#solidly build men

[piratefishmama]

Fake it 'Till You Make It | Part 3

“Alright so, how long has this throwing men at you thing been happening?” Not a sentence Eddie Munson ever expected to be saying out loud, especially not to Steve Harrington, but there they were, sat in the back of his van, which Eddie had parked just off of Cornwallis, his van hidden among the trees, safe from prying eyes.

They had to get their story straight, even if nothing about what they were doing was straight, that had to be straight. Especially straight enough to fool a goddamn lawyer like Lynda Harrington.

Eddie was just glad he’d left the pillows and blankets in there from the other week when he’d claimed he had a love nest in his van to a particularly horrified set of parents.

Nothing quite like the mental image of your barely legal precious daughter getting down an dirty in the back of a beat up old van. Fabulous.

It was actually quite nice though, he even put fairy lights up in there.

“The whole shebang, just over a month. But the men… that’s new. They haven’t managed to actually introduce me to anyone yet, one of the joys of queer shit being so frowned upon, they cant find a willing guy to come forward.” No-one daring enough to take the risk, not even for a Harrington.

“Can’t say I blame em, you’re having to pay me to out my own ass to your parents, they’re well respected, people expect them to be on the ‘right’ side of history” ‘right’ said with very sarcastic air quotes and matching tone.

“People are gonna be surprised then.” About as surprised as Steve was, probably. “So… are you… I mean… outing yourself? It’s… you don’t have to tell me but—I just… if they want proof i—I don’t wanna make you—” Steve was staring into his lap, awkward, cheeks flushed, adorable. Fucking… adorable… not a term of endearment he ever thought he’d throw at Steve Harrington.

So many unexpected turns for a Sunday morning.

“Mnhm, I’m ah… like you I suppose. Only I think I’m more of a five on the Kinsey scale…” at Steve’s raised brow and adorable puppy head tilt, Eddie smiled sheepishly, of course the King of the Jocks wouldn’t know what the damn Kinsey scale was. “That’s uh… it kinda measures bisexuality? It’s rarely an exact 50/50 split between liking guys and girls, most lean one way or the other, with an interest in more… I uh… I lean more towards men… you…”

“Girls… I think.” Eddie nodded, it was what he expected. “But—what’s the scale?”

“Zero to six, six being gay and zero being straight. I’m pretty solidly a five I think…” five made sense to him. He’d found girls attractive before, maybe even had a crush on one once, a pretty cheerleader who’d made his palms sweaty and his heart beat fast enough to make him turn tail and run in terror, but boys were his go to. “It’s not an exact science though, I mean shit, you don’t have to label anything.”

“… I feel like a three.”

“A three?” Higher than he expected but, as of that morning he’d thought Steve was a zero. No clue what so ever that he’d ever even entertained the idea of boys.

“Mn… I’ve… I’ve definitely been attracted to men before, a few men actually… some ruined it immediately by being assholes” Eddie didn’t want to guess, but a few jocks did come to mind “but… I’ve never tried anything, y’know?” Aww, never touched a boy, cute. “And telling my parents? That was recent, like, really recent, and impulsive. I just didn’t expect them to pull this whole ‘we can throw men at you now!’ Schtick so… to answer your original question, about two weeks now. Why?”

“Building a believable timeframe so we can have an idea as to where they might expect us to be in our ‘relationship.’ Your mom’s a lawyer right? Shits not gonna be as easy as telling them we’re dating and have that be that she’s gonna want the when’s, the how’s, the details, normal moms do, yours is a lawyer dude, we have to be spot on with everythin or this will be a total waste of time, and money on your part cause obviously, no refunds.” He may not be dealing as much as he used to be once he realised he had other more valuable services to offer,

And the party king stopped throwing parties??

But his policies were still pretty iron tight.

Steve just nodded his head, he understood, Eddie couldn’t get his time back so, however many days he spent there, he’d be paid for each one regardless of the outcome. “Alright… what do you normally do with these dates then?”

“Freak the fuck out of their parents usually. Be vulgar, insinuate things, the Gillespie’s hate being called by their first names?? No idea why, but that was an easy spot to poke at, I’ll talk about my band, offer weed to chill out, y’know, typical things that’d make a parent in rural Indiana pale at the thought that their sweet daughters had only skimmed the surface of the dating pool, finding just the scum the pool boy hadn’t cleaned out and settling with it.”

It could have been self-deprecating, in fact Steve almost told him not to think of himself like that but Eddie seemed genuinely amused by the whole thing, it was all an act.

He was a mischievous gremlin, he was making himself the worst of the worst in front of these people, he didn’t think he was that person, he just acted the part like some kind of drama club performance.

Oh god, wasn’t he in drama? “…That’s uhm… that’s a mental image.”

“I’m a storyteller” Eddie shrugged “sometimes I talk about DnD too, and—”

“I mean how do you prepare for them?”

“Oh… not much to prepare for on those ones, it’s usually just one night and the main goal is to fuck it up so bad that the girls’ parents don’t want their daughter going anywhere near that stupid pool out of the fear that she’ll settle for scum again, this is the first long term relationship I’ve had to fake! And you want me to fake it properly, not just fuck it up, I mean… It can’t be a surprise to you that I’ve never been in a relationship, right?”

Steve wanted to be polite, he really did! But no, it wasn’t a surprise.

Not because Eddie wasn’t attractive, it’d be a lie to claim that. Eddie Munson was… a special kind of attractive to Steve. The oh god what? Kind of attractive that only existed when a polo-wearing jock type like Steve, found someone like Eddie attractive.

That kind of attractive.

He had a nice, soft face, framed perfectly by a mass of badly maintained curls. Not badly in the way that they were dirty, just… it was clear he had no idea how to tame them, how to enhance them, how to do anything with them other than apparently put a brush through them and make himself look like he’d been dragged through a bush. Twice.

He had those big brown eyes, expressive, could easily find himself stuck in them if he looked for too long.

The smile with the dimples? Gold star on that one.

He didn’t have acne, or pimples, he didn’t stink, he clearly cared about basic hygiene, but that was all surface level stuff.

He was also expressive about his interests, which was an attractive trait, he was sneaky smart.

Sure teachers had all but written him off as an imbecile and he’d heard a few saying that over the years to the poor guys face, but Steve had seen Eddie do difficult multiplications on the fly.

He’d seen Eddie recite Shakespeare off the top of his head, prattle off verse after verse, sometimes free styling in perfect iambic pentameter if the teachers dropped jaw was enough of a sign.

He'd seen Eddie climb a rope in gym. Dude was squirrelly, he had muscle in those arms, and nobody in that gym knew where he’d built it. Maybe he wasn’t gifted at dodgeball, but he could sure as hell climb shit.

He’d seen Eddie be an effective businessman. Tommy had bought from him a few times, and he’d seen Eddie dealing at his parties. The guy knew his shit when it came to drugs, he didn’t just deal and bail, he stuck around and made sure people were safe. Could always answer questions if people had them, so he could retain knowledge just fine, it just had to align with his interests.

School didn’t work for him, that didn’t make him unintelligent. Steve could respect that. Steve could relate to that. Except he did feel like he was kind of an idiot.

But no… it wasn’t a surprise that Eddie hadn’t been in a relationship.

People looked at him warily in school, he put up a shield around himself made of barbs shot at every clique the school had, he fired off pastor at a megachurch worthy sermons about being against conformity and capitalism from atop school lunch tables.

He was in band, drama club, AV club, the dude was a nerd of the highest order, the ‘image conscious’ girls of Hawkins High didn’t wanna be seen with that.

So even if he did sort of like girls, stupid high school girls wouldn’t like him. Wouldn’t appreciate him the way he should be appreciated.

“…No, I guess it’s not a surprise… high school sucks though, man. There’s no permanence in high school flings.”

“Would have at least liked a fling though, that would have been cool.” Would he though? No. As much as it didn’t align with the whole rockstar life he had thought up for himself, he wanted something… bulkier. Something with more to it than surfing strangers beds. He wanted permanence.

Wanted someone to come home to, arms he knew, a garden he could fuck around in, maybe a tree to sit in and write songs on warm summer days.

A fireplace to snuggle up in front of with a special someone.

Maybe a kid, or three.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Eddie. Trust me. You had fun doing what you did, I got my heart stomped on over and over again, not fun.” It didn’t sound fun. Eddie wanted to reach out, it wasn’t far, they were in a small van, two pretty tall guys, there wasn’t much space there, he could have reached out but… the space between them still felt too vast.

“…Guess it’s a tend to your own field kind of thing then eh?” Steve looked at him with a small frown, a question in his expression “y’know… the grass is always greener on the other side? Just tend to your own field, the grass will grow. Do your own thing, it’ll be better for you…? That kind of thing.”

“Ah… then yeah, it’s a tend to your own field kind of thing.” Eddie smiled and gently bopped his head in agreement. A surprisingly comfortable silence stretched for a moment until “I think… a week would be best. Say we’ve been dating a week, but met at one of your gigs a few weeks back maybe? It’d explain why I’ve been less than enthused about any of their choices. I was already into someone.”

“…You know about my gigs?” Oh could those brown eyes get any bigger?

“Yeah? Tuesdays at The Hideout right? Dustin keeps trying to bribe me into taking him…” Eddie’s smile turned a little softer, warmer, prettier, he had such a soft spot for that kid it wasn’t even fair. “I could say Robin an I decided to check it out to see if it was ‘kid friendly’ enough to take him, Robin introduced us since she’d know you from band, you teased me about being there, but not in a mean way cause beneath all those barbs at us poor jocks, you’re actually really nice, and we just hit it off? Took us a bit of time to feel each other out cause it’s dangerous to be like us but once we did it was like… bam. Stars collided or some shit.”

“…You’re… surprisingly in tune with this queer shit, Harrington…”

“I’ve known I was bisexual for a while, Eddie… it’s not new to me, I know it’s dangerous, I’ve seen what jocks like me do to people like me… even when there’s no proof only rumour or because you look it… I know how dangerous it is to be like us… but do you think it’d work though?”

“…The barebones story is there, we can world-build. Now let’s talk boundaries.”

Part 5

#PirateWrites #FakeItTillYouMakeItFiclet #Steddie #No Upside Down AU #o ye Steve KNOWS Eddie's pretty

[wordy-little-witch]

I'm caught perpetually teetering on the line between competent Buggy and absolutely fucked up into success Buggy, but I think I found a work around, and the reveal comes via Cross Guild - Mihawk specifically. Ergo, I thus drop little random numbers here for reading pleasure before I actually EXPLAIN it.

<><><><>

Crocodile

It was not abnormal for the clown to butt heads with the former warlord. They both had very strict and evident opinions, thought one (cough Buggy cough) was much more verbose about it. Running an expansive business with a bumbling fool of a face man was enough to instigate migraines in the most patient of men.

Crocodile was not a patient man.

One could only imagine the sheer agony of his day to day.

This came to a head, as such things tend to do, on a mundane Tuesday afternoon, barely past midday. Buggy had scuttled in, a veritable mess of a person, hair in disarray and sweaty. Crocodile had taken one look and sneered at the other in disgust. This, in turn, has set Buggy off.

The clown had apparently been out with the lower ranks, building rapport and assisting with the laborious tasks assigned to them. It was something he had done before titles had even been a passing thought to be disposed on his name, and he had made it abundantly clear that it would not stop now nor in the foreseeable future. Admittedly, Crocodile had tuned out much of it in preference for more entertaining thoughts, such as brutally mummifying a certain clown.

Thwack

Crocodile nearly dropped his cigar. He blinked, automatically turning a glowering glare at the other as he shifted his shoulders. Buggy simply huffed, pale though he was, meeting the dark scowl with one of his own.

"By the Seas, why do I even bother with you, I swear-!"

As fast as he had stumbled in, Buggy was gone. Crocodile stared after him well after the door clicked shut. He rubbed his shoulder with his remaining hand, grimacing thoughtfully. Buggy had hit him. Not hard enough to cause damage, not even enough to leave a bruise, but it stung. It had connected.

He was a Logia user, and the Clown had solidly hit him.

Thoughts racing, he tried to convince himself it must have been due to some leftover sweat from the physical activity the blue haired menace had been rambling about. Turning back to his paperwork, he firmly told himself that that was all there was to it.

He pointedly ignored the fact that Buggy's hands had been dry and dusted with dirt.

<><><><><><><>

Mihawk

Life on the island was much removed from the monotony of Kuraigana. It bustled with life here in a way both alien and vaguely familiar to the swordsman. Despite the brightness of the colors and the loudness of the cacophony, it was almost... charming.

He'd never admit that outloud, however.

One thing he did not find very enjoyable was the lack of challenge here. Most who used the blade and called this archipelago home withered under his attention, paled and bowed out from an offer to spar with stuttered excuses and fear in their hearts. It was disheartening, especially given how many of the showed halfway decent promise.

It was a slowly crawling Sunday evening when he happened across a small squadron of the newer recruits in one of the sandy clearings. Many were younger than expected yet carried a look of maturity far beyond the planes of their faces. Mihawk had found himself admittedly rather intrigued when Buggy had personally offered to welcome these young adults at best, teenagers at the lower end, to the Guild.

Even now, a few weeks into their stay on the isle, Mihawk noticed a marked change - a slight build of muscle mass, a more healthy coloring, cleaner clothes and faces. They were doing well, he noted.

They were also all working studiously with blades in hand.

He watched them work for a time, hidden into the shadowed spaces of the trees near the clearing, allowing himself but a moment of observation. His gaze inevitably shifted to their katas, their grips, their footwork. He frowned, brow furrowing slightly as he considered them, the oddly familiar movements ringing an unnamed bell within his mind.

A bright laugh distracted him, and he turned a glance to Audrey, one of the younger recruits, spinning fluidly between a parry, redirection, and then a slash. Her bright red plait swirled after her, and suddenly Mihawk was standing straighter, walking into the clearing.

The jovial air was quickly hushed, eyes growing wide as many bowed their heads in deference. Audrey met his gaze head on with a reckless defiance undercut only by the sheer terror she tucked behind bravado in her summer green gaze. "Sir," she nodded once, voice impressively level despite the white knuckles grip on her blade, now held at ease yet defensive.

He nodded once in response. "My apologies to have interrupted," he announced cooly. "I found you all practicing by chance and am quite pleased by your skills. It is evident you have an acceptable level of respect for the craft."

Many faces lit up at the compliment. Audrey herself smiled brightly, showing a little gap in her smile. Somehow, it made him almost fond of such a look.

"That being said," he continued before any further reaction could be given, "the swordplay you lot have been utilizing, wherever did you learn it?"

"C-Captain Buggy, s-sir!" A blond lad responded brightly with a smile, enthusiasm not defeated by his stutter. Thómas, if Hawkeye recalled correctly. "H-He has b-bee-been teaching us-s," the other hiccupped happily.

"The..."

"Chairmen Buggy said he knew a few styles. For now, we're learning this one - he said it would be easiest on us for the time being. Once we're stronger, he'll help us find individual styles to expand on!"

"Is that so," he replied absently, mind racing. He knew this style - he'd been on the receiving end of it more than once, after all. Never once had he considered that Shanks' impeccable footwork may have been a set style. It had seemed too randomized, too shaken from the norm to have a specific sequencing. And yet...

And yet.

"The Chairmen knows this style well enough to teach it then."

"Yes sir!"

"Mm. Thank you, then. You have given me much to think on. Keep up the good work."

Leaving just as suddenly as he'd arrived, the swordsman set on a straight path to the animal tents. The clown would doubtlessly be there at this time of day. Mihawk had gotten a general idea of the man's excessive schedule in his time on the island after finding the other's Presence too soft and wisp-like to pinpoint.

Yet a other odd thing about the clown, he supposed, making his way along.

Finding the clown had been easy. Guiding him from the masses had been equally so. Convincing him to spar had been... not. If anything, it had been loud, expressive and interspersed with crying. It had taken Mihawk quite explicitly swearing formally to not kill the other outright for Buggy to even stop his pathetic yet endearing tears.

Mihawk shook the latter thought off as quickly as it came.

Buggy asked if his daggers would suffice as a weapon, citing that Mihawk had been the one to ask for a spar, after all, and thus had a decent amount of choice. Pleasantly surprised by the clown's knowledge of the code, he'd cited it would be fine, as he would not be utilizing Yoru for this regardless.

They took their positions on opposite ends of their designated battle ground, eying one another carefully. With the clown right before him, Mihawk focused his Haki, intending not to quite crush the other but to study him as thoroughly as possible, to push his limits as it were.

Buggy surprisingly opted to play it safe, not lunging forward in a reckless attack as he so often seemed to do. Taking the signal, Mihawk moved instead, intending to push the other back, to catalogue his steps. Instead, Buggy twirled, one knife sliding sinfully along his own before looping back off again, redirecting his momentum easily without incurring nor causing any damage.

The dark haired man blinked.

He'd... barely felt the other move.

Typically Haki would ebb and flow around a person or object with the movements of the host. Split seconds before one moved towards the left, their Haki would lean into the motion. Identifying, studying and reacting to the Haki as opposed to the physical form took years of practice and mastery, something Hawkeye excelled in. His Observation was rumored to be on the same scale as Charlotte Katakuri, after all.

And yet a clown had blind sided him.

In response, he turned, rerouting his energy into a graceful arc. This time, he saw Buggy move, body fluid as he shifted around the threat despite his Devil Fruit. Mihawk wondered absently if the Haki would cause damage before he lunged backwards as a dagger came dangerously close to his mustache. He allowed his surprise to show for a moment, gaze darting to Buggy. He'd expected a stunned look, perhaps a smug, prideful expression.

The face which met him was closed off, locked down tightly, offset even further by the garish painted smile on the other's sun kissed face. Buggy's eyes, usually a soft blue that summoned the skies to his very irises had frozen over into something iced and glacier like. Mihawk was fascinated.

Their dance continued on, far longer than the taller had anticipated. Their deadly dance was near silent, save the sharp swish of silk-sheering sharp blades through air.

Mihawk made one more movement in, managing to chip away at defenses to leave an opening for his knife to slip in silently. The blade cut through cloth and - not skin, not flesh, but something. Mihawk was suddenly frozen in place, staring at where the blade sat innocently up to the hilt in the new gap between Buggy's lower and upper ribs.

"Well, guess that call it, then," the blue haired man sighed, pulling back his hands to resheath his weapons. "That was a hell of a work out, man, you are fast as fuck. Nngh~" He stretched, a few vertebrae popping as he stepped back to spin on the ball of his foot, hair swishing. "Want to head back? Dinner ought to be ready soon. ... Mihawk?"

The dark haired man had since straightened, staring between his blade and Buggy's body, whole and hale. "... is this the reason for your oddities?"

"What?"

"You... why would you..."

Buggy, now wary, seemed to debate his next move. That was all Mihawk needed to meet the otherr man's gaze head on.

"It is nearly impossible to completely suppress one's Haki, and yet yours fits you like a second skin. It is hardened, expansive, and dense." He frowned. "It is... frankly speaking, more than merely intimidating."

Buggy rubbed his elbow. "Don't... over think it, okay? It's nothing special-"

"It is."

"It isn't, okay-?"

"It is and you do so without so much as uttering an indicator. Your Haki is so tightly bound that I could feel the moment my blade passed that barrier. You have and continue to actively do what many consider impossible." He stepped closer. Buggy stepped back. Mihawk followed. "You use an impossible technique with your Haki." Step. "You are teaching a recruit squadron swordplay in the steangest yet most effective manner I have seen in a long while." Step. "You certainly used Armament during this exchange on instinct alone." Step. Thump. Buggy stared uo, huddled back to a tree trunk. Mihawk leaned into his space. "And, perhaps strangest of all, you use a variation of Shanks' Violeta Vendetta for your bladed battles. Tell me just who or what you are, clown - because a fool or failure is not among them."

Silence reigned in the clearing.

Mihawk stared.

Buggy gulped. "He still... calls it that?"

What. "What?"

"Red hair... bastard stills calls her Violeta...?"

Mihawk nodded. Buggy laughs.

And then? Well, then Buggy explains

#buggy the clown #competent buggy #cross guild #my ficlets #im sleepy #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #ocs mentioned

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Unexpected Delivery

There had been many changes when their father returned home. Some were new, some were the old status quo reasserting itself.

As Jeff had taken over the daily running of Tracy Industries and the paperwork associated with International Rescue, Scott had managed to take back some of his old duties on the Island.

One of those was unpacking the supplies Virgil regularly brought back from the mainland.

First was the perishables: foods, some of Brains’ more exotic experimental materials, whatever-the-hell it was that Gordon was ordering in to assist in rehabilitating their surrounding sea-scape. Personal deliveries came second, portioning out the mail orders; of which a not-insignificant portion was personal food stocks – Grandma still couldn’t be dissuaded from cooking, even though everyone now had more time to contribute to kitchen duties. Third was domestic consumables: toilet paper, light bulbs, cleaning supplies, and personal grooming and hygiene products – including so much deodorant. And then maintenance supplies; raw materials for production of the custom parts necessary for the maintenance of the Thunderbirds, parts for maintenance for the Villa and auxiliary buildings.

It was a comfortable routine, and one that Scott enjoyed, especially dealing with the maintenance supplies. Checking the packing slip against their internal register of projected deliveries, using the pallet-bot to deposit the large crates and bins at the appropriate areas, before unpacking the individual crates, confirming the itemised stock within, and storing them in the appropriate locations, as he updated the warehousing inventory.

It was a simple – and satisfying – job.

Today there was an extra crate. A large roughly square crate, one and one half to two metres in every dimension and solidly built. Scott frowned at it. There was no sender’s ident, and the anonymous holographic label implanted in the rough-hewn, tightly-spaced wooden slats simply read ‘International Rescue’.

Nothing was unaccounted for on the projected deliveries. There was nothing left over from previous runs, nothing on back order.

Scott checked Virgil’s collection register. This package had been collected from their mail facility at Tracy Industries Headquarters, the security assessment on this crate was attached. Nothing untoward. No radiation, no explosive compounds, no biological matter …

Thunderbird Two’s pod sensors hadn’t detected a threat, either.

“What is it?”

Scott started, jumping as the Mechanic materialised beside him, looking between Scott and the crate curiously.

A slight hesitation – he still hadn’t fully overcome his distrust of the other man, nor had the Mechanic suddenly taken a liking to him – and he explained the situation.

“Only one way to find out. If all the scans are clear.”

Scott waved his tablet at the man, who, after a second, took it, and considered the record trail. He handed the tablet back, and summoned two of his ‘scorpion’ mechas to the crate.

“Better blow them up, than us, if your scans are wrong,” was the response to Scott’s raised eyebrow.

Scott agreed without hesitation. The crate was in a secure section of the hangars, there was no danger to any of their equipment – they had learnt that the hard way, soon after Jeff had … gone on sabbatical. The two men backed off a respectful distance, and watched as the two machines surged forward, powerful pinchers forcing themselves under the lid and prising it up, before skittering around the crate to settle either side of it, like guardians.

The back of the lid was hinged, and a holographic sign projected against the rough and splintery wood. ‘A gift. From a friend.’

The two men approached cautiously. And stared in shock at what lay on the straw at the bottom of the crate.

The Hood, bound hand and foot – hands behind his back – lay half curled with in the space. His naked body bruised and bloody, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only sign the man was alive.

Scott Tracy – Commander of International Rescue, First Responder, Qualified Paramedic, and Survivor of a POW Camp – swallowed his bile as he took in the sight of the bloody and weeping bandage around the man’s head that ineffectively protected what he knew would be the bloody and empty socket where the cybernetic eye had been.

Mutely Scott and the Mechanic stared at each other, both searching for answers the other didn’t have.

How were they ever going to explain this?

Notes:

Febuwhump Day 21 “Unresponsive”.

Whoops. I totally missed posting this one on the date. Other important dates I have missed include my mothers, and my niece's birthdays. Oh well, off to the dog house!

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhump2024day21 #thunderbirds are go #post season 3 #fanfic #my fanfic #scott tracy #the mechanic #the hood

[nkjemisin]

You should try to go see public works Tempest in central park, it’s really incredible and reminded me of the city we became. It’s super insane and beautiful and wild and hard to describe, so even though it’s insane to ask someone to go stand in line all day to see a play based off a random tumblr message I really think you should!

Oooh, I haven't done the line for Shakespeare in the Park in years. Not sure I still have it in me, since it requires getting up at 3 or 4 am and spending hours fighting line-jumpers and so on. But I've been hearing good things about this year's Tempest so maybe I'll muster up the energy. Thanks for the recommendation!

Since you reminded me of it, here's a deleted scene/alternate opening I once wrote for THE WORLD WE MAKE. I decided on a different opening for the final version, obvs, but maybe you'll enjoy what might have been. Cutting because long.

     He's just a man standing on a rooftop.  The outfit he's wearing is bespoke, by a Harlem tailor who came in second on Project Runway's last season.  The jacket is rich brown suede, fine-stitched, over olive-tan pants and a piqué shirt of deepest royal indigo, and he's wearing the hell out of it.  If there were anyone around to see, they'd think he was a model, standing in the kind of casual-at-attention pose that only men in magazine photo shoots ever do, with one hand in a pocket and his gaze thoughtfully locked on the cityscape horizon.  The model aesthetic is reinforced by the fact that he's got a lean, strong figure and the kind of racial ambiguity that Hollywood diversity advocates love:  brown skin that's not too brown, lips full enough to be either natural or recent collagen injections, thick eyebrows that are as sculpted as his cheekbones, eyes with just enough epicanthic fold to qualify as "exotic" but not in like an ethnic way.

     He's not a model.  He's just Manhattan, human representative of New York's contributions to the fashion, media, and sex work industries.  He's not even trying particularly hard to look good.  He has simply stopped resisting what comes naturally.

     But he's about to be late for work -- and while New York custom permits a degree of conspicuous tardiness as a social power move in certain situations, this particular job is too personally important to him for such games.  So he steps up onto the low wall that surrounds the roof, and then he steps off.

     It's fine.  The building is twelve stories tall; anything over five stories is required to have an elevator per city ordinance.  He's been practicing, too, so all he has to do is shut his eyes and imagine, and the city's power holds him aloft in midair as solidly as if he's stepping onto flooring.  (He is; it's just flooring that exists in several other iterations of his universe.)  Even with this, however, he makes sure to take a step or two forward before calmly turning away from the cityscape.  People don't usually stare at the back of an elevator, after all -- and verisimilitude is key.  "First floor, please," he murmurs. In earlier days of the city, building elevators were a complicated luxury that required trained staff to operate.  In current days of the city, many elevators run on voice activation. At Manhattan's request, there is an electronic ping of acknowledgement, followed by a very faint echo of blended, long-vanished voices:  "Watch the door, please, watch your hands, going down."  Then he begins to descend.  It's smooth, slow; this is only a mid-sized building, not modern or expensive enough to have an express elevator.  Only the fact that he's descending through thin air makes it odd.

     Just above the sidewalk his descent slows, letting him drift to a gentle halt.  There are a few dozen people on the street in this moment, and some of them notice as he just stands there for a moment, letting the metaphysical aethers settle and the metaphorical elevator doors open.  The ones who stare are tourists.  New Yorkers generally don't react to strangeness, but they do notice it, if only to shake their heads and murmur "This fucking city," to themselves before moving on.  Manhattan catches the eye of one of the starers, winks and smiles, then strides off down the street.

     As he walks, he hums John Coltrane's "Central Park West" -- not for power this time, but simply because he's walking along Central Park West and likes the song.  It's also a beautiful day. Here at the heart of the city it is clear that autumn encroaches:  Central Park is across the street, dense with color-shifting trees.  Their whispers speak to the part of Manhattan that was more, once, than just concrete and cars; the island has always been here, after all, crossroads for many peoples, and those millennia of commerce were enough to form the building blocks of the living entity that it is now.  But mostly, he just likes that rustling sound, and the flickers of color and movement, and the faint whiff of chemical sugars forming and breaking down within the leaves.  Something about that scent, and the wind's occasional brisk sharpness, speaks to him.

     There is the lightest of touches upon the part of him that is more than a man.  Just a ping, to get his attention.  "You wanna focus, or you gonna just keep spacing out about the pretty pretty trees, Mr. I Was Bebop Before It Was Cool?"

     They've all figured out that words work better than thoughts.  They are one city, the six of them, and if they ever need to, they can function as a single brain and heart and will -- but doing that is as overwhelming as it is thrilling.  New York isn't supposed to be any single thing, see; the distinct characters of its boroughs are part of its strength.  More personally, Manny's probably never going to be super-comfortable with letting his fellow parts of the city into his head, because he's got enough going on in there already. 

     But he's right in reminding Manny to focus.  "Just getting into the spirit," Manny replies, waiting for a gap in the traffic before trotting across the street.  Then he vaults the low stone wall around the edge of the park.  It's a twelve-foot drop beyond, but he manages it easily enough, landing in a crouch in a wooded thicket already carpeted in red and gold leaves.  Doesn't even make his knees twinge.  Nothing can hurt New York, in New York, except New York. 

     Well.  And one other thing.

     He moves forward at a brisk Midtown pace, pushing aside the branches of small trees as gently as he can so as not to damage them.  He starts finding white tendrils almost immediately.  Just small patches here and there:  three wigglers on a broad, still-green sycamore leaf, one on the tree's gnarling roots nearby.  A patch shaped like a handprint growing atop a hooded garbage can; that one's especially nasty, positioned as it is to infect anyone who actually tries to deposit their litter in the can instead of just tossing it somewhere.  "Rude," Manny murmurs.  He's getting rid of the patches as he passes them, just by touching the wood or ground or metal near each cluster and letting a little of "Central Park West" riff through his mind and down his arm and out through his fingers.  Earworms can be handy.  Good for killing other wormlike things.

     (Not so long ago, it would have taken everything Manny had to get rid of these things.  He had to replace all his credit cards after symbolically buying all the real estate around a particular rock in Inwood Park.  Now, however, the city is whole -- and these tendrils, tenacious as they are, are tourists from another urban locale who've overstayed their welcome.  It's easy to obliterate them, but it's more important to find the bus they came in on, and deal with that.)

     "Red alert!" says Padmini -- Queens -- suddenly.  She tugs on the shared part of their consciousness, projecting an image onto it that is stunning in its precision:  a three-dimensional and topographical map, with a moving cursor at its center and a GPS coordinate meter in the bottom corner.  Padmini abruptly zooms them in on the cursor, and then she presents them with a simplified view through her own eyes.

     There, jolting slightly as Padmini runs, is their quarry.  To most other people in Central Park, the young man who slips down a leaf-thick hill and then scrabbles his way over a tumbled, mossy pile of bedrock is just another cross-country runner, or maybe a parkour practitioner with a greater love of natural settings than most.  He's a lanky Indian-looking guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt -- but through the lens of Padmini's vision, Manny sees the rest.  The guy's got patches of white fronds all over him, and as he runs they waft back like long hair which just happens to be growing from his forearms and shins and ass.  Manny's used to this, people who look like yeti crabs, however horrible it is.  Far worse is the tendril which projects from the back of the young man's neck, thick and veined in a disturbingly umbilical way, forming a long white cord which twists up and out of sight amid the trees.  It stretches up into the sky, Manny knows from three months' experience, attenuating until it disappears from human eyesight with distance -- but wending southward before it does.  They all know where that cable terminates.

     "Mike check," says Veneza, and Manny's mental eye shifts to her view.  She's standing under one of the park's stone bridges, her vision bouncing a little as she crouches to stretch out her ankles.  Getting ready to run.  Manny feels her excitement as the tendril-covered man comes into view, jogging over a grassy hill covered in early-afternoon sunbathers.  But who's he kidding?  They all enjoy this.  "That's it.  Come to mamãe.  Drive him like a li'l doggie on the range, Queeny McQueenyface."

     "I can't believe you mixed like three metaphors in ten seconds," Padmini replies -- but she zigs left, across one of the roads of the park.  Manny catches his breath as she veers into a bike lane, because Central Park bikers all think they're in the Tour de France, but in the same moment he feels her latch into the bikers' sense of hurry and entitlement, drawing their power into her legs.  Her pace speeds up sharply, until she's nearly flying down a sloping sidewalk, veering now and again to move around walkers and a small crowd near a pretzel vendor.

     "That's the Jersey in me.  Metaphors are our pork roll."

"Your what?"

"Pork roll. Look it -- wait, shit, hang on."

     Tendril man has seen Veneza and stopped, halfway down the grassy hill.  It's eerie to Manny how still he is.  After all the running and climbing he's done, he should be out of breath, shoulders heaving, dripping sweat, but he isn't.  It's just like the other cases of this they've encountered in the past few weeks; they're running on something other than human power.  These tendril-people aren't avatars, however; they're more like drones, sent forth by some other malevolent consciousness and endowed with supernatural power only temporarily, and for their task.  And if they don't catch this poor guy before that power gets done using him --  Well.  Manny picks up the pace. 

     Padmini skids to a halt.  (A man nearby does a double-take, then nods in a grudgingly impressed way at her athleticism.)  "Shit.  He's going to bolt, isn't he?"

     In lieu of any reply, they all see Tendril Man bolt.  He jumps off the steeper side of the rocky hill -- a ten-foot drop; Manny really hopes the poor guy was in shape before he got drafted as a spectral conduit for a hostile extradimensional essence, or he's going to feel that in the morning. Then Tendril Man takes off, moving with truly impressive speed up a paved hill-path.

     "FUCK," two of them think.  (Manny doesn't curse, but he empathizes.)  They all take off running too.

     Tendril Man is running toward a big, round building at the top of the hill.  Its vendor doors are shut and there are only a few people hanging around near it, but abruptly he zigs toward a big wooden gate labeled PERFORMER ENTRANCE -- and vaults it, with the ease of a master gymnast.  Manny might be able to think of a way over it too, if he gives himself a minute; surely there is some quintessentially cityish concept, like elevators for tall buildings, that he can harness to grant himself the ability to jump like that.  In the fluster of the moment, however, he can't think of anything.  Gotta work on that, do better at having a "jumping" construct ready to go under duress.

     In lieu of leaping, however, he manages to remember the grating sound of garbage trucks barrelling down the street at oh dark thirty in the morning, usually with wonky transmissions and brakes that screech loudly enough to set off car alarms.  Manny's seen several of them scrape or bang into cars without bothering to stop -- and so he draws into himself the desperate need to hurry and finish a shift, the hulking size and diesel-fueled strength of the trucks, the cheerful pragmatism of the tough workers who chuck heavy bags and kick rats with unflappable equanimity.  And as Manny runs at the gate, the world blurs a little and an eyewatering stench surrounds him, and he finds it almost impossible to care about collateral damage because he's got a job to do, come on, come on, let's go...

     He remembers enough of himself to dip his shoulder a little as he hits the gate.  It only looks like wood; underneath, there's plenty of metal, and he sees that the gate has an electronic number-lock.  Probably pretty solid.  But his supernaturally-powered shoulder smashes the gate wide open, actually cracking the whole frame in half, too, and part of the fence beyond it.

     Oops.  Well, he'll make a donation on the website, because now that he's through the gate he sees:  THE DELACOURTE THEATER WELCOMES YOU TO SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK.

     Tendril Guy is running down the steps of what Manny now sees is a huge open-air amphitheater.  He leaps again, a pretty impressive standing jump onto the stage -- and then he stops abruptly.  There's a set being deconstructed here; Shakespeare in the Park only runs during the summer months, so someone's in the middle of stripping gigantic rolls of fake grass off the stage floor.  And now, from within a huge prop built to look like a small apartment building, the avatar of New York steps forth to confront their enemy.

     He's calling himself "Neek," these days -- a phonetic pronunciation of the initials for New York City.  He hasn't told them his real name.  Manny's not sure it matters anyway; doesn't Manny, of all people, understand that they are no longer who they were?  The knowledge and joy and danger of eight million people has found its focus in Neek, and like any of their fellow great cities, this makes him strange.  São Paulo was the same, whenever Manny had time and peace enough to study him: a young-old man who radiated urbane cynicism and eerie wisdom all at once.  Hong Kong too.  Maybe this is the difference between those who represent boroughs or neighborhoods, and those who are whole cities in themselves. 

     Or maybe it's just Neek.  "Yo, man, take a breath," he says to Tendril Guy, as he slouches out of shadow.  "Touch some, uh, astroturf.  You keep letting that shit run you, won't be anything of you left."

     Tendril Guy immediately turns to run, but by this point Manny has reached the other side of the stage.  Veneza is in the ampitheater, trotting toward them from the other direction, and from somewhere backstage they can hear Padmini cursing and shoving something heavy aside, because apparently backstage is a mess amid the set breakdown.  Unless Tendril Guy can fly -- and Manny puts nothing past the Woman in White -- then he's got nowhere left to run.

     It's a dangerous time, though.  In the past, whenever they've cornered one of her minions...  Tendril Guy backs up, looks around, starts to get tense.  Manny tries to think up a construct, and finds himself looking around.  At the stage.

     Neek's gaze flicks to him, and the little smile on his face widens.

     "Two cities," he declares suddenly, spreading his arms wide and raising his voice.  The Delacourte's acoustics are perfect, of course, designed to facilitate an outdoors theatrical performance.  "Both alike in dignity!  In fair Manhattan where we lay our scene."

     Of course the theater absorbs this slightly-fudged homage, echoes it, amplifies it, and sends back a reverberation of energy:  the faint murmurs and anticipation of a crowd, a lilt of music from a nonexistent orchestra.  For just a fleeting moment Manny can almost see the suggestion of bodies in the amphitheater seats, shadowy heads that turn to each other or crane their necks or flip through Playbills.  Ready to be enraptured.

     Manny finds himself grinning -- but then he panics a little as Neek raises his eyebrows pointedly, because Manny doesn't have any Shakespeare memorized.  But Broadway is only a few dozen blocks away; maybe he can use that instead?  He sifts quickly through the grab-bag of random quotes in his head. Can't think of an actual line from an actual play, but it's a direct reference, so he clears his throat awkwardly and sings:  "They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway.  There might be city magic in the air."

     Stage lights, multihued but mostly white, appear above the seats.  The lights aren't real. Manny can see most of the lighting equipment disassembled and stacked up to one side of the stage. Tendril Guy flinches suddenly and violently, staggering back.  Steam rises as Tendril Guy raises his arms defensively, the tendrils on him whipping and hissing wildly as the city's light begins to burn them away.

     They have to keep it going.  Veneza giggles and runs down the steps, leaping to a crouch as if she's acting out some play or another, and sings, "Now is the time to seize the day!  Answer the call and don't delay!  New York can be righted, boroughs united; let us seize the day!" In response, loose cables curled on one side of the stage suddenly come to life, whipping around Tendril Guy's legs to keep him from running again.

     One of the doors on the prop building slams open dramatically. Beyond it they can see Padmini pushing aside a rack of clothing that persistently keeps trying to roll toward her.  She manages it, stumbles out, and glowers around at all of them.  Veneza gestures frantically for her to take up the thread; Neek spreads his hands too in the universal sign of Come on, hurry up.  Finally, with a little growl, Padmini snaps, "Oh, fine.  'Immigrants:  We get the job done!'" This doesn't seem to have any effect at first, but then Padmini shoves a large, heavy-looking wooden desk out of the way with ease; she's much stronger, now. Enough to get this job done.

     As performances go, it's all terrible.  Slapdash, random, corny; Manny won't be surprised if in the morning they all receive a clipped-out review from a theater magazine that exists only in some alternate reality, panning all of them for defiling the stage.  But as a construct, drawing on the power of three boroughs and the delight of a thousand audiences, from the Delacourte to the Fringe Festival and back, it's exactly what they need. 

     Then, his voice muffled by his own extradimensional growths, Manny hears Tendril Guy -- or maybe the guy within the pelt of tendrils -- try to speak.  "A-all the w-world..." he murmurs, his voice thick, too deep, flanged in a way that sounds like bad special effects.  He's steaming all over, now.  Ah, and at last Manny sees the tendrils burning away, peeling off and curling into nothingness.  As he lowers his arms, Manny sees that he's sweaty-faced and visibly exhausted... but he is smiling.  He turns to face the whispering, flickering audience, and all at once Manny can feel him.  Tendril Guy is part of New York, again -- and he knows it, and some part of his soul rejoices with the knowledge.  Probably helps that the guy is a former theater kid himself; Manny can feel that, now that the Enemy's influence has been broken. Neek grins at Manny; he can feel it, too.

     So then Neek goes over to Tendril Guy, leans close, and blows on the now-shriveled cord attached to the back of his neck.  It snaps free as if Neek's breathed fire onto it, uttering a faint creel of inhuman pain -- and then the cord is snatched away upwards, into the darkening evening sky.  Manny catches a fleeting hint of sinuous movement against the clouds, southward, and then it is gone.

     Tendril Guy, who is now just Some Guy, beams at Neek.  Then he steps back and lifts a finger.  "All the world's a stage," he says again -- clearly this time, in a pleasant baritone, projecting with the ease of long practice.  "And all the men and women merely players!  They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."

     He does the whole monologue then, perfectly.  Not that Manny would know if he got it right -- but the Delacourte does, and as Manny glances out at their whispery audience, he sees smiles, hears soft "ahs" and giggles of approval with every precisely-enunciated line.  As Some Guy finishes, applause breaks out, echoing with unreality but loud and enthusiastic.  The artist formerly known as Tendril Guy beams in delight and extends his hands for Manny and Neek to take.  They do.  Padmini, her pique fading now that she's no longer fighting furniture, shakes her head and takes Neek's hand; Veneza giggles and runs up the steps to take Manny's.  The applause goes on as, uh, Theater Guy leads them in first one bow, and then another.  Someone in the audience whistles.  Someone else yells "Encore!"  It's intoxicating.  They bow a third time.  As at last the applause fades and the lights start to go dark... Theater Guy collapses, between them.

     "Oh, no," Veneza says, her delight vanishing.  "Please, not again -- "

     "He's fine," Manny says, crouching by Theater Guy, though he checks Theater Guy's neck-pulse and breathing just to be sure.  It's there, though the guy's skin is clammy with sweat.

     "Close," Neek says.  He's looking up at the sky, after the ugly cable that had been attached to the guy's neck.

     It's only the second time that they've successfully rescued one of these agents of the Woman in White, sent forth from her bastion in Staten Island to... well, Manny's not exactly sure what their purpose is.  Are they superspreaders meant to reinfect the city, and thus help her regain the foothold that she lost three months before?  Are they drones of a sort, reconnoitering enemy territory?  Either way, the result is always the same, if Manny and his fellow avatars don't catch the tendril-bearer and cleanse them in time:  the person burns out and dies, all of their strength used up by the alien intelligence that has worn them like a puppet.

     Not this time, though.  "Let's get him outside," Manny says, grunting as he pulls Theater Guy up.  "Easier for an ambulance to get to him out there."

     "But what about after?" Padmini asks.  She comes over to help him wrestle the guy into a sitting position, so that Manny can pull him into a fireman's carry.  "Uff, he's heavy!  But if somebody calls his family and they take him back to Staten Island, will she just take him over again?  What if she's mad at him for getting caught by us?"

     "It's fine," Neek says.  He's still turned away from them, facing southward.  There is an odd note in his voice, however, which makes Manny frown at his back.  Neek sounds... distracted.  "Most of the folks on Staten are fine.  The ones who commute here lose their little wigglers when they step off the ferry, unless they've got one of those bigger cable-things attached to them.  Grow 'em back on the after-work ride.  They don't even notice."

     "Remember what it was like when she was all over the city," Manny adds.  "All those people she... infected.  She used them if she needed them and ignored them otherwise.  They became part of her, but they didn't seem to mean anything to her, any more than..."  He shakes his head, to the degree that he can with Theater Guy on his shoulders.  "Individual hairs on a person's head.  How often do we notice when we lose one, or when it grows back?"

     "We shouldn't let him go back at all," Padmini says, scowling.  "We know she's doing something to all those people.  He's safer here!"

     Neek focuses enough to turn and eye her over his shoulder.  His tone is mild and his expression neutral, but his words have a sharp point.  "You gonna spring for an apartment for him somewhere?  Let him go crash with ya auntie and the fam?"

     "No, but -- "

     "I know a good spot under the Williamsburg."  Neek's relentless.  "Probably still good even with all the cleanup and construction since the bridge broke.  Warm on cold nights, hard to see so the kids and assholes don't fuck with you.  We could dump him there."

     Padmini sets her jaw.  "Fine.  Point made.  But Staten Islanders are still people, and we should try to help them."

     Veneza, who was peering into the orchestra pit in fascination, turns back to them, plainly uneasy at the tension she's picking up.  "We are.  But I mean, Pads... that's not really our job."

     Now they all fall into an uncomfortable silence, because sometimes the truth is hard.  And the truth is that the avatar of Staten Island is not here with them today because she has rejected them, and thrown her people to the interdimensional wolves by doing so. They are all of them New York... but they are not Staten Island, not anymore. Theater Guy's ultimate fate isn't theirs to make.

     "Ay yo fuck that bird," Neek says, scowling at Veneza, who blinks in surprise.  "Her and Squigglebitch tried to kill us, remember?  Tried to eat you.  Let Staten Island die."

     Padmini stares at him.  "Wait.  What?  Let a whole borough die?  Are you crazy?"

     "Fuck them."  Neek gestures sharply, southward.  "Everyone on Staten Island.  Buncha racist redneck Republican dumbasses, nobody needs them.  They're the reason she's still here, hanging over this city like a fucking guillotine.  I'm tired of stressing about this shit!  Let her flyover country ass die with the rest of them nobody-nothing sons of bitches."

     Manny flinches, despite himself.  That's beyond harsh.  And something about this little rant feels... off.  He's known Neek for all of three months, but in that time Neek has been a quiet and low-key leader of their group, unusually even-keeled for the personification of a city known for its aggression.  Are you okay?  rises to Manny's lips, but he refrains from saying it, aware that it could sound patronizing.  He's wondering it, though.

     All at once different lights snap on within the theater -- not stage lights, but all the rest. Padmini frowns at this.  "Hey, we don't need these anymore.  Which one of you -- "

     Abruptly a piercing electronic alarm sounds throughout the theater, and the lights all turn a startling, awful red.

     "What the shit?"  Neek says.  He blinks as if dazed, turning to stare up at the lights -- and then he stiffens.  "Manny.  You doing that?"

     Manny can barely hear him over the noise.  "No, why would I?  Can't you stop it?"  Neek is New York.  He has better control over the city's power than any of them... but all of a sudden, the city feels strange. Sluggish and reluctant, when Manny gently urges it to shut off the alarm. It's responsive, but unreliable and slow in a way Manny's never noticed before.

     And to Manny's surprise, Neek takes a step back, his very posture radiating unease.  "I... can't.  Nothing's happening. What the fuck."  He shakes his head.

     "Yo, uh, we should go," Veneza says, bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet.  "If that's a break-in alarm -- I mean, we did break in, but -- "

     The Delacourte sits the middle of Central Park, in one of the city's toniest neighborhoods, and is the site of one of its most popular attractions.  "Out," Manny snaps, when it becomes clear that Neek has been so thrown by the situation that he's not reacting quickly enough. "Now."

     Veneza's already moving, running to the edge of the stage.  Manny follows her as quickly as he can with Theater Guy, and Padmini grabs Neek, dragging him along when he doesn't move fast enough.  "Cover your faces!" she cries -- and, yeah, if the city's magic suddenly isn't helping them anymore, that's a good idea.  But Manny can't, unless he wants to drop Theater Guy, who's been through enough.

     There are people milling around in front of the Delacourte, mostly looky-loos reacting to the continuous beeeeeeep of the alarm, but Manny sees how many of them have smartphones in hand.  It can't be helped.  He crouches and carefully sets Theater Guy on a patch of soft grass, and catches the eye of an older lady who is staring at all of them.  "Call 911," he says, with as much urgency as he can.  They can't stop people from filming them fleeing the scene of an apparent break-in, but maybe the sight of someone in distress will distract most of the onlookers.  "This man is hurt and needs an ambulance.  I don't know what happened to him, he just collapsed."

     The lady gasps and starts punching at her phone.  Veneza grabs Manny, tugging so he'll leave Theater Guy there on the ground.  He doesn't want to.  If the cops arrive first, there's a strong chance they'll arrest Theater Guy for the break-in.  If he could just make sure the paramedics arrive first, and that the cops think the alarm is just a mechanical error...  He touches the ground next to his knee and reaches into it, groping for the feel of city power --

     He finds echoes of old audience frustration and annoyed staff and prematurely shutdown vendor services... but these energies will not move in response to his will. What's there feels different from all the other times he's ever used city power -- clotted, somehow. 

     "Dude," Veneza says, giving him a hard yank.  They can hear sirens outside the park, coming closer.  "Come on, man, I ain't doing Rikers for you!"

     Grinding his teeth in frustration, Manny lets Veneza pull him away. They book it for Central Park West again, zigging southward first since there are woods and rock hills in that direction that can obscure their route for anyone trying to put them on TMZ.

       In their wake, the Delacourte's alarm blares until sirens drown it out.

TWWM Deleted Scene 1 by N. K. Jemisin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

#the world we make #the great cities #deleted scene #answered asks

[br-uwu-cewayne]

Thinking about Bruce, alone, before his Robins, his mother gone too soon to teach him much more than the basics, quietly observing just a few of the Big Traditions...

Having an actual dinner for a change, some apple and honey slipped in. A quiet "shanah tovah" murmured to Alfred before bed. Staying home from his patrol a few certain evenings that next fortnight. Falling asleep in the gazebo on the manor grounds that he knows doesn't really qualify, but to be fair he's not really trying to follow any sort of rules, just... just giving a few little reaching grasps at a sort of something he's never really felt a part of, but still feels a kind of almost remembrance for.

And then Dick comes to stay with him. Loud and colorful at times, withdrawn and somber at others.

When the cool breezes at the end of their first summer start shifting the manors heavy curtains, it looks like the boy is settling into a solidly sorrowful downturn. Something deeper than the familiar ache of missing loved ones that Bruce knows and recognizes. He tries introducing various new entertainments, challenges, hobbies. And Dick gives him a little smile here and there, tries out each new pursuit diligently, but... there's still an empty hole in there somewhere, brought on by the autumn air, and Bruce doesn't know how to patch it up.

Until the night Alfred places the bowls of fruit and honey on the table with the usual quiet refrain, and Dick's jaw drops open and his eyes light up and the words spill right back from his tiny, clumsy lips and suddenly what was once only murmured and whispered between mourning men is tumbling out loud and bright and celebratory and over and over from all three of them, building up slow at first then matching each other's energy until finally their usual in memoriam participation of these high holy days, looking to the past, is replaced at last by looking to the future.

Putting their faith in a good year to come, rather than mourning the good years lost.

And giving a young boy, clinging to the kindness of strangers, the lifeline of a shared connection.

Bruce knows immediately in that moment, his foggy scraps of memory aren't going to be enough. He needs to learn. All he can. To make sure Dick never loses that connection to his mother. His family. His culture. Not like Bruce did. No. He has to learn, so that he can then teach.

And though he starts the journey for his young ward's sake (later, he realizes, his son's sake, though that revelation is a few "Shana Tovah" yet to come), it's not too far into it that he begins recognizing his own path. A link not just to his mother and the past, but to himself and a future. Something he can ground his identity in just a bit more solidly, as he learns (better late than never) who Bruce is, outside of Batman.

As part of a family.

As a father.

As a Jewish man.

#jewish bruce wayne #romani dick grayson #ashkenazi dick grayson #any antisemitism on antiromanyism in the notes is an instant block #anyways shanah tovah everybody!!! #[dont mind me im just projecting on the blorbo T.T]

[celtic-crossbow]

Whumptober 2023

No. 18 Drugging Alt Prompt

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Commonwealth Era

Warnings: Nonconsensual drugging, withdrawal symptoms

You slid to your knees beside his slumped figure in the back corner of the cell. Jerry and Aaron guarded the door, still wary of how many people had actually been inside the building. It remained unclear what they wanted with Daryl but given his current state, you could be almost certain he didn’t offer it to them. Bruises in various stages of healing covered the right side of his face and neck, disappearing below the collar of his ripped shirt and tattered vest. Dried blood covered him in patches, some from the busted lip and the cut on his cheekbone— another scar — but the rest was either not his or from wounds you could not yet see. 

“Daryl. Hey, Daryl.” You tapped his less injured cheek solidly. “Open your eyes.” And he did— dull, hazy, unfocused blue pools. “Hi. Just had to go and get yourself kidnapped, didn’t you?” You smiled at him, hoping to see recognition flow into his gaze. The archer squinted at you and arched a lazy brow. 

“Yer pretty. Whatcha doin’ in a place like this?” He threw up an arm in a languid gesture toward the grimy cell. 

“It’s me, Daryl. It’s Y/N.” 

“Pretty name fer a pretty girl.” He slurred, walking his fingers up the side of your neck and to your jaw before you took hold of his hand. You turned to the two men behind you, seeking any input. 

“Seems like they used something on him. Drugged him.” Aaron offered, giving you his full attention while he answered but then he turned back to the door. It was still quiet out there but sometimes, those moments were the most dangerous. 

“What do we do if we don’t know what they gave him?” You reached to pull the archer’s hand away from where his fingers were twirling your hair. 

“Wait it out, I guess. Get him checked out as soon as we get back to the Commonwealth.”

“Fuck.” You murmured, startled by Daryl’s lips against your neck. 

“Tha’s not a bad idea.” 

You pulled his hand off your breast, face burning furiously when you caught Jerry grinning. “Not a word.” You warned him.

“Not a word.” Jerry agreed with a chuckle. “Think he can walk?”

“I don’t know. Let me—” This time, you laughed when Daryl shook his hands free of your own and gathered you up against him in the most awkwardly positioned embrace. “Daryl, can you walk?”

“Since ‘fore I’s a year old. Wha’ a silly question.”

You snorted, continuing to try to work yourself free. “I mean right now. This very minute. Can you stand up and walk out of here?”

The archer scoffed and even that sounded drugged. “No ‘cause yer sittin’ on muh legs.” 

You heard Jerry almost lose it behind you and rolled your eyes with a smile. It didn’t appear that Daryl was in any immediate danger from whatever they had used on him to keep him calm and pliable, but you would still feel better with him away from this horrible place. 

“If I move, would you stand up and follow me?”

“I’d follow ya anywhere.” 

That sounded so sincere that you felt a sting in the back of your eyes. You two had been together for years and the man still managed to give you butterflies. He just never tended to do so in front of two of your friends. He was going to be mortified when they teased him later. 

“Okay, let me go and then you can hold my hand while we get out of here, okay?” He released you almost instantly, blue eyes flickering down to your hands and back to your face. “Okay, let’s go.” You offered a hand and he took it, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled and he sank back to the floor with a pout.

“Legs ain’t workin’.” He noted needlessly, staring at the offending limbs with a curious tilt of his head. 

With a sigh, you turned to Jerry. “Will you?” The man offered you the sweetest smile. 

“You don’t even have to ask, Y/N.” He lowered his gun and positioned it over his shoulder, bending to help haul Daryl to his feet. The archer swayed and almost went down twice, wide eyes studying the figure beside him. “I gotcha, man. It’s all good.” He tried to move forward, but Daryl remained stock still. 

“Yer a big sumbitch, ain’tcha?”

It was Jerry’s turn to helplessly look at you while you smothered a chuckle. “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Right behind you.” Jerry swept his arm beneath Daryl’s knees and lifted him. Your partner was going to be beyond embarrassed when he came back to his senses. 

Daryl was actually quiet throughout the journey toward the Commonwealth. You checked on him frequently, ensuring the four of you stopped so you could give him water and hold his hand as promised. 

You knew the drugs were starting to wear off when he stopped reaching for you and started trying to walk on his own. Jerry placed him on his feet but kept a hand close, grabbing his upper arm when his legs gave way. He refused to be carried any longer though. He stumbled on unsure limbs with Jerry practically holding him up. 

You encountered a few groups of walkers, forcing the archer to stand against a tree and let you and the others handle them. When one got too close to your back, you heard the whoosh before the corpse hit the ground with Daryl’s knife in its skull. 

“Hey! You can see straight again!” You teased, handing the blade back to him. He mocked a laugh and then pulled you to his side with his arm over your shoulders, only slightly leaning on you as you walked. He must’ve been tired of Jerry. 

It was after you had made camp for the night that things got bad. 

It started as a headache. 

You awoke alone, which had you nearly hyperventilating and calling out his name frantically while you grabbed your weapons and crawled from the tent. 

“Quiet, woman. Ev’ry walker fer ten miles gonna hear ya.” Daryl hissed from beside the fire. You didn’t explain your reaction. You didn’t have to. Once you settled, he reached out for you with a quiet “c’mere” and pulled you against his side, his lips pressing against your temple. You had been without him for nearly two months.  Others had given up hope but not you. You could feel he was out there. So could Carol. She had wanted to come with you but the kids needed someone there. You promised to bring him home and she believed you. 

“Can’t sleep?” It was a silly thing to ask. But you avoided asking what they had done to him. He would tell you when he was ready. 

“Head’s hurtin’.” He sniffed and threw a couple of sticks into the fire. You hadn’t even noticed he was sweating. His shirt was damp and he had unbuttoned it halfway. You placed a gentle handle against his forehead. 

“Don’t seem to have a fever. You feel okay besides the headache?”

“Mostly.” 

You accepted that with a nod, pulling away from him to get off the ground and onto the fallen log a little further back from the fire. “Come over here, handsome.” When he was close enough, you guided him to sit on the ground between your knees and lean back against your stomach. Petite fingers rubbed gentle circles on his temples, earning a quiet sigh as he began to relax into you. 

“S’gonna get bad.” 

“What is?”

You were glad you asked. Daryl had a lot of experience in withdrawal thanks to Merle. He knew what was happening and prepared you as best he could. But sitting at the mouth of the tent the next night while he writhed and moaned, hands clutching his stomach as if he could claw out the ache. Nothing could prepare you for this. 

“Nothin’ ya can do fer me ‘cept try ta keep water in me, maybe somethin’ mild fer the hurtin’.”

He was stripped down to his boxer briefs, unable to stand the clothes touching his skin. You had tried to give him Tylenol but he had screamed— literally screamed —and swatted the pills from your hand. He did drink some water before the next round of stomach cramps started, then he had vomited it all up.

You sat with one hand on your face and the other lightly on his ankle. He had warned you to stay back as often as you could. That he would lash out. He wouldn’t mean to hurt you but he might. So you stayed close but not as close as you wanted. Your heart yearned to soothe him, to find the bastards that did this to him and kill them all over again. They got a quick death and left your partner here to scream in agony for something he didn’t want. 

“Y/N…” he panted, sitting up only to wrap both arms around his middle. 

Fuck. You moved quickly, grabbed the coffee can you had found on the way. Daryl had told you to grab it and hang onto it when he saw you kick it. He said it’d have some use. 

And while you held the small can in one hand and Daryl’s sweat-slick hair in the other, you knew he was right. The dry heaving was worse than when he was actively emptying his stomach. Watching the already cramping muscles tense and twitch with every failing purge. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” When the retching dissipated, he was left on the bedroll, exhausted and panting but looking at you with clear eyes for the first time in hours. 

“Y/N.” It was a quiet moment, a gentle reprieve. Within heartbeats, he arched with a sharp breath through clenched teeth and curled in on himself once again. You reached to wipe his hair away from his face but he snatched your wrist and shoved you back hard. “Don’ touch me!” 

Your exit from the tent was quick and uncoordinated, tears you had been trying so hard to hold back were cascading down your cheeks. You stumbled to your feet and right into Jerry’s arms. 

“How’s he doing?” The weight of the situation was showing on all of you, even the always optimistic former King’s guard. Right on cue, Daryl let out a guttural scream and something crashed inside the tent. You flinched, closing your eyes. After a moment, you felt large hands take hold of your shoulders, firm but gentle. “It’s not him, Y/N. This isn’t his fault. Or yours.”

“I know.” You whispered as Jerry bent to place a kiss against the crown of your head. 

“Only a few walkers coming around from the noise. Aaron and I got the perimeter, okay? You just focus on taking care of him.” You nodded and started to turn away when he caught your hand. You looked back at him, zeroing in on that gentle smile. “And you. Make sure to take care of you too.”

“I will.” You patted his hand and watched him disappear back into the darkness. You gave yourself a few more minutes before you ducked back into the tent. 

On the fourth day after rescuing Daryl, you awoke at the mouth of the tent. Your hand was still wrapped around his ankle but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t making a sound. You felt fear grip and twist your heart as you crawled into the tent, brushing his hair from his face. He was…sleeping. 

He was still sweating, still curled in on himself, but he was actually sleeping. His face twitched every few seconds and his fingers would flex over his abdomen but he was actually fucking sleeping. You covered your mouth to subdue the sobs, careful to keep as quiet as possible. Leaning forward, you remained silent and simply watched him sleep. After days of screaming, actually begging you to kill him, he was resting. 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there when you heard the crunching twigs and leaves of footsteps approaching at a fast pace. In two seconds, you had your knife and you were crouched at the mouth of the tent, ready to keep anyone or anything from disturbing the archer. Luckily, you were met with the concerned faces of Aaron and Jerry. 

“We didn’t hear him anymore. Is he—” Aaron’s expression of naked fear and barely contained grief nearly brought tears to your eyes. But it fell away the moment you smiled. 

“He’s okay. He made it.”

Jerry had carried Daryl again but he was too out of it to care or even notice. Once back inside the walls of the Commonwealth, you opted for the hospital. You hadn’t been able to keep him properly hydrated during withdrawal and he hadn’t eaten in god knows when. You couldn’t picture taking him home this way. 

He slept through arriving, triage, IV placement, and well into the night. Carol was with you now, holding you tightly while you took a moment to let out all you had been holding in for his sake. 

“It was awful. I couldn’t help him. I just had to sit and…and…and watch. What if he’d died like that?” 

The silver-haired woman held you tighter, rocking gently. “He didn’t. He’s right here and he’ll make a full recovery. Tomi said so. You did that. When everyone else quit on him, you went and got him. Stayed with him. And now he’s here because of you.” When she pulled away, she hooked a finger under your chin and gently guided you to look at her, smiling one of those gentle smiles of hers that seemed to make almost anything better. “Thank you. I knew you’d keep your promise.” 

You nodded and she let you lay against her and rest, slipping out at some point during the night when you were sound asleep, too exhausted to feel her move away or hear her leave. 

When you opened your eyes again, the sun was up. You felt more rested but still run down. You truly couldn’t wait to be home, in your warm bed, and wrapped around Daryl while he recovered. You wiped at your sleep filled eyes while you stood. There were two trays on the bedside table. When had they brought them in? 

You grabbed one and sat down on the chair next to Daryl’s bed, slowly eating the scrambled eggs and sipping the coffee. You had already finished both when he began to stir. You were up in a flash, leaning over him and willing his eyes to open. You needed to see those pretty blue eyes, clear and pain-free. Then, just maybe, you could breathe again. 

It took him a few minutes to actually awaken but his breathing changed, picking up a little before his eyes finally peeled open. They were bloodshot but focused, darting around the room until they settled on you. 

“Y/N.” He breathed. You watched the tension melt out of him. Your heart fluttered and you smiled, tracing his jaw with your fingertips. He knew he was safe just by seeing you. 

“Hey, you. How’re you feeling?” Your hand moved to his hair, smoothing it back away from his face. He hummed in thought, letting his eyes close but only for a brief moment. 

“Like shit.”

“I’m not surprised after what you went through.” You had to stand on your tip-toes to reach but you pressed a kiss to his forehead. Hearing the soft sigh he released warmed you from the inside out. “Tomi says if you eat and keep it down, you can go home.”

He hummed. “Home sounds good. Real good.”

You grabbed the eggs from the tray and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’re we waiting for then?”

“Can feed myself, y’know.” He winced as he adjusted himself to sit up, pulling off the nasal cannula to toss it aside with a huff. 

“Dixon, I will make airplane noises if that's what it takes to get you to eat these eggs.”

“Ain’t gon’ need all tha’.” 

He let you feed him without much of a fight. 

That night, in your little house, you were lying on your back with Daryl’s head on your chest. After helping him with a shower— he swore he could do it himself but was suddenly tired and frail once your t-shirt was tossed into the laundry basket— and a small dinner, he had all but collapsed, exhausted from the ordeal and more than ready to be in his own bed. Dog was curled up at your feet. Daryl didn’t have the heart to kick him off once he saw how much the animal had missed him. 

Everything was right again. 

“I missed you so much.” You ran your fingers through his still damp mane, and he pushed his head into your hand when you began to lightly scratch his scalp. Your partner was truly a cat in human form. “I was terrified when we couldn’t find a trail.”

“Butcha did. Wonder who taught ya that?” 

You tugged lightly at his hair with a snort. You let yourself smile for a moment, sighing when he nuzzled against your chest. “I thought I was gonna lose you out there.”

“Y’ain’t gonna lose me.” He said with a yawn. 

“Better not. I can track now. I’ll find you.”

Now he snorted. “Yer something else, woman.”

“Damn skippy. Better hold onto me, Dixon.”

“Bet yer ass I will.”

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #drugging #altprompt #the walking dead #fic #noncon drugging #withdrawal #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon the walking dead #twd daryl #the walking dead daryl dixon #the walking dead daryl #daryl #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl twd #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon x female reader #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl x you

[tanoraqui]

I love your world building! Your name ideas are awesome. Love the idea of Indis being a true prophetic mother name

-@outofangband

Belated thank you! Also, sharing my thought process on that one because it's a very classic Silmarillion headcanon origin: it bothers me that Indis's name means "bride." I hate how it reduces her to a feminine trope - at "best", only here to have a troubled marriage; if you're a staunch Fëanorian, a femme fatale homewrecker. I immensely dislike how this is, in fact, an fairly accurate description of her role in the story...

Which is deliberate on Tolkien's part! The "canonically correct" way to ameliorate this misogyny (though neither erase nor excuse it) is to remember that this whole text is a mixture of history, legend and myth passed through multiple storytellers over thousands of years, translated and re-translated and interpreted through the eyes of elves and men and hobbits and men again, until even if this person ever actually existed in the history of Middle Earth - IF! - "Indis" probably wasn't even her epessë, much less her commonly used name. Probably her name got ink blotted on it at some point, or mixed up with someone else's name, and the next Númenorean scholar to rewrite the text followed the Archetypal School of historical interpretation and decided to name her "Indis" because of her role in the story...

But this, too, bothers me. Because I love the framing device of these various books, I love the historian-given dubious canonicity of literally every detail of The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, and especially of The Silmarillion. But! We need some solid canon upon which to hang all our headcanons, so it's imperative to retain a delicate mental balance of knowing everything could be made up (more than it already is by being fiction!) while also adhering to as much as possible as something that Really Did Happen - and names are pretty solidly in the latter category. I mean, everyone has multiple and for those who don't, we tend to make more up, but a belief in the basic premise of the text is necessary in order to function in any fandom, and "names of characters" is pretty "basic premise."

So it's impossible to ignore that her name is Indis; and it's impossible to ignore that the name "Indis" is closely connected to her place in the narrative, more than most characters, and that said place is uncomfortably non-feminist - you can round out her character all you like, but you have to admit that her role in the story is to be the Second Wife and Mother whose acts of being a wife and mother cause trouble! That's a fact! And it's not great! And the name "Indis" isn't helping because if she was named anything but her literal narrative role, that would be characterization! She could be noble like Artanis, she could be of the sea like Eärwen, but she's not! She's just "bride"!

...so, I redeem this by making this definition of her life deliberate within the text - and not just by a future Númenorean scholar, but by Indis's mother. (Female! O! Cs!) Furthermore, names of prophecy are implicitly grand (even if they're not necessarily either good or bad). It makes being a bride itself feel more active - and why not! Do Indis's acts of love and marriage not change the fate of the world just as much as Lúthien's? Consider that Indis's act of marriage is so important that it echoes back through the Great Music to be known by her mother as she held the future bride as a babe in arms. Consider a mother holding her child under stars beside a lake and going, "damn, this kid is gonna have ripple effects. I should add a bragging warning label."

Also, if you accept the headcanons that

a) most Elvish languages treat "sex" (physical) and "marriage" (soul-bonding) as basically synonymous; and

b) Indis spends thousands of years in the Second/Third ages patiently and stubbornly figuring out how to Make It Work between herself, Finwë and Miriel, such that all three of them can marry with genuine all-around mutual love unto the end of days, for peace among the still-troubled Noldor but mostly for happiness for herself and those she loves most (also an act of bride-ship worthy of prophecy, note) -

then you can with a straight face imagine Indis saying, "I fucked my way into this mess and I'm going to fuck my way out of it."

Feminist critique + consideration of canonical historicity + elaborate headcanon web = sex joke! Now that's good fandom!

#indis #outofangband #the silmarillion #analysis #vanyar #feanor and feanor's kin #(WHETHER HE LIKES IT OR NOT)

[ginnymoonbeam]

Ginny's weekly watches rundown

I won't make any promise of doing this on a schedule, but from time to time I want to run down everything I'm currently watching, in rough order of how invested I am.

Current Favorites

Cherry Magic (Thai) Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yaro ka (Although I Love You and You) Cooking Crush

Bundling these three together because I'm loving a lot of the same things: grownups! Direct communication! Being nice to the person you like and showing that you care about them! Cherry Magic delivered the most romantic sequence in the world to me this week with Karan observing and quietly meeting a bunch of Achi's trivial daily needs, and then Achi realizing this and immediately rushing to undo the hurt he'd carelessly caused. Cooking Crush is also doing a wonderful job of queuing up a bunch of potential problems and then having the lovers resolve them with honesty rather than letting them escalate. And SukiDoya looks to be setting up a beautiful slow burn between two men who have drastically different communication styles, but are drawn together and appreciate each other.

Dead Friend Forever

On the other end of the spectrum, we have the slasher drama with a bunch of students trapped in the woods watching their pasts catch up with them. So far this is delivering exactly what it promised: a solidly-executed suspense thriller with a hefty dose of gay drama. I'm enjoying it immensely.

I Love You, But...

The Sign

Look. It's a mess. As soon as I saw the second trailer and realized we were doing big mythology as well as crime drama I knew this show was biting off more than it could chew, and I knew I'd be seated for the duration. Billy and Babe are doing a fantastic job anchoring this wild hodgepodge of a drama, and I'm having a great time with it.

Last Twilight

This one was in the top bracket for me up until last week. As I've said before, my feelings about it are really going to hinge on how they move forward from the big episode-11 fight and breakup. We shall see.

Intern in my Heart

Not a BL, but with what looks to be a developing BL side plot. I'm enjoying this one, but three episodes in I'm not deeply invested enough to put it into the top bracket. Favorites are the female lead, played by Cris who I loved in Mama Gogo, and the gay bestie, played by Toptap. Hi Toptap! Missed you!

Doing Just Enough

First let me say that I will cheerfully drop shows that I'm really not feeling, so even this bottom bracket is all shows that I like. I just don't look forward to them in the same way I do the above shows, and they might be a few wrong moves away from getting dropped.

7 Days Before Valentine

Episode 9 was my favorite one since the beginning... I liked getting more hints of Q's backstory, and I thought the final rooftop scene was a good culmination of what the show's been building toward. It's been draggy at times, but I am interested to see where we'll go from here.

Playboyy

I'm a sexuality educator and sex nerd, so a show like this is going to have my eyes no matter how messy and chaotic it gets. I've been watching it mostly with that lens: none of the stories or characters are particularly compelling to me, but I'm enjoying seeing what it wants to say about sex each week.

Sahara Sensei to Toki-kun (Mr Sahara & Toki-kun)

I'm kinda sticking this one out for morbid curiosity, and because Toki is perfect and deserves the best. Sahara is a character I could really love in a different drama, but the romance here isn't working for me. I'm not even opposed to a (fictional!) teacher-student romance, and if this show was setting up their relationship as problematic but compelling I might be here for it. Instead it seems to be stalwartly ignoring that there might be anything weird or inappropriate, and it's both jarring and dull.

#ginny watches #cherry magic th #cooking crush #sukiyanen kedo do yaro ka #dff the series

[bitter-like-coffee]

hehehe thank you for the Jessica Jones ramble!!! ur sooooo right abt everything tbh. i totally think ur fine to just watch s1, like the others were fine but s1 stands alone really well. also i feel it with tennant tbh i never even liked him until he was kilgrave and its still my favorite role hes ever had

Its just, its so sad it could only happen in the lawless era of Baby Netflix because its just delicious. I think if more of marvel's ips were handled with a similar brush i might actually enjoy them. Not to say they have to all be Gritty Noirs Focused On Very Grounded Villains, but itd be nice if they really sat w their premises. I dunno if any of the movies w Steve and Bucky ever really get into that sorta thing, but theres such a depth you could get out of Steve and Bucky grappling with the future and adapting and challenging their 30s? Worldview, etc.

Tennant just did such a good job w Kilgrave. Simmons was uh terrifying lol. I realize I hadnt mentioned Trish and. Ough. Ough. I love her so much, like any good noir should elicit, I spent so much of her screentime murmuring "girl dont do this". I love her desperation and drive to help people even at her own peril. Much like Jessica, she can't help it, but unlike Jessica she's not physically strong enough to not be the damsel, so she hides in Rapunzel's pin-locked tower and learns to fight in the hopes that if the evil stepmother or a dragon comes she'll be ready. And then the dragon asks her to come in, politely, through the front door and she's so charmed by his candor that she's helpless. The entire rest of the show after Trish popped one of Simmons' pills to save Jessica, I was just looking at her like a dog eating something it's not supposed to.

"TRISH WALKER, WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR PURSE?! DROP IT RIGHT NOW! EMPTY YOUR PURSE YOUNG LADY--[MIMING PRYING HER LITTLE BAG OPEN]"

It really was like, incredible how harrowing every moment with Trish's mom was. The scene where she was trying to force Trish to purge was so hard to watch, made me cry.

And then theres Malcolm abd Robyn abd Reuben abd this isnt even getting into the deliciously toxic yuri wrt Hogarth and Pam and her ex-wife whose name I'm blanking on. Honestly this us just a testament to how beautifully female lead so much of the show felt, which really added so much punch to the themes they were tackling, especially since there were a ton of Kilgrave's victims who were men (but weren't solely the focus).

I really loved Malcolm, especially after they, blessedly, revealed that his addiction was less of some stereotypical black druggie horseshit abd that Kilgrave had just added another tool in his arsenal to keep a good guy under thumb. (To be clear whether his reasons for his addiction, he needed help and compassion, but I was wary of it as a like stock trope.) Learning he'd wanted to go into social work was gutwrenching.

I think, though, I was most impressed with Robyn and Reuben. From the outset they seemed very...Stock "Crazy" Apartment Weirdos, abd as was perhaps the intent, they made me very uncomfortable, especially with early appearances making it seem like there was some WEIRD incest going on. And then Reuben's little crush on Jessica happened and I dreaded every time he was on screen but gradually less because he was a little weirdo and more because he was so visibly a little weirdo head over heels for Jessica. I cried when he died, and I was shocked at how masterfully they made me care. And then Robyn's neuroses kept building in the background abd foreground as she desperately searched for Reuben, and even though she's absolutely weird and abrasive and perhaps needs anti-anxiety medication, she's so solidly a mourning person who was so afraid because as much as she felt like her brother couldn't survive without her (and woe, she was kinda right), she needed him. The scene in the penultimate? Episode? Of Season 1, where she sobs because his fucking charger finally came, days too late, because she told him express shipping was too expensive? Oh that crushed me and made me really gel w her very strongly as a character.

Everyone's Arcs were so good aaaaaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaa. (I love Luke Cage and i practically danced every time he was on screen. Just such a wonderfully grounded, traumatized man.)

#ray rambles #i. meant. to answer this provately but im not used to tumblr mobile oops #jessica jones spoilers // #jj spoilers // #netflix jessica jones spoilers //

[nonplatonicsubtext]

In retrospect arguing whether Rachel is butch is very silly because it's not like her character description is any more "feminine" and "masculine" than any other random woman I might see in the street. Aside from Taylor describing her as such (which is pretty glass houses), she's only "butch" relative to the assumption that all the other women in the story are tv/anime pretty. Insert quotes from Foucault, McLuhan etc etc

first of all, flattered you think i'm someone who would automatically know what quotes from foucault and mcluhan you're referencing, but i dont - interested in reading them if you wanted to share though

second of all, i dont think thats necessarily true.

this is rachel's introduction:

Seeing her in person just confirmed my impressions of her from her picture online.  She wasn’t attractive.  An unkind person might call her butch, and I wasn’t feeling particularly kindly towards her.  Most of her features looked like they would have been better fit on a guy rather than a girl.  She had a square face, thick eyebrows, and a nose that had been broken more than once – maybe broken again just a moment ago, given the blood trickling from her nostrils.  Even as far as her physical build went, she was solidly built without being fat.  The trunk of her body alone was bigger around than mine was with my arms down at my sides, just by virtue of having a thicker, broader torso and having more meat on her bones.  She was wearing boots, black jeans with tears all over them, and a green army jacket over a gray hooded sweatshirt.  Her auburn hair was cut shortish.

none of the things about her description are in truth particularly masculine or feminine, but in a similar manner to what you're describing about default assumptions, in the context of a piece of fiction that operates along the... hm. distorted? cultural views around masculinity and femininity, about how men and women look, that perpetuate and exaggerate themselves through fiction - within that context, these are all traits coded as masculine, or at least non-feminine.

beyond that, we have no reason to believe taylor represents some sort of aberrant perspective as far as passing judgement on appearance from a culturally normative standpoint goes. why would we think that someone else would see the features she describes on rachel and not also associate them with masculinity or a lack of femininity? being muscular, having a square face, thick eyebrows - those are all things that would be judged at such by someone who is not particularly across or progressive with their views on gender and appearance, which is... most people

anyway the argument is not that rachel is ugly, but that she's coded in masculine ways. which she is. beyond her apperance, there's also her behaviour, which also falls under the same coding

#asks #Anonymous #for the record im choosing to be polite about the quotes thing #but i think i would be justified if i chose to be rude about it

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more …

70 BC – Virgil (Publius Vergilius Maro ) (d.19 BC) - also spelled Vergil – was a classical Roman poet, best known for three major works—the Eclogues (or Bucolics), the Georgics, and the Aeneid—although a number of minor poems, collected in the Appendix Vergiliana, have also sometimes been attributed to him.

Virgil came to be regarded as one of Rome's greatest poets. His Aeneid can be considered a national epic of Rome and has been extremely popular from its publication to the present day. His work has influenced Western literature. His epic, the Aeneid, followed the literary model of Homer's epic poems Iliad and Odyssey. The story is about Aeneas's search for a new homeland and his war to found a new city.

Virgil was tall, olive-skinned, of sturdy build and of rustic appearance. He had a weak constitution: he suffered from stomach pains, sore throat, and headache, and it was not uncommon to see him spit out blood. Moderate in drinking and eating, he had inclinations toward boys, among whom he loved in particular Cebetes and Alexander, two learned Greek slaves. This inclination for boys is both mentioned in the Eclogues (II) and in an epigram of the Catalepton (VII) addressed to Varus where the poet says:

My dearest Varus, this I may Without deception clearly say, I'm hanged if 'tis untruly put, That lad has ruined me. Howe'er, if thy commands forbid Me speaking out of what he did, Of course, I won't declare it, but-- That boy has ruined me.

He also tells of the love of Nisus and Euryalus, a pair of friends serving under Aeneas in the Aeneid, his epic poem. They appear in Book 5, during the funeral games of Anchises, where Virgil takes note of their amor pius, a love that exhibits the pietas that is Aeneas's own distinguishing virtue.Their foray among the enemy, narrated in Book 9, demonstrates their stealth and prowess as warriors, but ends as a tragedy: the loot Euryalus acquires attracts attention, and the two die together. Vergil presents their deaths as a loss of admirable loyalty and valor.

Nisus and Euryalus

In describing the bonds of devotion between the two men, Virgil draws on conventions of erotic poetry that have suggested a romantic relationship to some. In portraying the amor of Nisus and Euryalus, Virgil draws on a Greek model of love between men. In the Roman military, homosexual behavior among fellow soldiers was harshly prohibited, in keeping with Roman values that defined a citizen's political liberty in part by freedom from physical compulsion, including sexual compulsion. Among the Greeks, however, there was a long tradition of idealized homosexuality in a military setting. Although the relationship between Nisus and Euryalus initially conforms to the Greek model of the erastes (older lover) and eromenos (young beloved) , their shared military exploits transform them into solidly Roman viri, "men." By describing their love as pius, Virgil endorses it as "honorable, dignified and connected to central Roman values." The elevated decorum of the Aeneid excludes explicit sexuality in general.

1844 – Friedrich Nietzsche (d.1900) is both one of the most influential and one of the most misunderstood of modern philosophers. Born into a sexually repressed family in the earlier nineteenth century, and plagued with ill health, much of Nietzche's work expresses a search for a primal joie de vivre that he felt had been squashed and distorted by the hypocritical religiosity and overbearing morality of his time.

Nietzsche himself fell victim to the same repressive forces. Although he had intimate and intense relationships with other men, he was never able to have an openly sexual relationship with either gender, and some historians believe he died in the mental torment of late-stage syphilis acquired from male prostitutes.

After his death, parts of his work were used by Nazis and other anti-Semites to reinforce their mythology of an Aryan super race. His writings unquestionably contain misogyny, racism, and anti-Jewish statements.

Friedrich Nietzsche was born in Roecken, Saxony. His father was a Lutheran minister who died from a painful brain disease when young Friedrich was only four. Nietzsche was raised in a household of five women: his mother, sister, grandmother, and two aunts. However, it was not a warm home. His female relatives had a Prussian severity that caused them to be reserved with the young boy in their care.

When he was fourteen, Nietzsche received a scholarship to a boarding school near the town of Naumburg, where the family had moved after Karl Ludwig's death. It was here that Nietzsche experienced his first romantic relationship with a boy. He wrote poems about his love, and also discovered the poetry of such gay or bisexual literary figures as August von Platen and George Gordon, Lord Byron.

Nietzsche was a brilliant and creative student, and in 1864, he entered the university in Bonn to study theology and philology. At Bonn, he became a member of the Franconia fraternity, and may have had homoerotic relationships with other students.

A year later, Nietzsche attended the university in Leipzig, where he continued his studies. There he met and became intimate with another student, Erwin Rohde. He and Rohde shared a fascination with ancient Greek culture.

In 1869, he accepted a position teaching Greek and Latin at the university in Basel. There he began to write. His first published book was The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music, released in 1872. One of the most original books in the history of philosophy, The Birth of Tragedy emphasized (and celebrated) the irrational, instinctual, and emotional aspects of Greek culture rather than the rational and the logical. Nietzsche brought to the fore Dionysos as a leading figure in Greek culture, lamenting that the wild, amoral, deeply creative Dionysian life force had been weakened by the Apollonian forces of logic and order. The book created a scandal in philological and philosophical circles.

During the late 1860s, while teaching and writing in Basel, Nietzsche became involved with composer Richard Wagner. What started as a passionate infatuation for the composer's music and personality deteriorated into jealousy, intellectual argument, and bitterness. Nietzsche had become very close to fellow philosopher Paul Ree. Ree was Jewish, and the notorious anti-Semite Wagner snubbed him, further alienating Nietzsche. He withdrew his friendship with hostility, and Wagner spread rumors that hinted of Nietzsche's homosexuality.

The philosopher continued to teach, write, and travel, publishing Untimely Meditations (1873-76) and Human, All Too Human (1878-79), while making several visits to an area of Sicily that was home to a colony of expatriate homosexuals.

In 1879, Nietzsche's health forced him to retire from teaching, but he continued his social and intellectual life and his travels to Italy. He also continued to publish, producing such famous works as Thus Spake Zarathustra (1883-85), The Gay Science (1882-86), and Beyond Good and Evil (1886).

In his work, Nietzsche takes the perspective that life is "beyond good and evil," and challenges the traditionally moral idea that exploitation and domination of others are universally objectionable. Rather, he argues that living things naturally aim to express a "will to power." Rejecting the idea that there is a universal morality to which all human beings are subject, he finds different moralities appropriate for different kinds of people, depending on whether they are strong and overflowing with life or whether they are weak and on the decline.

Nietzsche had just finished writing his intellectual autobiography Ecce Homo (published 1908) in late 1888, when he suffered a complete mental and physical breakdown, collapsing in a street in Turin, Italy. He was brought back to Germany for treatment and lived with his sister for the rest of his life. Though he lived for ten more years, neither his mind nor his body ever recovered.

His sister gained control over his work and used it selectively to support her own anti-Jewish, Aryan supremacist views. There is still dissent among students of philosophy about whether Nietzsche's ideas of the Übermensch, or "superior man," who rises above society's restrictive morality, were actually founded on prejudice and racism or were misrepresented and misunderstood by his sister and, later, by Adolph Hitler himself. This controversy gives special poignancy to the last line of his biographical work, Ecce Homo: "Have I been understood?"

1970 – Zeb Atlas, born in Portland, Oregon, is an American male softcore performer and hardcore porn actor.

Raised in Portland, Oregon, Atlas received a university degree in Health Science and Sport in June 1993 from Oregon State University. He began modeling for fitness magazines after being noticed at a bodybuilding show. From there, Atlas met erotic photographer Ron Lloyd and posed for some photos; this led to the "Body Solo" video series produced by Lloyd's Body Image Productions.[

He filmed his first gay oral sex scene for JakeCruise.com. His role in Falcon Entertainment's film Best Men garnered Atlas GayVN awards nominations for "Best Supporting Actor" and "Best Oral Scene." He won the Grabby Award for "Best Duo" with Adam Killian. In addition, the film Best Men Parts 1 & 2 was nominated for "Best Picture" but lost to Raging Stallion Studios's To The Last Man.

Zeb continues to make films [both gay and straight] with such stars as Adam Killian and Skye Woods including The Boyfriend, Built Tough and Zeb Unzipped Part 3, Zeb in Ft. Lauderdale.

Zeb is also a personal trainer, singer (he did a cover of Love Hangover for example) and dancer and stands about 6ft 3ins tall.

1973 – The Australian and New Zealand College of Psychiatry Federal Council declares homosexuality not an illness, the first such body in the world to do so.

1977 – The Santa Barbara, California, board of education voted to ban discrimination against GLB students, making it the first US school board to do so.

1982 – On this day, a White House Press Secretary is questioned about HIV/AIDS. When asked about the President's reaction to the announcement that AIDS is now an epidemic, Larry Speakes asks, "What's AIDS?" When told it was known as the gay plague, Speakes laughed.

[anaryllis]

the post where i talk about lesbian separatism

this is long and rambley & mostly me admitting to bad prior thinking but. maybe itll be helpful? learn from my mistakes idk. i dont think im anywhere near an authority on this but i think its worth being vocal on this esp for my fellow white sapphic-adjacents

in ye olden 2015 i fell down the rabbithole of political lesbianism & separatism - largely based upon my understanding of "male" and "female" as discrete oppressive categories defined by their power imbalance, wherein the only moral option was to identify out of manhood. i was deeply concerned with finding the best & most virtuous way to identify as a person. i think this was easy to trend toward as someone who is nonbinary and generally perceived as a woman - my lack of attachment to a particular gender & experience of oppression slotted well into that worldview. if being an oppressive party = bad, and that category is one which felt so nebulous to me as identity, why identify as the bad one?

there are a bajillion reasons this is flawed thinking (which i can see now) but part of where this fell apart for me was in unpacking: what do you do when the oppressive identity group is one you cannot identify your way out of (whiteness, ability, etc.)? i couldnt run from the "guilt" of my whiteness (or at least, i could see that that was more harmful than helpful, even in this immature mindset). as a white person i simply need to reckon with what it means to be the best person i can be with my circumstances. so what does that mean for other oppressive groups? are men inherently oppressive and incapable of change? is it actually more moral, or safer, to not be/not be WITH men? (obviously no)

(& then of course the concept which is much better articulated in the last post i rb'd: the position woc end up in in these scenarios, where they end up expected to ally either with white lesbians or with moc, rather than building solidarity as a whole.)

further, i think this essentialist pov honestly lets men off the hook. when we argue that men are inherently cruel and incapable of healthy relationships (with women) - this almost avoids placing the blame of their actions on them. if instead we recognize men as, you know, people - then instead it becomes apparent that plenty of men are kind, compassionate, ethical - and those that arent may be weaponizing manhood, but its not the manhood itself which makes the cruelty.

when all of the separatist thinking fell apart for me, i began more solidly identifying as bi, and more masc on the nb side. my romantic relationship with a man has been incredible for me as a bi and trans person - and i think my 19 year old lesbian separatist self would be shocked. but im glad im here!

last note: i think also, in 2015 the spaces i was in on here were vocally trans(feminine)-inclusive - we were for women after all! but i think it was just a breeding ground for scrutinizing the trans women in these spaces. it meant that anytime a trans woman did something "bad," then therefore she wasnt actually a woman bc women good & men bad. (+ i think any space which discourages trans men transitioning is harmful to all trans people across the board.) & lo & behold, a ton of my former mutuals from that time ultimately fell into TERF social circles. so.

anyway dont be gender essentialist 👍

#.txt

[truthdogg]

There is nothing you can show the MAGA faithful that will change their opinion of Trump. There is no video, no recording, nothing, that will change it. And here’s why: the unique appeals of Trump have tapped into a unique need within the movement that led to an undying, cultish devotion. By now, they have so solidly intertwined their identities with supporting Trump that politically, economically, and socially, there is no going back.

The hope that this might not be the case is grounded in some very basic and very wrong assumptions. Among them is the idea that stated principles, and principles that have supposedly formed the foundation of the United States, have been real all along.

Again. This is wrong.

Read it all. Sexton’s message is important to understand, especially if we want the United States to move forward intact.

However, I would take his central point a bit further, because I believe there is a traditional American ideology and mindset at work here. To do that, let’s look back a bit.

The American Civil War was fought over slavery, and a state’s right to make it legal. That is the singular issue that galvanized the Confederacy into seceding. In that conflict, both of the opposing sides fully believed they were the true inheritors of the nation and its founding principles, and because the country was built on a shaky compromise, both sides were correct.

One idea of America, represented by e pluribus unum and “all men are created equal,” strives to build a more just and equitable society over time. This has been a long struggle, as everyone knows, but to its supporters it is the promise of the nation’s founding documents, that we will continue toward a “more perfect union.” This idea of America is embraced by most of today’s media and is leaned on heavily for our moral authority. It is self-congratulatory at the same time that it is self-critical.

The opposing idea of America, of white domination, was also part of its founding documents. It is the one that refers to the “savage” and the “slave,” the one that very clearly only allowed wealthy landowning aristocracy to vote. It is the one that preached “kill the Indian and save the man,” that regularly overturned elections it did not like, and that promoted an “individualism” designed to increase the power of wealth. This was the America of post-Reconstruction and of John Wayne characters who said, “never apologize, it makes you look weak.” It is the rarely seen third verse of the national anthem:

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore, That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion

A home and a Country should leave us no more? Their blood has wash'd out their foul footstep's pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Those two opposing ideas of America have been shakily held together since the country’s founding. They almost guaranteed that the nation could not exist, but instead were both written into the founding documents. 150 years ago they almost broke it apart, but instead both were solidified. They are threatening do so again, with a new “national divorce” that would kill far, far more people than the first one. The original compromise was a one of foundational morals and principles, and it is still a massive problem because it is never fully addressed.

During the civil war, the “more perfect union” held sway, and Union troops prevailed, but to keep the country together afterward, the Confederacy’s idea of white domination was embraced nationwide. Francis Scott Key’s lyrics weren’t adopted until 1931, long after his “hirelings and slaves” were given a bit of refuge. The keynote speaker at the 1920s dedication of the Stone Mountain (Georgia) Klan Monument was the mayor of New York City—in 1970 it was Vice President Spiro Agnew. The Civil Rights Act, when it finally came, was another salvo in this ideological struggle, and it created another backlash that has kept this shaky balance in place. The election of Barack Obama (as well as his competence & lack of scandal) was yet another blow against those confederate ideals that helped build the support of Donald Trump.

It’s easy for those of us on one side or the other of this ideological divide to believe the other is a tiny minority, but it’s not and it never has been. The United States’ creation was a craftily worded set of documents that has always pretended both sides were right, while both never could be. Imagine its supporters heading back home to South Carolina or Vermont to describe it to their state legislatures. There is simply no way they sold it by focusing on the same issues; they sold it the same two fully distinct ways we see it today. This is why “originalism” as a legal construct is such a farce, and why we keep having the same problems.

The contradictions were purposefully baked into the cake in order to shift power from a king across the ocean to a handful of wealthy local merchants and landowners. As blunt as that sounds, that’s the only part of the founding documents both sides could fully embrace.

So what is there to do now?

Know your opponent. Understand that this mindset opposing democracy, opposing a republic and seeking rule by strongman, isn’t new. It’s supporters cannot be shamed because they have a vastly different idea of what being an American even is. The Trump cult does not care that he is corrupt, that he routinely breaks the law, or frankly even whether or not he’s competent. Arguments to that effect are a waste of your time when they are coming from a mindset that craves aristocratic rule and believes it will benefit them. They care about their “side” having power, and about white cultural supremacy, and that’s it.

#us politics #conservatives #jared yates sexton

[angy-mouse]

Housing Negotiations

holy shit. Punz x reader, unprotected sex, fingering, handjob, breeding for a baby, coming inside (a lot), creampie I think, and ungodly word count (5k+)

<Prev Next>

“Is that her?”

“God, I hope so.”

“If not, I’ve got dibs.”

“Your dibs don’t mean shit.”

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Karl called out, tail wagging wildly behind him. He might’ve been oblivious to the townspeople’s mutterings, but you weren’t- even as you stared nervously at your feet, you could feel them all staring at you. Was it weird that there weren’t any women? There were less than a dozen people in the entire town, if Karl’s statement earlier about gathering everyone was true, and every single one was an attractive hybrid man eyeing you up and down. “I want you all to give a big welcome to our new mayor!”

“Temporary,” you quietly muttered, getting a nod and a wave of Karl’s hand.

“Yes, our new temporary mayor,” he amended, but his tone did nothing to suggest he was serious about it. “She’s going to be starting work very slowly to ease into things, so please be patient with her! Until she gets settled in, you can all keep coming to me for anything you need! Thank you for your time!” Karl ended the meeting with a small bow that you rushed to copy, blushing as you heard a few chuckles as they all dispersed. “I think they like you,” Karl cheered as you both straightened up.

“You think so,” came out of your mouth quietly, even though such a thing shouldn’t matter to you- didn’t matter to you. You were only here for a few weeks at most, you didn’t need these strangers to like you. It didn’t affect you at all that you could still feel their eyes on you in your light skirt and v-neck top, paying special attention to the peeks of soft skin you were showing. Besides, surely you’d imagined the whole thing- there was no way that many men would want you, let alone be so brazen about not hiding their desire.

“Of course they do, silly,” Karl giggled, wrapping his arms around one of yours to guide you as you walked. “They’d have to be crazy not to like you: you’re perfect!”

You flushed hotly at that, letting him drag you around without much care. “I-I don’t know about that-”

“Well I do,” he said firmly, smiling at you so prettily, just like he was last night. “So trust me, okay?” You gave a slight, only half paying attention nod, but it was enough to reassure him, giving you a wide grin as he resumed dragging you. “And you’re going to be an amazing mayor once we get you settled in! We’ve just gotta see Punz about getting you a house!”

“A house?” You snapped out of your stupor, if just barely. “No, no, I can’t afford a house- I’m not going to be staying long-”

“Oh, it’s just a small thing,” Karl brushed off. “We’ll just get you a small plot and a tent to start out, you don’t have to upgrade past that! Just somewhere to sleep at night, that’s all!”

“... Well, I guess that makes sense-”

“Of course it does!” He threw open the door to a little blue building, ringing the bell over the door frame. “Punz! Miss Mayor needs a place to stay!”

You peeked sheepishly over Karl’s shoulder, seeing a tall blond tanuki hybrid making his way across the shop floor to you. To say he was attractive was an understatement. Broad shoulders straining against a white collared shirt, rolled up sleeves cutting into thick arms, that pretty blond hair flopping over his eyes. His thick fingers were covered in rings reminiscent of the dark ones on his bushy tail that gently swayed behind him as he walked.

“Of course,” he grinned. You could see the sharp canines in his mouth, only further adding to the predatory air about him. Karl stepped to the side, letting Punz take your hand in his own calloused one and bring it up to his lips. “I’m always happy to serve our lovely mayor,” he purred. 

“Great,” Karl chirped, as if he couldn’t see the way the realtor undressed you with his eyes. “I should get back to work, then! I’ll see you later, Miss Mayor!”

“Wha-” And there he went, the door shutting solidly behind him, leaving you with this intimidating figure. Now that he was closer to you, you realized just how big he was. Karl was tall, but he was lithe- scrawny, even- and he slouched a bit and spoke so earnestly with that big smile you’d never think to be scared of him. Punz was even taller than Karl, and he stood tall- tall and wide, with fangs and prominent muscles, and an air that made his smart slacks and collared shirt make him look more like the outfit of some kind of kingpin than a realtor.

“Don’t worry,” he mused with a small smile, placing your hand in the crook of his elbow and leading you deeper into the shop, past the examples of doors and roof paneling and towards an open door that you could see a small office through. “I’ll take good care of you, bunny.”

“B-Bunny?”

He gave an affirmative hum, a single finger gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re just so cute and little,” he chuckled, baring his fangs once again, “and skittish. You’re not afraid of me, are you, bunny?” 

You felt your face burning up at being caught, but the most important thing in your twisted mind was making sure you weren’t being rude. “I-I’m sorry- no, I just-” You squeaked as he leaned down to better hear your timid little excuses, a twitch of a fuzzy ear catching your eye. “Your ears.”

He raised an eyebrow. “My ears?” 

You nodded, wide-eyed as you watched them twitch and swivel to better hear you. “A-And your tail,” you admitted, feeling yourself blush harder as you wrung your hands together. “I-I’m really sorry- there’s only one hybrid family on my block back home, and I’ve never met a tanuki- that’s what you are, isn’t it? Oh god, I didn’t mean to assume-” You saw a smile twitching at the corner of his lips and knew he was getting a great deal of joy from your horrible nerves, that bastard. “It’s just that I think hybrid features are really…” Attractive, sexy, perfect, “interesting.”

Punz finally let the smile he’s been fighting break through as he led you into his office. “Well, that’s all you needed to say,” he promised. His voice was lower and calmer than Karl’s. Where the dogboy made everything he said sound exciting and new, Punz had a way about making every word reassuring, like he knew everything and you only needed to listen and it would all be alright. “You know,” he hummed, “you could even touch them if you wanted.”

You’d admit you got a little excited at that- you were the kind of person to time your walk with when the neighbors let their pets out so you could stroke them through the fence, so the promise of petting this beautiful man... Karl’s reaction to you touching his ears last night made you think it was more of a private part, but you weren’t about to tell him about his own body. “... Are you sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure,” he purred as the door closed behind you. “Anything you want, bunny. Here,” he grunted, the only tell that you weighed anything to him as he plucked you up with a firm grip on your waist. He chuckled at your squeak as you went stiff, letting him place you on his desk like he was arranging a new doll on the shelf, your skirt fanning out around you, leaving only the thin fabric of your panties protecting you from the cool wood. “Skittish little bunny,” he chuckled, leaning down to brush his nose against yours, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips. You held your breath as his fanned across your lips, unable to tear your eyes off of his pretty blues as he smiled. “Go ahead,” he hummed, “touch me however you want.”

You shyly raised your hands, dipping your fingertips into his soft blond tresses and gently working them up his scalp. Punz gave a little hum, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the feeling. Your fingers made it all the way up to his fuzzy ears, where you timidly took one between two fingertips, freezing when he chuckled. “Such a shy little bunny,” he mused, bumping your nose with his. “You can get a little rough with me, sweetheart, I can take it,” he promised. 

“O-Okay,” you meekly agreed, wrapping your fingers around his ears and feeling the fur with your thumbs. He let out another hum, easing your worries as you lost yourself in just how soft he was. “I’ve never felt anything so soft,” you mumbled to yourself, flushing as Punz’s lips stretched into a wide grin.

“Well, thank you, bunny,” he hummed, cracking his eyes open. “You know, hybrids take great pride in keeping ourselves… presentable.” Something about the way he said the word made you blush even darker, in turn making his grin wider. “Especially our more animalistic parts. They’re very intimate.”

Your hands froze on his ears, eyes blown wide. “I-Intimate?”

“Oh, yes,” he purred, thumbs brushing against your hips over your skirt. “I let you touch me somewhere private, are you gonna return the favor, bunny?”

You could have said no. It was clear in his eyes, in his body language- the question was curious, not an assumption. He was simply asking a question, and he would obey your answer, whatever it was. Maybe that was why you nodded- surely it didn’t have anything to do with what you were sure counted as a fetish at this point, as you wondered if he made noises like Karl did when you grabbed his ears in a different setting, or if his beautiful tail would wag when he was buried inside you. Whatever the reason, a breathy ‘yes’ escaped your lips, and you meant it. “W-What do you want to…”

“I’d really like a look up this pretty skirt,” he hummed, rubbing the material between two fingers, the back of his hand hot against your bare thigh. “Can I?” You nodded, but his hand didn’t move as he tsked. “Come on, bunny, I have these soft ears for a reason, aren’t you gonna let me hear that sweet voice?”

“Yes,” you decided quietly, not giving him the chance to tease you any more as you reached down and flipped your skirt up yourself. You felt your ego swell and your nerves calm as he let out a low hiss, eyes transfixed on you, as if he could see through your thin panties if he stared hard enough.

“Now aren’t those pretty,” he purred, standing up a little straighter so he didn’t have to support himself on his hands, trailing his fingers up your outer thigh until he reached the fabric on your hip. He curled two fingers under the band on either hip and ripped them with one swift tug, smirking at your small squeak as he brushed the fabric away. “There we go,” he hummed, thick fingers kneading your bare hips. “You’re just a pretty little bunny, aren’t you?”

You only managed a soft noise in response, fisting the fabric of your skirt as he studied your bare lower half. His eyes drifted aimlessly from the way his fingers pressed into your hips to where you tried to cross your legs to hide your small bush. “Awe, shy bunny,” he cooed, lips stretching into a wide grin, baring his fangs as he watched you squirm. “You don’t have to worry so much, y’know that?” His hands were gentle but firm as he gripped your thighs and pried your legs apart, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk so his hips could block you from snapping them closed again. “I’m just gonna touch you- just like this,” he hummed, petting over your folds with two fingers. 

You let out another small noise as he stroked you, letting you settle into the feeling. “There you go, bunny,” he purred, gliding his thumb along your soft skin until he found your clit. A gasp escaped you as he pressed against it firmly, dropping your skirt to latch your hands around his forearm- god, both your hands couldn’t even wrap all the way around. “You’re fine,” he assured you, lips still curled in that devious grin. He leaned down to brush his nose against yours, looking deep into your eyes as he rubbed small circles against you, a chuckle bubbling out of his throat. “I just wanna push your buttons, that’s all.”

You would have smacked him for making a pun at a time like this if you weren’t falling limp against his chest. He pushed a single, thick finger into you to feel the way your walls shook as you came, crooking it ever so slightly to find the small patch of nerves, kneading it with his fingertip. “Good girl,” he purred lowly, leaning even closer to brush his soft lips against yours. You melted into the kiss, opening your mouth after no more than the slightest brush of his tongue against your lower lip, nails digging into his arm when you realized he wasn’t stopping his fingers.

“Nng- no- can’t-”

“Yes, you can, bunny,” he muttered against your lips, hand trailing up your body to cup the back of your head as he prodded at your entrance with a second finger, the cold metal of his rings soothing your hot folds. “I know you can take it, you just need to relax and trust me. I’m gonna make you feel real good, sweetheart, just relax.”

And you did. Like his words put a spell over you, your nails in his arm became a desperate clutch, his hand on your neck the only thing keeping you upright. He pulled back to watch as he pushed that second finger inside you and the view took your breath away. His crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, eyes hooded as he studied the way his fingers fucked you open like it was his job, ears stood at attention to drink in every sound that escaped your swollen lips- he was straight out of your most shameful dreams. 

“There’s a good girl,” he purred, tucking his nose against your hair and taking a deep breath. “Mmm, god, you don’t know how good you smell, bunny.”

You flushed as you remembered how you hadn’t been able to shower in the town hall. “R-Really?”

“Mhm. I could get high off it.” You choked, his lips stretching into a smile as he forced a third finger into you, one relentlessly attacking your g-spot while the others continued to stretch you, thumb still lazily playing with your clit. “Your delicious smell, the feeling of that pretty cunt wrapped around my fingers- I could keep you like this forever.” A rumbling purr came from deep in his chest as you came, walls trying to suck his fingers deeper. “Yeah, you’d like that, bunny? You wanna sit pretty on my desk and let me finger you open between customers?”

“Please,” you pushed out with a gasp, falling against his chest. His hand on your neck pulled you out of his pecs, tilting your head back so he could watch your eyes gloss with tears as he refused to falter. “No more,” you breathed, swallowing thickly as he finally stopped his fingers, sitting still but just as heavy and thick inside you. “Fuck me properly, Punz, please.”

He smiled as he pulled his fingers away, turning into a full-blown grin when you couldn’t help but whine from the emptiness you suddenly felt. “Oh, I’d do anything for you, bunny,” he promised, bringing his fingers up to his mouth as the other hand pawed at his belt. “Promise I’ll take good care of you whenever you want, got that? Anything you need, sweetheart, you come to me.”

“I need you to kiss me,” you breathed. He let you pull him down by his crisp collar, eagerly pushing his tongue past your lips. The taste of your own cum was still heavy on his tongue, but with the way he practically fucked your mouth with it, you couldn’t conjure up a single fuck to give. The muscle pushed to the back of your throat with ease, his lips still curled into a slight grin as you moaned into his mouth. You could distantly hear the sound of metal and fabric as his pants and boxers were pushed down, your thighs pulled away only briefly before they snapped back to his bare hips.

Punz groaned against you, a single broad hand snapping up to grip the back of your neck as the other wrapped thick fingers around his cock. Your eyes were glued shut, but your hands wandered, the last remnant of your previous shyness leaving you in a breathy moan as you groped your way down his torso. His chest rumbled and muscles flexed under your palms, moans exchanging between your lips as you both felt the action making you hotter- fuck you were making a puddle on his desk, you were sure of it. Your fingers finally found the bottom of his shirt, skimming your nails through coarse hairs leading you to-

“Oh fuck me,”

Punz let out a cocky laugh as you pried your lips apart to look at him. “That’s my plan, bunny,” he teased. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with you- wouldn’t want to break our pretty little mayor on her first day, would we?”

You barely registered what he was saying, words drowned out with the sound of blood rushing through your ears as you marvelled at the thick weight in your hand. Big didn’t even begin to describe it. Eight inches that you could barely wrap your hand around- that was big. Punz was competing with your forearm and it looked like he was winning. 

Your hand looked utterly pathetic trying to wrap even halfway around him, but god if you passed on this because of a little thing like possible internal damage you’d be cursing yourself forever. You licked your palm in a vain attempt to lubricate it, the musky taste making a very compelling argument for you to drop to your knees. Punz caught your wrist and spat on your palm before guiding you to just under the head, bumping his nose with yours with a soft smile. “There you go- just like that,” he sighed out as you started a gentle pace, brushing your thumb over the sensitive tip with every other pump.

His own thumb found your clit again, ears perking up and fangs flashing at the whimpering moan he dragged out of you. “Such a sweet little bunny,” he purred, leaning in close until he could nip at your ear. He laughed at your yelp until it was cut off by a sharp moan as you gave a rough tug on his cock in revenge. “Ooh, bunny wants to play rough,” he growled. You had just enough time to let a shiver wrack your body before Punz moved his hands to the small of your back and your thigh to lay you back on his desk. “I don’t mind being rough,”

He pulled another yelp out of you as he pulled your hips off the desk with a rough yank, pushing your skirt further up your waist. He held you steady with a single hand on your ass, the other guiding himself to slide his fat cock through your folds, wetting it with your slick and making sure to grind against your clit. It strained you to crane your neck, so you lifted your hand from where you’d panicked and gripped the edge of the wood and wrapped your fingers around him. He held still with a grin as you felt your way down the length of his cock, letting out a shaky moan as you realized how impossibly deep in your guts he was going to reach.

“You still okay?” He reached up to cover your hand with his, pretending the sight of you wasn’t making him leak precum all over your skirt. 

“If you don’t fuck me I think I’d die.”

You could barely see his tail whipping wildly behind him as he bared his fangs at you, yanking his shirt up and holding it between his teeth. “Hol’ shtill,” he grunted out. You let out a breath and forced yourself to relax as his broad head pressed against the seam of your folds, bumping your clit before he finally found your weeping cunt. Punz was as gentle as he could, but he still had to practically shove himself inside you to get past that ring of muscle. Your hand clapped over your mouth as a perfectly pornographic moan escaped you, Punz’s nails carving into your ass as he fought every muscle in his body not to pound you into a whiny mess- you were just a little thing, you needed to adjust.

But fuck you were tight, and just those first few inches were spreading you open, pushing and twitching against your nerves, sending bolts of lightning up your spine. It hurt, too- but you were prepared for it to hurt. You weren’t prepared for the heat rushing to your face as you realized you might come from just the tip.

“I need it, Punz,”

He groaned as his cock gave a harsh throb at the words, eyes clenching shut to control himself. He reached up to tug his shirt out of his mouth, freeing the way for a deep groan to spill out. “You need to wait-”

You pressed your heels into his back and flexed your knees.

Punz barely caught himself on his elbows to not crush you as he fell forward. Twin moans fell from both of you, but while yours was high and reeked of desperation, his was predatory and sent a chill down your spine. But it was worth it because you could feel him deep inside you, spreading you open until you were a perfect fit for that monstrous cock. You tried to calm down- tried to stave off the throbbing warning of your impending orgasm- but all you did was clench your walls around him, hugging him tighter- if that was even possible.

You let out a choked moan as you came, Punz’s fangs sinking into your neck as your already tight cunt fluttered and danced around him, trying to milk him to join you. You’ve never felt so full before- it was amazing. Even as your orgasm passed and even as the hard wood under you promised to make you sore, everything felt just perfect. The perfect amount of pain and pleasure and that perfect stretch as you were forced open.

“I… ha- I thought… you said you don’t mind- ha- being rough.” You grinned up at the ceiling as you panted. The smile quickly fell off your face as he growled against your soft skin and gave a sharp thrust.

He was barely halfway in.

He pulled his teeth out of you and lapped away the pinpricks of blood where his fangs broke skin. “Oh, I can be rough, sweetheart,” he growled as your only warning before your legs were hauled over his shoulders and his hips snapped to meet yours. You choked on a scream as he battered your cervix, hitting it once- twice- three times before it gave up. Once he was in he started a brutal pace, hammering into you with so much force the papers you were laying on were thrown onto the floor, your fingers burning as you tried desperately to hold onto the edge of the desk. 

His head never left your womb. Even though your body had let him in it wasn’t letting him out. Even with the animalistic force of his thrusts, that last inch merely caught on your cervix, yanked so hard you thought he might tear it out of you, and pushed back in so far you thought he’d find another wall. 

Pull, push. 

Pull, push. 

It was the only thing swimming in your head that made any sense. You could distantly hear your own voice, but it was babbling something ridiculous as you travelled between overstimulation and ‘just a little more and I’ll be there’. “More, no, no more, yes, please, yes, yes, no!” It was perfectly stupid.

Pull, push.

Now that made sense.

Pull.

God, it hurt, but that made it even better. Your walls, your folds, your cervix: they all stung. But for every jolt of pain or dull ache there was friction against your g-spot, and every other nerve for that matter. Punz had a rolling motion to his hips taught to him by the devil himself that made him hit everything. Even your clit got to grind against his pubic bone ever once in a while. 

Push.

You were in heaven. Or hell. Wherever you were, you couldn’t be happier because you were perfectly full. You never knew you needed someone this deep before, but now that you had it you didn’t want him to leave. That perfectly fat cock was spreading you open like a whore but it was so perfect you decided maybe you were a whore. You really would let him bend you over in the showroom if it meant you got to have him like this again.

You let out a shrill yell as he slung one of your legs to join the other over his right shoulder, one hand wrapped around your calves to hold you steady and the other gripping the wood above your head. The adjustment made you tighter, made your walls squeeze him like a punishment, and made him pound into you faster. 

“I’m going to come inside,” he told you, low and growling as his nose brushed against yours. You knew somewhere inside you that this was your one chance to tell him no, that you could tell him to pull out and he would, but you didn’t. You nodded frantically against him instead, prying your nails out of the wood to pull his lips to yours via a fistful of blond hair. “I’m gonna fucking paint your insides white,” he muttered into your mouth. “You fucking like my ears ‘n tail so much, I’ll give you a cute little kid with ‘em.” 

You whimpered at the thought, seeing a whole litter of babies with blue eyes and fluffy little tails, and Punz’s lips pulled into a giant grin against yours. “You want it, don’t you?” You nodded, squeezing your walls around him in an attempt to show how eager you were.

“Wan- nnng!” You choked on your words as he tugged your hips up higher, preparing you to take his cum and make sure not a single drop escaped. You panted hard, clit throbbing from neglect, but you were going to come anyway, you just knew it. With a sudden burst of energy, you yanked him down further until you were panting directly into those handsome ears. “Want you to breed me, please!”

You came with the first jerk of his cock and throaty growl in your ear, practically crying at the feeling of his hot cum washing over your walls. He pressed his hips hard against yours, gentle grinding motions making sure he gave you everything he could. You couldn’t believe how quickly he filled your womb. Before you knew it you were feeling bloated, sighing in relief as his grinding loosened your cervix enough to let the cum slowly leak into your pussy. It felt so nice: the fullness of his dick inside you, keeping your walls spread open as they tried to tighten up again- add to it the sensation of red-hot cum trying to fill every crevice inside you. You ended up relaxing against the table under you with a sigh, ready to enjoy waiting for his orgasm to taper off.

It didn’t.

Your orgasm washed over you without warning as another flood of cum made Punz’s cock twitch inside you. You choked on nothing as your body finally started to succumb to overstimulation, your clit rubbed raw from grinding against the coarse hair on his pubic mound. “Wha- stah- can’t-” He either didn’t hear you or didn’t care as he pumped you full- god, it felt like you had half a dozen loads in you already, and he showed no signs of stopping.

It was pathetically long before your brain started to work again, only spurred on when he changed the angle he was pressing into you at and you felt something pressing against your ass.

“Tanuki… mythos… giant… fuck.”

Sure enough, in your wonderment over his giant cock you neglected to notice the equally large balls you could feel clenching with every new shot of cum added to the virtual lake inside you. You could feel it sloshing around as Punz continued to grind into you- you were at your limit, but it had nowhere to go. He made sure of that, practically folding you in half, turning you into nothing more than a nice, tight hole to empty his balls into. 

Your thighs were tight from such an awkward position and you tried to adjust, whining when Punz’s hold didn’t budge. The noise seemed to wake something in him, pretty blue eyes blinking rapidly from where he’d been staring at your quivering pussy. “Ah- let me…” He lowered your legs to wrap around his waist once again and used one hand on your ass and one under your back to lift you off the desk, managing to pick you up without disturbing his cock, still locked into your womb firing loads of cum every few seconds. Another orgasm came over you- weak but very much felt- and you trembled in his arms, clinging to him in an attempt to- well, you weren’t sure. Either way, he slowly stumbled to the other side of his desk and practically fell into his chair, either ignorant or ignoring your whimper as the movement made him jab at your inner walls. “There… we… go,” he mused as he adjusted you to be comfortable, skirt falling down to hide the way he filled you with cum to replace the trails leaking out of you, pooling around the base of his cock.

Punz propped his feet up on the desk, sending you crashing into his chest with a slight puff of air escaping your lips. His arms came up to wrap around your waist, rubbing your back to soothe you as you waited for the endless pour of cum to cease.

“That’s it, just relax,” he hummed, sounding like he was just as close to falling asleep as you were. “...Consider your tent and first month on me, bunny…"

#angymouse #squeakin #smut #mcyt smut #minors dni #karlsqueaks #punnysqueaks #missmayor

[monty-glasses-roxy]

So the Mini Music Men in New Management AU. Long post ahead! Most of it under a readmore because I’m not an asshole. Enjoy!

First off! A little bit of context!

These guys are Roxy’s besties. They were her first friends in the Pizzaplex as they approached her before she was even allowed out of the construction site that would become the Raceway. They have no voicebox and thus, communicate via vague gestures and via foot tapping as their ‘hands’ are also solidly attached to their cymbals and thus, not useable.

NOW

In terms of this AU, when Roxy is promoted to manager in her attractions, she gains control over the Raceway, the Glamrock Salon, the Raceway lobby in the atrium and any adjacent areas that serve these attractions (such as go-kart storage areas, staff areas, the tunnels surrounding the Raceway, etc. etc.). This power over the attractions gives her the ability to introduce (or reintroduce) animatronics to the Raceway to work alongside her. She and the Minis have often had conversations with DJ, Sunny, Moon and whoever else on this kind of thing happening, dreaming about how much better everything could be if they could do whatever they wanted. As such, Roxy has promised for literal years that if she ever gained control of the Raceway, the first thing she would do, is give them the life they deserve as the Raceway’s official pit crew.

So that’s exactly what she does! She and the Minis work on redesigns, making new bodies that fit exactly what they want to look like with all the cool functions they never thought they could ever have and building them up for a massively successful debut to the crowds. Now a little bit about these guys of all time… (I’d draw them too but I am STRUGGLING with that)

In terms of their redesigns they all have the same base that they all agreed on. It’s much more spiderlike in terms of body shape. They’re not just a cylinder with a bobble head, arms and eight legs, they’re actually spider shaped with a humanoid upper body and rounded square head. Think Ms Tarantula from The Bad Guys movie in terms of the kind of body shape I’m talking about. They each gain actual hands they can use that aren’t attached to an instrument and that takes a long while to get used to, and have full control over what they choose to look like.

First up is Bobbin. They use they/them and he/him pronouns. They got their name from Bonnie before he was decommissioned. They used to steal the bobbins from his box of sewing contraband and thus, Bonnie nicknamed him the Bobbin Thief. During the redesign, Bobbin chose to be red in colour, with a smooth, stripy design to them. They have little fangs now and they have yet to settle on a new instrument, though is leaning on keeping the little trumpet they have as their main instrument of choice. An interesting thing they asked for the ability to do was to light up with colour changing LEDs. As such they can now act as a little nightlight and use this new ability to convey their mood sometimes if they’re having trouble conveying it. He’d seen others ike them long before they were in the Pizzaplex with that ability and they were always annoyed they didn’t have it too, so now they do! He’s very happy about it!

Bobbin is a sleepy little guy. He ends up acting as Roxy’s spider shaped teddy bear a lot just because they’re always with her and always unbothered by it. This guy is so chill he really doesn’t care if she cuddles him to death on a bad day. He’s absolutely fascinated by what she does too. They’re like a little kid watching their older sibling play video games. They hang out and watch her fix everything from herself to her go-karts and random toys she found, but also loves watching her play arcade games, dance, sing, everything. It means he’s got a much more in-depth knowledge about these things than the others do and knows much more about what Roxy likes to spend her time doing than anyone else. The absolute master of the Autism Stare™ lmao. He’s just a little guy, and doesn’t really mind what’s going on around him so long as they’re comfy where they are. That being said, they love stealing highly specific objects. Like Bonnie’s bobbins? He stole so many of those. They collect bottle caps but only the pink ones and only ever the green ribbons. It’s always hyper specific with this guy. Very quiet, a little shy and very much attached to Roxy. Devastated when Bonnie just disappeared one day too and had to find out via Roxy what happened. Big ouch for the both of them. On a happier note, he’s a great listener and loves when someone starts infodumping about anything and everything. They love watching movies with Roxy and the others, and has the same favourite as her that they’ve watched maybe a billion times (It’s Herbie). Overall, a very chill little guy!

Now this new update to his design means he can be dressed up like a build-a-bear and the first thing they ask for is a bow tie. It’s his favourite thing ever and they wear it with everything. They favour wearing their racing jacket that matches Roxy’s and the other Mini’s jackets, and spiked bracelets that were a pain to get due to sizing and what not. No matter what they wear though and no matter how cool they look, the bow tie is on constantly. The snug hoodies they love, the cool jacket with their name on the back, a basic t-shirt, a little dress, whatever it is, there’s a bow tie. They love it to death. They have loads of them but they always pick either the green one or the black one. Sometimes a yellow one if they’re feeling particularly fancy. He’s the bow tie guy and they love him for it. Does it match anything? Nope. Never. Do they care? Absolutely not. He’s great.

Next up is Glowstick! She uses she/her and they/them pronouns and her name originates from the numerous times before the redesign that she dunked herself in the glow in the dark paint she found in the basement. When they were redesigned, they got the ability to glow in the dark built into her new body and she absolutely adores it. She chose yellows and oranges for her new design and has a pretty spotty pattern to her, with legs that fade from yellow into orange. Will still paint herself with glow in the dark paint on occasion though. Just for the extra patterns.

Glow is a bit more active than Bobbin. They were certainly more diligent when it comes to patrolling the vents, to make sure no one wanders in. She’s quite clumsy compared to the others, and dents are a fairly common occurrence for her. As a result of falling flat on her face a few too many times, her previous body was missing quite a lot of teeth and… yeah she started with more this time but she lost a few of them fairly quickly lmao. Glow is always down to clown and loves to jumpscare Monty in particular. It’s fun when people are scared of her sometimes and is probably the mastermind behind a few dozen pranks at least. The number one assistant to Roxy and her shenanigans for sure. She’s pretty good with coming up with fun things to do, and chooses to stick to the cymbals after their redesign. It’s good for big spooks.

In terms of what she likes to look like, she loves hats, beanies specifically. She is over the moon to have her top hat back. The hats are on a random rotation. They frequently wear a beanie, sure, but they switch it up a lot too. Wears a lot of little friendship bracelets and beaded necklaces with her cool jacket with her name on the back. Glow also really likes having a backpack with small snacks for kids and staff in it once they get more used to their role in the spotlight again.

Thirdly, we have Poppet who uses they/them and he/him pronouns. After their redesign, they choose to have their body primarily be green in colour with dark, jagged stripe patterning like lightning bolts. They got their name when and incident with the others dropped him right in front of an elderly customer that was strangely very sympathetic as they picked the little guy back up and lifted them back up to the vents. They very gently spoke to them, comfortingly calling them a little poppet before letting them go again and the whole thing stuck with him forever.

Poppet is a gentle little guy that loves helping out with stuff. As I said, that event where someone helped them really stuck with them, and over time, it really became a part of them. It was their idea to approach Roxy for the first time when she seemed upset and was the only one brave enough to do so at first. They’re super organised and is a great help to Roxy in making sure she doesn’t lose every tool she’s ever used ever. While Bobbin understands and knows more about all of this stuff from listening to her infodumping almost daily, Poppet is the one with the more practical knowledge and as such, is pretty capable when it comes to doing these things on their own despite lacking the confidence to do so without Roxy guiding him. It’s more fun when they do it together anyway. Her inventiveness has rubbed off on him quite a lot, and he’s become quite the idea guy. He’s the smart one that figured out how to play arcade games via teamwork and by jumping on the buttons like a DDR game. Tippy (the last mini here, we’ll get to him soon) and him make an amazing team as Poppet has the ideas and Tippy will just do it no questions asked. This being said, Poppet is a creative at heart. They absolutely adore stickers and is normally absolutely covered in them. Honestly, he would have layers upon layers of stickers on them if left unattended for too long. They used to steal sticker sheets every single chance they got and is infinitely glad they don’t have to do that anymore. The moment they get a sticker making machine is the day their life will be complete. This is all they want in life. Sunny is the biggest enabler for this as he has a huge supply of stickers. Poppet loves craft times with Sunny and Moon it’s their favourite pass time. And once he gets used to the new dexterity of not having broken cymbals for hands? He’s the number one culprit whenever there’s crayon drawings on things that should not have crayon drawings on them lmao. Speaking of cymbals, he switches to a mini ukulele or something. It sounds funny to them and is also covered in stickers. Or maybe a little piccolo? Hm

They usually pick flowery clothes to wear. Is more likely to wear skirts and stuff as a result of that. He loves every jacket they’ve ever been given, the spiked bracelets and very commonly wears a scarf or a bandana around their neck. Chica gave him the idea for magnetic earrings like what she has and he immediately asked for them. Their collection of earrings grows by the day now lmao. Their jackets and what not always have buttons shaped like flowers and their backpack they don’t often use has a flower shaped button on it too. Little guy likes his flowers!

Finally, we have Tippy. He uses he/him and they/them pronouns primarily but wouldn’t particularly care if they were called she/her or any other pronouns out there. He got his name because he’s always tapping. He will dance to literally anything, and thus, is always making the happy tippy taps with his little feets. Speaking of feet, instead of having eight legs like the others, he chose to have seven instead. He lost one forever ago and didn’t see the point in changing that. He certainly doesn’t need eight legs when they’ve managed this long without them after all. They chose blue for their primary colour scheme and has cool square patterns and smooth stripes on his legs. He is the only one to gain a ‘voice’ out of the group, though it’s basically just a smaller version of the one DJ has in that it’s the ability to play music. No words, just music. Their laughter is now very happy pianos and what not and they love it to pieces.

In terms of character, Tippy is a bit of a ‘no thoughts, head empty’ kind of guy. He absolutely loves dancing and music of all kinds. He’ll dance to the Nokia ring tone and a car alarm if given the opportunity. He loves all of this stuff so much and was frequently sneaking into areas with a drum kit from Monty’s drummer days in order to play them via stomping very loudly on them. He’s a loud little guy, and chooses a drum as their new instrument after the redesign but still loves the cymbals. Just one of those guys that likes hitting things I guess. Very creative when making music with just foot tapping and has a lot of fun with it. Tippy is pretty much up for anything really. They make the perfect team with Poppet, and he trusts them implicitly. Don’t dare him to do anything ever. No matter what it is, he’ll probably do it. He loves participating in shenanigans and learns how to play arcade games with Poppet’s guidance real fast. He’ll appear out of nowhere whenever Roxy starts playing music to dance on the desk and as a result, has started many a dance party before. He’s got a little bit of a temper on him though. Before Roxy gained control of the Raceway and was able to make it a safe place for them all, the circumstances they were living in would often get to him and he’d be the first to throw himself into making distractions in dangerous situations to let the others escape. The whole situation just made him angry sometimes, and then when they found out that Bonnie – Bobbin’s friend – had just been decommissioned out of nowhere? They barely knew the guy but it still made him so mad that none of their lives seem to mean anything. He absolutely refuses to let Roxy think she might be next. He’s learned how to distract her and how to cheer her up over the years of knowing her and he has to use this knowledge a lot more than he’d ever like. On a brighter note, they like triggering Roxy’s zoomies and running around with her, even when she keeps almost accidentally steam rolling them. It’s still fun after all! Anyway, Tippy loves origami. They like making paper planes out of post-it notes and throwing them at the unsuspecting passerby, and is a master at making origami hats for himself and the others to wear. They don’t need their hands to do that and they don’t change their methods just because they have them now. It’s more fun to kick paper into submission so they say lmao

Tippy loves the leather jackets, the racing jackets and the spiked bracelets. They wear a pair of headphones themed on DJ a lot that Roxy made sure actually work as they’re supposed to and thinks it’s fun to tie bells to their wrists and legs to jingle as they dance as well. They got the idea for that from Sunny. Really doesn’t like anything but headphones being around their neck and they will show up with one of those squid shaped hats at the absolute randomest of times and it always gets a laugh out of someone.

And that’s the four of them! Some of them have a bit more going on than others, but they’re a little team and they’re well loved. In the Raceway updates, they get their own go-karts to race, their own jobs to do, their own trophies and awards to hand out, their own soft play area for the younger kids that’s actually the perfect size for them and all sorts of stuff. They’re not known as the Mini Music Men anymore, they’re known solely as ‘The Pit Crew’ and are now Roxy’s team of racing experts because the best racer needs only the best of teams to back her up. They’re friendlier in design now, and they each have their own unique appearances, which is something they never thought they’d get a chance to have. Their first month or so in the spotlight is overwhelming, and so very exciting for them and they’re so damn proud of themselves when things go well. It’s Roxy’s job every day to inflate their ego like balloons after closing every day. They deserve it.

I have a lot more to say about how they would integrate into the Raceway and the Pizzaplex, but yeah this is more on who they are which is something I’ve not talked about much. Lemme know if you made it this far this is a longass post lmao. Enjoy!

#fnaf security breach #long post #mini music men #roxanne wolf #new management au #into the queue it goes!!

[makutaibo]

Duty. Part I

Tholnair's hands tightened on the reins of Challenge's bridle as he looked toward the small village his platoon was approaching. The rumours, it seemed, were true: the Empire's flags were all but gone, with what little remaining of them smouldering in the still air of the winter day. Tholnair had feared this day would come a long time. Because he did not know what to do now that it was here.

When he was taken from his home as a child, he expected to find nothing but monsters in the capital. Instead, he found others like him, taken from the isles to keep them in line for the Empire, and others unlike him that he befriended all the same. For a while, he found himself enjoying his life within the Empire, and even began taking pride in his work as a soldier. His duty was his life, and he carried it proudly.

With the events of Othin's Folly, that began to change. His platoon was redeployed; first to the streets of Mahalshiraam, to curb the protests of the people, then out into the field, to remind the Empire's citizens of their sovereigns. Tholnair recalled the reminder the gods had given the people massing in Mahalshiraam. It was a sight he prayed to one day forget, despite knowing it would haunt him to the end of his days.

The voice of Draigh pulled him from his rumination. "Tholnair, tell the men to gather the villagers in the square. They're allowed to use force, if necessary."

Tholnair could not meet his commander's single remaining eye. "Sir. Is a show of force truly the best course of action here?"

He knew the answer he would receive. The Goliath was, like him, of Floating Isle heritage, but had served the Empire since before Tholnair was born. If there had ever been conflicting feelings on the Empire in Draigh's heart, they had long since atrophied and died.

"The Gods themselves gave the order: dissidents are to be punished. A show of force'll deter others from following their lead."

"But-"

"That's an order, Tholnair." Draigh's voice went soft and low, with a dangerous edge that brooked no argument. "Tell the men to gather the villagers, then set up the block."

Trying to suppress the intense feeling of nausea building in him, Tholnair shouted the orders to the rest of the platoon, then set about preparing the large wooden chopping block in the midst of the village square. It was not his first time using it. Many a bandit lost their head by his hand atop the block, with their crimes read out by Draigh before Tholnair swung his greatsword. He considered the duty of headsman a near sacred one. He tried to ignore how using it on the people he protected from those bandits felt akin to blasphemy.

The square quickly filled with the residents of the village. Many were not much older than eighteen, and many others were younger still. All looked at him with stark fear in their eyes. For the first time in his life, he wished his helmet had a visor to hide behind.

Draigh began pacing by the assembled villagers, and bellowed in their gravelly voice: "Who here is responsible for the burning of the Empire's banners?" When no one responded, they continued: "If you turn over the culprits, we can mete out the justice of the Empire with precision." The shadows of the setting sun hid their eye as they stopped in front of a young adult whose eyes were fixed solidly to the ground. "If you don't, we'll have to assume your village acted in unison. Meaning you will all be punished as seditionists."

The silence stretched with the shadows for a long moment. The only sound was the stirring of the horses and the gentle rustle of distant trees in the wind. Tholnair felt sick.

Draigh shrugged. "As you wish." They reached down, grabbing the human before them by the shoulder and dragging them toward the block. Several villagers cried out in protest, only to shrink back as Tholnair's comrades stepped forward threateningly. With a grunt of exertion, Draigh threw the kid at Tholnair's feet, then demanded: "What's your name, traitor?"

The kid looked up at Tholnair, and he saw disgust in their eyes. It was far from the first time Tholnair had been looked upon in disgust. Being a child of the Floating Isles in the Empire was to be treated as lesser by fools who thought themselves your better. But here, the look stung. Tholnair averted his eyes in shame. As such, he only heard as the kid spat at Draigh's feet.

The Goliath looked down at the spit by his feet, grinned, and backhanded the kid with a gauntleted fist. They fell limply onto the chopping block. Draigh mentioned for Tholnair to lift his blade, and he reluctantly complied. He was a soldier. He had to do his duty.

"Nameless traitor, you have committed the crime of sedition from the Empire of the Gods!"

He was a soldier. He had to do his duty.

"The punishment for sedition is death!"

He had to do his duty.

"May this execution serve as an example to the enemies of the Gods!"

He swung his blade downwards. And drove it point first into the ground beside the block.

#Saanabon'ra archive