#BUT NO MATTER THE CASE. Well . I had fun :]

[callizinc]

Ena in Dream BBQ and Work Culture

HELLO Dashboard!! Ever since i first played DBBQ i've found the entire game endlessly interesting (as have most people, LOL) But one of the most interesting, and in my opinion, most Potent things, is Ena's character and how she relates to the game's commentary on modern work culture.

So for anyone as much of a #SICKO as me 😭 Here's an embarrassingly long analysis of just that! There's SO much to talk about with this game, and even when I'm trying to focus on one specific idea with this post, I'm sure I'll still miss things, so just stick with me best you can OK? 😭 😭

My aim for this post is to allow you to understand Just how deep in the torment nexus Ena is, and to want to say "she should be at the club" Only to realize she can't even go to the club. She can't even go to the club. Because of Job. (Among other, hopefully more intelligently articulated things!)

SO, Let's just jump right in :D

First, to state the obvious—Ena's literal entire life is her job. The only moods she expresses under normal circumstance are "smooth talking salesperson where every line is about working or trying to sell something" and "Stops keeping up the veneer and gets frustrated and pissed because she hates her stupid job."

This permeates every aspect of her character—I don't think there's a single line in the game so far where she says like, Anything about herself. There's nothing about what she may want or what she may like. It's all about her fuckass job or the fuckass Boss.

And of course, even in gameplay aspects, you literally don't get a chance to choose whether you accept a job or not, like the thought of doing anything besides giving her time and energy for other people or her job's benefit doesn't even occur to her (Or, it can't occur to her—I doubt the Boss would want to allow her reprieve from anything at all, and I'm sure Ena would know this).

(^ Ena's reaction to being told to find a mythical figure that she maybe didn't even know existed cause Froggy sure as hell didn't to do a stupid job for Froggy's stupid ass. Like)

Maybe i'm reaching here, but I even find it interesting how her red hand has no fingers (besides a thumb). I feel like that represents a lack of individuality she has when she's in Salesperson mode, or at least, a lack of individuality she's been allowed. A lack of having a defined being cause it's all about this stupid job.

There's lots of avenues to go from here, but let's start with another big point of the game: Everybody hates her. Except for like, three characters, every NPC in the game either insults her, talks down to her, blatantly doesn't respect her, or Literally tells her nobody should be punished for being born except her. Typical day for Ena.

I'm not going to get into why I think this is—for me there's not enough evidence to speculate with surety right now—but I think this does tie strongly into her commitment to her job. Ena working her ass off in every aspect of her life and earning nothing but disrespect for it is very reminiscent of real life work environments.

Think of how almost every NPC claims they are "the Boss" in such a way that many of them seem to want to be the Boss, like he's some kind of well-known or respected figure. The description for the game on Steam even says as much: "Play as ENA as she searches for the Boss that everyone wants to be."

(eg: "I am the B-O-S-S!"):

People wish they were the Boss, they want to be some kind of rich capitalist with power and fame, but when looking at someone who actually works for him, and probably is the reason the Boss has profit and success in the first place, they insult her and demean her no matter how much she gives herself to them and the Boss. I'm sure you can see the real life parallels here.

It's even possible one of the reasons Ena works so hard in the first place is as an attempt to earn respect from these people, or to make up for whatever everyone thinks she did that made everyone hate her so much. Especially considering...

Our society is one that tells its people that Work is unequivocally Good. Committing yourself to work is what everyone, no matter who they are or what they face, is what you have to do to be a valuable member of society, and to have any respect from other people in the slightest. It tells its people that you only have value as a living human being at all if you give your life to work.

Even though this blatantly isn't true. If people think you're the Wrong type of worker, or if people think your work isn't valuable, helpful, or that it doesn't require skill, you can work as hard as you want but you'll still be treated like shit. But, hey, work is still your duty as a member of society, right? Stop bitching and whining and pull yourself up by your bootstraps, right?

Needless to say, it's easy to see how this whole idea is being represented in DBBQ. She even knows how much she's sold herself to this, she just... Seems to have extremely casually accepted it all LOL, which, I mean... What else does she have the power to do?

This very casual and nonchalant acknowledgement of her lack of autonomy connects to another big point: Ena doesn't value herself, nor does she even know how to exist without being in a constant state of working.

Let's talk about the Purge: There's a LOT to get to here in terms of Ena herself LOL, but the intrigue starts before she even enters the party. Literally Froggy just saying she's about to enter an "Event" stops her in her tracks and worries her. Not to mention the next line...

This feels like an indication that despite how much she commits herself to it, Ena does "crave freedom" from her shitty job, although she can scarcely admit this anywhere else so far. Then, if you talk to this slime guy, you get some strange text.

As far as I know, the text for interacting with things doesn't look like this anywhere else in the game. And given that it looks exactly the same as how Ena's lines do in the Purge, it's seemingly the only peek we get into her internal monologue, and it is. Quite worrying! She literally can climb up a hellish freezing floating mountain and yet this is by far the most freaked out she gets in the entire game.

And then to actually get into the Purge, an Evil eye Ball tells her that she needs to give a literal arm or a leg to get in. And she just does it. Like no hesitation no further questions she just gives it away to the evil eye ball. Presumably for Good? Because the only reason she regains the arm later is because of Genie magic? Like Ena. Girl. Are we gonna talk about this at all.

But so many real life work environments expect you to give every part of yourself in order to be allowed to exist and live in society, including your physical being and critical parts of your personhood at all.

(Let me also say I find it intentional that she gave away her white arm. Whereas her red hand literally doesn't have fingers, the sharp claws she has on her white hand represent the individuality and unique identity she Does have. However, it's also the part of herself that's in conflict with her ability to be a Good Worker, that always does exactly what she's supposed to do, and never complains, and never gets in the way of her duties.)

She was already very distressed here, but it's a clear indication of how little she values herself. It was a motion to lose a part of herself just to reach the Genie, both for her stupid job, and possibly for the possibility of "freedom" from it all. And your average job these days—no matter how important you are to your cause—will drill it into you that your ability to be a good worker is infinitely more important than your existence as a person. It's easy to see how Ena may have internalized that.

And then she goes to the club one time and this happens

I won't get too deep into her dialogue with the NPCs here because I think their intention is pretty clear; Being in a place so antithetical to a work environment, and a place where she's supposed to let loose and have fun, is so distressing and impossible to even fathom for her that This Happens.

(see: "H-How can I leave this stupid event? M-my lame schedule is full,")

Like, everything at the Purge is insane, but this is a particularly heartbreaking line for me. One because of her job's shitty environment that's broken her down so much—do you think she EVER gets a break, because I sure don't—but also because of how it's conditioned her to not even believe she can "afford another minute of joy." Ena :[

Note how she's covered in these branches that started growing during Froggy's phone call, which look very similar to how she looks in this gag with the Shaman—it's literally her nervous system. In her scene with Mitu she even says she's feeling "sick," She's literally freaked out of her flipping Gourd with her goddamn Nerves On The Outside

Hell, even though Meanie's speaking (which, I mean, no shit, in another line she literally describes her job as "deplorable" 😭), these sprites in the files are actually labelled "Anxiety", suggesting that she's SO freaked out by being somewhere supposed to be so opposite to her work she's become another variant of herself, a la Drunk Ena from Season 1.

I won't get much more into this, because @cube-cumb3r has a PHENOMENAL post I'll link in the notes that goes deeper into this stuff from the Purge and the "Anxiety" thing, And also gets more into theory territory than I do here! Please please go read that post, it is so damn good.

In any case, I think the scenes with the Purge NPCs are the biggest examples in the whole game of how much she hates her fuckass job, yet she can't be allowed to be anything besides a wage slave to it. And just as she's internalized everybody in her world's dislike of her, she hates herself for it.

So:

We've established that Ena's shitty job parallels the real life work conditions that plague our world, and that these conditions have caused her to devalue herself and believe she can't have any reprieve from them... but, what even is her job?

Apparently she's a salesperson, but what is she even selling? She tries to offer a "divestment opportunity", and tells the Witches she can show them how to "grow [their] own [boss]" which definitely falls in line with the Sales thing, but besides that it's still not clear, even when she talks to Froggy.

I suppose the "grow their own boss" line does sound a lot like the phrasing used in MLM schemes, with how they lure people in by telling them they can "be their own boss." The Receptionist also calls Ena a scammer and a conman, so maybe she is a sort of scammer, but, I also don't exactly think the Receptionist think she has the most reliable opinions of Ena LOL

She also calls her a "pink-collar slug", pink collar meaning a job traditionally associated with women, which. ??? I don't fully know where to go with that.. like ...Nothing she does harkens to... Any kind of job expected to be done by women, imo?? Um. Yeah idk i just thought that may be significant??/ 😭😭😭😭 Listen man I can't know it all

Anyway. Maybe I'll be proven embarrassingly wrong when we receive more information in future chapters, but I think the lack of clarity on what she's supposed to be is representative of the games themes. The constant disrespect Ena receives makes her seem likely to be a low-tier worker, someone at the bottom of the ladder that people have no problems walking all over.

Because these types of jobs will treat you the same no matter who you are or what you're supposed to be doing. She's doing what the world tells her she needs to do in order to be a respected member of society, and yet she's also someone people feel comfortable treating poorly because she's at the bottom—because has no power of her own. It doesn't matter what she's supposed to be doing, it matters that she's the Wrong type of worker.

And how is she supposed to ever say anything for herself? It seems virtually baked into her Salesperson side to completely ignore past all the rude things these assholes say to her. After all, not only would that probably just make most people ruder to her (and impede her ability to complete jobs for them) isn't the customer always right?

...OK I will say her whole "Understood! Aim for the target!" line DOES seem like her overall job here is to fucking kill the Boss, but this is long enough already and the likely theme of Ena having a violent streak and whatnot is another beast entirely that I am NOT getting into here 😭😭

Besides, maybe she has no clearly defined job because we've already seen exactly what it is. To sell her life, time, and emotions to whatever all these clowns ask of her, and to receive no reward besides another goddamn job to do.

I think future chapters may delve more into Ena's true feelings on her situation, and possibly even how she'll get freedom from it. Allow me to mention the scenes with Theodora, wherein if you try to "aspire to receive a blissful life" Theodora just tells Ena "You can't aspire for more than what you are capable of." (LIKE OKAYYYY.... RUDE MUCH????)

Until, finally:

How is her mind—containing a desire for freedom—supposed to be in harmony with the letters it spits out, when she's been so conditioned that the only thing she's allowed to be is a worker?

Now, even I still have a lot of questions after this. Like: What has happened in Ena's past that made her this way? How and why did she take this job in the first place? What is up with the "Guys wait, I'm not doing what you say I'm doing" scene I literally didn't even mention that once here. Why should nobody be punished for being born except poor damn Ena, and does it relate to any of the themes I just talked about?

I... don't know. Like I actually truly have no idea. But I have confidence, even if it's in a delightfully vague and abstract Ena-typical way, that we'll find out eventually.

[thenightshadowqueen]

Livestream Watchthrough Thoughts (14-12-2024)

I loved this stream! It was a lot of fun, despite the heckler (they made some great jokes out of it, but it’s still a shitty thing to do), and… Yeah, I don’t have much else to say before I start my thoughts, other than I made a new tag for my watchthrough thoughts, because I’ll probably be making these again. They’re really fun to make, and it seems like there are some people who enjoy reading them, too, so it all works out quite well.

The audio is great!!!

“Lovely little Luke Manning” I love that this is a new thing Sam seems to be doing

Tom has his head in his hands a minute in… this is going to be a good show

Honestly, just settling in and listening to Sam’s intro is so comforting (can you tell my autism likes repetition?)

“I’m taking the joke about German train stations out of my head, because Tom doesn’t want everyone to hate me” this intro has had some edgier jokes and I’m here for it

Callback to the Prime Minister’s First Day!

“I almost understand everything you say!” He said it so earnestly

I know it’s a different tunnel, but… Cliff, is that you?

AJ inserting what’s meant to be a one-off atmosphere-setting singsong and then Sam making him change it over and over is peak SFTH

We made it all the way through munchkin land with Luke without a short joke—amazing!

“Your performance” okay fuck this guy (slight overreaction? …No.)

(They are doing a really good job of handling the heckler, though)

I love the new format of Letters!!!

“Jonathan Rolex” I genuinely have no idea if this is a real person involved with creating Rolex watches (I assume not, but I do not know anything about this sort of thing, so I could be wrong)

“How fucking dare you” Luke is amazing at picking tones of voice; he sounds so politely offended and it’s great

Ooh, we’re breaking the… It’s not really the fourth wall, but kind of?

“You’re. In. …Words.” I love AJ

“Yay!” That was so sweet; Tom is amazing

I love when they do this accent (I’m not sure what part of the UK it’s from and now I fear I’m living up to American stereotypes (I swear I used to know, but I’m exhausted and it’s been a minute since I looked it up))

“Shut the FUCK UP!” Fuck yeah Sam and AJ!

Also Sam indirectly calling the heckler an ass is iconic

“For a wise man, you’ve got to work on your mime” I love it when they insult each other (look insults are a love language, okay, and I like seeing people have friends)

“Tell me a little bit about gold, then” I love that AJ took not knowing what frankincense was (which I assume was genuine, although it could have just been a bit) and turned it into a running joke with the gold

This is so confused and I love it

“I’m Frank; it’s my incense” we can always rely on Tom for wordplay

“Then I put down the hammer” fucking plot twist, Luke, good god

“Cheryl is now…” “Knocked out.” Honestly, I thought they were going to go for ‘dead’, so it’s better than it could have been

“This is becoming a regular occurrence” Tom???

“Is this a robbery, Aaron? Are you robbing the company?” “Only if you force me to get the gun out of my pocket.” This show is gold

“You also have another gun, which is clearly in your belt” I really thought that we were going… somewhere else with that

I’m the tiniest bit sad we didn’t get two lesbians (but obviously I’m also very happy with the scene we got)

Honestly ‘in the round’ is a hilarious suggestion

“I don’t know how to cry. My childhood was bad.” Sam

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Wes Anderson film, but their impressions are always top tier

Luke desperately trying to get Sam to actually understand the Spanish and Sam just failing is amazing

“Get yourself... a drug problem” SAM

Is it a SFTH show if Sam doesn’t unbutton his shirt?

“Calm down” Sam is amazing

“I think I’m going to give Luke the most appropriate book that I've ever given him...” “I Want that Twink Obliterated” oh my god (also, like... I can’t believe that’s a real book) (I absolutely can)

“Pretty sure that's the title of one of our fanfictions” well I’m sure it’s going to be now (also I know they know about the fandom and fandom activities but it still kills me whenever they talk about it)

“Will you please stop trying to have a conversation?” I love that Luke and AJ are just messing up the way the game is meant to work

“Chapter fourteen.” “How did you know we're filing for bankruptcy?” Tom that was an amazing save

This was actually surprisingly wholesome considering the title of Luke's book

The five seconds of pure holding-back-laughter staring between Sam and AJ at ‘egg’

Sam

“I’m going to fuck you up, sun” as a person whose chronic illness gets worse in heat, I don’t think Tom has ever said a more relatable thing

“Well, aren’t we standing in two bland positions” Tom is great

“Here we are. The two men in the world with the longest penises, touching tips.” Well that escalated quickly

I know snake eyes is a dice thing, but... Snakehips?

“Calm down” pt. 2; I love Sam (although I do hope it doesn’t actually bother him)

“If you kiss me now” being interrupted by a kiss is brilliant timing

Also AJ’s still wearing the bracelet ❤️

Fucking hell, Sam (him just grabbing Luke unprompted like that caught me so off guard)

“I’m putting this in a museum” Tom???????

“Now, am I saying ‘see it, say it, sort it’ or ‘see it, say it, sorted’?” “Well, based on that poster, I think it's ‘sorted’.” Look, as an American, I am grateful for the clarification (also hi, SNftHitW)

“The next station is Cockfosters.” “That's not on the Metropolitan Line.” I said in my last watchthrough that I love when AJ makes an unimportant mistake and Sam latches on to it, and I stand by that statement. (Also, they mention Cockfosters station a lot; is that a particularly popular stop, or do they just pick it because it has a memorable name?)

“Yes, well, he does make a lot of promises, doesn’t he?” Oooh, drama (and sass)

“Good evening and welcome to Chip Harrington. I’m Chip Harrington—” Is Chip Harrington related to André Beetroot? (Also I love Chip Harrington already)

I realise AJ stumbling over his words is probably an accident, but I feel like it’s important characterisation for Chip

Also is Chip Harrington grown-up Chip from the Cardboard Stegosaurus? (Seems unlikely, but it’s possible)

Luke causing trouble is the best

“Be very scared” wow, what a news reporter

I adore the way AJ just said ‘~metropolitan~’ (and Chip Harrington and André Beetroot are definitely related, because that was almost a Beetrootian accent slip)

Luke as a child does the most adorable, innocent little faces, and it kills me

“Oh, I needed to tell you something...” see now i really want to know what that was

Luke’s abduction technique is… interesting

“I’m going to copy your face” Luke???

“Just because I fucked your wife Cassandra—” plot twist! (“You didn’t know that.”)

“I was going to give you anaesthetic before I did this; now I’m not so sure” Sam taking his cues from the audience’s response and going “kinky” killed me

“I’ve always thought you were a handsome fellow” hello (god damn it, another niche ship to add to the collection)

“These noisy streets” I love Tom’s passive aggressive way of calling out the people talking at the back

“You always say ‘this is Chip Harrington, and I’m Chip Harrington’, but it’s actually called the news?” I love Tom’s character, and I don’t think we got a name for her, but she deserves one

“I’m Chip Harrington” look he may not have any idea how but he’s trying to help

“I thought you were going to say anal” Tom

Okay so Sam’s acting as Luke’s character pretending to be Sam’s character is incredible

Tom’s baffled/disgusted face as he tries to figure out where they are is everything

“I need to be outside at all times” I know this is meant to be a bit character, but I’m genuinely really intrigued by this storyline

I can’t be the only one who feels like Chip and the mum have a bit of chemistry…

AJ messing up his name after saying it a thousand times might be my new favourite thing

I know we talk a lot about AJ’s singing—as we should—but Sam is also really good

“It’s like that, but really much weirder” AJ is amazing

Chip Harrington is the best

This is chaos

Honestly Tom’s character is a great mum

“There’s a man out on my lawn who won’t shut the fuck up” I love Tom

I genuinely think the mum might be the most sane character we’ve ever gotten

“The audience will ~never know~” god damn it, I’ve been entrapped by another play

I love that the Underground Murderer didn’t actually kill anyone

Tom and Sam’s high-pitched-voice bit at the end is amazing

“We’ll never see some of you ever again. Hopefully that motherfucker.” Fuck. Yes. Sam!

I really hate that they had to deal with that heckler (but they did do an amazing job)

[gingermintpepper]

For the longest time, the quintessential song describing Apollo's wrath and consequent murder of Coronis for me was Marah in the Mainsail's 'Your Work isn't Done'.

It's dark. It's seething. Its image of Fate pushing the scorned speaker to complete his foul, terrible work of killing the man who stole his lover away from him is particularly powerful and it's always evoked this gruesomely tragic evolution of a glassy eyed Apollo stumbling through the streets, weak-legged and trembling from the betrayal growning more and more wrathful 'til he can think of no other course than to aim his bow and shoot. The price of betraying his trust is death and Coronis betrayed so much more than just his trust by taking Ischys as her lover.

The song itself captures that sensation of building wrath so well too. From the lonely guitar and vocals at the beginning which evoke this lonely, stripped back but distant grief to the way the singer is practically screaming his refrain of "Your work here isn't done" by the end, accompanied by the full blasting of instruments and an omnious chorus at his side, everything about this song is centered around building stakes, building realisations, building tensions and it creates this feeling of the speaker growing closer and closer with each new verse and chorus that adds to his anger.

There's also the absolute treasure trove of lyrics that work so well for specifically this tale. A brief overview of some of my favourites include;

- There's a crow overhead singing "Oh, Death is my friend."

- And though you think your time has come, the wheels of Fate have spun. Death has declared your work here isn't done.

- There's a girl on my heart safe ashore in her lover's arms

There's just such a vivid image to be drawn here - of Apollo's emotions being swallowed by his rage, of his resolve to end everything the more he bears witness to Coronis' brazen affair. There's even a strong female voice in the first two verses which seem to egg the speaker on in his spiral - a perfect opening to include Artemis who wishes for her brother to hunt that which brought him such pain alongside her. An Artemis who reinforces just what Coronis has done, an Artemis who does not want her brother to repress his anger after such grave an insult just because love was once there.

To me, it was perfect. Apollo's killing of Coronis was a crime of passion, an execution he sometimes cannot even bring himself to commit according to who is telling the tale. It's a wretched situation, harrowing, suffocating and cruel but if not by Apollo's hands, Coronis would simply die by another's. She cannot live after what she has done. The gods simply would not allow it.

AND THEN MY BIAS WAS COMPLETELY WRECKED BY LORD HURON.

Now, let it be known, I am a huge Lord Huron fan. Strange Trails is perhaps the most Apollo-coded album I've ever heard and songs like Yawning Grave and The Balancer's Eye capture such a visceral, gorgeous portrait of cosmic grief and anger that they haven't really left my brain since I first listened to them. Still, 'Setting Sun' from their Lonesome Dream album completely flew under my radar. Maybe it's because the commercial version is so much snappier than the Alive from Whispering Pines recording, maybe it's because I just hadn't listened to Lord Huron's discography in a while but my god. My god.

This song has it all; a quiet menace in its music, a strong male singer who sounds only barely restrained, an absolute HOST of lyrics that are so wonderfully perfect for the scenario -- after getting over how wonderful the song itself is, I immediately dethroned Your Work isn't Done because ultimately, 'Setting Sun' has something in abundance that 'Your Work isn't Done' minimised in order to focus on the wrath driving the song forward.

And that's love.

Setting Sun is so powerful because it's not just a revenge ballad - it's a dirge, a breakup song, a lament, a regret manifesto. So many times during the song, the speaker wonders when his lover stopped loving him. He recounts intimate moments and wonders if his lover was thinking of the other man when she was enjoying herself, wonders if anything she'd said was even real. And I love that so, so much.

Ultimately, Apollo adored Coronis. As inevitable as her death was, he regretted every second of it. No matter how angry, no matter how betrayed, no matter how intensely he was shamed, he still loved her. He weeps for her when she dies, he screams and grieves and cries when he's faced with her corpse. In some tales, no matter the cocktail of emotion driving him, he simply cannot bring himself to kill her. He'd rather cry in Artemis' arms and take his anger out on his own servant than hurt her. His own father has to dispatch Ischys since Apollo can't even bring himself to hurt that which Coronis once loved. Of course, in this case, Apollo's going to kill someone but the point is, it's not a decision of pure anger so much as its this complicated, horrible mix of resolve and lost love.

And my god does Setting Sun capture this conflict, passion, grief and love so well. UGH, I'm vibrating just thinking about it -- there are so many points where I hear its lyrics and can vividly picture Apollo, jaw clenched looking Coronis in her eyes and quietly confronting her.

Coronis, returning home at twilight after spending the day with Ischys to Apollo stringing his bow, "Oh? Is he ready to die for you baby? No, but you know I would."

Coronis lying to him about who she's spent her time with and Apollo's soft, near pained, "Does it hurt when you lie to me? If you asked, I would set you free."

I even really love the image of a Coronis who runs away from Apollo upon realising what will soon happen, not to escape his arrows but to warn Ischys who does not know what will happen. Of Apollo getting into his stance, taking aim at them and gathering his strength as the final refrains rings out "I know I'll never reclaim your love and that's as hard as it gets, so I'll be taking a life when the sun sets."

Other favourite lines of mine include;

- Oh, is he ready to die for you baby, now that the deed is done?

- Tell me when did I lose your love? Was it him you were thinking of?

- And I could never betray your love, you had me heart and soul. You might never have known it girl, but I was all yours.

And ultimately, I just like this conflicted portrait of premeditated murder much more than the crime of passion 'Your Work isn't Done' paints. Crimes of passion - especially when Apollo is concerned - are tragic in their own right, but in Coronis' case, I think I prefer it so much more when there's no way for Apollo's action to be misconstrued for anything other than what it is, especially since he goes on to cut Asclepius from his mother's corpse then carry on with building her funeral pyre. I think there's something so much more impacting about Apollo being unable to hide away from Coronis' blood on his hands and him having to raise Asclepius with those selfsame hands.

Love of the mortal does not supercede the responsibility of the divine. If Coronis' sentence no matter what is death, who better to lead her gently to the knife than he who still loves her?

[unproduciblesmackdown]

come get your levitous sidekick / vicious bastard / funny little guys

[fluffle-writes]

I wanna. Pick them up in my mouth and shake 'em around like a dog obliterating a squeaky toy

[adhdphilosopher]

sent in my ~3 weeks notice for my weekend job! ive discovered that i don't actually enjoy painting

[fragmentedblade]

This seems to be a reference to Lorentz transformations? The first formula is apparently a derivation, and seems to be the inverse of the time part of the transformation (there's a space part too), for what I've been able to find.

The second formula is Newton's second law.

[abyssalpriest]

Damnit lev lmfao. I was thinking about Shiva wearing corpse ash being resonant for other reasons, something about his relationship with the Bright Skinned Ones and death and whatever. No, no. More fucking importantly: Oh I wonder why Shiva is known for. you know. wearing bodies. his appearance is a mass of bodies joined together. yeah

[whysamwhy123]

IT IS DONE.

I mean...not really because I need to proofread it and if I was really a good writer, I'd probably have to edit it down a ton but whatever, I finished the OrangeHook fic!!

It's just over 8k words, yikes. I should probably take out a ton of it but who knows if I actually will or not. Mostly, I'm just happy because this is the first thing I've finished writing in months? The slump I was in was so bad, I honestly thought I might stop writing completely again. Turns out, all it took to get me back into the swing of things was a brand new pairing and a bad idea!

Didn't write the smut in the end though. I did my usual 'fade to black and then we pick up right afterwards'. Whatever. It's better than embarrassing myself with some shoddy, badly written, unsexy-sex times. And this monstrosity is long enough as it is, so.

At least I had the restraint to not include the part I was thinking of where OC politely asks Hook to never call him daddy. Ever. And Hook's just like ''Uh. Sure?''

Now I just need to polish it up a touch and then I've gotta decide whether I feel up to actually posting this thing or not...

[sysig]

What is it that draws me to you (Patreon)

[thermesiini]

so like the thing with hannibal is that hannibal lecter is supposed to be such a competent and charming presence that despite his really obvious hiding in plain sight thing everyone's confidence is so unwavering that they outright ignore his direct involvement in these murder cases. its. supposedto be a scary thing? and i dont know if its just mads mikklesens like silly demeanor or the framing but it just comes off as ridiculous its a big reason why hannibal is funny and it is supposed to be funny you know but i cant tell if this specific type of funny is intentional or not

[moe-broey]

Man it truly sucks that like. The dude who did Planet of the Bass is a piece of shit LMFAO cause like. I feel like the DJ Crazy Times outfits PERFECTLY captured Moe's fashion sense and doodling those outfits spurred on A Bunch of ideas and I was having a lot of fun and even like an epiphany that spurred on a separate deeply self-indulgent project/concept (complete opposite end of the spectrum of indulgence) and then I find out ohhhhh. You weren't Just making fun of the fashion of the times and like, how it feels when you can't process shit so everything sounds a bit funny, and also just like how early 2000s music Is Sometimes (DEEPLY feel the song itself is SO DDR core ESP like... how it's just a bunch of vague jumbled concepts that's catchy AS FUCK) -- you're also a grown ass man still weirdly fixated on your autistic classmate you had in 3rd grade or some shit (have not looked at the vids myself and don't wish to, but from what I've heard it's essentially that).

(Further clarification -- he's making fun of autistic kids who had like, very typical and understandable Needs to accommodate being autistic in a classroom. As a grown adult. Like why are you even still thinking about this LMFAOOO move on, grow up LMFAOOO)

[promiscxous]

♡ . ◞ * 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 .

ANIMAL: Black Panther — Courage, valor, beauty, grace, challenge, feminine power, and rites of passage. The black panther is a courageous guardian, blessed with ancient maternal lunar power, who is drawn towards solitary people. Fierce feminine power resides within you. // Black Mamba — Transformation and rebirth. The black mamba often symbolizes shedding old patterns and behaviors in order to make room for new ones. It can be a sign that you are ready to let go of something in order to move forward. The black mamba is also associated with the idea of prophecy and divination.

COLOR(S): Gold — Reminiscent of luxury, success, achievement, triumph, royalty, and fortune, the color gold is named after the precious metal of the same name. The meaning of the color gold is multifaceted, often denoting generosity and compassion, as well as being synonymous with divinity and power in many religious settings. // Purples — Royalty, nobility, luxury, power, and ambition. Purple also represents meanings of wealth, extravagance, creativity, wisdom, dignity, grandeur, devotion, peace, pride, mystery, independence, and magic. // White — Purity, perfection, honesty, cleanliness, and beginnings. Surveys in Europe and the United States repeatedly link the color white to forms of purity.

MONTH: February — Vibrant symbols that reflect its unique character. The color popping bloom, the violet, symbolizes faithfulness and remembrance, while the amethyst birthstone enhances awareness and spirituality, providing much-needed warmth and energy during this cold, dark month.

SONGS: Aishite Aishite Aishite (English Cover)【JubyPhonic】愛して愛して愛して // My Chemical Romance - The Light Behind Your Eyes // Smoke and Mirrors - Cover by Lollia feat. ‪@sleepingforestmusic // Fuckarias - Those Dancing Days // 【Miery】- Lie // Dead or Alive 4 - Official Soundtrack 'My Grave' Track 66 // SRNO ft. Gia Koka - Give It All Up // Blackbriar - Through the Crevice

DAY OR NIGHT: Night — Darkness and night therefore symbolize a world without God’s presence, night always occurs when suffering is worst.

PLANTS AND FLOWERS: Wisteria Frutescens — Longevity, endurance, love, affection, youth, poetry, friendship, homesickness, longing, elegance, grace, romantic ambiance. // Dicentra Spectabilis — Love, pain or sorrow, compassion, unrequited love, purity and innocence, true love. // Lycoris Radiata — Death, reincarnation, life cycle, abandonment, afterlife, personal growth, life's transient beauty, manjushake.

SMELL: Roses — Love and passion, tranquility, relaxation, ethereal beauty, versatility, longevity, complexity. The rose is a universal symbol of love and passion, and is often used in perfumes to enhance mood and emotional well-being. The scent of rose is associated with positive emotions such as tranquility. The fragrance of roses was said to relax and clear the mind. The scent of roses can be both feminine and masculine, and blends well with a variety of other notes. The scent of rose can vary widely, from sweet and honey-like to rich and spicy.

GEMSTONE: Amethyst — Royalty, christianity, love, healing, feng shui, intuition.

SEASON: Spring — New beginnings, hope and optimism, renewal, impermanence, rebirth and resurrection, growth, education, and development.

FOOD: Candy — Goodness, pleasure, reward, and temptation. // Desserts — Sweetness and love.

ELEMENT: Darkness — Evil, foreboding, sadness, mystery, ignorance. Darkness is the opposite of light, and light is often associated with salvation, spiritual growth, and discernment. // Moon — Time, femininity, knowledge, the afterlife, hope, nature, emotions. Waxing and waning, the moon is a sign of constant change. Moral instability, the changing heart, the gullible mind, and our frequently vacillating resolve.

DRINK: Rose Tea — Love, purity, friendship, gratitude, happiness, confidentiality, balance, emotional resonance, timelessness. An herbal infusion that can be used to unwind. It may also have functional benefits, such as aiding digestion, nourishing the skin, and balancing temperature. Rose tea may also have natural anti-inflammatory properties and can potentially enhance sleep and mood. // Wine — Divine gift, sacred drink, knowledge and wisdom, prestige and wealth, love and romance, taste and class, mystical properties, and Dionysus. Wine often connotes happiness and friendship. It is also a symbol of transformation, as grapes undergo transformation when they are fermented. Because of its importance in the Near East, wine may also symbolize sustenance and life. // Cocktail — Free thinking, celebration, relaxation, cultural significance, and status symbol. They can symbolize celebration. They can evoke feelings of fun or sophistication. Or they can simply be a great way to unwind and relax after a hard day's work.

Tagged by: @chrysnae

Tagging: I have no idea who to tag anymore so just steal it from me and tag me.

[ratatoastwrites]

Ok ok smut. I keep thinking about how the BAU is often gone on longer cases and a Spencer who missed his girlfriend on a long case and just wants to be really close to her so like clingy...maybe some cockwarming...umm yeah imma see myself out byyyeeeee

-🌞

a/n: i’m literally so sorry that this took me six months to post 😭 i literally have no words omg. but i totally loved!!!! this request and it was so much fun to write and i really hope that i did it justice 💕🧚‍♀️ (even though i feel like the ending might be a teensy bit rushed 😭) also also also: today is mgg’s birthday! omg! i love me a pisces man 🧎‍♀️‍➡️

well, without further ado

You feel like Home

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

nsfw, 18+ MDNI

cw: no use of y/n, Spencer calls reader Angel, smut, cockwarming, dry humping (barely though), words to describe the female genitalia, unprotected p in v sex, mentioned rough sex, Spencer is described as “pussy-whipped” (he is), kissing, some light making out ig, and umm maybe softdom!Spence (?) idrk tho, also english is not my first language so im sorry if this isn’t grammatically pristine

• Before he met you, Spencer had no real qualms about his work schedule

• Sure, it was a bit of a hassle to travel for work so much, but let’s face it, he didn’t really have anything better to do

• While the rest of the team complained when they had little to no free time between cases, he was secretly happy for the distraction from his mostly uneventful life

• After he met you, though…

• To put it simply, Spencer was obsessed with you

• He fell fast and he fell hard, and now every second thought in that big brain of his was about you

• He most definitely would’ve spent every waking moment with you if that was possible

• Or inside you

• Pussy-whipped was one of the best ways to describe him

• But could you really blame him? You were beautiful, and alluring, and your skin was so soft under his touch, and you always smelled and tasted divine…

• Yeah, it was safe to say that you had him completely wrapped around your finger

• And now he suddenly understood why it was such a nuisance to have to travel across the country on a random thursday afternoon, for an unforeseeable amount of days

• He tried to call you as often as possible, but most of the time he was either too busy or your schedules just simply didn’t align

• It was no different on this case, and to make matters even worse, this time he had to go five whole days without seeing you, and three without getting to hear your voice

• So when he finally arrived home to your shared apartment, seeing you in one of his oversized sweaters, looking so inviting and cozy on the couch, smiling at him so sweetly as you greeted him…

 

“Spence,” you giggled softly, tilting your head to the side to grant him easier access, as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck. You were seated in his lap, your arms around his neck, and his hands on your thighs on either sides of his hips. He has refused to let go of you ever since he came home almost an hour ago, his hands and lips not leaving your skin for even a second, as if he was afraid that you would disappear like a mirage.

“Hm?” He hummed against your neck, his lips focusing on your pulse point. He nipped and sucked on your pristine skin, covering it with small love bites. They would fade by the morning, but for now, he relished in getting to decorate you with his marks, like a physical reminder that you were his.

Your breath hitched, only letting out the shuddering breath that you sucked in, when his hands finally moved under your –his– sweater. You very quickly forgot what you were about to say, your hips rolling against his with a small, needy sound.

“Angel.” Spencer’s voice was soft, if a bit choked, his hands quickly sliding down to hold your hips. “I want to take my time with you tonight. Will you let me?”

You bit down on your lower lip, feeling your lower regions ache with desire from how he wound you up with his casual, gentle kisses and touches. At the same time though, you were feeling just as clingy as he was. You didn’t want this to end for a long time, didn’t want to rush into an orgasm.

So you just nodded, cupping Spencer’s cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him languidly. Your lips moved in sync, in a familiar, well-practiced dance, while you raised your hips to allow him to pull off your shorts and panties.

You reached down to the hem of your sweater, but he caught your wrists, stopping you from taking it off.

“Leave it on. Please,” he said, adding the adverb almost as an afterthought. “I like making you mine in my own clothes.”

And oh, that just simply wasn’t fair. He couldn’t seriously say stuff like that and expect you not to drag you needy, wet cunt against the noticeable bulge in his pants. You both moaned at the same time from the friction, and this time he didn’t have it in him to tell you to stop.

You kissed him deeply, moving your hands to unbuckle his belt, while he unzipped his pants –a combined effort, to get his poor, aching hardness out of the confines of his slacks as fast as possible.

There were very little words exchanged, lips parting as you both sighed into eachother’s mouths, once you finally sank down on his length.

“Jesus Christ, Angel. I missed you so much,” he whispered hotly against your lips, before dipping his head down, to press his lips to your throat.

It was hard to stay still at first. As much as you wanted to drag this out, his tip was nudging your cervix so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him tightly. You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt him twitch inside you in response, while he whined against your skin.

But after a few minutes, you finally settled. It felt incredible, being connected with him so intimately, bodies and souls entwined on your couch. You kissed him lazily, before asking him about his day, his time away, letting him talk to you about the case –well, as much as he was allowed to tell you about it.

You talked and cuddled and just stayed in eachother’s embrace. Because after so long, you were finally reunited, and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of it.

And if a while later, after you’ve already discussed everything and caught up with eachother, he finally pounded you into the couch, well… You definitely weren’t one to complain about that either.

[gf2bellamy]

bet — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and spencer have a bet on who is going to be the first to expose your relationship content warnings: mention of a victim a/n: when i tell you this took me ages omg i was struggling

You and Spencer had a bet. 

A ridiculous, entirely unnecessary bet—but a bet nonetheless.

The stakes? Bragging rights, and the satisfaction of being able to tease the other endlessly.

The challenge? Who would be the first to slip up and accidentally reveal your secret relationship to the rest of the BAU team. 

Both of you knew that secrecy wasn’t exactly your strong suit. Between Spencer’s tendency to ramble when nervous and your habit of wearing your emotions like a neon sign, it was only a matter of time before someone pieced it all together.

And that was what made the bet so much fun—because neither of you wanted to be the one to crack first. 

Some mishaps had already happened, moments that came far too close to giving you both away. 

Like the time Derek had caught Spencer staring at you during a team briefing. “Hey, Pretty Boy, you got something to add, or are you just lost in thought over there?” Derek had teased, a smirk tugging at his lips. Spencer, predictably, had flushed a deep shade of red and stumbled over a vague response. 

And, of course, who could forget the case in Chicago when Hotch had walked into the room just as Spencer had brushed a strand of hair out of your face? The gesture had been so natural, so tender, that even Hotch had paused for a fraction of a second before continuing his sentence. You could’ve sworn he’d given you a knowing glance, though he hadn’t said a word. 

Right now, you were sitting at your desk, trying (and failing) to focus on finishing your report on the case from two days ago.

“Spence, what was the address of the place where we found the second victim?” you asked, tapping your pen on the paper as you glanced up at your boyfriend sitting across from you at his desk.

“1375 Oakridge Drive,” he replied almost automatically, barely looking up from his own report.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, jotting it down and trying not to get distracted by the little curl of hair falling onto his forehead.

The bullpen was unusually quiet, save for the faint clacking of keyboards and the low hum of the coffee machine.

That peace didn’t last long, though, as Derek and Garcia burst into the room, engaged in what sounded like a very enthusiastic debate. 

“Reid, listen to this!” Derek called out, cutting across the bullpen as Penelope trailed behind him, waving her arms dramatically. Both you and Spencer instinctively looked up from your work.

“Okay,” Derek began, leaning one arm casually on the divider of Spencer’s desk. “Do you think watching a rom-com with someone is romantic?” 

“Specifically with a friend,” Penelope interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because apparently, Mr. ‘Romance Expert’ here thinks it is!” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Come on, Penelope. It can be romantic. I mean, think about it—it’s all cozy, emotional, and half the time someone ends up crying or sharing popcorn. You’re telling me that doesn’t create a vibe?” 

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. He sat up straighter, adjusting his tie slightly as he considered his answer. 

“Well,” he began, his voice contemplative, “the concept of watching a romantic comedy doesn’t inherently equate to a romantic interaction. However, if the participants have underlying romantic feelings, the environment—such as sharing an intimate space or engaging in emotional dialogue—could certainly facilitate a sense of connection. For example, I—” 

He froze mid-sentence, his brain catching up with his mouth as he realized where he was going. 

Oh no. 

Your eyes widened in panic as you watched Spencer flounder. His lips parted as though he might try to backtrack, but the damage was already done. 

“For example…?” Derek prompted, his brows shooting up, clearly intrigued. 

Spencer quickly cleared his throat, fumbling for a save. “Uh, hypothetically. I mean, generally speaking. Like, if two people…were, um, interested in each other—not me, of course—then maybe…” His voice trailed off as he glanced at you. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, knowing full well that he was treading dangerously close to losing the bet. 

Derek narrowed his eyes, studying Spencer for a moment. “Hmm,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. “You’re acting a little weird there. Something you wanna share with the class?” 

“Nope!” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so forcefully it made his curls bounce. “Absolutely nothing.” 

Penelope raised an eyebrow, looking between you and Spencer with suspicion. “Uh-huh. If you say so.” 

You decided to intervene before they could dig any deeper. “Alright, Garcia, what’s your stance on the rom-com thing?” you asked, redirecting the conversation. 

The distraction worked, and Penelope launched into an impassioned argument, effectively pulling Derek’s attention away from Spencer.

You shot Spencer a look across the desks, mouthing close call. He gave you an apologetic shrug, his cheeks still faintly pink. 

Two days later, you made the mistake. The one that was ten times worse than the rom-com slip-up Spencer had made. 

You were in the file room, buried in paperwork that Hotch had assigned to you earlier that morning. The hours had been long and draining, and you’d barely made a dent in the pile.

Derek was there too, flipping through some files, his eyes narrowing in concentration, while Garcia sat at the table, her usual flair of colorful banter filling the otherwise quiet room.

She wasn’t doing much work, but she was keeping the rest of you entertained with her gossip. 

“This is tiring,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you stretched and yawned, your eyes heavy from exhaustion.

You handed Derek a file, trying to keep your energy up, though it was clear you weren’t succeeding. 

Spencer, who had been quietly scanning through a set of documents, glanced up at you, and then took a step closer. “You should go take a break and grab a coffee,” he suggested, his voice warm and concerned. “I’ll take these off your hands.” 

You spun around to face him, smiling at the sight of him standing there, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly tousled.

His expression was a mixture of concern and adoration, and you couldn’t help the little flutter in your chest. 

You smiled at him, genuinely grateful for the offer. You’d been working for hours, and the fatigue was beginning to take its toll. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft with appreciation. Without thinking, you leaned in slightly and planted a quick kiss on Spencer's cheek, your hand instinctively resting on his face—something you'd done countless times without giving it much thought.

The moment your lips brushed his skin, time seemed to slow. You pulled back almost immediately, but not fast enough. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up into Spencer’s eyes, wide and shocked.

His brown eyes were locked on yours, the same stunned expression mirroring your own. 

It was like a slow-motion realization hit you both at the exact same time—you just kissed him. 

Before either of you could process what had happened, a loud gasp echoed from behind you. 

“Oh my god!” Garcia squealed, her voice thick with excitement. 

You felt your face burn as you snapped your eyes shut, feeling a flush creep up your neck. You could practically hear Derek’s mischievous chuckle follow suit. 

Spencer's back stiffened, and you knew exactly what was coming next. 

“Well, well, well,” Derek's voice rang out, full of teasing amusement, “Look what we got here” His tone was almost dramatic as he clapped Spencer on the back. 

“Way to go, my man! Getting the girl!” Derek cheered loudly. 

You dropped your hand from Spencer’s face to his chest, your shoulders slumping as you sighed loudly.

It was out in the open now—so much for the bet. 

Penelope’s voice cut through the air like a burst of confetti. “I knew it! I’ve been saying it for months, but nobody would listen to me!”

She was practically bouncing on her feet as she grinned at the both of you, clearly pleased with herself. 

Spencer gave you a nervous but warm smile. You could tell he was about to say something, but before he could, you were swarmed by both Derek and Garcia. 

“I knew you two were adorable,” Garcia squealed, pulling you into a tight hug. “Oh my god, you two are going to be so cute together.” 

Derek, on the other hand, ruffled Spencer’s hair. “I’m proud of you, man.” 

You could feel your pulse racing as you glanced at Spencer, who was doing his best to keep his usual composure, but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He gave you a look that could only be described as amused exasperation, as if asking, Well, I guess we don’t need to worry about hiding it anymore, do we? 

A quiet laugh escaped your lips. Spencer’s smile softened as his hand reached for yours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I didn’t mean for this to—” 

He cut you off with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I think it’s about time they found out.” 

Later that night, you and Spencer were lying in bed. Your head rested on his chest, and your fingers absentmindedly drew soft circles over his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

His hand was gently resting around your waist, his thumb lightly brushing over the skin of your arm. 

"Today was fun," you murmured into his chest, the sound muffled but sincere. 

“A lot of fun,” he chuckled, the vibration of his laugh resonating through his chest. 

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, remembering the teasing from Derek and Garcia, and the way everything had just spilled out into the open.

“I for sure thought you’d be the one to lose the bet,” you teased, your voice light and playful. 

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a soft smile. "I didn’t," he said, his voice playful but confident. 

“Why is that?” you asked, lifting your head just enough to prop yourself up on your elbow. Spencer met your gaze, his smile never wavering.

He was looking down at you with that soft affection that always made your heart skip a beat, but there was something teasing behind his eyes now. 

"You're more obvious than me," he said, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with his fingers, the touch tender. 

You immediately furrowed your brow, sitting up a little straighter. “No I’m not,” you said, a playful frown tugging at your lips. 

But the moment his fingers gently brushed your hair again, any trace of the playful frown disappeared. A warm smile spread across your face, unable to resist the effect his touch had on you. 

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that teasing spark you knew so well. “Oh really?” he said, his voice laced with amusement, his gaze never leaving yours. 

You rolled your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed you. “Okay, maybe,” you admitted with a mock sigh, before leaning back down onto his chest. 

Spencer’s laughter rumbled softly in his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

You snuggled closer to him, your face against his chest once more, feeling the beat of his heart beneath you.

"Goodnight, Spence," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Goodnight," he replied, his hand gently squeezing your waist as he kissed your forehead one last time. 

[venomvalley]

FEED ME!

PART I: NOODLE SOUP ↬ sevika x pregnant!reader | 5.4k words

SUMMARY:

Sevika rescues a pregnant stray from the streets of the Undercity as her good deed for the decade, but plans go awry when she starts to enjoy the companionship, and her entire lone-wolf worldview comes crashing down. The kicker? Her stray is very much human, and the circumstances of your condition create a whole new set of challenges—challenges best solved with good, old-fashioned murder.

TAGS: 18+! pregnancy fic, mentions of past rape, protective!sevika (she's still a bitch though i love her)

NOTES: i have no idea if people will even like this but i had fun writing it so theres that. never been interested in pregnancy fics, but i just needed protective sevika in my life idk. btw the actual rape is only briefly mentioned in passing. no descriptions whatsoever

-> READ ON AO3 | FEED ME! MASTERLIST

Sevika is having a shit day.

Well. Shittier than usual.

The sole of her boot broke off this morning, Silco's contact never showed up at the docks, and her favorite food place was closed by the time she passed through the Lanes. And to make matters worse, it started raining. Not only is she tired and hungry, but now she's soaked through to the bone.

So when she cuts through an alley to shave off a few minutes of travel on the way home, she really isn't in the mood for the voice that calls out to her. Beggars are a cog a-fucking-dozen in the Lanes, and she ignores them on instinct. There are worse things in the shadows that know her name, after all.

But for some reason, she decides to take the bait tonight. Turns back to look at the ground then stills at the sight of you, bathed in the neon lights of the city’s beating heart. There's no hiding the roundness of your stomach beneath your shirt, or the gauntness of your cheeks. Clothes dirty, hair unwashed, as if you were thrown out on the street like an unwanted stray.

The state of you makes her sick to her stomach. Angry at the world. For a brief moment, she remembers what—who—she fights for: the little people like you that often fade into the background. The chaos of the chem-barons and the Enforcers sniffing around tend to take center stage.

“I'm sorry for bothering you, but do you have any food?” Your voice comes out weak and raspy, desperation splitting each syllable at the seams. “I don't want money, I just—I'm starving and nobody will help me.”

Sevika nods toward the swell of your belly, so round it looks painful. “Where's the dad?”

You inhale a shaky breath, face twisting up in a pained grimace before hardening back to neutral stone. “I don't know. Don't even know who he is, actually, but I—I didn't ask for this. I swear, I'm responsible. I would never—fuck, it doesn't even matter. I'm sorry.”

She wonders how many times you've plead your case to passersby in an attempt to convince them to save you. How many actually believed your story.

But there’s no faking that grieving look in your eye, and the implication of how you ended up here changes things.

There are very few situations in this world that affect Sevika, but injustice pains her most. She’s seen the worst of this city a million times over, has contributed to the chaos in ways she isn't proud of, but she still holds a place in her heart for the people who got the shit end of the stick. People like you, and the kids starving in the streets, and everybody else cursed enough to be born in the hell she calls home.

“Get up,” she says, a bit more gruff than she means to, and your eyes widen in fear. You curl in on yourself as tightly as you can, arms folded over your belly. “You want food or not?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she regrets it. A disaster waiting to happen, appeasing a walking liability. There’s a reason why she doesn't bother with attachments or relationships outside of work and gambling.

But then you struggle to your feet, fighting gravity as you clutch at the brick wall for leverage, and she holds out a hand to steady you.

Her first mistake.

You grasp her fingers and gaze at her with eyes that gleam, like an outstretched hand is your first ever taste of tenderness.

(It probably is. Nothing surprises her anymore.)

As she leads you through the crowded streets, you turn into a skittish thing, eyes darting over the crowd, clinging a bit too hard to her wrist. When you step on the back of her boot, it only takes one venomous glare for you to keep your distance until you reach your destination: a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. Big portions for cheap, in exchange for shit service and mediocre food. The only place open besides bars this late, and she wouldn't dare drag you into one of those.

She corrals you over to an empty table and pulls out the seat against the back wall for you to take. You glance around a moment, flinching at the slam of the front door, before easing yourself down into the chair, a hand protective over your stomach.

She wonders why. Why you’d care so much about something borne from an awful situation. It doesn’t make any sense.

The waitress strolls up to the table with two paper menus, eyes landing on her with a sultry smile. “Well, well, well. Sevika. Haven’t seen you around in a while.” The waitress—Zaya, maybe? her face seems familiar—looks you up and down with a curl of her upper lip. “Seems you caught yourself a stray.”

You bow your head at the comment, soothing over the mess of your hair in an attempt to make yourself more presentable. Sevika shouldn’t care as much as she does, but you’re just… pitiful. Pathetic, if she wants a more apt, less kind term to use.

“Something like that.” Beneath the table, her metal hand tightens into a fist, irritation burning hot inside her chest. Not in the mood for bullshitting. “I want my usual.” She glances over at you. “Double order.”

The waitress stands around for a long moment in an effort to strike up conversation, but Sevika pays her no mind, fully interested in the scratch marks on the table. Eventually, she leaves with a frustrated huff.

A long silence passes between the two of you. She isn't about to engage in small talk, and you look ready to burst into tears. Fine by her. Conversation was never her strong suit anyway.

You look up at her, then away, then back, a focused furrow to your brow. She opens her mouth to snap at you—*say what you want to say—*but you speak first.

“I know you. Well, of you,” you say, voice so quiet she almost can’t hear you over the white noise of the restaurant. “You’re popular.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

You heave a tired sigh, palm drawing rhythmic circles over your belly. “I don’t have any way to repay you.”

“No shit. That's the whole point.”

“I’ve heard this place is expensive.”

Sevika snorts. “This is the cheapest food in the Lanes.” Her eyes dart down to your stomach, visible just over the lip of the table. “One bowl can feed two people.”

You fall silent, avoiding her gaze to instead stare a hole through the wall near her head. “Thank you.”

A different waitress drops off the food (good fucking riddance, Zara), and you immediately tuck into your bowl, inhaling the noodles like you haven't eaten in weeks, dripping sauce all over your area of the table.

After you almost choke on a too-large bite, Sevika rips the bowl away from you with a growl of irritation. “Slow down. You're making a mess.”

You blink at her in surprise, eyes wide and misty, and grab a nearby napkin to clean your face then mop up your splattering of sauce. “Sorry. I’m just hungry.”

“You still have manners, don't you?” Despite the bite of her words, she takes pains to slide the bowl slowly across the table.

Sevika doesn’t know how to be soft. Never really had the patience, the capacity for it. She doesn't surround herself with people like you who require a tender hand. The kind of people who fear their own shadow.

She should get up, pay the tab, and leave. She did her good deed for the decade. She doesn't owe you anything.

But she can't will her legs to move. Thinks, instead, of you waddling back to that alleyway, of the pouring rain, of someone a lot more cruel than her stumbling upon your defenseless form in the middle of the night.

This is exactly what her old man used to warn her about: the inconvenience of companionship. One big distraction designed to veer her away from the end goal.

And yet—

you sit back in your chair with a content smile, shoulders relaxing from their spot beside your ears, and you look at her like she hangs the stars in your sky

—she doesn't move.

“Feel better?” she asks, elbow balanced atop the table as she adjusts her weight in her seat. She doesn't fidget, but the reverent look you aim her way gets her the closest she's ever been in her life.

Nothing good ever follows me. Get out while you still can.

You nod. “Yeah, but I think I ate too much.”

She glances down at your bowl. You licked it clean.

A wave of pride swells within her at the sight of you: eyelids already drooping, hands curling your jacket tighter around your shoulders. If you could, you'd no doubt be purring.

Cute.

Her face twists into a scowl, silently shooing away the thought as she rises to her feet, and you stumble in an effort to follow her.

“Are you—” you pause, hands clasping tight over your chest. “Do you know anywhere I can stay? At least to get out of the rain tonight?”

Sevika’s eyes narrow, gaze inspecting the features of your face for any hint of… she doesn't know, really. Manipulation, dishonesty maybe. But all that stares back at her is a woman with one big baby-sized responsibility and no means to care for it. You're scared shitless. There's no faking that.

Damn. Looks like she's got herself a stray for the night.

“Come on,” she grumbles, curling a hand around your upper arm.

She pays at the counter, your presence hovering just behind her elbow, and ignores the goodbyes from staff as she leads you out the front door.

“Where are we going?” you ask, a bit breathless from the speed of your walk in an attempt to catch up to her.

Fuck, she just wants to go home.

“My place. Just for tonight.”

You nod your head, reaching again for the comfort of her wrist, and she lets you. Too exhausted to argue.

The walk to her apartment takes longer than usual, your stride stilted from the bulk of your belly, fatigue weakening your legs.

Sevika's never really thought much about where she lives in regards to safety, but the shadows swallow the darkness tonight with you in tow. The locals know not to fuck with her, but they don't know you, and they leer in a way that makes her hackles raise.

She tugs you closer when a burly man steps off the stoop of his house, calling out to her.

“Whatcha got there, big girl?”

“Your head in a box if you don't fuck off.” A matter-of-fact statement. A promise.

He laughs, high-pitched and nervous, arms raised in placation. “Alright, alright, I hear ya. Not in the mood for jokes.”

She stops in her tracks and squares her shoulders, ignoring your quiet oof as you collide with her back. Because no, she's really not in the mood for jokes.

The man fidgets in place a moment as if weighing his options, before he backs away to the front door of his home. “Alright. I'll be seeing you.”

When the front door closes, she releases her hold on your arm and begins walking again.

“Who was that?” you whisper, fingers trembling as they reattach to her wrist.

“Nobody. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, you're first inside her apartment, shivering from the chill of the rain. You look around the barebones living room—a broken-down couch, a scuffed chair in the corner, various tools scattered over the coffee table. Very little in regards to decoration.

Sevika doesn't like coming home. The emptiness tends to swallow her whole. Nothing waiting for her but an empty bed and the sprawl of silence.

“You need a shower,” she says, discarding her cloak over the back of the couch.

“I don't have any clothes.”

“I know.”

She just wants to sleep. Would rather not be dealing with this when a busy day looms ahead, but she couldn't just leave you there. A decision that goes against every cell in her body, every lesson she learned in her youth, but she couldn’t.

She just couldn’t.

She fetches you a worn shirt and a pair of boxer briefs then shows you to the bathroom, and you whisper your thanks as she tosses a spare towel on the sink.

You stay in there a while, and she passes the time by tinkering with her prosthetic.

Finally, the door swings open and you walk out, dirty clothes bundled under your arm.

“I finally feel like a person again.” You tug down the hem of her your shirt, fabric stretched over your belly. “Thank you.”

She grunts in response, and you take a seat across from her at the kitchen table, head tilting as you watch her work. You don't say anything. Just follow the movement of her hands.

The next time she looks up, your cheek rests on your folded arms atop the table, eyes closed, shoulders rising with each breath you inhale.

Asleep. Poor, helpless thing.

She considers leaving you there, doesn't want to bother with setting you up on the couch, but her legs are already moving before she makes a decision either way.

Carrying you is difficult given the bulk of your stomach. She holds you like a thing made to be broken, soft and careful, the cold metal of her prosthetic cradling your neck, her other arm beneath the bend of your knees. Walks slow to keep from waking you, enraptured by the rapid-fire expressions that flicker over your face. Anger, pain, sadness, anger, fear, fear, fear—

Must be a horrible dream.

She lays you down on the couch then covers you with a threadbare blanket found in the back of her closet. Takes a seat on the coffee table and thinks about what the fuck she’s going to do with you.

You can’t stay here, but she can’t let you live on the street either. So there’s the issue of finding someone to house you, but she can count the people she trusts on one hand (with five fingers left over). The shelters are already full-up, and under zero circumstances will she go to Silco for help.

She finds herself in a mess of her own fucking creation.

You roll onto your side with a dreamy groan, hand ghosting over your belly in your sleep. She wonders if you even want the kid. If you spend your days grieving a life you’ll never get to have because there's no other option.

Sevika doesn’t remember much of her own mom. Died when she was young giving birth to a little brother that failed to survive through the night—a waste in her eyes. That was her first brush with grief, the foundation of beliefs that her old man raised her with: the harsh life of the Undercity holds no room for love, or compassion, or attachment.

If the Enforcers had called for a doctor like they were supposed to, her mom might still be alive. But she doesn’t like to dwell on the past, on what-ifs. No damn point in it.

She pulls out a cigarette in hopes that the smoke will drown out the memories. Looks over at your sleeping form. Looks down at the cigarette. Heaves a frustrated sigh then puts it back in its metal case.

You're an inconvenient little thing. A stray with too many stipulations. No more than a headache.

(If she adjusts the blanket to cover up your cold, bare feet on her way out the front door, nobody has to know.)

The next morning, you’re half-asleep on the couch when she approaches you, arms stretched overhead, mouth opened wide in a yawn.

“Listen up.” She takes a seat on the coffee table, resting both elbows on her knees. “I’ll be gone for a few days, so if you’re staying here, we need to go over some ground rules.”

You snap to attention, face bright as the sun, scrambling to sit up. “Staying here? Really?”

“If you follow the rules.”

“Yeah! Yes, I—“ your brows tilt upwards, tone turning desperate, “whatever you want, I’ll do it. I swear.”

A part of her—the space reserved for optimism collecting cobwebs—almost believes you.

She holds up a finger. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.” Another. “Don't go out at night, and when you do go out, don’t talk to anybody.” Another. “Don't answer the damn door, not even for me.” You nod along, enraptured gaze glued to hers. “You got all that?”

“Yes, ma'am.” At her raised brow, you stammer, “I—uh, sorry, I just… don't know what you want me to call you.”

“… My name.”

“Sevika.” She nods. “Okay. Then, thank you, Sevika. I mean it. You saved my life.”

With a roll of her eyes, she rises to her feet. “Yeah, I'm a real hero.”

“You are, though.”

She doesn't like this. The way you look at her all awestruck and worshipping. Doesn’t deserve it when there are people out there who would treat you much better than her—people who would actually care about you and the kid in the long run. If you're dead-set on keeping it, then it deserves the chance to grow up right. Loved.

Eight hours ago, she strongly considered leaving you in the street, starving and pregnant. So no, she’s not a hero. And she’s fine with that. Her path in life is a different, less savory one.

“There’s money in the kitchen for food,” she says. “Use my bed if you want.”

And then she leaves.

.

.

.

Truth be told, Sevika doesn't expect to see you when she gets home from a week-long binge of violence and booze, bruised all to hell, a headache splitting her skull down the middle. The edges of her temper sanded down to something less volatile.

Once she walked out the front door that morning, she stopped thinking about you. Brushed you off as a fluke, a mistake of lowered inhibitions.

(She thought about you a lot. Wondered if you were staying smart, being careful. If you actually used the money she left behind. If you were even alive. But she would rather die than admit the worry—no, no, Sevika doesn't worry—that fleetingly consumed her.)

You stand in the kitchen, bent over at the waist with an elbow propped on the counter, rubbing circles into your lower back. Bare from the waist down, the hem of your shirt does little to cover the swell of your ass—the little slice of heaven between your thighs, bathed in shadow from the poor lighting in her apartment.

Her fingers itch for a cigarette. She’s finally gone insane.

The room smells like a filling meal, everything left in its original place. Nothing unusual aside from the weight of your presence, and something warm settles in her stomach, heavy as a rock, so unfamiliar it makes her nauseous.

She chooses to ignore it.

“Get into trouble while I was gone?”

You jolt at the sound of her voice, righting yourself with a gasp when you spot her standing at the back of the couch. “Sevika, you're back!” Why do you almost sound relieved? Why do you smile at her? “And no, I…” you nod to the stove where a metal pot sits on the front burner, “I tried to make some soup, but I don't know how good it'll be.”

She walks over to you, boots heavy on the floor, and lifts the lid. Side-steps the wafting steam. “Smells good at least.”

“My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up. It has rice and fish, so it's filling.”

The simple suggestion of a home-cooked meal makes her mouth water, especially made by someone that isn’t her, and she’s eaten much worse in her lifetime. Could never afford to be picky.

Exhaling a long breath, you reach down to once again rub at the small of your back, shifting on your feet. The only sign of discomfort aside from the pinch in your brow.

She huffs, nudging you out of the way. “Sit down. I'll finish up.”

“You don't have to—”

“Kid's giving you trouble. I got it.”

You blink up at her, a relieved smile stretching your mouth, eyes curving into crescents. It's… cute. “Thank you.”

Unfortunately, she soon learns that the soup is more of a porridge, thickened up by the starch in the rice, the fish rubbery from cooking too long.

Well. At least you tried.

She fetches two bowls from the cabinet and notices a stack of dishes that weren’t there when she left. The sink is also empty, as clean as you could manage given all the rust.

Maybe there are some perks to keeping you around.

She calls you over to the kitchen table, and you take the seat across from her with a tired groan. Thank her when she sits a steaming bowl and spoon in front of you.

Sevika always eats alone when she’s home. It’s been that way for as long as she can remember. Rarely ever a choice on her part because she never got the hang of making friends (too unapproachable, people used to say), so your presence is odd, settles wrong inside her gut.

“You’re hurt,” you say around a mouthful of food, and she looks up from her meal to find you squinting at her, head tilted.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

You pout over the metal of your spoon, brows twitching, but say nothing in response.

However, something nags at her.

“So. Do I wanna know why you're not wearing underwear?”

Your mouth flattens into a thin line, embarrassment scrunching up your nose. “Sorry. It just… it's a pregnancy thing, I guess? I get sensitive sometimes. If you know what I mean.”

Her imagination does a good job of filling in the blanks. Thoughts that she never wanted to have about you.

“And that's a bad thing.” More statement than question, her own assumption given your discomfort.

“Good until it turns bad. Really convenient for, uh, certain activities.” You shift your gaze to your bowl of soup, a wide grin rounding out your cheeks.

“Not in my bed, I hope.”

She really, really hopes you didn't fuck yourself in her bed. Doesn't feel like washing the damn sheets.

“I couldn't if I wanted to. Haven't seen my own feet in over a month.” The tone of your voice implies that you do want to, that you've thought about it recently. “No, the uh… the girls at The Rose took me in for a while. One of ‘em was a mom, too, and I guess she felt bad for me. Hormones being a bitch and all.” You shrug, pointedly ignoring her stare. “I prefer women anyway.”

Sevika only briefly considers the revelation in regards to herself, or the fact that you lived in a whorehouse for a brief stint of time, because a more sinister implication rears its ugly head:

You prefer women. You're pregnant by a man with, in your own words, a baby you didn’t ask for.

She already clocked the circumstances the night she found you, but now she knows for sure. And she's furious.

“I'll fucking kill him.” A promise hissed under her breath.

There's no reason for her to get involved, to stick her nose where it doesn't belong, but she can't sit back and do nothing while that bastard walks free.

Your head snaps up, confusion twisting at your brow. Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, and whatever you see in her face makes you frown.

Softly, overcome by grief, you say, “He's not your responsibility.”

“This is my city. I don't want a monster like him living in it.”

Your drop your spoon in your bowl with a sharp clatter, turning away from her. “I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said so much.”

Sevika leans forward, elbows folded on the table, half-eaten soup already forgotten. She's lost her appetite anyway.

“So he did hurt you.”

You don't answer for a long while, worrying a hand over the curve of your neck, eyes darting over the pattern of her floor.

Until you nod your head.

She stands up from the table with her bowl then empties its contents into the nearby trashcan. Can't bear the sight of you anymore, sitting so pitifully in her chair, thumb following the curve of your belly.

“I'll take care of it.”

You know by now that there's no point in trying to change her mind.

.

.

.

Her sheets smell like you—the first thing she notices when she finally crawls into bed, shoving her face into the pillow with a frustrated growl. She inhales. Curses herself on the exhale. Inhales again because she's lost her fucking mind.

She ends the dilemma by ripping off her pillowcase and throwing it to a shadowed corner of the room. Still, everything smells like you. Not even in the damn room, and your presence haunts her.

This is getting ridiculous.

Her fingers twitch, craving a cigarette or a blunt or cigar or anything to distract her from the hem of her pants. She won't do that to you—use your smile or your smell or the curve of your ass to get herself off. Not after what she learned just a few hours prior.

But she considers it for longer than she has any right to, and for the first time in forever, guilt curdles sour in her gut.

.

.

.

In order to find out the identity of your rapist (just thinking of the word brings acid to the back of her throat), Sevika comes up with an idea. One of her best.

She plops down on the cushion next to you and takes the book from your hands to get your attention.

You scoff, open your mouth in protest. “What are you—”

“We're going to the Lanes tomorrow.”

At her direct approach, you blink, adjusting the blanket over your lap. “Okay? Why?”

“There's a vendor showcase. I need to buy some things.” A bold-faced lie, and you seem to pick up on it, eyes narrowing in suspicion. She sighs, adds, “I'll buy you something pretty.”

She needs to get you into a crowd because she knows how criminals work. If he sees you, he’ll make himself known one way or another. Wouldn't pass up the opportunity of rubbing what he did in your face.

The hardest part of this little plan will be banking on him actually showing up, but most of the Undercity flocks to the showcase to buy products on discount before the year’s end. The perfect opportunity.

You search her face for… something. An ulterior motive, maybe—one she doesn't have—before sighing. “Okay.”

The next evening, she drags you by the scruff to the bustling hub of the Lanes, streets lined with pop-up markets and food carts, people celebrating and shouting and haggling prices. Your hand remains firm around hers, a neccessity given the thick of the crowd.

Everything is fine at first. She parts the sea of people to allow you through without issue, biting her tongue when you stop at each stall to see what’s on offer. Handmade clothes, street food, jewelry that she only glances at. She forces down her frustration when you take too long sorting through necklaces—if a bit enamored with the way you hold each of them up to your face, thumbing over the chain and the gems and the crystals.

You look up at her with a toothy smile, eyes outshining the fake diamonds in your hand, and her heart stops. Something sickly-sweet weaves through her ribs, squeezes so tight that she almost chokes on it.

Affection.

This isn't good. Her worst fear realized. Every atom in her body screams for her to run far away, to wipe you from her memory, to stay lonely and sad and safe.

Instead, she throws the necklace you chose back into the display and picks up one you looked over previously—the only necklace at the booth with real gems.

“This one is better,” she says, offering it to you for inspection.

“Yeah. This would’ve been my second choice.”

She nods. Pays the vendor despite your very vocal protests then helps you secure the clasp at the nape of your neck. Your skin brushes against her knuckles, soft and warm. A sharp contrast to the callouses that litter her palms and fingers. (And still, you always hold her hand.)

Too intimate. She knows better than this.

Until you spin around and rush her with a tight hug, the swell of your belly pressing against hers, your arms solid around her waist.

She's gonna be sick. Should push you off, lecture you about personal space and boundaries, but she thinks about her mom dying alone on some cold floor in the middle of the night, and she thinks about your smile, and nothing seems to matter much anymore.

She lets you hug her until you're satisfied, and you step away with a quiet, “Thank you, Sevika,” and she almost throws up right there in the street.

And then the night goes to shit.

One moment, you're strolling beside her, babbling about the ingredients of some dish you hate, and the next has you stiffening up, breath heaving in an instant, your fingers winding so tight around her hand that her joints creak.

She looks down at you, finds you wide-eyed, staring at something off in the distance with such abject horror that she puffs up on instinct.

“No no nonono, that's him.” You duck behind her, face fitting between her shoulder blades. “Oh, fuck, we have to go. Please, we gotta go.”

She knows who you're talking about. Who he is. No mistaking your reaction, the way you shake and sob against her back.

A lightning strike of fury consumes her.

“Where?” she hisses, twisting around to look at you. Your mouth opens and closes, fighting to make words, and you duck away from the touch of her hand on your shoulder. “Show me.”

You shake your head so fast your neck threatens to snap, both hands circling tight around her wrist, and you tug at her until you're rocking back on your heels. “Please don't. Please. I just wanna go.”

But fate smiles on her as she looks through the bustling crowd. Only one man acknowledges your existence, tucked behind a food stand on the corner of the street. He thinks he’s subtle about glancing over at you, a predatory glint to his gaze that she wants to gouge out.

As luck would have it, she knows him. Some bottom-of-the-barrel lackey for Smeech that often passes through The Last Drop, so disposable she doesn't even know his name.

Her feet move before she even realizes it, vision tunneling to the pinpoint of his cackling face as he smacks at the man beside him.

“Sevika!”

At the sound of your scream, she stops. Looks over her shoulder to where you search in a panic, shuffling on your feet, the crowd already closing in, jostling you in place.

Fuck. Fuck.

Leaving with you means disobeying the very foundation of who she is, nurtured into a brick wall weapon. She never backs down from a fight, but she can't leave you behind, either. Not like this—inconsolable, barely coherent to the world around you.

She shoves through the throng of people, the scowl on her face swearing murder to anybody who dares to even look at her wrong. She wants blood, wants to cut her teeth on something soft and vital. Craves it so bad that her hands go numb.

Those same hands take you by the arms, ushering you into a nearby alley, away from the chaos of the crowd.

She doesn't comfort people. Has no fucking clue how to calm you down aside from a stilted pat to the back. “Hey. You’re alright.”

You sag against her with a relieved sob, begging her not to leave you again. Begging her to take you home.

Home. Her apartment, rundown and small and shitty, is home to you.

It takes less than a second to make her decision, and she ushers you away from the market.

Fine. The bastard can live another day. She'll ask around the Lanes, catch him by surprise when you're not around to stop her because she knows him, and by the time she's done, there won't even be a body left to burn.

She makes it a promise.

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