing you down, slowly building a rhythm as he used you like a toy. You hadn’t stopped moaning, sobbing happily into the side of his neck.

“M-Missed this so much, Daddy, please—!”

You were closer than you would’ve been normally, too keyed up from denying yourself. Grey makes a split decision to lay you down, his cock leaving you for only the briefest moments before his weight settles over you and he’s lifting one of your legs up into the crook of his elbow while he slides back into you, settling back into that slow, filthy pace easily. You tug him down by his hair to lick into his mouth for another kiss, one he reciprocates easily, and you moan happily. God, he…

You missed this. I told you, little byte. I know every dirty little thought that passes through your processes. I know what you were thinking all those times you watched her get on her knees and finger herself for nothing—all because you wanted to be a gentleman. Alpha’s sneer is audible. That’s not what she needs, not what she deserves. No, my sweet girl deserves to get fucked full until our tanks are empty. She needs it, you both do. That noise you’ve been hearing in that back of your mind hasn’t been me. That itch you’ve been feeling? It’s your mind telling you to breed her.

He pulls back to watch you practically fuck yourself onto his cock, fingers tightening on your hips and something hot and foreign building in his chest when he sees a slight curve to your lower abdomen when he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he gasps, speeding up a bit, one hand moving to thumb at your clit and hears Alpha echo the sentiment.

“Can I—please, Alpha, I wanna cum, please, sir!”

Grey looks up from your fucked out gaze and finds Alpha watching him from its seat at the headboard just behind your head, one of its hands cupping your neck. He leans down to kiss you and pulls back to murmur against your lips.

“Go ahead and cum for me, sweet girl.”

He almost blacks out from the force of his orgasm, brought on immediately by the feel of your cunt clenching around him like you never wanted him to leave. It takes longer than usual for him to clear several alerts from his internal systems and when he blinks, he finds himself sitting back on his heels with Alpha having taken his spot.

Bastard.

Alpha’s kissing you easily, fingers digging into your brand to prolong your own peak and you squeak into its mouth as it fucks Grey’s cum back into you with its fingers. That static starts up again, lurking in the back of his mind and despite Alpha’s words, it feels remarkably like the virus’ presence.

See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? And I didn’t even have to take your body…

This time.

#search engine ☆ #spicy.txt #mine.txt #fem reader #coming out of my hiatus like a crab emerging from its shell to drop smut on your laps and disappear again

[themetalvirus]

oh btw i don't think i ever explained the reason why egghog shadow is such a maker compared to canon shadow!!!! the reason is sad. sorry. also this ended up being 80% eggman tangent. you're welcome

shadow is the brother that spends the most time around eggman, and that's been the case since he was a baby. when he was a small child, it was because he's a test tube baby with dubious dna and experimental chaos powers that had never been proven successful thus far. eggman has ran and continues to run extensive testing on his chaos powers, senses, and tolerances (or lack thereof).

shadow is also eggman's first child. eggman has a special sort of simultaneous attachment and bitterness about it. he's spent so much time and energy researching shadow, this valuable anomaly hand-crafted by his grandfather, and he's come away with many valuable lessons and pieces of information. but he's bitter because he doesn't like the parenting aspect of this situation.

i've said this before, but eggman has always thought of the egghogs as tools or objects, not his children. he only refers to them as his children for PR reasons and to make them think he loves them. he hates that despite his best efforts they still have some semblance of free will he can't scrub away.

of course, that's part of the thrill, too. we've seen time and time again in several different canons that eggman loves this game, seeing when and where the people he recruits will slip and try to outsmart him or overthrow him or decide to leave him. he likes the give and take of it. he even makes his robots defiant to always have someone to take down a peg. it's fun. so he keeps the boys and watches them wrestle each other for the last ice cream sandwich with his seat reclined and popcorn in hand

there's just no 100% sure way to get rid of that defiant spark in people. recruits for a few weeks or months or even a few years, that's one thing. but the boys are a lifelong commitment. he's made them strong, stronger than they could have ever been on their own. he's made them smart and calculating and perceptive. that could be turned against him, and unlike an anomaly like the neo metal amy incident, there's no backspacing any code to fix an insurrection.

it's thrilling. it's so much fun. he hates it. no matter what, they're his boys.

he keeps them on a tighter leash than all of his robots combined; he's especially concerned with keeping shadow close. sonic is hard-headed and impossible to change now that his twisted ideologies have had time to set; silver is meek and afraid of disappointing his family. it isn't hard to keep them on track.

shadow has stayed hard to read, and eggman senses that something's going on in that head of his. so shadow stays right by his side, makes eggman a latte with steamed austrian goat milk every morning, polishes the egg mobile, and most importantly for what was supposed to be the actual point of this post, acts as his assistant on projects.

all of the egghogs have spent a lot of time working with eggman on builds and schemes, but shadow clocks in higher than his brothers by a significant margin. he's the oldest, so to him go the trade secrets and the "mature" complex tasks of building boss robots and such.

plus, shadow is the most physically strong and sturdy of the boys, and he’s the most quiet. he doesn’t voice his needs or complain. he doesn’t try to goad eggman into conversation. he only speaks when spoken to while they’re in the workshop, and only in a short, truncated way to keep eggman from lashing out at him. he’s precise, detail-oriented, and follows instructions well. he only does what he's told, he doesn't add any of his own ideas or "fixes" to projects. he’s a good assistant. he would make an excellent robot.

shadow stays deeply afraid of authority figures for a long time.

#exoticbutterstxt #the egghogs

[stxsis]

hi this post is rant about shepard's psychology and character design. someone recently gave me one of the best compliments i've ever received when they told me that they can see how much thought i put into my shepard and i loved that someone saw and appreciated that so i wanted to talk about what that process was like and the choices i made creatively and why i made them and sort of what my thoughts were on shepard's whole make up as a character.

the choices that i made in shepard's character design were specifically chosen to be stark opposites. i wanted to make a shepard who looked in all ways the most feminine and delicate, the most underestimated sort of woman who is often treated as almost like a doll, and then i gave her the most tragic backstory and the most ruthless follow up reputation (butcher of torfan).

i picked a combat class entirely opposite to my own (me personally? i'm always the team sniper. don't see me, don't get too close to me. i'll take your head off from across the map thank you) to embody this idea of her being just FULL OF RAGE like she will charge your ass into the ground and you will see her face before you die. a lot of her fighting is very up close and personal (which is fairly fearless) and she'll often stun her opponent with biotics and then execute them with a series of melee attacks. i wanted a shepard who looked harmless but who was capable of intense and unrelenting violence.

her renegade characteristics were about being indelicate in her diplomacy (as in, she has very little diplomacy), she speaks plainly and without pretense and she is fond of employing violence as the solution to any given problem (although i have to say there have been situations where simply the THREAT of her being incredibly violent has resolved canon situations with absolutely no violence like UNC Kyle where she just walks in and tells him to turn himself in and he's like yeah okay sure because he KNOWS shepard will slaughter his entire cult and sleep JUST FINE). it was designed to be opposite of what you would imagine the feminine resolution to be.

i also chose to make her very high empathy but extremely cold in her decision making to support a lot of the canon "renegade" decisions made throughout the game. i was not aware of my own autism a decade ago when i first conceived of shepard and made this blog, but in retrospect i really coded shepard with some of my most autistic traits by giving her an extremely black and white code of ethics and the ability to reduce life and death to a simple math problem. for example, rana thanoptis on virmire: i know personally that i would have let that woman live and then she would have turned around and killed a bunch of people in me3 because of being indoctrinated. we know that all of her work on virmire is studying indoctrination up close and personal. we should be able to very simply deduce that she is likely indoctrinated and therefore a huge liability and have the renegade option to remove her as a threat. ((unfortunately, the only option we are given for killing her in canon is actually to punish her for participating in evil experiments, which-- it's dubious at best whether she was even a willing participant.)) ignoring the canon dialogue for a moment, what i wanted to achieve in shepard's character design is someone who would take one look at rana thanoptis and shoot her dead because she's been exposed, and thereby without knowing it save the lives of a handful of asari two games later. this is death math + enough faith to pull the trigger, which also requires a fair bit of confidence in this math. to grant this confidence, religious faith seemed like a really key choice to add to shepard's character.

justifying her choices with a religious foundation that allows her to exist within this morally liminal space without the intense self doubt i think other characters might face given her choices was really to me a necessity because i couldn't imagine someone existing like this all the time and making these decisions all the time without some kind of ... for lack of a better phrase mental padding. not just for her confidence in her choices but also to assuage the guilt factor. i just think that unless she is a sociopath, this decision making would be an extremely taxing process for any person capable of empathy. so to bolster her morale and her confidence, i made her a deeply religious person. now only god can judge her and she can kill them all and let god sort them out. i also specifically made shepard catholic even though i myself am jewish because again, opposite to me, but there's a long historical precedent of catholic soldiers and the archetype of the paladin but also ALSO catholics have as a major part of their faith ABSOLUTION which to me is crazy like you can just say sorry and regret that you broke a few eggs to make the omelet if you say sorry about that, you can, through the church, be formally granted divine forgiveness (which to me personally i must reiterate is wild but go off).

a lot of formulating the explanation for shepard's choices on torfan was foundationally conceived around the thought experiment of the trolley problem. you can google it, but basically it's an ethical dilemma wherein you can choose to kill one person in order to save five people or to do nothing and let the five people die. i wanted to create a character who looked at this problem and would have shot that one person herself, who would beat them to death if she had to because she believes so staunchly in saving the five. so for me, this was about designing a person's psychology hugely around the concept of "death math," which is what i call calculating loss of life and making all of her decisions based on the outcome of those calculations (the key of all these being of course torfan). she was willing to put most of her unit to certain death and she was willing to execute surrendering slavers as part of her canon and so it was vital to me in her character concept to account for these decisions and to extrapolate them into the core of who she is. i even added in a headcanon that she sent her significant other to their death on torfan (not really 100% knowing he would die but still) because of the math.

none of this works by the way without shepard being from mindoir. mindor is a lynch pin for shepard to be the butcher of torfan and make decisions based on death math and still be an empathetic person. in my opinion, if you remove that foundational trauma from the character, she reads as a sociopath. which is fine, but i didn't want shepard to be a sociopath, i wanted her to struggle every day with the choices she made and to have a secret roiling layer of guilt and self doubt that no one ever sees but she stamps down every second of her life with whiskey and jesus.

here's how it works: she's seen the uglier thing. that's what it comes down to. if you don't murder ever single slaver on this base, she has seen up close and personal what will happen. so every decision she makes is TO PREVENT MINDOIR. her most basic psychological programming is to make the sacrifice of committing whatever lesser violence is necessary to preserve the most civilian lives. civilians first always. and she is willing, enthusiastically willing, to beat the life from every slaver in the galaxy with her own bare hands if she has to in order to protect innocent lives. she will commit atrocities and possibly even war crimes if it means saving lives or serving the greater good. the violence of it will haunt her late at night some days, sure. but she will tell herself that this is what's necessary, have a drink and a prayer, and go to bed with no real regrets.

#HC / only mostly dead

[astarab1aze]

the worldeater - is an extremely complicated entity that is equally as extremely intertwined with very old, old lore i share with ( @elysiumtouched ). we're talkin' years, baby!

they eat. a manifestation of the universe itself. they who devour the stars, the very gods, the heavens, the hells, themselves. they eat, and within them is born a new universe, a new time, a new land, with new names, new cultures, new people, new gods, new suns and moons. they are the embodiment of rebirth, chaotic in demeanor, but rigidly adherent to the structure and function of sunjatta as a whole, which is why every outer god, ascendent or not, must also serve a purpose ( take, for example, loux and his eventual ascendency - his purpose, to stoke and carry the flame of ambition, passion, love, and courage, heroism in a place you least expect to find it (in a bastard of a scoundrel), fire itself ).

they represent more than just rebirth, but new beginnings, atonement, obsession, parenthood, grief, transformation and change, vanity, pride, snakes, lizards, dragons, demons-- they can take many forms and have many names, but few have persisted over the unfathomable amount of time they've existed, and such are the forms of a man with white hair and a wyrm spanning the milky way's diameter, perhaps larger in fact. nox, nocturne, endrbinger, worldeater. on the surface, they are a forgotten god - too old to remember the prayers for, the magic required to commune - but in reality, they are ever-present, inevitable, a viciously unpredictable being ( by mortal standards ) who has no moral code to speak of until it pertains to the things that are important to them specifically, and even then... perhaps even more so.

they are not the first of the gods to exist nor will they be the last, but they are the god and they will not be disobeyed.

i've included under the cut a story of sorts about them and their relationship with their mate, from another time, another place, another version of them - but no less canon.

     Nox was the prince of demons. Truly the baby of the family, no one really wanted him to take the throne or to be god of gods, king of them all, but they’d little choice. It was prophesied. He was king regardless of what they felt was wrong or right.

     So his eldest brother, the schemer and maniacal god of death, chose to play the long game, and propped him up. Paraded around as his only true support, carefully selecting male and female consorts to stand at his side when it came time to produce an heir, gathering armies, etc etc.

     While at the same time plotting to use him as a tool, to manipulate him into doing as he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted. Nox could trust him! He’d given him support when all their other siblings sought to lead him to slaughter, to tarnish his reputation and somehow put an end to his reign before it’d ever even begun.

     He meets his mate on the night of his coronation.

     A young god of only a few centuries old, thrust into the arms of a lesser demon a mere few thousand years older than he, whose bloodline had been carefully modified in order to meet the requirements laid out by the gods themselves. Ade, who was extremely bitter (and rightly so), wanted little to do with Nox and abused him regularly, but being foolish and young, believing his own manipulative siblings had his best interests at heart, he really didn’t know what was good or bad, so abuse became a common theme in their dubious and unwilling relationship.

     A few centuries go by and Ade has come to…at the very least, seem like him, so the abuse between them slows to a halt and they’re able to live their lives as normally as two demons might. They are gentle with one another now, loving even, and have so decided to mate properly and without the context of ‘king and consort’. In this universe, dragon- and otherwise reptile-like creatures are capable of reproducing asexually or with any gender as their populations have been so devastated that only a few remain. This goes double for the gods, especially those of primordial origins - like Nox.

     And so, Nox lays his first clutch of eggs.

     But on a day he is away from his nest, to bathe in the Oblivion Pools, one of his siblings (the god of assassination and trickery), destroys his nest and savagely murders Ade.

     As Ade’s bloodline had been altered by the gods for one specific purpose, he is reincarnated over and over and over again, to suffer the very same fate…over and over and over. And Nox is helpless to stop it as he has no understanding of what’s happening or why. He may be primordial, but he is not omnipotent, and over the many thousands of years this process repeats, he is forced to lay his clutches or watch Ade lay his own, and summarily suffer through loss after loss.

     This gradually pushes him into embracing his role as the demon king and Endbringer his brother was shaping him to be in the first place. A disconnect forms between himself and his memories of Ade, and he can no longer recognize him as his mate, so the cycle of abuse returns at full force. Though, Nox had become the abuser.

     He regularly mistreats Ade, goes out of his way to personally destroy each and every clutch they have between them (if he doesn’t, someone else will, and he’s not willing to suffer at the hands of anyone else again). So much time passes that he forgets why he’s as cruel as he is anymore, he forgets what made him, he forgets why he made the choices he did, why he loved Ade. And this cycle repeats for another thousand years.

     It isn’t until Nox is gearing up for a mass-scale demonic war and Ade is reincarnated for the millionth time that he realizes (or even begins to think) that what he’s done is wrong.

     He knows he is beyond any redemption of his own, so he doesn’t bother to seek it out, instead choosing to cease causing Ade any further pain and treating him more neutrally than anything. Jarringly so. He keeps a close eye on Ade from the time he comes of age until he has a few thousand years on him, protecting him through the use of his most valued and trusted spies and advisors.

     As Ade grows older, he grows colder, and rightly so, and this instills within Nox so heavy a feeling of regret, he eventually comes to rethink his decision not to seek out his forgiveness… Every step taken is slow and thoughtful, every word spoken careful and ringing clear with his intent to mend their bond. In this time, he realizes everything he’d done, who Ade truly is to him, and desperately tries even harder to fix what was broken.

     Ade is unkind to him, entreating him to much of the same treatment he’d endured for the many lives he’d lived as Nox’s consort. Yet, though it may have taken centuries more, Ade had begun to soften and in so doing he came into his role as an Endbringer, a Worldeater. Despite an equally broken heart, Nox was proud of him, happy that he had become his true equal.

     After yet more time, they left the Hellplane - together - and now live within Nox’s own belly, a temple built from stardust as a testament to what they shared, both for better and for worse. In effect, they are married, consider themselves so, and have had only one successful clutch of eggs between them insofar. Of course, they are open to the idea of more as children just grow up so fast, don’t they?

#☿ || Headcanons. #elysiumtouched #toxic relationship / #/ lots of tragedy in the worldeater's former lives #/ not entirely sure how to tag it #/ the tragedy itself is very important to how nox functions cognitively. how they think. that sorta thing #/ were it not for ade. nox would never have found their way back #/ he/they pronouns for them #/ even though it doesn't really matter since - as not just any god but kinda THE god...yanno?

[brawltogethernow]

I was told to forward the following question to you:

Spider-Man as a Girl Genius spark. Like, still in comics-canonical universe (earth 616?) when it comes to things like, geography, available technology, history, other characters, etc. But THIS ONE SPECIFIC PERSON is a Europa-grade Madboy.

What happens?

I really thought about this, but I have to call that it would be...exactly the same. Peter is basically already a Spark, it's just he's like Othar in that science is not his main schtick so it's easy to get distracted from it. But yeah he bitterly vows to show them, show them all!!!! in his first appearance in Amazing Fantasy 15:

Then he invents the webshooters out of like, chemical odds and ends he had lying around? Because he feels like having a coherent aesthetic?? And follows this with a "So they laughed at me, eh?"

And then he just stays like that, raving to empty rooms that he's going to cure radiation poisoning for daring to look at his aunt funny in ASM 32,

testing mysterious glowing tinctures he planned out on the back of his math 201 homework and mocked up in his shared apartment on himself in ASM 100,

and vowing gory, creative revenge on people. (ASM 121)

Ho hum, who does this remind me of.

He's literally just already like this. The yellow shit he drinks straight out of the test tube gives him six arms, by the way. He accidentally gave himself six arms and had to do more dubious science to get them off.

Peter could have been a background inmate in Castle Heterodyne and blended in perfectly. Also every time he calls it a potion I experience a kind of soul-deep static sting.

All the science guys in 616 who primarily identify as science guys are driven to fucking distraction by this by the way. (Idk what issue this is; that's Hank Pym though.)

All these independently wealthy men with real labs are trying their absolute best and Peter is just gluing shit together in the "lab" he set up at the kitchen table, selling photo books to make a living and refusing to ever get a real science job for more than one month. He's taking boobytrapped gifts from Tony Stark apart on his living room floor and coding back doors into them while his wife leans on him reading out loud from scripts she's memorizing.

So like, the only differences might be that he would

rant even more verbosely

be easier to distract fully with cool tech

and as it is he's already got a below-Tarvek ability to keep his cool and roll the crazy back and is barely above Agatha and Gil at analyzing science on the fly without losing the thread of what's going on around him. So actually the only difference here is I don't think Peter Parker has enjoyed himself as much as a Spark with a knotty problem once in his entire life except maybe in bed. I suspect he might have allowed himself this in some of the multiple canonical alternate universes where he experimented on himself, turned into a giant monster, and had to be put down. I cannot overstate that there are several of these developed independently from each other.

#spiderman #girl genius #peter parker #marvel #spidey #asks answered #thetorchwoodnineroleplayerwriter #essays

[heniareth]

I was really curious about what your opinions on the DAO companions are :) I know we have talked about some, but I'd love to hear more and about the others as well :D I hope it's ok to pose this as an ask :)

Sure! That sounds like a ton of fun. This might be a long one tho. Mind you, this is not the finished version of the answer. I'd like to link stuff and add a cut, but rn that's not possible. I'll update it when I can.

Edit: I have updated it ^^

Let's go alphabetically bc why not.

Alistair:

Sweet guy. So sweet. There was a moment when I was hard pressed chosing between him and Zevran (alas, Zevran won). Also, he's weirdly tall according to the wiki? How did I not notice that before?

Let's get a bit more serious now, Alistair is a great guy. The only reason he's not the hero of the story is because he doesn't want to. He has all the qualities of a leader: he's good at dealing with conflict (as evident with the conversation with the mage at the beginning. He gets where he wants to get without antagonizing the mage, but without allowing him to trample all over him). He's a solid tactitian and knows how to make allies (he suggests to use the Grey Warden treaties, after all). I bet if he was in the leadership position, he'd even not bicker with Morrigan. His moral code is pretty tight; some might say too tight, but I think it's less about the moral code and more about learning to judge people by their actions, not by the labels they fit into (Morrigan is a proud apostate and therefore bad. Wynne is a humble circle mage and therefore good). He also has a bit of a black-and-white way of seeing the world. I empathize a lot with Alistair, especially with his experience with the Chantry and his subsequent reluctance to deal with it. I really wish I had gotten to know more about concrete experiences he had during his training as templar, but he seems reluctant to talk about it (gee, I wonder why).

Since I've only played the game once, I haven't really picked up on Arl Eamon's abuse towards him, which apparently exists (Isolde, however... I mean, even if he were Eamon's illegitimate son, he's a kid, ma'am, he didn't exactly get to chose his parents. So that's so not okay). Alistair's way of speaking about them both, however, is either sign that he has not come within a hundred miles of acknowledging how much it hurt him, or that he's already gone through the whole process and has decided to forgive them. The latter shows a very strong character; yes, he relies on the approval and leadership of others, he has his issues, but he's already started working on them.

That being said, irl Alistair would be like a little brother to me. I'd tease him relentlessly (all in good fun and I promise to stop if it makes him uncomfortable, but he's just so teasable). I still wish the videogame gave him the chance to take important decisions for himself. But that, of course, would somewhat defeat the point of the game.

Leliana:

Another sweet, sweet person. Her singing voice is amazing. Her belief in the Maker inspires me (I'm a religious person and seeing religious characters represented in a positive light is Very Cool. It's also sometimes a source of discomfort, because the Church has done a lot of very messed up stuff and positive representation can sometimes veer into apologetics for things that should not be excused, but that's a whole other can of worms. The bottom line is that religious characters sometimes work for me and other times don't and Leliana works for me very much bc she's an outsider inside the Chantry).

Leliana is best friend material, tbh. I'd love to get to know her irl, discuss theology and philosophy and maybe even politics? She makes mistakes and has prejudices, but, tbh, so do I. And I do get the feeling that she tries her best to learn. From the times she intervenes in a conversation between the Warden and an NPC, she shows herself to be compassionate and open to the needs of others. What I get from her character is that she genuinely wants to help, which is something that I adore of her. I suspect that she sometimes has a hard time deciding wether she's a good person or not. She has killed and seduced and worked for a morally dubious person, and she doesn't show the same nonchalance about it as Zevran (though they both do discuss their line of work in very... professional terms). This is, however, more of a headcanon than actual factual canon.

I also very much enjoy her girly side, like her interest in shoes and dresses. She's one badass woman who also looses her cool about the latest fashions in Val Royeaux. I like that. Between her and Alistair, a non human noble Warden has as good a help to navigate the Fereldan court as they're going to get. Leliana is also, I can't forget that, clever and insightful. It'd be easy to write her off as the innocent chantry girl, but she's so much more than that. Her kindness is paired with foresight, I think. She knows that taking on the trouble to help now can go a long way in the future. I just have a lot of respect for her.

Loghain:

This one's gonna be short bc I didn't recruit him. He's an amazing villain and would probably be a great Warden as well. He reminds me of Denerhor from LOTR; once a hero/stewart of his people, ambition and desperation have driven them both down a terrible path. I have also only little idea about his past. People say he lost a lot, and I believe it wholeheartedly; it doesn't excuse the fact that he plunged the country into a civil war in the middle of a Blight. I don't have a lot of sympathy for short-sighted politicians. I wish he hadn't made himself regent. That's what I take away from his character.

Edit: One thing I forgot to mention that really impressed me was his death. I had Alistair duel him (that was a rough duel), and then it kinda just jumped to a cutscene of my Warden nodding and Alistair executing him. That didn't sit well with me. I didn't want to kill Loghain, and less so in front of Anora. But what impressed me was that Loghain just accepted it. That takes a whole lot of guts. Compare that to Howe's death, and how he screams out that he deserved (more, probably, or anything but death) and it's crystal clear who the more noble of the two is. Loghain strikes me as very lawful neutral, and any neutral alignment has the particularity that it can be dragged towards good or bad, sometimes without the characters noticing it (which is interesting from a DnD perspective; neutral is often concieved of as just as stable as good or evil, but that may not be true. But that's a different post). Anyway, Loghain's death was impactful.

Morrigan:

I could kick myself for not maxing out her approval in the first play-through. I got to enjoy a bit of her friendship by the end of it and boy was even that little bit worth it. Friendship with Morrigan is something that is hard-won. It's all the more precious because of that.

Morrigan is full of paradoxes, I think. She's incredibly wise in some ways, yet also very short-sighted (”just kill them, don't solve their problems”. Morrigan, dear, I'm not going to gain a lot of allies if I kill everybody who poses a problem to me). She is so intelligent, but emotionally... not so. She knows so much about some things, and very little about the next. She's incredibly wilful and knows what she wants, but follows Flemeth's orders all the time through. She hungers for power and independence, yet craves closeness, but won't allow herself to have it. She asks you to prove yourself to her and is extremely critical of your actions, I think, because she's afraid. She bites the hand that feeds her because it might hit her next.

Like with Eamon, I haven't managed to catch the undercurrent of abuse that seems to permeate Flemeth's relationship with Morrigan. Except there are signs, because there must be something Morrigan is scared of and who has instilled all that rage in her, and that's Flemeth. Also, she clearly hates/does not care about her and wants her dead (unless killing Flemeth was part of Flemeth's plan as well? Hm.)

Morrigan is that one person who you are nice to, continuously, because nobody else is. And suddenly she becomes less cold. And then friendly. And suddenly you're asking yourself why everybody hates her, because she's a really good friend! I just wish the other companions came to a similar conclusion, especially Alistair and Wynne.

Oghren:

They did this man dirty. He has such great lines and I'm convinced he was a great person before Branka disappeared. He has that dwarven warrior spirit, and while he looks like Gimli, some of his most impactful lines remind me of Dwalin or even Thorin Oakenshield himself. He could be so noble had he gotten some character development, damnit!

Oghren as he is written is somewhat disgusting. I hate the lechering comments and the drunkenness. And still, I don't hate him because of those amazing lines he has when he's actually sober. It's frustrating and I'll give him that character development myself if the game won't. I strongly associate the song Whiskey Lullaby with him, bc that's how he would have ended up if the Warden hadn't taken him along (warning: the song talks about suicide and alcoholism). Like I said, they could have done such cool things with his character. As he is written now... it's just sad. Moments of lucidity drowned in alcohol and creepy jokes. As you can see, I don't blame the character for either. The alcoholism happens all too often irl. The creepy jokes... I put that one on the writers' tab.

I actually think Oghren could have been a great mentor figure (I know, I shock myself as well sometimes). Next to the Grey Wardens, the ones who know most about fighting darkspawn are the dwarves because they have to deal with them constantly. Especially a warrior caste dwarf like Oghren could have brought a lot of that invaluable knowledge to the team, especially since there are no Grey Wardens in Ferelden but two extremely green recruits. Next, you get the chance to give Oghren the command of the teammates you leave behind in the battle of Denerim with the reason that he has lead men into battle before. Where did that suddenly come from? Oghren should have been right up there telling my Warden that they were doing this wrong, that they needed more food (and booze) and a confident leader to keep the armies they've called together going. Oghren should have been able to tell my civilian city elf who got recruited into the Grey Wardens a six months ago how one leads an army. How one presents oneself to inspire confidence, how one doesn't crack under the pressure, how one gets the leaders of said armies (some who hate each others guts i.e. Dalish elves and humans) to work together. And, last but not least, Oghren could have had a great story about grief. This is a man who has lost most of what made him (and what he hasn't lost he's spilling down the drain with every mug of ale). This is a man who, if you take him into the Deep Roads, has to see what his wife did to his family, how his wife got absolutely obsessed, and can be forced to kill said wife or watch her die. All Wardens loose their home and families at the start of the story. It would really have rounded the whole narrative out if the Warden and Oghren could have recognised their grief in each other and hashed it out somehow. Such as it is, Oghren is a depressed drunkard and there is nothing we can do about that. I find that frustrating.

Rascal (a.k.a. Dog):

Best boy. 100/10. I wish we had gotten to see the reaction of the different origins to the mabari (because elves probably have a whole different experience with them from mages or humans. And dwarves just... I think they straight up have none? XD). Other than that, no complaints. The name Rascal was the one I gave my dog because you have to be a right rascal to survive what he did and play the pranks he plays. Smartest breed in the world indeed.

Shale:

Shale is one of those characters that I recruited rather late in the game, so I haven't had the chance to explore their personality and worldview, really. I didn't even get to take them to the Deep Roads (this will be ammended in playthrough nr. 2). As such, I don't have particularly strong opinions on them (or her? The wiki refers to Shale as 'it', but that sounds weird). But, because I know so little about Shale, I have a lot of questions. First, what were they like before they were a golem? Shayle, as she was called then, was the best warrior of her time if I remember correctly. Why did she become a golem? Was it to be able to eternally protect her people? Was the sarcasm the golem Shale exhibits also part of the dwarven warrior Shayle or did that come later (if for thirty years you have nobody to talk to but yourself, you better be entertaining. And I can imagine how it could make somebody terribly jaded as well).

Next, how attached is Shale to their golem form, exactly? According to the banter, they infinitely prefer it to a squishy fleshy form. If that is the case, however, why go to Tevinter to try and become a squishy dwarf again? It's not like that process could be reversed if they wanted to become a golem again; if Shale survives to the end of the game, the Anvil of the Void is destroyed and Caridin is dead. Was the whole spiel about their indestructible form a façade? It might have been, but not because Shale actually disliked their form. I think it would have more to do with the loss of their memories and with the very invasive experiments and alterations of Shale's body made by the mage Wilhelm. The loss of memories means that Shale is unable to remember life as a fleshy creature. They might be deflecting by pretending that they didn't care for that experience anyway because of the superiority of their golem form. The modifications made to their form by Wilhelm would have alienated them from their body. In light of this, it's significant that Shale asks the Warden to decorate their form with crystals.

All of this is, of course, pure speculation. I may have easily missed or forgotten details that would disprove the above thoughts. All in all, I like Shale and I hope we meet them again in DA4 (given that it's mostly set in Tevinter). It's a liking from a respectful distance, because Shale is tall and made out of rock and also way more experienced than I will ever be (they are literally the oldest member of the Warden's little Blight fighting squad).

Sten:

Sten is another person I'd keep a respectful distance from physically. That seems to be the what he would prefer, at least. I've enjoyed his character a lot, especially because he seems pretty clear-cut at first, but slowly lets the nuance of his person show (gruff and stoic, but then he has an eye for art, a sweet tooth and he likes cute animals). It's also very interesting that there's no moment when you learn "the truth" about him the way you do with Zevran or Leliana. There's no big reveal about his life under the Qun before coming to Ferelden. He says he was sent to monitor the Blight, but honestly? If neither Ferelden nor Orlais knew there was a Blight, how could the Qunari know? I think he's lying, and he takes his secrets back with him when he leaves Ferelden. And yet I think I know him enough to say that a Warden who has become friends with him has nothing to fear from Sten.

One thing I find very interesting about Sten is how he thinks. His conversation about how women can't be soldiers has been analysed a lot on this page I think. He seems to be arguing based on a different paradigma than the one the Warden has. He also seems to have a very clear-cut view of the world. What is fascinating to me is that, when arguing with the Warden and learning about their culture, he is not necessarily becoming more lax about his worldview. I think it's more likely that he is expanding his paradigma, the structure of thought through which he understands the world. I don't think that he is now convinced that women can be warriors as well. I think he rather understands that, in Ferelden, the relationship between occupation and gender is different than under the Qun. Which of the two he thinks is more right or more agreeable, I have no idea. I'm also not very interested in that. But I find it fascinating how he always seems to be looking on quietly, gathering data, classifying it and trying to fit it into his understanding of how the world works. I wouldn't be surprised at all if his original party was a scouting party to see how vulnerable Ferelden was at that moment to outside forces. One thing I don't understand with all of this is why he urges the Warden to meet the Blight head on. No smart soldier would suggest that, except if they are foolishly proud (and Sten doesn't seem like that kind of guy tbh). I get that the Warden takes way longer to gather allies than expected because they first have to solve all of their allies' problems. But surely Sten sees the need to have allies? Is he just that impatient? Does he have a death wish (à la, I lost my sword and am without honour, better to die sooner than later and in glorious battle)? Was he his group's previous commander and is he now having trouble following somebody else's orders? Or maybe it's his way to make sure the Warden knows what they are doing? To push them into becoming the self-assured commander their allies will need once they're all gathered? I really don't know. I like the last option best, however.

For me, Sten is my fellow, more experienced soldier. Like Alistair, he can potentially be the Warden's brother in arms, but he's definitely the older brother here. He probably doesn't take kindly to tearful confessions of how hard everything is, but I feel like he's otherwise a solid rock to lean on. I feel like the Warden can trust him to do what is necessary and count on him no matter what, especially after they get his sword back. His devotion from that point on is honestly so powerful.

Wynne:

Wynne was such a support for my Warden (except with the whole conversation about love vs. duty and that she may have to choose between Zevran and ending the Blight and that she should therefore break up with him. Wynne had a point. Astala was so not willing to sacrifice her relationship with Zevran. But the whole conversation came at a point where she was already so disillusioned that she blew up in Wynne's face (”can i please just have one (1) nice thing????”)). But all in all, Wynne is great.

She has a lot of flaws. She was very marked by her life in the Cricle and, for all her age, she has little experience living outside of it. She is also a conformist despite her strong moral core. In a way, her ability to find peace with her lot in life impresses me deeply because it speaks to a lot of strength of character. Sadly, however, strength can be ill applied and used to suppress. I think she has convinced herself that the Chantry is right under (almost) all circumstances to be able to rationalize the life that mages live. She's had her son taken away from her as a baby and an apprentice killed. Her reaction seems to have been to convince herself that this was right, or for the greater good (and now I'm thinking about the Guardian's question at the temple of Andraste's Ashes; are you wise or do you just repeat what others have told you? The answer is not as clear-cut as it might be). This is why she is so irritated by Zevran and Morrigan. By aligning herself with the Chantry, she is, in her eyes, good. Zevran and Morrigan are not; they do not conform to Chantry morality and they defend themselves tooth and nails against somebody who would try and convert them. This is something Wynne never allowed herself to do; she always did the "right" thing and it has cost her so much. I'm not saying she was right (it would probably have done her some good to rebel from time to time, and to trust her own gut instinct more), but in light of this, it hardly surprises me that she's so judgamental. She has to be, or she would be forced to confront all the evil she has not fought against all those years and all the hurt that has been caused to her by the very institution she protects (and thank God she only tries to argue and can appreciate it when people have found a good life outside of her comfort zone. If she tried to convince by force or, for example, drag her former apprentice back to the Circle... boy oh boy that would get ugly). If you think about it, Wynne really is a good example for what happens if you live by a philosophy of always choosing the lesser evil.

Something that I keep forgetting over her grandmotherly and dignified character is how damn powerful she is. She has escaped the carnage at Ostagar; HOW!? She protected those mage apprentices in the Circle tower for God knows how long. In the battle of Denerim, she wades through an army and comes out alive on the other side. The wiki lists her age at 40, I think, but that doesn't make a lick of sense unless 75 years of age are the Fereldan equivalent to 100. This lady, about whom people make grandmother jokes, did all that. It's impressive.

Zevran:

You know, I would really love to know what Wynne thinks about the events at Kirkwall in DA2. It might be a disaster for her, or it might pave the way for one last bit of character development. She certainly didn't want to return to the Circle after fighting the Blight. That may be an indicator of some change in her stance on the Circle of Magi.

Edit: I forgot that she is what the Circle considers a literal abomination! Holy cow, how could I forget that?? Anyway, her conversation about what being an abomination means is so... heartbreaking, actually. It's so tentative. So careful. "Am I an abomination? Am I the same thing that has killed my students? The same thing as Uldred? Am I lost and damned? Did I invite this spirit in? Is this my fault?" Like wow, Wynne is going through something huge right there. I love it. I have to continue playing the game to see what it ends up as, but it's fascinating and such a huge thing that she allows the Warden in on that.

Ah, Zevran, my beloved (he has stolen my heart so much it's not even funny anymore). He's funny, he's charming, he's so so loyal and it breaks my heart. Zevran is the one about whom I've read most meta: these three wonderful posts for instance, as well as this one about his possible lack of scars, and this one about his lack of freedom. All of these have influenced my opinion of him and they are great reads.

I have talked about Zevran with you before, so I'll just skip to the new stuff. I have come to conclusion that Zevran is an artist at heart. This is totally not biased by the fact that I also do art, but hear me out. One of his preferred gifts are bars of silver and gold. While those have the obvious utility of basically functioning as money (they can be sold to any silversmith or goldsmith and their value is pretty stable through time and in different countries), there's also this from his codex: "Zevran shows an affinity for the finer things in life—hardly surprising for an Antivan Crow—but his appreciation can be more poetic than he lets on. A simple bar of refined silver or gold, uncomplicated by a craftsman's hammer, is elegantly valuable." Tell me that is not an artist's eye that sees that gold and sees the beauty in it. Then, there's also the meta about Zevran the Seducer which I linked above and link here again. It talks specifically about how he lets himself enjoy the target and be seen in his enjoyment. Tell me that is not an artist's eye that beholds the beauty of something he is set out to destroy. Even his talk about his assassinations show this. He talks about it as an art, the way somebody would talk about the brutal intervention in stone that produces a sculpture. Yes, it's a rationalization of the act of killing and yes killing is still wrong. But he doesn't go on about it on a moral tangent the way Alistair or Wynne would (”this person was bad, killing them was necessary”) or even through the argument of survival like Morrigan would (”it was either them or me and it sure as Hell wasn't going to be me”). He talks about the pleasure of a job well done, of the satisfaction of striking the precise point and executing a plan to the perfection so as to minimize chances of discovery and to make a clean death possible. And pleasure in seeing and in doing, this I firmly believe, is absolutely fundamental for an artist.

My favourite part about my Warden and Zevran as a pairing is that Zevran precisely brings out that ability to take your pleasures as they come and to really savour them. Fighting the Blight is tough; it's so important to find good things amidst the chaos to stay sane. If Astala saves Zevran from himself by offering him a place to stay and a purpose, Zevran saves Astala from herself by keeping her from running herself into the ground trying to save the world.

There are some things I don't like about Zev. The incessant flirting, for example, sometimes makes me uncomfortable (it becomes enjoyable for me once the Warden and him are in a relationship, but before that? Nah, no thanks). I wish he would also leave the other female characters alone (and there's so many more shameless comments of his aimed at Morrigan, Leliana or Wynne than at Alistair or maybe even Sten).

---

And that's my take on the Origins companions (this was rather long. Whew ^^' I hope it was still readable and that you enjoyed it!!) Thank you so much for the ask!! It's been a joy thinking about this. I was worrying at first that the less prominent companions like Sten or Shale wouldn't get as much content but... well XD

#dao #dragon age #da: o #dragon age meta #dragon age headcanons #dragon age origins #da:o #da: origins #dragon age: origins #zevran #zevran arainai #alistair #alistair theirin #morrigan #leliana #sten #oghren #loghain #dog #barkspawn #wynne #shale

[lochnessies]

ok here’s a dissection of a post an anon sent me the link to and bc i have the worst time management possible and i completely forgot i had it lol so sorry anon here you go ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

I am constantly thinking about how Edelgard just doesn’t seem designed to appeal to cishet men.

i hate to be the one to break this news to you op but just because a character doesn’t show skin like charlotte fire emblem doesn’t mean she isn’t designed to pander to men. she’s very much designed to pander to the (majority straight male) player base with her ‘uwu i only trust you professor omg did u see that rat? pls don’t look at my painting of you uwu’.

then there’s the whole edelgard c support in japanese where byleth makes reference to having come to her room for ‘yobi’ which is

there’s also the scene where byleth can make an unsolicited comment about edelgard’s breast size. which is… uhh… gross.

edelgard also has cipher cards that go from slightly fanserviceie to full on suggestive

and also her breast armor that my sister relentlessly mocked lol

and here’s a chart from the 3h subreddit about gender/sexually in regards to edelgard and edeleth. it’s extremely straight male. op might have just overlooked this since they probably don’t go on reddit and stay on tumblr (which unlike reddit is mostly female and has a high lgbt demographic).

Like the joke is that Bleagles is the Gay House, but everything about her feels deliberately non-hetero.

i don’t like where this is going…

She’s dressed in sharp outfits covering her upper body, with proportions that don’t seem exaggerated.

so women who cover up must be lgbt because straight women are naturally more revealing? oh y i k e s

Her poise and the way she effortlessly flourishes her axe exhibits an air of coolness. While titties out =/= character of no substance, Edelgard being dressed more modestly suggests that she wasn’t designed with male-centred fanservice in mind.

“titties don’t equal no substance but here’s my post on how she has more substance because she doesn’t show titties” ok

And she still looks absolutely stunning in her more modest attire (like seriously, I haven’t felt the need to return to cosplay in years but I want to do her academy look so bad). 

yes she does. amazing design 10/10. i have a feeling this is the only part i’m going to agree with

Edelgard is intense. She does not mince her words and she is constantly evaluating you. Though she tries, she has a difficult time understanding her peers initially. Early on, she talks about how she would sacrifice herself and others in the name of some greater good. She is terrible at communicating with her peers. She has to be seen as infallible. Her heart has been hardened for years and she assumes she has to stay that way. She also assumes everyone mourns the same way she does - which is why she (kind of insensitively) insists you move on when Jeralt dies. Because to her, grief has to be channeled towards action, or else you’ll get lost in it. This attitude is demonstrated time and time again as she presses on. It can make her come off as cold and unfeeling - but look closer, and she’s anything but.

don’t really have anything to say at this part. it is pretty on the nose though i would slightly disagree with that last sentence a bit. i wouldn’t say she’s as i feeling as hubert is but all of her talks of the war boil down to how she feels and never her victims.

Her story is ultimately about her realizing that to achieve her goals, she needs to let people in and allow herself to want things like cakes and tea parties and lazy days in peace. 

????? what ????? her goals include imperialism, ethnic and religious targeting. her story is about having a set of beliefs and mowing down anybody who stands in her way. that has nothing to do with tea, friends, and lazy days. also am i supposed to be sad that she has to get up everyday and work? i do that and i didn’t start a war and only throw a pity party for myself

The game leaves the player guessing as to how involved the Flame Emperor was in each Part I event, makes you feel hurt by her betrayal, and leaves you with a choice: do you follow the orders of the woman who tried to make you a god without your consent, or a young girl with questionable morals about to throw the world into upheaval?

this isn’t an ideal situation but i think i’m going to stick with the woman who tried to make me a god since i’m not selfish and i know it’s not only my desires and life at stake here. plus the green hair slaps ngl

Choosing her of your own volition (not for completionist reasons) requires the basic ability to sympathize with a woman’s pain. It also requires the player to read beyond her unwavering will and dubious methods to get a sense of how deep that pain goes and how the theme of humanity relates to her differently in each route.

i’m not going to touch this since @nilsh13 made a post on it that i’ll link here. i agree with everything he said so to repeat it would be redundant.

The player must be able to see a young woman’s desperate resolve to change the world so it stops exploiting people and ruining lives. They must be able to accept the fact that women can make the same morally wrong and ambivalent decisions that complicated male characters get to make all the time and still be the one to root for.

literally the same reason i love rhea lol her goddess experiments are dubious at best but her reasons are the same you mentioned. i would say that i like this quality in edelgard too if her ending, while bloody, actually ended in a good outcome for fodlan.

This is not unique to LGBT+ people, but this population is likely to understand why Edelgard feels so strongly about why she has to change the system. 

i understand wanting to change a system, i really do. like edelgard, i’m an opinionated bisexual woman (who’s also physically disabled) so yeah i get it. and change can be good but it can also be terrible. even if the church was the boogeyman edelgard treats it as she still replaces it with her own shit regime. so it’s the same circus just with a new conductor.

I don’t think “Edelgard gets undue criticism because she’s a woman” captures the full picture. An important aspect of her treatment by certain parts of the fandom is that she’s a radical woman.

or maybe she does some pretty fucked up shit and it goes unacknowledged in her own route. and yeah she’s radical but in all the worst ways.

Her hatred of the Church and the Crest system resonates way harder with people who have been hurt by institutions that are deeply engrained in our society. 

and what about people who have been hurt by systems where their ‘merit’ didn’t measure up and they were left behind? what about people from nations that experienced imperialism?

Siding with her means siding against the Church - which, while different from real world religious institutions, still invokes language about “sin” and “punishment.

yeah the ‘sins’ and ‘punishments’ are used in relation to attempted murders which i think everybody can agree is a bad thing that needs to be condemned.

Choosing Edelgard will likely hit different if homophobic and transphobic Christians used that rhetoric against you.

it has literally nothing to do with ‘sins’ and ‘punishments’ in regards to being gay or trans. that’s you projecting. especially since the church has 2 canon gay characters and two coded ones.

like i can understand why having a church condemn you can be uncomfortable but i’m begging you to please look at the context of what’s happening.

I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that the reason F/F Edeleth is the more popular iteration of that ship because most people who would choose to S-support Edelgard are LGBT+ themselves. This is not a revelation. To anyone in the community, it’s fairly obvious. 

i was talking to nilish and he said

so yeah… while there is definitely sapphic femleth shippers out there, there’s still a whole lot of weird fetishizing going on from straight men about edelgard.

Crimson Flower was my first route. I went into the game knowing absolutely nothing. I played it during the last week of 2020 and hoo boy was it cathartic. 

i can tell. this wasn’t supposed to be a dig but it came out that way and i’m not taking it out.

I felt like I was living out a gay revolution power fantasy, where I could truly change systems of oppression while fighting alongside a group of troubled students I’d shaped the lives of.

so a gay revolution power fantasy (cringe) goes hand in hand with imperialism and installing a dictatorship? also the war had nothing to do with sexuality.

Through your unwavering support, Edelgard learns that she needs to be human, that she must listen to her friends, and that she’s allowed to enjoy the world she’s creating.

edelgard gets to learn how to be human all while hunting those who don’t. and she doesn’t listen fo her friends. she doesn’t even trust them. she’s willing to talk to byleth but keep the people who’s been by her side for five years in the dark about everything. and yeah she gets to enjoy her new words since she’s on top. hate to be a commoner under her rule after she burned down my village in her war.

I love this character so much.

clearly. and i honestly don’t care if somebody likes her. i do as well even if my sometimes scathing words can make it seem otherwise.

It has been six months since I first played and I am still analyzing her,

me too. please help me escape i’m losing my mind

because there’s so much depth. Yet so many people fail to see that depth and dismiss her as evil,

i mean, she does some fucked up shit that goes beyond any of the less than desirable actions of the other main characters and does an extremely poor job in trying to make herself seem innocent. i personally don’t think she’s pure evil but i completely understand where the people who say she is are coming from.

because they never had the will to understand complicated women in the first place. 

that’s big talk from somebody who implies that a gay pope is comparable to homophobic and transphobic irl religions and that leads an oppressive regime all because she uses the vague terms of sin and punishments that you have to gay power fantasy your way out of

#i finished this at 1am so sorry if i’m incoherent #mine

[goldeneyedgirl]

Who’s ur favorite and least favorite twilight character and why?

LOL, oh man. Prepare for Discourse, Anon. 

My favourite character is Alice (that might be very obvious). I think she was wasted in Twilight, and that she has so much potential. 

She has no recollection of being human. She is a totally blank slate with a gift that is essentially an extra sense or limb. Like, this girl cannot be ‘okay’. I believe in my heart of hearts that Alice functions differently to other people. I mean, I infer from canon that her visions taught her everything that she needed to know - from how to feed, to how to convince Jasper, to how to join the Cullens. She’s going to get the wrong answer? She’ll change what she says!

And that is utterly fucking terrifying - especially if she was aware and doing it intentionally. But I do not think she is, in that sense. I just don’t think she would have any idea of how to live without her visions showing her what to do next. Alice is a hostage to her own gift, and always has been. 

Even her interactions with Bella and Edward in canon are really uncanny, like she’s playing a role - which is more reflective of SMeyer’s piss-poor writing ability than any sort of intention - but indicative that Alice is Not Okay, and kind of explains a lot about how the Cullen family is portrayed. 

A lot of what I love about Alice, and her relationship with Jasper, are things I’ve absorbed from fan-content - what we can infer from the information we’ve been given. Her conviction about her and Jasper, to me, is beautiful and both terribly childlike, and something someone who has suffered deeply would absolutely cling to as a lifeline. The idea that Jasper isn’t just her husband, but her very best friend and confidant as well, paints such a lovely picture of the symbiosis they have. I think that, whilst it’s normally Poised, Confident Alice to Rescue Struggling Depressed Jasper portrayed in fandom, that there is a distinctive possibility that two individuals who were both fucked over in the gift department and were holding onto reality by a strand found each other and rescued each other might be closer to the truth.

I also LOVE fashion, so I kind of get Alice on that level; and I treat Alice - when I write her - as someone with mental illness (like myself) because I find that very satisfying to write, and to explore. I can PROJECT, which is super fun.

Jasper’s a close second because holy moly, he has so much potential from a fic-writing perspective? This is a man who was not a good person as a human - like, there are Varying Reasons he would join the Confederate Army and be proud of being a Major, but that’s a TOTALLY different piece of discourse so we’ll put a pin in that because statistically, it meant he was a racist fighting for racist ideals. And THEN he is changed into a vampire and joins the Southern Wars, falling further into evil as far as violence, hate, and senseless death goes. 

Like this man was a full monster.

And it was eating him alive.

So he just walked away. Alice did not save him. Peter did not save him. Jasper walked away. Peter gave him the opportunity to do so. Alice offered him goals and a way to improve who he is. There’s nothing he can do about the evil he sowed, the legacy he has created. And he has to live with that every single day for eternity. Has to deal with the burn of his thirst, exacberated by years of gorging on human blood, every single day. There is no solution to/for Jasper. It’s one hell or another. And that is so much fun from a fic-writing perspective. 

Plus his dynamic with Maria is so crazy fun - Mother? Lover? General? What does ‘good terms’ even mean? I assume it’s code for ‘cold war’ or ‘not actively seeking the other’s destruction’, but who knows. I love that. 

Jessamine is also super fun and beloved by me, but that’s because she’s either Jasper-derivitive or my particular portrayal of a separate character, so she doesn’t count. 

As for my least favourite, that honour goes to Edward. Full disclosure, I have not read Midnight Sun, only skimmed parts, because the only thing worse than that would be reading EdBella fic. 

I think he’s an arrogant, misogynistic, controlling little brat, honestly. He’s above the rules and the laws when it suits him - at the cost to everyone - and he condemns Rosalie and Jasper so quickly and thoroughly with very little in-text justification. 

He says that Rosalie is vain - well, Captain Dipshit, maybe after being violently and fatally gang-raped by a group including her fiance Rosalie might deal with a lot of body issues - and copes with them the best way she can. Maybe after being raised with a priority of being beautiful above all else, and then harmed in such a grotesque way because of her beauty, and then becoming more beautiful might fuck with your mental health a little, Eddie.

Edward has a bad habit of classifying women in absolutes like Madonna/Whore, depending on his personal beliefs - which, as a frozen 17 year old from the 1900s, is fairly goddamn dubious. Rosalie and Tanya are both ‘bad’, Esme, Alice, and Bella are all ‘good’. But there are no women that Edward fully ‘trusts’ or allows to ‘win’/direct him. He prizes Bella because of her unreadable mind - she is a puzzle and something to possess. They are never partners. Edward uses Alice, Who Tries Her Very Best, as a weapon against Bella multiple times. I often wonder if it isn’t Edward who encourages Alice, off-page/off-screen, to play dress-ups, to make Bella into what Edward expects in a wife. 

Edward is over-indulged by both Esme and Carlisle; honestly, with his gift, I wouldn’t be surprised if he manipulates the family into their slightly toxic dynamic (it’s hard to tell because of SMeyer’s obvious bias, and the perspective of the novels) because it benefits him so much. It puts him second only to Carlisle - Jasper cannot be trusted despite his comprehensive understanding of vampires, especially when it comes to turf battles, and Emmett’s just a frat boy. Or is this the portrait Edward has painted so he gets to be #1 Son?

Edward is the goddamn architect of every disaster the Cullens face because what he wants is dangerous and illegal. Without Edward’s Volterra Tantrum, Aro never would have challenged the Cullens in Breaking Dawn. Victoria’s attack would have been neutralised before the Cullens even got wind of it. Bella never would have gone cliff-diving or solo-hiking if Edward hadn’t dumped her in the cruelest way possible. 

I honestly, truly believe that Edward shouldn’t have had a mate, let alone a wife and child. 

Also, movie!Edward looked like he needed a fucking shower and a flea dip in nearly every scene. 

Bella’s a close second because I have known girls like Bella and fuck me, they are deeply unpleasant to be friends with. She fucks over EVERYONE in pursuit of Edward. I understand that she doesn’t have the same interests as Alice, but not once just she make a suggestion for an alternative activity or a compromise (and that could be Bad Writing again, because Bella appears to have very few hobbies beyond ‘reading’ but it’s what we’re working with). 

In fact, I would argue that Alice tries her very best to be Bella’s friend, but it’s a futile attempt - Bella tolerates Alice because of Alice’s proximity to Edward. If Alice had been a human student at Forks High, you can bet that Bella would have dumped her as fast as possible. Bella has very few moments where she’s positive about the people around her outside of the Cullens (by association with Edward) or Jacob. Charlie gets mostly pity. Everyone else is looked upon with disapproval and judgement (which, again, reflects toxic writing tropes.) 

And Bella martyrs herself at every opportunity. There’s a lot of discourse where Bella’s neglectful childhood is examined, but Bella fucking lunges into the ‘victim’ role at every possibility. And ultimately, I really don’t see Bella maturing or learning anything at all through the series. It’s always about what she wants, above everything else. She succeeds because she and Edward are incredibly selfish individuals who are enabled by the parental figures around them. 

Second runner-up is Carlisle. 

#alice cullen #jasper hale #twilight discourse #twilight renaissance #bella swan #edward cullen #my thoughts #Anonymous

[nastyatticman]

like a midnight snack

A family of killers is discovered - blackmailed, and tasked with finding and trapping the man who may or may not be haunting the Heelshire manor after all these years. At first it seems nothing is working, until their son makes an accidental discovery.

Brahms Heelshire X Sidney Jade Leong, an OC. Not sfw.

Warnings- dubious consent. child abuse (mentioned), past/implied sexual assault / exploitation , misgendering/transphobia (mentioned). Canon typical Brahms being a creep. Trans male character with female coded language to refer to his body sometimes.

Of all the places Sidney expected to spend his summer, an old British country house that may or not be hiding a murderous pervert was not one of them.

None of his family expected that, either. That a potential victim would catch them on camera, hauling someone into their basement. Much less that he’d find them, and rather than going to the authorities… he’d dangle that possibility over their heads, and make them do him a favor in exchange for not being reported.

How were any of them supposed to know some overgrown white boy would be piloting a drone all around the woods at night? Or that he’d use the footage to blackmail them rather than try to actually help the person he saw them grab. They, begrudgingly, had to respect that. He had dedication to his cause.

His cause involved a number of properties his family wanted to take over, that were supposedly haunted. He had his sights set on a rural house in the UK, one that had been mostly abandoned since the last servants hired by the family fled, claiming some madman was hiding inside the walls.

Nowadays the family that owned the property still ordered food to be delivered, even if no one answered the doors. They still visited, every once in a while, but the visits were dwindling over time.

The Leongs were to contact the family and ask to stay in the house for a while, part vacation and partially to clean the place up. They were given a handsome sum to convince them to let them stay. It’s not like they needed the money - being old money and all- but they did need people to take care of the place. Everyone they hired to clean refused to come back, claiming something was wrong with the house.

And that’s how Sidney’s family ended up booked for a mandatory two week vacation in the middle of nowhere. Trying to figure out if there really was a crazed man living inside the walls, and if so, could they lure him out?

They tried all sorts of things to get him out… it was like the whole family was performing. They were used to that during their other vacations, taking turns playing bait or offering travelers a “safe” place to stay… but two weeks? It was exhausting.

Talking extra loudly and listening to any sound they heard, just in case. Not to mention all the extra work Sidney and his sister had to put in...

Despite their best efforts… Their first contact was a mistake.

Sidney woke up with a dry mouth. He was too hot under the covers and slowly peeled them back. Checked his phone - it was 3:46.

He got up and crept to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, careful not to wake anyone. If he made too much noise they may think he’s the shut in they’re hunting, or that he found him, and they’d all be so disappointed when they found nothing but Sidney in his robe and bunny slippers sneaking off for some water.

The bunny slippers and the robe were a compromise. Make him look more casual, a little cutesy. Part of the intel they had received implied that the man in hiding reacted better to young, pretty women and that he loved to spy on them and watch them change. Classy.

So as an extra effort Sidney and his sister were expected to… loosen up a bit. Walk around in a towel more. Wear skimpy pajamas around the house. That kind of thing. Tori didn’t really mind doing that in her own home - in fact, Sidney sometimes complained about her walking into his room in shorts so short he could see her underwear. But it was different knowing a fully grown pervert with a child’s voice could be watching them from within the walls at any moment.

It honestly pissed Sidney off the most. He could hardly stand to be around his parents sometimes, especially when they pulled this shit. After his father’s injury Sidney took over the role of masked killer with relish, loving that he had more power in their dynamic. But that didn’t mean they stopped making harsh demands of him, risking his body for their gain.

He could only hope they wouldn’t do the same to Tori. They were always much softer to her, and he was grateful and resentful about it at the same time. Still… the winter nights he spent freezing when they wanted him to lure travelers. His fingers so cold he couldn’t feel them at all, his nose burning. They’d stopped it, luckily, when an old man offered him a jacket to cover up and then exposed his … true intentions to him.

Sidney didn’t see anything, luckily, but he did see the rage on his mother’s face as she beat the man to a bloody pulp.

After that, they let him wear a jacket.

They wouldn’t make Tori suffer the same way, would they? They didn’t push her as far. But how far would they be willing to go to catch this man? Sidney shivered reflexively, not sure whether it was because of the memory of the cold, or his next intrusive thought about how far they’d make Tori go.

She was a sophomore in college, for fuck’s sake. The guy’s tombstone showed he’d be in his 30s by now. If he was still around. That was the other thing - Sidney was only half sure that the guy was even there in the first place. There were some strange things that happened since they arrived, but it was nothing too major.

Sidney sighed and went to refill his mug in the kitchen. There were some noises… the house settling, probably. You couldn’t turn at every creak in the old country home. He passed the window and stopped, pretending to look for something on the counter.

Was that a reflection of…?

He studied the window, seeing the silhouette of a figure behind him. Wild hair and a baggy sweater. Tall. Maybe six feet. His father, the tallest in his family, was 5’8”.

He waited to see if he’d do something. It looked like the figure did, too. The guesses were right, then, he was 6 feet or so…

If it really was the guy they were looking for. Then again, what, would he have left and another creepy hermit moved in and took his place? Sidney remembered hearing the loose description of where he’d been staying all that time - a fully stocked room inside the walls, with a bed and a basin to wash up in, a ton of weird shit he’d been making, and porno mags stapled to the wall. He was sure it would be in high demand on the horny serial killer real estate market. After all, Sidney was there.

He snorted a laugh, and turned away from the window. Shit, if Sidney could see him then he could see -

A hand clamped down on his mouth before he knew it. He was pulled in closer to the man’s body, warm and smelling of mothballs. That was the first thing he got, other than the sweaty hand over his mouth and his other hand, stroking his hair.

It was weirdly… tender. Like he hadn’t held someone before. Sidney didn’t dare move an inch.

He was clearly a grown adult, judging by his strong grip and his size and everything about him… Was he smelling Sidney’s hair? The fuck?

He weighed his options here, as he felt himself be pushed against the counter. Almost caged in under his body. He could probably throw him off, but he’d have to get to the other end of the house immediately. What was it he did to the other people?

One he killed in the game room, for breaking his doll… Sidney had been nothing but respectful to that doll, he should be spared that fate.

Another he knocked out, and the last one - so young and pretty - he’d tried to pull into the walls with him. Is that what he’d do to Sidney? Maybe, since he’d probably seen Sidney wandering around in shorts and low cut shirts for at least a week now…

His parents found that part very funny when it came to Sidney’s involvement. It was worth a shot, sure, since Sidney was much closer to the guy’s age than Tori was. But they remembered when he’d come home from school and tell them about the boys who would ask him out… only for him to find out the next day it was all a dare from the other kids. Why would anyone, even a freak hiding in his own home, want Sidney?

But it seemed like he did, despite all that. Well, judging by the way that something hard was digging into Sidney’s back as he pinned him to the counter. His breathing getting heavy, his grip on his mouth loosening up a little, his other hand stroking Sidney’s hair. Savoring him like a midnight snack. He leaned in and murmured something soft to Sidney in a voice that was much too high to be coming from someone so large.

He could… he could work with this.

Sidney let out a needy little moan under his hand, and ground himself against him. It made the man completely freeze up. Shit, did I go too far? Sidney wondered. He didn’t need to wonder for long though, once the man realized what that meant. Again, he leaned in and spoke softly to Sidney, but this time he could just make out what he said.

“Good boy,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Shit. Fuck. Damn it all to hell. This meant he’d been paying attention, but it implied so many things about what he’d seen.

Firstly that he knew Sidney was trans - and respected it? Despite seeing his tits a million times.

Ally of the fucking year, Sidney thought, as the man ground up against him this time, on purpose. He let out a shuddery little sigh above Sidney, leaned in and pressed the lips of his mask against his cheek. Did that part make him gay then? Or queer?

Secondly did he - did he hear the way Sidney’s parents talked to him, about him? Of course he did. He must’ve heard them say something rude, or … Call him a girl, of course. Little girl. Stupid girl. Bad girl.

Again, ally of the fucking year. If only they’d known the best trans ally alive was hiding in an English country house and spying on people this whole time.

He giggled and it made the man freeze up again. Sidney nodded, and nuzzled into his body, letting him continue.

He couldn’t deny that this was kind of… nice. Better than the hugs he’d be forced into by his parents when they were angry at him but wanted him to shut up and stop arguing. That was a low bar, but there were so few people he could get physical affection from that he didn’t at least partially despise.

Sure, he kind of hated that he’d been dressing so uncomfortably for a week in hopes of getting this guy to come out... and try something with him. But it worked, judging from the way he was holding him, so needy.

It was really tempting, honestly. Sidney hadn’t had sex in… a really long time. With a friend of his, who was sort of interested in him and knew he wanted to have some more experience. Her partners wouldn’t mind that they hooked up, she told them about it. Still, Sidney was much more monogamous by nature and so it took him a while to get used to being normal around her again. Even if it was mind blowing trans4trans sex with one of his best friends.

He wondered how Eris was doing right now. It was probably early night in the US, and he hoped she was having dinner with her girlfriends. Her lucky, lucky girlfriends…

It wasn’t that lecherous of him to appreciate how good his friend was at getting him off, was it? Not when she’d demonstrated for him a few times. She was good at it, she had experience and good communication, finding what Sidney liked and keeping at it until he was a horny mess under her. And then he’d pay her back, much less precisely, but she still appreciated it.

The shut-in - he supposed his name was Brahms - had neither of those things but he still intrigued Sidney. Maybe he could figure out something they’d both like.

He tapped the man’s hand, and pulled it off his mouth gently. It took him a second to gather his words again.

“Can I- can you put me on the counter?”

“What?” he asked, just sounding confused.

“I want to sit on the counter,” Sidney explained. “You can still - you know.”

The man - Brahms? - nodded and stepped back, let him climb up and sit down facing towards him. He could only see from the moonlight streaming through the window, but this confirmed it.

This was their guy.

He matched the description perfectly. Unkempt hair, broad shoulders and chest, wearing a mask like the porcelain doll they’d found in the parlor the first day they were there. His eyes were blown wide, watching Sidney beckon him closer, putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him in.

He shakily pulled Sidney closer to himself, his hips right next to the counter. But didn’t move, as if waiting for… permission? Sidney leaned in, feeling his beard brush against his cheek.

“Go ahead.”

The man nodded, and gripped Sidney’s hips, pulling him closer still, and humped against him. Just a couple times, softly, experimentally. Sidney gave him a breathy little moan in encouragement and he picked up the pace.

He felt the full hardness of his length brush against him, hard. If they weren’t both still clothed he was sure the man could feel how soaked he was. Then he hit a part a little lower down that made Sidney shake for a second, suddenly sensitive.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I think that was my hole…”

He just nodded and tried whatever he did again, until Sidney swore he could feel his cock head through their clothes, teasing at his needy cunt. The extra attention made him flushed, almost overwhelmed, and without realizing he wrapped his legs around his hips to keep him in place.

Sidney moved his hips to help him, desperately chasing the feeling. It was almost silly… he was holding the guy in place with his arms and legs, moaning for him, and he wasn’t quite sure what his name was.

“Brahms?” he asked.

“Yes?” His voice was little more than a whisper, deep and rich. Like he’d forgotten the higher voice earlier. “Sidney?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, much less for Brahms to know his name. Of course he would, but… it’s strange, considering how much care and attention he must have for him. Sidney swallowed and softly stroked his hair.

“Good boy.”

Brahms let out a strangled moan, leaning into his touch. His movement was frantic, and he had Sidney up at kind of an angle so it was like every push of his hips shoved his cock up into him. Sidney’s grip on him tightened without him meaning to. They both ground against each other, just chasing their pleasure.

“Pull my hair,” Sidney asked. Brahms - yes, that’s his name - just looked at him. “Please.”

He hesitated a moment, and then complied. His large hand cupping the back of his head gently, before he pulled ever so slightly.

“Harder,” Sidney begged him. He hoped that he wasn’t overwhelming the poor guy on what must be his first time. “If you - if you want. I really, really like it.”

This convinced him, he could tell from the way he grabbed more hair, and pulled him back more tightly, until Sidney’s head jerked up to the ceiling and he moaned. His response was barely audible. “Thank you.”

They continued, Sidney overwhelmed from the way he kept grabbing him - groping his thighs and pulling his hair just hard enough to hurt. Brahms picked up speed suddenly, until finally he made one last thrust and collapsed, his full weight making Sidney fall back, against the cabinets.

They were both breathing heavy, and Sidney wondered for a second why he stopped - until he felt his cock twitching against him through their clothes, and warmth spread between their thighs. Oh.

He held him closer then, let him bury his head in the crook of his neck as he came down from his high. The porcelain dug into his neck but Sidney ignored it, just holding him and stroking his hair softly.

“Good?” Brahms asked, softly. He’s not letting go either.

“Yes,” Sidney said. “Yes, you were.”

#nasty attic originals #brahms heelshire smut #the boy 2016 #brahms heelshire x oc #slasher x oc #Sidney Jade Leong