#I just think this one works better with a little context

[random-thought-depository]

A day in 399,999 BCE is probably basically a day in the wilderness. I can certainly believe a day in 399,999 BCE would be the scariest and most unpleasant day of my life, I'm more skeptical of the proposition that it would be the busiest day of my life, maybe more to the point I think "busy" would likely not capture the ways it might suck.

Various scenarios:

- I am dumped into 399,999 BCE in just my street clothes with no knowledge of what is happening to me, no context. I likely spend the day assuming I'm having an unusually vivid dream (if I have a bad time in 399,999 BCE I likely spend a lot of the day trying to will myself to wake up).

- I'm dumped into 399,999 BCE in just my street clothes and you tell me and make me believe that I am actually in 399,999 BCE and I know I'm going back to the 2020s CE after one day. I think I would likely be not busy at all in this scenario! If I'm only there for a day I probably don't need to try to engage in subsistence activities, and trying to engage in subsistence activities while having no idea what I'm doing would likely increase my risk of injury and death instead of decreasing it!

Plausibly my day in 399,999 BCE in this scenario looks like: first I find a large tree I can climb; this will be my refuge if I'm attacked by a large animal. Then I try to find a clean-ish looking stream, so if I start to feel seriously dehydrated I know where I can find water. Then, I mostly try to stay close to my refuge tree. I sing and talk to myself and maybe pick up a fallen branch and swing it around or something; I figure this will make it less likely I will surprise a dangerous animal (e.g. rattlesnake) and make local predators less likely to recognize me as safe to eat. Maybe I feel brave enough to indulge curiosity and do a little exploring: this is actually kind of cool, I'm in the Pleistocene, I might get to see some cool extinct Pleistocene megafauna!

Plausibly I would have a very terrifying and miserable day: I might be exposed to life-threatening inclement weather, I might be attacked by a dangerous animal, etc.. But, being completely unskilled in wilderness survival, in such a scenario I would have so little agency I would likely be miserable but not busy, e.g. I might spend the whole day basically curled up in a ball hoping I don't die of hypothermia before the day is up because I have only the vaguest idea of how to build and start a fire without matches or a lighter and very little confidence in my ability to do so. And if I get attacked by a lion or something like that, it's probably going to be over pretty quickly one way or another.

If I feel very cold I might try climbing to a high place and see if I can see any camps or smoke from campfires (if I'm somewhere cold and it's 399,999 BCE they're probably Neanderthals or Denisovans), and if I do I'd consider approaching them and hoping they take pity on me. Though I'd hesitate to do that cause for all I know they might react to me approaching their camp by killing me cause I'm a stranger intruding into their territory or something like that instead.

Maybe I spend most of the day hot and miserable and thirsty and trying to find water, or maybe I spend most of the day making futile attempts to make damp wood catch fire by rubbing the end of a stick against it. So in some scenarios I would spend the day busy, for a certain definition of "busy." It's probably a minority of plausible scenarios in which that happens though, and I'd be busy mostly cause I suck at living outside modern civilization; a 399,999 BCE human who lived in that area would probably be well-acquainted with where to find water, know how to start a fire with the materials available to them, etc..

- I'm dumped into 399,999 BCE in just my street clothes and you tell me and make me believe that I am actually in 399,999 BCE and give me the impression that I'll be there for a couple of years. This is a scenario better suited to get me to actually do some work during my day in the far past! I would want to get a good start on my pathetic attempts to figure out how to survive in 399,999 BCE! Given how I usually work I'd probably like, do basically the same thing I did in the previous scenario and feel kind of bad about not doing more but think "well, at least now I know where to find water and am in the process of finding out whether it's safe to drink by experiment, that's not bad for day one," but being driven into a higher level of activity by a combination of fear and boredom in that situation is also consistent with the way I usually work. If I was lucky enough to have my cell phone with me, I might smash it with a rock to make some crude glass knives out of its shattered screen. I might look for a long straight-ish branch of soft wood and try to fashion it into a crude stabbing spear. I might make a probably futile attempt to build a fire just to get a start on the probably long process of figuring out how to do it (I have a vague idea you can do it by taking a stick, putting one end of it against a piece of wood, and rubbing the stick between your hands to generate friction; I might waste like three or five hours doing that without accomplishing anything). If I succeed in making a serviceable spear, I might make a half-hearted attempt to hunt an animal with it, mostly just to get a feel for how hard it'd be and what the challenges are. I might spend a while seeing if I could find any edible-looking berries or anything like that (though I probably wouldn't actually eat them at this point cause I have no idea how to tell poisonous plants from safely edible plants).

So I guess I might be pretty busy, but I suspect if this went on for more than a day this would before very long turn into either being substantially less busy as I slowly die or being substantially less busy once I've figured the basic stuff out or being substantially less busy as I survive at a very miserable level (living on raw meat and being chronically cold cause I can't figure out how to make a fire, don't know which plants have edible tubers and don't even dare eat the occasional berries and mushrooms I find cause I don't know which ones are poisonous, etc.). Again, the first and last thing would probably be quite miserable experiences, but I suspect they'd be more experiences of miserable idleness than miserable toil. Maybe eventually some early human group would notice me and take pity on me and adopt me.

Actually, that reminds me: one of the things I might do on the first day in this scenario: if the terrain looks familiar, I would want to know whether I have moved in location on Earth as well as time or put in the same location on Earth in a different time (presumably with a small adjustment so I don't fall five stories when my apartment building stops existing under my feet), so I might hike up what might be the Berkeley hills to see if I could recognize local landmarks that might plausibly have been there in 399,999 BCE. I'm too lazy to look up whether 399,999 BCE was during an ice age, if it was the sea level would be much lower so the bay might not be there, but I might be able to still e.g. recognize the profile of Mt. Tamalpais. This would matter if I expect to be in the Pleistocene long term, because if I'm in 399,999 BCE California I at least have some idea of what to expect in terms of the kind of weather I'll experience (though the climate was probably different back then) and 399,999 BCE is probably long before the arrival of humans in the Americas so if I'm in 399,999 BCE California I know I probably won't meet anyone else until/unless I get back to 2025 CE (unless I make a long and difficult journey to the Old World) and I'll probably be dealing with animals that have no habituation to humans.

- My mind trades places with a 399,999 BCE human's mind for a day, while I'm inhabiting the 399,999 BCE human's body I retain their knowledge of how to survive in the material conditions of 399,999 BCE, their knowledge of the language and social norms of their group, etc., I am given the impression I will be living like this for at least a few years to discourage me from just pretending to be sick for the day.

Well, what would be the normal daily tasks of a 399,999 BCE human?

- Foraging for food. I guess this might be time-consuming, but it seems likely kind of mostly low-intensity? Gathering is mostly kind of walking around while keeping an eye out for edible fruit, mushrooms, small animals to catch, etc., it'd be physically similar to the recreational walks I do for pleasure (though I expect having to do it all day as a survival activity might make it less pleasurable). Hunting is mostly looking for potential prey, tracking potential prey, etc., which seems kind of similar (though I guess having to be careful to avoid spooking the prey might be pretty stressful). I can fully believe that big game hunting in 399,999 BCE sucked; IIRC Neaderthal skeletons show a lot of what look like combat injuries from attacking big powerful megafauna with short-range weapons. That would suck in ways that are pretty orthogonal to drudgery though; it'd be a few minutes of terror every once in a while, not a long grind.

- Possibly keeping watch for and defending against predators - seems similar to early big game hunting in being a "long periods of low activity punctuated every once in a few by a few minutes of terror" thing.

- Maybe textile manufacture? There are popular posts on this site that talk about how time-consuming pre-industrial textile manufacture was! But 399,999 BCE is far enough in the past I don't think it's a foregone conclusion people back then even had textiles! This was before the out of Africa migration, so back then most of our ancestors were living in Africa, which is mostly warm enough that early humans there could probably have gotten by without clothing! I think the Neanderthals and Denisovans living in the colder parts of Eurasia would have needed at least crude furs though - how much labor do you need to make those?

- Stuff people in more-or-less every human society ever had to do; cooking/food preparation, child-care, etc.. This probably took a lot of time and energy, but then it takes a lot of time and energy in our society too.

- Manufacture of tools (spears, maybe baskets, bags, fishing nets, etc.). Don't really have any good sense of how much time this would take, but...

IIRC "hunter-gatherers are stuff-poor but liesure/play-rich" is a take that has actually been advanced by serious anthropologists. Yes, it's at least a controversial proposal and has been criticized and I don't know enough about the subject to have a firm opinion on it, but, like, this is not purely a take of random bloggers and is not obviously absurd on its face! And for what (little) it's worth it fits with how I think I might end up living (or slowly dying) if you put me in 399,999 BCE; I can easily imagine I'd have an awful time but I suspect it'd be largely an awful time of miserable relative idleness in which I'd have a very low (worst case scenario below subsistence) standard of living and lack the capability to improve it.

I find it quite plausible that "lived in miserable material poverty but didn't work very hard because they lacked the capability to escape their condition of poverty no matter how hard they worked so working hard was not worth it for them" was a very common condition in the past.

im just not convinced humans were ever meant to be this busy

[zuko-always-lies]

What makes a villain's fate "deserved" in the context of ATLA

Aang: [Cut to Katara, Toph and Sokka from the behind, as Aang speaks.] Roku was just as much Fire Nation as Sozin was, right? If anything, their story proves anyone's capable of great good and great evil. [Cut to an aerial shot of the hardened lava wave.] Everyone, even the Fire Lord and the Fire Nation have to be treated like they're worth giving a chance. [Shot cuts to a close-up of Aang's face.] And I also think it was about friendships.

There's little more common in fiction than villains suffering deserved, karmic fates. However, ATLA is a show which heavily focusses on the themes of redemption, which argues that everyone deserves being given a chance to do better. In this context, a villain's fate can only be truly karmic if they were given a chance to do better and rejected it. We can see this play out in the series.

Zhao

Zhao wants to kill the moon to become a legend. The heroes and Iroh explain to Zhao why this is a very bad idea, and nearly convince him, but ultimately he kills Tui anyways. Thus, when the Ocean Spirit kills him in retaliation, it feels appropriate and karmic.

Zhao is even given a second chance, if he's willing to put aside his hatred of Zuko, but he refuses to. That makes his fate even more appropiate

Long Feng

Long Feng fits this idea less well, but it's still there. When he explains that he's really in charge of the Earth Kingdom, the Gaang tries to tell him about the eclipse, but he refuses to listen, leading to their continued efforts to contact the Earth King personally. If he had just put aside him "no war in Ba Sing Se" rule for five seconds and promised to help them, he never would have faced his downfall. And, of course, he responds to losing power by allying with Azula, a sworn enemy of his nation, before trying to backstab her. His end is appropriate but perhaps not fully karmic.

Zuko

Zuko is someone who manages to avoid a bad fate in canon. However, given how many chances at redemption he gets that he rejects, how many chances the heroes give him, if he had rejected redemption yet again and suffered a very sad, tragic fate because of it, it would have felt very appropriate and karmic within the confines of the story.

Combustion Man

He's basically not a character, so this concept doesn't apply to him.

Edit: As @boomerangguy has pointed out, even Combustion Man has someone try to reason with him.

Ozai

Even though Ozai is the big bad of the series, the concept still applies to him. It's important that Aang gives him a chance, and it's important that Ozai rejects that chance. After that, Ozai's fate feels fully appropriate.

Azula

Azula faces one of the saddest fates in canon, but it doesn't really work within the themes of ATLA. Azula is a bad person who does some really bad things, but she's mostly just doing what she's supposed to. She's serving her father, her Firelord, her family, and her nation and following the path a young Fire Nation royal is supposed to. She lacks the sheer egomania of Zhao or the selfish corruption of Long Feng.

But she is never given a chance, never given a choice, either by the narrative or by the heroes. She is never shown kindness by the heroes. She never has her life saved by them. No one ever tries to reason with her or tell her she can pick a different path. No one ever tells her they don't want to fight her or that they wish they could be friends with her. She, through her actions, tells her brother she doesn't want to fight him, but he never really reciprocates.

In the end, she tells one of the heroes, her own brother, that she wishes things could be different, and he tells her to get fucked, instead of offering his hand the way he did for Zhao.

This is why Azula's fate can't be karmic, in the context of ATLA. She was never given a chance to chose otherwise.

[alwritey-aphrodite]

hii ! can i request this prompt « my ex doesn't understand it's over, so I tell them I've already got someone new » with sirius or remus ? tysmmm

I went with Sirius, I hope you enjoy!!

Sirius is sitting at the table, peeling an orange and methodically removing any of the “stringy bits”, as you call them, so you won’t have to go back and do it yourself and ruin your freshly painted nails, courtesy of days and days of bugging on Sirius’ end. You’re washing dishes, and clearing your throat over and over like you have something to say.

“Just spit it out already,” Sirius gripes, still cleaning off the orange, after you clear your throat only to stay silent for what feels like the millionth time.

“I have a favor to ask,” you say, somewhat uncomfortably, drying your hands on the dish towel before turning to face him, leaning your hip against the counter as if you need the support.

“Shoot,” he replies, not bothering to look up at you for more than a glance, determined to get the orange spotless.

“It’s kinda a lot,” you cross your arms around your middle, and from your tone Sirius knows you’re practically crawling in your skin, so he finally puts down the orange and gives you his full attention.

“I’d do anything for you, you know that.” He tells you, voice dripping in sincerity, and his heart practically glows when you smile at him in response, a soft, shy thing as if he hasn’t seen you dancing on tables and stumbling home and lounging around in your rattiest, comfiest pajamas for a junk food and movie marathon. Sirius is your best friend, and even though you know you can come to him with anything, the fact that he’s your best friend makes your favor slightly more than a little awkward.

“Can you take me out on a fake date on Friday?” You ask, jumping in without providing any sort of context so you don’t chicken out.

“Darling, I’d love to, but what the fuck does that mean?”

Pushing off the counter, you sigh, all big and dramatic as you make your way over to where Sirius is sitting at your kitchen table and throw yourself into the chair next to him.

“So, you know Henry, right?” Sirius’s nod is accompanied by a rather exaggerated eye roll, but you plow ahead anyway, “Well, I saw him when I went out for a walk yesterday, and it seemed like he didn’t really understand the fact that we’re broken up for real.”

“What do you mean?” Sirius asks, suddenly more alert than he was moments before.

“Nothing, really,” you attempt to quell his fears, knowing exactly where his mind went the second the words left your mouth, “just that he kept asking me to go out and do things together that seemed pretty couple-y, and he’s nice enough, but I broke up with him for a reason.”

Pausing in your story to take a breath, you see Sirius nodding along, but can tell he’s not really sure where the whole fake date situation comes into play. The fact that he’s even listening, even entertaining this bizarre idea of yours, makes your heart seize up, just a little, with affection and all sorts of things better left unmentioned and unnamed. 

“I just really wanted to let him down easily, so I said I couldn’t because I have a boyfriend, and he asked who and I could have made up a name but I was just thinking about you, because I had just bought the stuff for that salad you told me about, so I said you.” 

Unsure of what to say, Sirius just tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, and you plow on ahead.

“And I said we had plans on Friday and he asked where so I said that Italian place you like and apparently he works there.”

‘Well, I could have told you that,” Sirius says, his first contribution to the conversation since you started your little rant.

“I’ll buy you dinner and it doesn’t have to be anything too weird, we’ll just walk in holding hands and maybe a kiss on the cheek and we’ll just look like we’re in love if he happens to walk past us,” you’re practically pleading now, taking Sirius’ unusual silence for proof that this is one favor that’s too much, too awkward. 

“Please, I’m not that awful,” he slides the plate with the orange, now split in half, over to you, “I’ll pick you up at six and pay for your meal because I’m a gentleman.”

“Thank you, really, I owe you one,” you say, picking up your half of the orange as Sirius does the same.

“Hell yeah you do,” he responds, as if going out to dinner, out on a date, with you is some big chore he has to do, and not something he’s been thinking about for months now.

[gilverrwrites]

hi, it's the anon that ask about 'calm down baby girl' question. i don't know how to expand on this😅 maybe you would rant about something: tv shows/restaurant service/etc, and the character would say that sentence in amusement/calm tone to you. hope this helps🥹

I guess anybody could say it, but not every could pull it off. To me, 'babygirl' can swing back and fourth between melt worthy and uncomfortable like a pendulum.

Dick Grayson is one of the few men who can use babygirl in any context and get away with it. Although I do think he’s gets a kick out of seeing you all wound up and emotional. He’s only trying to bring you back down if he senses genuine emotional distress.

See also: Oliver Queen, Floyd Lawton

Wally West uses the term often, but it doesn’t sit right on his tongue until you’re in too deep. Like, the first time you give him a gentle side eye to express that that wasn’t it. Over time it becomes kind of endearing, in the sense that you’ve come to expect it from him for better or worse. Until eventually the simple gesture of him stroking your back and saying “Calm down, babygirl” has you doing exactly that in an instant.

See also: Digger Harkness

Hal Jordan is somewhere between Wally and Dick. He says it, and in your brain, it just doesn’t feel right, but your tummy is full of butterfly. You might not admit it straight away, to yourself, and especially not to him, but him saying to really works for you.

See also: Black Manta, Harvey Dent

It slips out of Roy Harper, off handedly, in an unintentionally authoritative tone. Like a father warning a child, and if you’re not into being spoken to like that, I’m sure it would piss you off, but if there’s even an inkling within you that likes it when he takes charge, it’s sure to make you melt, and leave him wondering how you flipped moods so quickly. Wondering, but certainly not complaining.

See also: Leonard Snart, Dinah Lance

Whereas Roman Sionis will use the exact same inflection, and he’ll do it with his whole chest. It’s not really a comfort, or a warning, it’s an order. Even when he is being soft, cooing it in your ear, pulling out the baby voice, there’s always a level of dominance laced in there.

See also: Selina Kyle,

Kon says it but it’s always been a joke, and if he ever tells you to “calm down, babygirl” it’s usually intended to shock you out of whatever mental state you’re stuck in. Kon notices how it warps before you do, how you go from responding with wides eyes and a laugh, to a bitten lip and warm cheeks.

See also: Jason Todd

Guy Gardner uses it, in a tone so complacent that you might want to slap the voice box right out of him. But he says it alongside a vast array of pet names and other terms of endearment, that eventually it becomes one of the tamer ones. One that actually makes you feel a little warm and fuzzy as opposed to staring at him, perplexed or annoyed, wondering where and how he gets off using whatever the hell he came up with most recently.

See also: Axel Walker

[with-my-murder-flute]

I absolutely love the take you have on Thara and how he knows how to matter to people. I've got the germ of another long analysis on what I think the ending of the book does pay off coming, but it's 1:30am and I just kind of need to dump all the stuff I've been thinking over for almost two weeks now, about how this story ended and why it ended that way and what Katherine Addison's metatextual context might be.

First, this book reminds me of the whole debate in category romance, where someone who doesn't read the genre much but thinks they're clever wants to write a "romance with a twist" and the twist is the the romance ends in tragedy. And romance readers are just like [unimpressed silence] because that book may be a good book. It may be a great book! It might even be romantic.

But it is not a romance novel, it does not belong on the romance shelves, are the shades of Romancelandia to be thus polluted?! Because it is by labelling a book as a romance that the author enters into a contact with their audience that it will contain, per the Romance Writers of America's definition, two things: "a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending."

And for better and worse, Katherine Addison's work has never been marketed as romance.

Which, I feel the need to say, has been worse for her. I know multiple people who have paid off mortgages and college educations writing midlist romance! (Well, erotica.) And meanwhile, Katherine Addison only started being Katherine Addison when she sold The Goblin Emperor to Tor, specifically because the books she sold as Sarah Monette (which were not really gay as in happy but queer as in "odd and also homosexual") did such poor numbers that not only did her publisher drop her, but her position in the algorithms large book distributors and retailers used to decide which books would be offered on their shelves at all was irretrievably tainted. They had to create a new persona with a blank slate publishing history to give her next book a fair chance.

For reasons I do not pretend to understand because I am a complete stranger to her, she wants to write queer stories but seems forcefully allergic to Happily Ever After Endings with a depth and integrity that, despite her brilliance and skill as a writer, she has run her career into the ground over it.

So then she got a second chance, and her novel about an abused child taking on an adult role so inherently abusive it seems very unclear at points whether he'll ever get to have friends, experience romantic love, or reach the age of twenty alive, got welcomed and touted as hopepunk, a kindly little alternative to the moment grimdark fantasy was having.

And again, I do not know her, but what I can say I see from the outside is the makings of a terrible dilemma. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and one of them was labelled Commercial Success and Adoring Public, and the other was Odd and Also Homosexual.

And also, I've observed a thing, in my time as a Tumblr gay: For reasons that are understandable and laudable in many ways, being a creator writing a gay ship can feel absolutely suffocating. Because LGBTQ+ fans have learned that when there's a place we seem welcome, we LET EVERYBODY KNOW, we show up at 3am with lawnchairs, we throw a party when there's the tiniest hint of new content, we endlessly speculate and theorize, we paint murals and write novels and choreograph rock operas. And also, we have merged shipping culture and activism into the cult of Good Representation, and learned how to make our anger and disappointment felt when we don't get it.

(Which again: laudable and understandable reasons! They weren't going to stop burying their gays unless we dug them up and paraded them around the streets as a warning!)

So like, when I was a fan of Check Please! which is a gay comic about gays who are gays, creator Ngozi Ukazu accidentally created the next great little meow meow, an antagonist who showed up once, stumbled out of the closet, slid a snapback backwards over his artfully tousled hair, and disappeared again. He was, I confess, my blorbo; I'd taunted the gods with my imperviousness to problematic white boys and got cursed with him.

And although she'd already planned how to end her story and what kind of role he would get, I watched that change over the years it took to get there. When she happily burbled about him while signing a book at a convention, the person she burbled to ran right to the internet to write up her complete notes about it and post it to Tumblr for all of us to froth and obsess over and write headcanons and novels over. Which, in retrospect: I get why that would feel intrusive! To have a nice little moment with a fan stuffed and mounted and dipped in bronze and mass-produced until it became the standard her own canonical writing was based off of.

She started cutting down his narrative prominence, replacing him with different plot beats and cutting down planned appearances. When, as a special favor to financial supporters, she shared a preview of the single page she'd baked his plot line down into and asked them not to leak it to anyone else, they absolutely leaked it to everyone else. If I remember correctly, she put the finished page in the print run of the book, but just completely skipped posting it online. We, with all our earnest love and admiration and inevitable lunatic fringe, seemed to have just gotten her fed the fuck up with us.

So like... I think that in some ways, endgame Thara/Iäna was the good, safe direction to take these books in. It was cute, it was thematically resonant, the fans all liked it, and gosh darnit, it just worked. The first two books in the series are completely structured and paced as a slow-building romantic arc between them.

But I also think that even if that was her intention, she could have been at war between the safety and comfort and happiness of one ending, and the unease and disorientation of painting a much more complicated picture and potentially disappointing everybody. After all, these books started as Thara being a roving solution-fixer, a lightweight, mobile, and highly adaptable agent in a world full of problems that need to be addressed. In many ways, tying him down to conforts best enjoyed at close proximity to Amalo could just seem like writing him into a blind alley that limited the other places the story could go.

(Yes, yes, "skill issue" and all the other grumblings. It's entirely true that there are writers who could spin endless plots based in quiet domesticity and coziness in a single city. But that's probably not her. So the quirky irony of her having paralleled the writing of this series with a Sherlock Holmes retelling that makes everything queerer and unhappier than the original is beginning to make a little bit of sense to me.)

Olgarezh is growing on me, and I'll get back to him another day with my character notes, but he still also feels like a desperate last-minute attempt to go "I didn't get the toy you wanted, but I DID get you a nice lollipop! Please put it in your mouth and don't cry!" Or as just an attempt to back out of one specific corner but demonstrate that she wasn't opposed to Thara eventually getting to smash (I'm so sorry Thara, just pretend I didn't say that honey) but needed to make some last-minute fixes.

So I just... wanted to express how much I feel that nobody who feels completely fooled by where the first two books were going was incorrect. They are, in my opinion, 1000% structured and written like a romance series. The relationship abruptly going to Nopetown feels discordant and weird as hell and unsatisfying.

But at the same time, I also think the author thinks that too. I think that for whatever reason, she wrote the first two books in one direction, and then for reasons I can only guess at, couldn't finish it off like that and had to go in a different direction.

And I don't think it was a decision made with less than full knowledge of just how pissed off the fans would be. I have not seen any evidence it was meant to queerbait us into making book sales and then swerved because she enjoyed causing pain or making people look stupid.

Personally, I get enough out of these books and am curious enough about what's going on here to stick around and want to excavate and think and create things. But also, if I want an LGBTQ+ fantasy romance, I should just go... read an LGBTQ+ fantasy romance, because we're living in a golden age of them right now. They, and these books, are different beasts in the end.

Re: The Tomb of Dragons ship situation/ending, spoilers for A Companion to Wolves and Angel of the Crows

Like I respect Addison's right to write the stories that feel meaningful to her, she doesn't have to just feed us fanbait, not every author has to do that

but I was white-knuckling up to the very last sentence of the book

I have trust issues ever since A Companion to Wolves, where the first book ends and you're like. I guess they have somehow found a way to survive and be happy in their unusual approach to society's sexual mores! And then the next book begins and it's like "Oh actually the main character is just resigned to permanent unhappiness with this, maybe he will dredge up a thin trickle of joy in life focusing on something totally different." And I'll be honest, I put that book down and never picked it up again, because I did the good girl Catholic thing and thought "Oh well I'll never experience sexual joy or deep enduring love but maybe I'll have like idk a career or some shit" long enough for one lifetime. NO MORE. I just gave up and went back to Every Marine a Wolfbrother.

And then Angel of the Crows was like, "I got shot down every single time I reached for queer joy or relationships and the one relationship that does remain is not really what I want or need and maybe I am a bit fundamentally unlovable, but I'll survive, we get by," and I was, again... I recognize this is not a story for me. It's not what I want from a story. But also, I am so disappointed and tired here.

So with this series I was just so much like... she does not owe us fanbait, I have trained myself to think it's tacky and bad to get upset that an author has not provided the exact kind of representation we want exactly how we want it. I watched the Good Omens fandom explosions and don't want to do that.

But at the same time. We have been hearing about the extreme gay agony of this beautiful muppet for FOUR BOOKS STRAIGHT. He is the world's most sopping wet little meow meow, and quite respectfully, if you do not want your fans to form a frenzy and start burning down uninhabited buildings due to an overload of unrequited textual sexual tension, MAYBE DON'T FOCUS ON IT QUITE SO MUCH.

So I'm here at the end of Tomb of Dragons going, "I guess I'm okay with this? I guess I can live? It's not exactly what I wanted and it's not delivered to the degree I wanted, but I guess we can get by here."

Is this what Stockholm Syndrome feels like? I literally don't believe Stockholm Syndrome is a real thing, I think it's been bunk since the day it was created, but also, this feels like what Stockholm Syndrome would feel like.

I will probably be able to like the new love interest! I can see myself in the future being happy with the way the story ended up going in, once I get over the fact that it went there! This makes sense and I can see it and reconciling all those feelings is what fanfiction's for!

I just also... am not so excited to see what else Addison's working on now. Because this overarching theme or emotional focus on the yearning for warmth and closeness and empathy and touch and desire, and the realization that you will just have to make do with slightly unsatisfying substitutes instead, is just way too similar to the defeatist ways I learned to approach life with when I was a child. It's exactly the mindset I wanted to get away from then and am still learning to let go of now.

I don't want to squash the fandom with my disappointment and negativity, and if fandom does just turn into everyone being angry and bitter that the author personally flipped them the bird and actually everything about these books is proof that they've always been shit, no thanks, not hanging out with that again. If I stick around, it's for Thara getting railed in exactly the way he wants in some happier future, and figuring out what that would look like.

[smiley-mcdoggington]

im in agony over your last post because I can’t stop thinking about how, when ford comes back, he will stare at Stanley’s older, wrinkled face and it will be the first time he gets to see an older Stanley and it will be HIS Stanley …. but by that time, how may times will he have fallen in love with another version of his brother’s face? Meanwhile Stanley will be looking at his twins face that he will have only been able to see in the mirror for the past 30 years. I AM SICK!!!!! im sorry this probably doesn’t make any sense but i really need you to know that i am genuinely in tears and gagging over this au. your brain is both beautiful but also kind of evil.

Ehehehehehehehe

1 thing kinda for context I have ideas for all the stans Ford loved before, and while he did love them and does mourn them his relationships were built on the foundation that he cannot get to his own Stan and they cannot get to their own Ford but they can get to eachother and if they squint its almost the same, it's close enough.

First live Stan he meets seven months after the junkyard: Stan calls himself a pirate but he and his crew (run by ghost Jimmy Snakes) are more like ship scrappers, everyone's got at least a little mechanical know-how, they find dead ships and salvage what they can. They stick together because they're all homeless wanderers that can't get home, but in Ford's perspective they're intimidating - other than Stan. Their Stan seems put together, like he knows what he's doing, but they're the same age and Stan's only been out of his dimension 3 weeks longer. They both project the twin they lost onto the other and are in a sexual plus a bit of cuddling relationship for a while. Ford is fond of him, Stan's the only reason Ford was allowed to join the crew instead of getting shot for stealing from them, and this Stan looks healthier, had a similar experience with Bill in the junkyard, and Ford feels like he can relax around him. Then they find a trap ship, one that looks dead but is just waiting for scrappers to connect their ships to kill the crew and take both ships. Stan was trying to negotiate because he was a stupid 26 year old with a gun to his head but then someone grabbed Ford and Stan got himself shot trying to get to him.

The next Stan Ford meets and has more than a one night stand with is nine years after that, a whole decade since the junkyard. The Stan is a decade younger than him, blind and feverish and and won't let anyone touch him until he has a six-fingered hand in his. That one wasn't a dimensional traveller, he was just dealing with Rico and Ford happened to be in the dimension and wanted a few chemicals from Rico to test as bill-destroying material that happened to be very illegal. He found Stan seizing in a hotel room and Ford decided he was only going to stay until Stan was alright. But Stan took to the bare minimum like a stray dog, doing what Ford wanted, begging him to stay, promising him he'll be better this time around. Ford can't stay, doesn't want to take away this Stan with a perfectly good Ford already so he dragged Stan up to Oregon to try to shove at his brother. But Ford opens the door with a crossbow and Stan gets shot in the neck and Ford beats the other Ford to death in his entryway. Ford had hoped that Stan's being pushed through the portals by Fords were almost always accidents and Ford's would never hurt Stans because He would never hurt Stan (not again) but no, this just proves him and all Fords are a disease. He leaves the dimension quickly after that.

The third Stan he met 25 years after Ford fell through the portal and it was in the junkyard. Ford had gone there with a plan to die trying to kill Bill, it was a bad few years before then and Ford had most of his gun working, enough it might injure Bill. But before he could find him, he looked in a sea of bodies and one looked back. He immediately quit his suicide mission, grabbed the half-frozen Stan and took him somewhere safe. Stan asked why Ford hated him, Ford said Fords never hated Stans, because Stan couldn't prove him wrong. Ford tried to leave him behind a few times, but Stan was determined, he did more and more reckless things trying to follow Ford until Ford just let him follow because maybe he would stop almost dying to try to keep up if Ford made it easier. Ford was old enough to be his dad, he was old enough to be all the multiverse Stanleys' dads at this point, but when Stan tried sleeping with him, Ford went along with it. It was mostly just sex and company, he didn't notice Stan was fawning because he was new and terrified. Didn't notice Stan only seemed to come onto him when he was in a bad mood and needed the distraction. Didn't notice Stan did whatever Ford wanted and shrank whenever Ford raised his voice. Eventually Ford did figure it out, and he was so horrified with himself he dropped Stan off with some interdimensional refugees and left as fast as possible. A month later he tried to visit to apologize properly, but Stan was gone, put a gun in his mouth the week before, his ashes were already space dust. Ford resolved himself to never take advantage of a Stan again. His last 5 years mostly celibate though made him cranky and more determined to finish his gun.

Then he had Bill in his crosshairs, and his Stanley decided to open the portal, and he came through the portal mad, he really did. But then he saw his brother with gray hair and crows feet - his brother, his Stanley, the one he'd spent 30 years wondering about, the one he was almost certain would be dead long before he could get gray hair just like every other Stan. His Stanley looked so happy to see him, arms outstretched and a huge smile on his face and Ford fell into his arms because he was so so happy. But after that he grew distant because every time Ford got close, every time Ford tried to do what was best for Stanley, every time Ford trusted Stanley, Stanley died.

[bloobydabloob]

About isolation

[rystiel]

that annoying moment when getting left for dead in the trunk of a car in your 20s comes back to haunt you 40 years later (take a shot every time ford says “stanley”)

[confusionism]

“Yeah?” It only takes a moment longer of consideration for him to figure, “Makes sense.” At the very least, he thinks it explains why she’s always picking the side of the bed with the most room adjacent to it. Not just an emulation of their arrangement back at home, but a deeper part of her that most would never think of. And it kind of adds up, the way the door remained open, that time they tested out the pantry.

Anna Ricci, household name, worldwide star. ‘Fierce’ and ‘fearless’ are practically subtitles to anything that has her image plastered on it. Yet there’s a vulnerability here, one that Aiden cherishes more than he can express. So instead of trying to, outright, he takes a page out of his playbook and says,

“I always feel safe with you.” ‘Soft,’ too— like there’s more to him than the mean mug he wears at work, and like there’s a space that his at-times unconventional approach to relationships. Just like how there's space for her in his life, under his arm, that he squeezes out from between them and extends behind her. He gives Eliza a little pat on the trunk before letting his hand hang over Anna’s shoulder.

“Not that I was ever scared of, like— this,” he explains, pulling her closer. He means ‘them.’ Their relationship. The unfamiliar concept versus the better-than-expected reality. “—But it’s cool to have someone on your team. My, uh— my ‘big, undeniable person.’” Every syllable rolls out with confidence, because of course he’s never really let the terminology go. Why would he? He’s never been ashamed of how he’s felt or what he’s thought, how he sees her, relative to the rest of his life. Yet when he begins his next sentence with, “I,” he suddenly feels like his heart’s ready to leap out right of his chest.

I love you.

It should be easy to say, right? Three little words. No big deal. He’s said plenty more — by his standards — in other contexts. And they’ve underlined every thought, every action, for a time he can’t even tell— so why is it so damned hard to just tell her? His tongue is tied. Or maybe it’s caught in his throat. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips against her temple, deep and long, only giving space to mutter against her skin: “I ‘ppreciate you.”

Play it cool, play it cool— he refocuses on the energy bursting off in the distance, tilting his chin toward it. “That brat almost knocked me down at the rink.”

Does he need to say more?

"Closed spaces." She gestures to herself. Giving as good as she gets, where personal fears are concerned. Claustrophobia could get the best of anyone. But for Anna, it can run deep. The sense of suffocation as real to physical spaces, as it is to the way memories can suffocate her mind's peace. With a sheepish shrug, she hums. "Sorta the opposite of heights and open spaces." Anna just realizes how it makes sense. To love one and fear the other.

"I'll hold ladders for you anytime, babe." Or even better, climb them herself. Aiden and his keen mentorship skills have her working screwdrivers and hammering nails herself. Surely she could do whatever they need in their apartment now, ladder and all. "Keep us both feeling safe." A promise they make to each other frequently, but never grows stale. Today is proof of just how deeply those promises are held. Especially now.

"I'm fearless about a lot of things." Licking her lips, she lowers her head considerably. "And yeah, I get scared, too. Like today. But..." Sighing, she says in a low and vulnerable voice. "You remind me of all the things I shouldn't be afraid of." Not just Aiden's affection - how it's proven in actions and attentiveness. Not just his approach to the world; strategic and level-headed, unmarred by the egos of others. Really, it's because of his heart.

"You make being soft, be alright." Some treat it as a weakness. And Aiden, for all his 'robotic' senses would seem like the type. Instead, she sees how he quells those fears from his team. From her.

"Huh?" Anna peers over Aiden's shoulder, catching the blonde head of hair and the familiar skateboard. "Am I supposed to do?" She's racking her brain. Was it from a Chelsea game? That time they accidentally crashed a kid's party, instead of Hayley's game night at the restaurant across the street?

[mechazushi]

Insane Dad Lore (Essential Errand)

[Slight Trigger Warning] Verbal Abuse.

[Notes] Sooooo.... change of plans.... Instead of posting the chapters in order even if I get them done out of order, I'm just going to post them as I finish them and then organize them once I port all the chapters to Ao3. Really, the ultimate goal here was to just get all the ideas on (electronic) paper anyway. So I guess ya'll are going to have fun wondering what order these are going to go in, {cuz' I'll be doing the same damn thing ᕙ (° ~ ° ~)}

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

There had been a break in the lore gathering where there wasn't as many an opportunity to try and pry some new childhood history out of Kafka. That didn't mean there wasn't inciting incidents that led to new loose threads. It was after an early morning period of training did such an event arose. Reno and Kafka has just gotten back to barracks after hitting the gym just to come back and find Minase in a state of inconsolable crying. Hakua was sitting next to a tower of shaking blankets placed on the bed, desperately trying to appease the distraught soldier within by patting and rubbing its back as well as whispering words of comfort. She tried to say comforting things at least, but must have accidentally said something to make the crying worse.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Reno tried to ask as they passed through the door.

"I'm not entirely sure? I just caught the tail end of a phone conversation and now she's like this." Hakua told them as she continued to hug the pile of blankets close, "Whatever it was, it sounded pretty distressing."

"Hey, Reno?" Kafka spoke softly down to his friend, not wanting to take his eyes of of their compatriot, "Can you do me a favor and go down to the vending machine and grab a water? I feel like she's going to need it."

Reno nodded quickly and turned back out the doorway, leaving Kafka. He approached Hakua and nodded his head away, silently asking permission to sit on the bed next to Minase. After she moved, Kafka sat down slowly so as to not make the pile of blankets jump. He mimiced Hakua's original position and wrapped his large arm around the tower, Squeezing it close to him as he tried to wrap his other arm around it.

"Heeeyyy, Minase." He said cheerfully, but not loudly, "Looks like you're not having a good go of things, huh?" The covered pile only continued to cry.

"Bad days are no fun, aren't they?" He chuckled in an attempt to brighten the mood, "It's safe to say that there's never going to be a shortage of those. You wanna know what makes me feel better about them though?" He tried to ask the sad menagerie of stolen blankets. It had stopped full on crying and had downgraded to some small sniffles.

"Much like our tears, it can't be raining all the time. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to see the sun!" He smiled brightly as the pile continued to sniff harshly. Eventually, a very red face with pink, tear stained eyes managed to poke her face out from under the blankets.

"Wow, are you corny." Minase said through a mixture of tearful snorts and half-efforted chuckles.

"Got our resident Sun to poke her pretty little head out, didn't it?" Kafka joked back as he gently tugged the edge of the blanket off from around her hair.

She giggled a little in return as she leaned in harder into Kafka's embrace. Seeing Minase in a more relaxed state that what she was in earlier, Hakua took the opportunity to seat herself behind Minase and lean her weight against her back as a show of support. They all took a few minutes of the calm for themselves, just letting their friend take deep soothing breaths and let the last of her tears drain from her eyes. Reno came in after Minase had gotten her heart under control and gladly took the offered water bottle. He had decided to sit on the floor in between Kafka's legs and Minase's.

"Want us to grab anything for you? I think they're selling strawberry ice cream fish cakes in the canteen." Hakua offered as a helpful gesture. Minase's tears almost triggered again as she thought about the offer.

"Sound's great." She said bitterly, "But I think I would rather have my dogs right now."

"Oh, you have dogs?" Reno asked innocently. He started to cringe and think he said something wrong once Minase started to cry again.

"Not for much longer apparently!" She wailed, "I think my horrible step-father is threatening to kill my dogs!" She tried to wipe her tears with the edge of the soiled blanket, but it wasn't very effective.

"Now why would someone do something like that?" Kafka asked, astonished at the thought.

"I don't know! I think he's just always had it out for me since he came into the family!" Minase's tears had slowed, but her sorrowful screams hadn't, "I had them stay with Aunti Mei before I left for the defense force, but apparently her new landlord is evicting the pets at her place, so she had to drop them off back at mom's, but Chase hates me; he's always hated me! And now he's taking it out on my bubbies!"

"Oh, baby…" Hakua said softly as she tried to give Minase a hug from behind.

"I just got off the phone with him, I don't even know how he got my number, but it's just… something he said, or how he said it… I don't know, I just feel like my babies aren't safe anymore!" She began to cry again as Kafka held her even harder, "I can't bring them here! I don't have any other relatives nearby to send them too! I refuse to send them to a shelter! I don't know what to do!"

As she continued to cry again, Reno could see Kafka's expression growing darker and darker. He had tucked Minase's head into his chest as he listened to her woes. Reno started to wonder if maybe it was so she couldn't see the quiet anger building up behind his eyes. Suddenly, like someone had flipped a switch in his head, Kafka donned as soft smile, one that barely managed to hide the softly rolling fury behind his expression. He brought a hand up to gently pat the top of her head. With a clearly sincere tone, Kafka spoke some more sweet words until she stopped crying again. When he could hear the hiccuping had slowed, he pulled her head back and made sure to look her in the eyes.

"Minase, I'm going to tell you this right now. You aren't going to worry your strong heart any longer, ya got me? Nothing is going to hurt your fluffy little friends, okay?" Minase just looked at him with a lot of burning questions in her eyes, but found that she didn't have the strength to say them.

"I wan't to hear you say 'Okay' too." Kafka gently placed both of his hands on either side of her face as he asked, "Please?"

"Oh-okay." she said meekly.

"Atta-girl." He responded as he gave her one last strong hug.

Kafka then looked at Hakua and gave her an expression that seemed to communicate a lot of things, most of which Reno just translated as 'Keep an eye on her'. He then got up loudly from the bed and stretched, groaning all the way. He walked over to his personal locker at the other side of the room and could be heard rummaging through it. Reno couldn't see what he was grabbing from his spot on the floor, but could definitely hear when he stopped going through his and suddenly started going through what he thought to be Aoi's.

"Sir, can I ask what you are doing?" Reno called out as he got up from the floor to investigate the weird behavior.

"Hm? Oh, just- uhh, changing into civilian clothes. I just remembered I had some business outside of base that I should probably take care of." Kafka said as he donned a large black jacket, thin gloves, a neck gaiter, and grabbed his over-sized black towel. The item he had seemed to grab from Aoi's locker was his spare set of combat boots.

"Okay… If it's just errands, then why do you need Aoi's boots? Aren't they bigger than your feet?" Reno continued to question as he followed Kafka out of the barracks and over to what appeared to be a supply closet.

"Oh, the boots? I-uh, noticed mine were pinching my feet, so I thought I'd take Aoi's for a spin." Kafka offered as an excuse, but Reno could tell what a poor excuse it was. It didn't distract him enough from questioning why Kafka was holding the door's handle a weird way and suddenly slamming his shoulder into it.

"Isn't that door locked?" Reno kept interrogating an uninterested Kafka. He didn't stop him once he somehow managed to bash the door open and walked inside like he owned everything.

"Only if you don't know how shittly made some of the doors are here on base." Kafka said nonchalantly as he scanned the shelves within. He found and grabbed a flat head screwdriver, a hammer, and a can of WD-40 and put them inside the towel before twisting the whole thing together and tying it in such a way as to not have the contents spill out.

"Hey, could you do me another favor? I know, I'm asking a lot today, but just this once? I'll even pay you back for the water bottle later, but first, could you help Hakua keep an eye on Minase while I'm gone?" Kafka asked as he left the supply closet and slung the impromptu bag over his shoulder.

"Wait, you're leaving now?" Reno asked as he followed him to the end of the hallway.

"Yeah, bud! I just said I had errands to do, didn't I? Don't worry, I'll be sure to tell Vice Cap where I'm going." Kafka said with an encouraging wink as he rounded the corner and quickly jogged out of sight.

Reno wasn't sure what was going on with his friend, but he was fairly certain it wasn't good. It certainly didn't make him feel better about knowing that Kafka was about to do it without him.

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

It was about three am that night when Minase got woken up by another phone call. She shook the sleepy fog from her head as her pink flip-phone rang out it's cheery little chip tune. She grabbed her phone quickly and walked as fast as she could bring herself to in her groggy state out the barrack door. She walked a good distance away before sliding the device open and taking the call.

"Sweetie?" A familiar voice called out, not bothering to hide the distress it carried.

"Mom? Are you okay? What's going on?" Minase answered in a gravely tone, trying to get accustomed to understanding others on a lack of sleep.

"Listen Sweetie, I get you were upset at your father about what he said about the dogs-"

"He's not my dad." Minase interrupted in a quiet voice, knowing that her mother was just going to ignore the comment anyway,

"- But I don't think it warranted hiring a hit-man to get them!" Her mother whispered harshly. In the background, she could hear the sound of sirens and her step-father shouting at someone.

"Wait, what?" Minase asked as she rubbed her face.

"I understand you're attached to your little goobers, but Chase wasn't actually going to hurt them! He loves them too, he just has a hard time showing it and-"

"Mom, stop, back up. What was that about a hit-man?" Minase thought she had heard her mother wrong when she said something about a hit-man.

"A strange man broke into our house tonight and stole your dogs!" Her mom said as her quiet tone got increasingly shrill.

"Maybe start with that?!" Minase almost felt like she was shouting once she heard about the break-in.

"What, that someone stole the dogs? I thought I did?" her mom questioned.

"No-god, the break in! Someone broke in?" Minase's mind started to fray again. First with her step-father threatening her dogs and now this!

"Yes, I thought that was implied with the dog-napping?" her mother could be scatter-brained some days, but tonight was taking the cake. Minase was growling as she tried to think of her next question, but stopped once she heard her mother scuffling with someone on the other end of the line.

"god damn it woman just hand it here- YOU." A clearly irritated voice broke into the private conversation with an enraged bellow, "Listen here you dumb bitch, I get that being a Defense force officer might make you feel like such a big girl now, but getting one of your suped-up, mutant Kaiju super-freaks to come down here and take away your stupid mutts is a clear overstepping of where you stand in life! How many dicks did you have to suck off for that, Huh? Did you have to get on your hands and knees, bat your dull little eyes at the first dumb schmuck that would listen to you? It really speaks to the quality of your fellow members that if you were that desperate for your yippy rats, you somehow managed to find some deprived knuckle-dragger willing to dedicate some serious grey matter to this idiotic plan of yours and-"

"Shut up, just shut UP!" Minase yelled into her phone, "I didn't ask anyone to get my dogs back! No one even knows where you live because I actively try to forget you exist! We don't even have any mutant Kaiju hit-men for me to even bother sending out to your dilapidated rust bucket shed you call a house!"

"Oh yeah? Tell that to my right fist I just sent through someone's eye socket! Not to mention the fact the fridge has a dent in it now from where that stupid asshat sent me flying into it! Ya wanna come down and take a look at it and continue to be the stupid little bitch that you are, huh? Denying that you got someone from your freak division to come down here and fuck up my shit? You know your paying for the damages, right? I'll be expecting money for a new fridge, a nice one, from your paycheck and it better be before the sun rises on your precious bitch lackey's funereal!-" At that point, Minase just clicked the flip phone shut.

The creaking of its case echoed slightly into the empty hallway as her fist tightened around it in restrained rage. Her arm shook with the force of her quiet wrath before launching her phone into the nearest wall with the full force of everything she wanted to hold back. She watched as it bounced off the wall and bench under it before coming to a stop a few feet from her. The phone looked like it remained intact, with was more than what one could say about her emotions right now. Minase tried not to fall directly onto her knees and instead stumbled quickly over to a nearby vending machine, its light acting as a pleasant beacon in her mind. She tried to stop herself from falling onto it, but her knees gave out at the worse time and caused the machine to rattle a little from the force of her landing. Tears had been welling up for a while, but now fell freely from her tired eyes. She felt her legs lose their strength as she slipped quietly onto the floor, covering up her sobs as best she could.

"Minase? Is… that you?" A tired voice cracked the night's stillness, causing her to turn and face the newcomer.

"Sorry. Did I wake you?" Minase whispered as she gathered herself up just enough to ask Iharu, who was standing in the hallway with just a pair of sleep shorts.

"No… Well, kinda. But that's not important." Iharu rubbed the sleep from his face as he came over to the vending machine and helped Minase onto her feet just enough to help shuffle her over to the bench next to it.

He turned around and went back to the barracks and returned shortly with cash, and paid for a can of hot corn soup from the machine. He chugged some of it and hissed from the heat before sitting down next to her on the bench.

"Here, it's cold out here. You should get something warm in ya." He said as he offered the half eaten can.

She took the offered can with reserved appreciation and took a small sip for herself. A part of her didn't want the company, but considering it could have been anyone else that found her, she was at least glad that it was Iharu. When growing up with a family life that was less than ideal, it tends to make one yearn for anything stable in their life. Minase initially left because she wanted just that, and joining the Defense Force gave her the perfect opportunity. While continuing her training, she came to hear all about how the Defense Force was a great place to not only meet great people, but a place to form deep bonds with them. Something she wanted to experience with all her heart.

It wasn't hard to make friends here with everyone being fairly like minded people. It had only been about a month and she already felt like she was a sister to everyone here. She couldn't even begin to explain just how quickly she became attached to everyone, including the witty old guy in their battalion. Minase knew it was way too early to admit this, but she really did like to think of Kafka as the dad she wished she had. And if Kafka was her dad, then Iharu felt like the brother she always wanted. Most girls here probably would have had their hearts racing at the thought of having an indirect kiss with the resident hot-shot, but to her it just felt like something a caring brother would have done.

"So can I ask what happened, or do you want to sit in silence together until you feel like letting me walk you back to bed?" Iharu asked with a yawn, slouching over until his elbows hit his knees.

Minase bitterly chuckled, "I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep for a while, let alone tonight."

"What, did the fucked-up old man say something stupid and insane like usual?" Iharu tried to be helpful as he tried to cut her step-father down.

"No." Minase tried to playfully counter before contradicting herself, "Well, yes, and it's actually kinda serious, but it wasn't what he said about me."

She took a deep breath before she spoke, "Someone broke into my parent's place tonight."

"Anyone hurt?" Iharu reflexively fired back.

"No one that didn't deserve it. Chase got thrown into the fridge after he slugged the guy, but the biggest problem is that the guy that broke in stole my dogs." Minase answered before she took another sip of the hot canned soup.

"Fuuuuck." Iharu sleepily droned out, "Ain't that a swift kick in the nuts."

"You know what hurts the most?" Minase hinted at, "Is that I feel a little relieved that it happened." She tried to hold back another wave of sobs which caused her lungs to hiccup and her frame to shake again.

"Nooo, Minase! You don't mean that, come on." Iharu drawled as he scooted closer and wrapped an arm around her. She tucked her head into his chest as a hand came up to hold back her tears.

"They have a chance to go to a nicer family this way, right? They practically look like pure-breeds so some fancy, upper-crust family would have to pay out the nose to give them a happy life." Minase continued to quietly sob as she did her best to hug Iharu back for personal support.

"Look, it's been reported to the police, right? Maybe in the morning we can head to your parents' place and we can ask your mother for details. Or maybe we just spend a day or two posting flyers, I don't know. Either way, we can all pitch in to get your dogs back." Iharu tried to comfort her as he rubbed soothing circles into her shaking back.

"There's no point if I have no where to keep them!" Minase did her best to muffle her pitiful wails behind her already occupied hands.

Off in the distance down the hallway, they heard a strange noise, loud enough to be heard over their emotional conversation. Iharu spared a glance down the darkened hallway in what he hoped was the direction the noise was from. Since Minase didn't seem to hear it the first time, he ignored his instincts and went back to comforting her. However, he couldn't bring himself to ignore his gut feelings any longer once he heard what sounded like chairs crashing and a muffled curse.

"What was that?" Iharu muttered suspiciously as he shifted on the bench.

"Yeah, I heard it too." Minase confirmed as she wiped away the last of her tears.

The two of them looked at each other before deciding to get up and follow the noise. They traveled down the almost pitch black hallway with Minase peering into the dark panes of glass that lined the corridor with the light from her phone. Iharu quickly found a janitor's closet in the dark and began to brutally shoulder the door open. He reached inside and grabbed a wide broom and met back up with Minase.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"Intruders?" Iharu answered with an unsure shrug.

"Why would anyone want to break into a Defense Force Base?" Minase countered.

"I'm sorry, do you think we get paid enough to ask that kind of question right now?" Iharu retaliated as he brandished the makeshift weapon.

They didn't have to continue very far before they noticed something strange in one of the offices on that floor. Looking through the inner window, they both noticed that one office was a lot brighter than the others, mainly due to the fact that one of the outer windows was open and the blinds covering it were drawn up. The full moon outside gave out enough light to let the duo see what was a clear outline of a large, hunched figure currently ducked behind a desk. They quietly rushed to the office door, and once finding it unlocked, let themselves inside. With her phone off, they stealthily rounded the desks behind the lumbering figure.

Iharu couldn't tell what the person was saying, but could tell that they were struggling with something wriggling in their jacket. As he lifted the full weight of the broom to come down on the intruder's head, he accidentally knocked the head of it against the lip of a desk next to him. As he let out a clipped curse, the stranger in front of them quickly turned around and scrambled backwards across the floor screaming. Startled by his screaming, both Iharu and Minase began to scream as well. Once everyone started screaming, did two little yapping fluff balls make their presence known.

"Wait, dogs?" Iharu called out first once he heard the unusual disturbance.

"Shit, Iharu?" The barely masked stranger guessed after he calmed down.

"Kafka?" Minase and Iharu both answered once they heard the intruder's voice.

"Well, so much for anonymity." Kafka groaned sarcastically as he pulled down his face mask.

Minase turned and bolted for the light switches back next to the door to the office and turned the lights on. Coming back she saw two familiar looking lumps of hyperactive fur rapidly shaking in the confines of the large black jacket Kafka was still wearing.

"Ronny! Tototo!" She cried as she scrambled for her twin Pomeranian pups.

Kafka unzipped his jacket and very carefully pulled them out so he could hand them over to a very teary eyes Minase. Iharu let the broom drop to the floor as he watched with astonishment while Minase fell to her knees and lavished her once forsaken pets. She held them close as she lovingly pelted them with loud kisses before fully falling to the floor and laid on her side, letting them lick her back with equal voracity. More tears came to spill out, not of sadness for once, but out of happiness and was now mixing into a layer of joyous dog slobber being lathered on her face. Her enthusiastic giggles could not be contained and instead echoed slightly in the mostly empty office. As the scene unfolded before them, Iharu slowly moved closer to Kafka and helped the quietly elated man off the floor.

"Jeezus, man! What the hell happened to your eye?" Iharu asked once Kafka had dusted himself off.

"Hmm! Oh, this?" Kafka answered as he pointed to the fresh shiner blooming over his right eye, "Got distracted and walked right into a light pole! Can ya believe it!" He tacked on a great big smile to hopefully sell the lie.

"Uh huh." Iharu grunted, already suspicious, "Was the distraction caused by the dogs or from recovering getting knocked in the head first?"

"Don't know what you're talking about." Kafka muttered as he innocently shrugged.

"Really?" Iharu incredulously countered, "You seriously expect us to believe that you didn't just break into Minase's Dad's house, knock his front door in, and make away with the dogs in question."

"Yes, because what the story actually is-" Kafka began with a mischievous glint in his good eye, "That I graciously intervened in what was clearly a home invasion gone wrong, rescued the dogs off the street after failing to apprehend the suspect that just so happened to be a similar build and height to me, and have so humbly decided that I could bring these poor, distraught, and fluffy victims to a safe location before notifying their proper owner. Who, come to find out, I just so happen to work with." Kafka finished smugly, "There's already a police report and everything."

Iharu rubbed his hands over his tired face for a moment and groaned loudly, "Oh, this is bad. Oh, you are going to get so caught." Those same hands came up to pull back on his hair, "How did you even know which house to hit? Minase never says anything about her family. E-e-even then, what's your excuse for being out so late? You have to know that Vice-Cap is going to kill you for being out this long."

"I don't know if you know this, but there aren't a whole lot of guys living in Western Japan with the legal name Chase, let alone living with a woman whose last name is Akari." Kafka informed as he patted Iharu's back, "And look, just leave the rest of the scary shit up to me. This may come as a shock, but this isn't the first time I've had to duck an assault charge as well as B+E." Upon hearing this, Iharu slowly turned and looked up at the fellow brother-in-arms, now a complete stranger to him once again.

"Please tell me this is just another Germany thing?" He asked, wanting it to coax out some reassurance that Kafka wasn't as crazy as he was being led to believe.

Kafka just let out a breathy chuckle, "I'll tell you about it some other time." He left cryptically open-ended.

Iharu watched as Kafka walked off and joined Minase on the floor, pulling out strips of cold, precooked bacon from the pocket of his jeans and teased the Pomeranian brothers with it. Iharu, still being too tired to continue to question any of this, just shook his head gave up, preceding to join the other two people on the floor and introduced himself to the new ferociously furry company.

"i really appreciate you doing this for me Kafka!" Minase cheered as she held her pups close to her chest, "But it doesn't change the fact that they can't stay here. I'm sure the higher-ups wouldn't let us."

"You let me worry about that too." Kafka countered as he tore up the last strip of bacon he owned, "Who knows, maybe Bakko could do with a pair of friends."

"Or a set of snacks." Iharu mumbled as he reached out a hand for one of the Pomeranians to sniff at.

"Don't even joke like that." Minase growled as she harshly pulled her dogs out for Iharu's reach.

[dravidious]

You're more amazing than sickness

Lost Caverns of Ixalan is coming out on Arena tomorrow and I've avoided looking up any spoilers, aside from a few individual cards I stumbled across that didn't have any reminder text, so I have no idea what the new mechanics are. I looked up a list of the NAMES of the mechanics on the mtg fandom wiki, and I decided to make mechanics based on those names to see how close I get and also because it's fun.

Also I made this card for the descend mechanic at first but I didn't like the mechanic. How dare WotC make such a parasitic mechanic, they should really hire better designers smh. Also I realized that craft would probably be more interesting with artifacts that have tap abilities.

[misskamelie]

Decided to believe my listening comprehension is improving by being able to somewhat follow a radio podcast on a topic I know something about

[sabertoothwalrus]

tips for getting people to like your ocs

*disclaimer: this is based on what’s worked for me, aka an artist that likes to make comics/storyboards. so this advice is directed at people who do that

you can do things like this:

Which is fun! Character sheets like this are great, especially for personal reference! But frankly, I don’t think most people engage with this (at least I personally don’t). You could have the coolest character in the world, but it will be harder for most people to feel invested when they’re presented so neutrally like this.

My main piece of advice is: get better at writing.

That might sound harsh when said like that, but let me explain what I mean! (Not trying to imply you’re bad at writing either!)

What I tend to do is just throw characters into situations with as little handholding as I can. Give enough context that readers can follow along, but don’t feel like they’re being explained to.

what can you learn about the characters through their designs alone? (age, personality, economic status, occupation, etc)

what can you learn about the characters’ relationship though their interactions alone? (are they close? familial? romantic? is there hostility? are they tense/relaxed?)

what are the characters currently doing? what were they doing previously (how long have they been talking)? what are they going to do next? can you convey this without dialogue?

how do they feel about what they are doing? are they content? focused? over/understimulated? would they rather be doing something else?

where are they? does it matter? would establishing a setting in at least one panel clarify the scene? is there anything in the enviroment that could tell some of the story?

what time of day is it? what time of year is it? what is the weather like?

Now, with all this in mind, I'm going to give you another example. I'm going to use completely brand new characters for the sake of the experiment, so you won't have any bias (aka I can’t use Protagonist from above, since you already know all about him).

Did this get more of an emotional response from you than the first example? Why do you think so? Who are these characters? How do they know each other? What else can you infer about them? What happened? Who is "she"?

Now, you don't have to actually answer all those questions. But think about them! You can tell people a whole lot about your characters without ever showing them a list of their likes and dislikes.

Obviously, comics aren't the only way to get people invested in your original characters! But regardless, easily digestible formats will grab people's attention faster than huge blocks of text, and comics are a lot less work than doing wholeass storyboards.

Now go and share your ocs with the world!!!

[void-my-warranty]

18+

Headcanon that when you first start dating Ghost, he’s fucking silent when he finishes.

He’s used to jacking off discreetly in a bunk, so it’s pure muscle memory that limits him to a few shallow breaths huffed quietly between his teeth as he grinds his release into you.

Left to his own devices he probably wouldn’t think twice about it, except that shit isn’t going to fly with you. Those agonized gasps and grunts are the reward, thank you very much, and you did not just give him the sloppy toppy of his life, only to have them withheld.

At first he kind of laughs it off, reminds you that you have neighbors and such, and it’s inconvenient to be having loud sex for no reason.

Right, uh huh.

So the next time he goes down on you, you make sure it’s quiet enough that he can hear his own breathing as he works his mouth on you. You know, for the neighbors.

Surprise, surprise, he doesn’t like that very much.

He doesn’t need to put on some kind of production, you remind him. Just… loosen the leash a little. Let himself do what he needs to do, focus on the feelings instead of the control. He could be yodeling at this point and it would be an improvement.

So the next time, you get a little something. A few breathy, deep vocalizations that make your heart flutter into your throat. You make sure to tell him how sexy it sounded, how it made you feel desired to hear him enjoying himself. It’s how things are meant to be.

It only gets better from there. You can tell he’s really letting loose when his gasps turn a little higher in pitch, a little more pained sounding. Shower sex is even better because the slight echo has his orgasm permeating every part of you, so raw that you swear you can feel it yourself. Brilliant, you fixed him! He’s a moaning machine now, even before he finishes.

And then one day Ghost gets back from deployment, and you can tell he’s peeved at you from the way he strides in.

“What?” you demand, wracking your brain for any possible thing you did wrong.

“I forgot to be quiet.”

You frown for a second, trying to grasp the context, and then your face cracks with a poorly suppressed smile. “Oh… baby.”

“Calling me ‘whiny wanker’ cause of you.”

Aww. Isn’t that just too bad?

Drabble masterlist

[mypoisonedvine]

𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 | eddie munson x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | based on a request from the lovely @ultraintrovertedgryffindor ; getting stuck in an elevator with his best friend (and secret crush) was absolutely not on eddie's morning agenda, but it leads to one of his most wild fantasies coming to life.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 | 3.8k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | SMUT (18+ only!! semi-public sex, oral m receiving, kinda pervy eddie but also slightly pervy reader with a balls fixation gee I wonder where that idea came from), best friends to lovers (but very very limited plot haha), pretty much exactly what it says on the tin y'all not sure what to say

Eddie laughed as he pressed his hands to the elevator doors, but it wasn't a laugh of amusement— it was exasperation, frustration, an is this really happening? laugh.

"Soonest we can get a crew out there is uhh... noon?" the voice on the emergency phone informed you.

"Noon?!" you yelped. "It's not even half past eight!"

"What did I tell ya?" Eddie recalled, hanging his head in defeat for a second. "Nothing good happens before ten."

"Just try to stay calm and we'll be there when we can," the operator suggested, like it was so simple.

You didn't even reply to that, just scoffed and hung up.

It wasn't like he'd been looking forward to his GED exam, in fact he'd almost been hoping for a way to put it off or get out of it... but this was definitely not what he was imagining. Of all the elevators to get stuck in, this generic government building where he was supposed to have his big test proctored was probably the most boring option.

He glanced over at you, and stopped himself from making a dirty joke: you heard that Aerosmith single, right? Love In An Elevator?

That probably wouldn't have gone over well. He used to say stuff like that when you were both a little younger, but he'd since given up hope of it ever actually... inspiring anything.  You two were probably better off as friends anyways; or, that’s what he told himself to make it sting a little less.

“Looks like we’ll be stuck in here for a while…” he mumbled instead.  “Did they say what the issue is?”

“Some kind of power failure?” you recalled with a shrug.  “It’s gonna take a while to fix, that’s the important thing.  Do you think they’ll call the fire department?”

“Who knows,” Eddie sighed, leaning against the wall as you sank onto the floor and dropped your head back against the wall.  “I guess we should just try to get comfortable.”

Which was easier said than done, but at least he was stuck here with you— you were generally pretty fun to talk to.  Of course, you weren’t exactly in your best mood due to the circumstances…

At 8:32, Eddie checked his watch.  “I’m officially late for my exam,” he noticed.

At 9, you checked your own; “And I’m officially late for work.  We'll see if I even still have a job when we get out of here," you groaned. "I was on pretty thin ice already."

By 9:14, the stuffiness of the elevator was becoming harder to ignore.  Eddie slipped off his jacket and vest in response to the heat, but resisted the urge to take off his Ozzy shirt. You'd seen him shirtless before, of course, but he figured out would be weirder without the right context.

"Fuck, it's hot in here," you whined quietly.

"I guess the power issue affects the A/C, huh," Eddie noticed.

"You think?" you scoffed, reaching up to unbutton the top of your shirt.

For some reason, he kinda liked when you were condescending like that; of course he loved it when you were sweet like usual, but when you got frustrated and sarcastic and looked at him like he was crazy... for whatever reason, it worked for him. And it was definitely working like never before when combined with your hasty efforts to open your shirt.

He expected you to stop after a couple buttons, but you just kept going, exposing more and more of your chest glistening with sweat. His eyes were glued to it, until you got low enough for him to see a glimpse of your bra, and he coughed as he turned his head quickly.

"Woah, hey, uh--" he stammered out awkwardly.

"Oh whatever, you've seen me in a bikini, it's the same thing," you rolled your eyes.

But it's not the same thing, because you were stripping, untucking the button-up from your tight skirt, fanning your flushed skin...

And he was tugging the crotch of his jeans down a bit when you weren't looking, trying to keep his oncoming boner from being too obvious. 

Leaving your shirt open, you sighed and sat down on the floor, splaying your legs out on the ground.  He could see how uncomfortable you were, and it made him press his lips together while he sighed through his nose.  Though he was a little afraid you weren’t in the mood for any friendly behavior as your frustration and stir-craziness increased, he walked across the elevator and sat down next to you.  “I was probably gonna flunk the test,” he decided.

“What?  No you weren’t,” you scoffed.  “You studied so hard!  I’m really proud of you, you know.”

“Just ‘cause we’re stuck in here doesn’t mean you should get all sappy with me—” he started.

“No— ‘cause we’re stuck in here I’m not gonna put up with you trying to be down on yourself,” you decided sternly with a little glare at him.  “You were gonna fucking ace it, I know you were.  You worked your ass off.  I know you wanted to act like you didn’t care, but you actually got your shit together and did it.”

“You… you helped me a lot,” he mumbled sheepishly.

“Please, I hardly did anything— mostly just kept you from getting too distracted,” you denied, blissfully unaware that he actually found you more distracting sometimes, but never minded it.  “Can you stop being a pussy and just admit you’re actually smart, and dedicated, and more than capable of nailing this?”

He blinked quickly and looked down into his lap, feeling his face warm up— not just from the heat.  How could you be so mean and nice at the same time?  

“And now it’s gonna go to waste, ‘cause of this godforsaken elevator,” you sighed, dropping your head back; a pessimistic end to a pep talk, but he couldn’t blame you.

"Think of it this way: it couldn't get any worse!" Eddie offered with a faux-upbeat tone.

Right then, the lights in the elevator flickered and turned off, plunging you both into darkness. "I fucking hate you," you announced after a short silence.

He heard a whirring sound from somewhere else in the shaft, and a dimmer orange lighting came on inside the elevator; some kind of emergency back-up generator thing, probably. It was enough to see decently well, especially as his eyes started to adjust, but still made it feel like you were both in an even more perilous situation.

“I didn’t sleep enough last night,” you admitted, “I might try to catch up on that.  Maybe if I can sleep this will go by faster…”

“I like that plan,” he decided, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to do the same.  Eddie had a hard time keeping still and quiet, but he managed to do it so you could get your rest.

He suspected you had fallen asleep when your breathing seemed to slow down a bit— but he knew you had when you limply slumped to the side, your head gently landing on his shoulder.  This happened every once in a while, a sign of how comfortable you were with him. He supposed he should be thankful for it, but sometimes it just made him furious. Because what cruel punishment was this, to have you lay on him like this when he can't put his arm around you and kiss your head and tell you how perfect you are?

The half-boner he’d wound up with earlier when you unbuttoned your shirt had never really gone away, and it noticed your proximity with renewed interest.  Maybe it was just because he was so bored with literally nothing to do but think about you, but his mind kept coming up with all these fucked up ideas based on the eyeful he’d gotten.  

What if you’d taken off your bra as well and let him see the tits he’d been fantasizing about for longer than he cared to admit?  What if this had happened in winter instead and the elevator was brutally cold and you two had to hold your naked bodies together for warmth?  What if that guy on the phone said this thing was airtight and two only had an hour to live and you decided you wanted to go out with a bang, literally?  

He wondered if he’d be brave enough to tell you how he felt about you, if either or both of you only had an hour left.  For better or for worse, this elevator shaft had airflow, so you were more likely to die of boredom than anything.

He shifted slightly, stuck in a somewhat awkward position, but it didn't help much— though thankfully it didn't wake you up, either.  He just wished he could get some relief, somehow.

Obviously, he knew it was a bad idea. But the thing about his dick is it usually talked him into some pretty bad ideas…

He tested the waters with a whisper of your name, but you just kept breathing slowly— you were out cold. Maybe you were even more nervous for him than you'd let on, if you were that underslept.

Reaching up with his free hand, all he had to do was grip himself through his jeans to get some relief; he sighed through his nose, shutting his eyes.

His cock flexed impatiently as he unzipped the jeans as slowly as possible to avoid making too much sound. But god was it worth the wait— as soon as he slipped his hand into his boxers he had to bite his lip, it was so good just to get some attention for his poor, lonely dick.

This was far from the first time Eddie had jerked off to the thought of you. But he was sure he'd never done it while you were this close.

He did it once or twice in your bathroom while you were on the other side of the wall, that was probably the closest he'd come to this before. And that was chump change compared to this-- this was so risky it made his heart race and his hands shake with adrenaline, but it only made him more desperate for whatever reason.

He wouldn't have swiped his thumb through the precum at his slit if he had known how good it would feel— or maybe if he'd known how good it would feel, he would've been able to prepare himself for it. But the anxiety of getting caught had made him even more sensitive, so he hadn't really seen it coming, and when he did it he let out a little moan through his teeth that he couldn't stop.

You stirred again and he froze; when you lifted your head off of his shoulder, he hastily shoved himself back into his jeans, trying to cover up the open fly with the bottom of his shirt.

“Were you… jerking off?” you realized, and he felt sick with fear as his heart raced like never before.

“W-what?” he scoffed incredulously.  “I— are you crazy?”

“Ed,” you warned firmly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I— sorry—”

“Are you that bored?” you mocked with a snort, and he felt even more flushed; it made his cock flex under the mediocre covering of his shirt when you degraded him like that.

“N-no— well, yeah, I just— you put your head on me and I—”

“It was because of me?” you realized, and his mouth fell open.  He hadn’t realized that you hadn’t actually put that together yet; of course he’d ended up just digging himself deeper.

“W-well, uh— I mean, no, no I— well.  Kind of?”

“Kind of, as in…”

“Completely,” he blurted out.

You were quiet for a long time, and he couldn’t see your face well enough to even try to guess what you were thinking.  Although you probably could’ve given him a thousand guesses and he never would’ve guessed what you ended up saying: “You want some help with that?” you offered.

But before he could even answer— not that he really could, he was too busy having a short circuit in his brain— you were reaching for his lap.  And even if his mind was blown, his body knew to just lift his hands up and out of the way and let you do whatever you wanted to him.

You pulled up the bottom of his shirt and sighed a little when you saw his cock, still hard and leaking and curled up against his stomach.  You carefully wrapped your hand around it, and he swallowed thickly, wondering if he was dreaming or something— you were so… soft.

“Like this?” you asked gently, making his hips twitch up into your hand for a second.

“Y-yeah,” he nodded, eyes glued to the way your hand looked wrapped around him.  If only the lights weren’t out, he wanted to see it even better.

He looked at your face, moving your hair a little to make sure he could see you, but from what he could tell your eyes were trained on his lap.

“Fuuuck,” he whispered when you stroked him a bit more confidently.  He wanted to shut his eyes from how good it felt, but he didn’t want to look away from a moment of this in case you, you know, came to your senses and stopped.

“S’really thick,” you said, under your breath, a little bit shyly.  He groaned and ran his hand over your back, trying not to do too much in case it startled you but also totally helpless to how badly he needed you.  “I wonder if I can…”

You trailed off, and before he could decide if he should ask what you were going to say, you 

As soon as you leaned down and put your mouth around him, his back arched and his legs kicked a bit.  “Fuck, baby,” he choked out, melting into the warm feeling of your lips, your tongue— god, he couldn’t believe you were doing this to him.  He actually had to fight the urge to tell you so, to admit how much he’d imagined this; he settled for whining out your name and running a hand over your hair encouragingly.  “S’fucking warm, oh my god—”

You hummed around him, sucking a bit harder, swirling your tongue around the tip; who the fuck taught you that?  It made his chest burn with some targetless jealousy even while it made his cock flex proudly. 

Your hand still gripping the base, you took him a little bit deeper, moaning a little bit once again while you did it.  No way you actually enjoyed this, right?

You pulled your head up a bit— he took his hand away quickly, not trying to hold you down or anything— and just when he wondered if you might stop, you dropped down lower so you could run your tongue up from the very bottom all the way to his leaking slit—

“Jesus,” he laughed thinly, “what are you doing to me, baby?”

“Whatever I wanna do,” you replied— if he was a little braver, he would’ve asked what made you want this, how long you wanted this— but he was more than content to let you do whatever you wanted, so far you had some pretty fucking good ideas.

Your head sank even a little bit lower, and he pushed his jeans down just a bit in case they were getting in your way.  Boy, was he glad he did.  “Fuck,” he gasped, watching in shock as you looked up at him while your tongue ran over his balls.  “Sorry, they’re, uh, kinda sweaty…”

“Even better,” you purred; what the fuck were you doing acting so dirty like that?

“Baby,” he laughed thinly, “is this some kind of claustrophobia-induced psychosis or something?  Who are you and what have you done with my prude best friend?”

“Prude?  That’s unfair,” you laughed.  “Just ‘cause I don’t advertise every dirty thought that goes through my mind doesn’t mean I’m not as much of a freak as you…”

“Freak is an understatement,” he sighed, struggling to keep his voice even when he was literally watching you lick all over his balls like this.  “You’re a proper fucking slut.”

You hummed proudly, eyes getting a little heavier— when you looked up at him like that, he was totally helpless.  “It’s slutty to wanna taste your best friend’s balls?”

“F-fuck, of course it is,” he whined, cock flexing in your hand again when you licked a stripe up between then.

“Well then yeah, guess I’m a slut,” you agreed. 

“G-god, I— I’m gonna—” he tried to warn you, but it happened so fast— it happened the second you started to gently suck on his balls, in fact.  What was he supposed to do when you did that?!  How could he not shoot cum all over his now-definitely-ruined shirt?

“Oh shit,” you giggled— his cock was still flexing and you were already mocking him.

“What— what the fuck,” he began, trying to catch his breath, “made you wanna do that?”

But you were already straddling his lap, pulling up your skirt to your waist.

“F-fuck, baby, I— are you seriously—?”

He cut himself off and whimpered when he got a good look at your panties, the cute lacy kind— and pretty fucking soaked already.

“I-I don’t have a condom,” he warned you, cursing himself inside for finally throwing out the one in his wallet thinking he would never end up needing it.

“Don’t care,” you sighed, pulling your panties aside and guiding his tip right up to your entrance.

“Fuck, that’s—”

He was gonna say it was insanely hot, but you hardly noticed; you were already sliding down onto him, taking him in one motion right to the base.

“Oh fuck!” he nearly shouted, gripping hard onto your thighs.  “F-fuck, you’re so tight, fuck…”

You started moving right away, grinding on top of him for a second before lifting your hips and bouncing up and down.  “Fuck,” you sighed, “so deep…”

Was it wrong that he loved the way you were basically just using him?  You hadn’t even let him finish his sentence, you didn’t ask if he could handle it right after coming— you just started riding him, and far be it from him to complain about that.

“Take this off,” he pleaded, tugging at your unbuttoned shirt and trying to push it off your shoulders.

You helped him get it off, and before you’d even tossed it off to the side he was reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.  The gods of bra clasps smiled down upon him that day, because he was sure he’d never gotten one open so quickly, and if there was any time he really needed it, it was now.

“Fuck,” he groaned when he got a good look at them— not good enough in this dim orange lighting, but it would do— and instantly got a hold of your chest.  You didn’t seem to mind the clammy hands, considering the way you whimpered a little and clenched inside around him.  “God, baby, your tits…”

As much as he’d been waiting ages for a chance to see you naked, he couldn’t deny you looked way too good with the skirt, stockings, and heels still on.  He could already tell this was going to give him a complex.

He ran a hand up your leg as you moved just to feel the silky nylon; god, he hoped you didn’t get fired for the unexplained extreme lateness, if not just for your sake then so that you would keep dressing like this every day.  “So pretty,” he sighed, wondering if you could see in the dark how totally in awe he was of you.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, in that way he’d always imagined you would in a time like this.  Your head fell back and he couldn’t help but reach up and grab your neck— not applying much pressure, just holding you there, just admiring how goddamn perfect his hand looked wrapped around you.  

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Eddie sighed, “fuck, look at you go.”

You smiled a little, he could see it even with your head tilted back like that, and it was just amazing seeing you so… free?  So relaxed and totally shameless, giving in to your pleasure.  But it wasn’t enough: he wanted to see you lose all your composure, he wanted to hear you scream his name, he wanted to make you shake and cry and beg— that was why he grabbed a tight hold of your hips and pulled you down onto him, bucking his hips up to meet you halfway.  It forced his cock even deeper and you yelped a little.

“Not too big for you, is it?” he taunted.

“No, fuck, s’perfect,” you moaned, your voice deep and rough and so fucking beautiful like this.  “Fuckin’ perfect, Ed, o-oh god—”

“Keep saying my name,” he ordered.

“Eddie,” you said, again, but this time all needy and cute; it just made him fuck you harder, biting down on his lip to muffle some of his own noises— he just wanted to hear you.  He pulled you down and hugged you close, keeping you still so he could fuck up into you exactly how he wanted; you moaned right by his ear, fuck it was too precious.  

“I’m already close again,” he admitted with a thin laugh.  “Fuck, look what you do to me.”

You whined louder, clenching on his cock— he seriously did not know how much more of this he could take.

“Wanted you so bad,” he blurted out, unable to stop himself, “wanted this for so long.  Wanted to fuck you— I wanna make you come, fuck, please, please come.”

He felt you nod against his shoulder as you gasped, and he shut his eyes tight, just focusing on his movements and trying his best not to speed up too much just to chase his own high.  He needed you to come more than he needed his own pleasure, even if everything in his body was screaming for a chance to come inside you. “So close,” you panted, “fuck, Eddie, don’t stop— please don’t stop— yes!”

The lights turning back on suddenly startled you both, making him freeze and look around (and squint a little from the brightness), but that was nothing compared to the shock of the doors opening.  Behind them was mostly just concrete, the space between floors, but up top was about two feet of the eighth level, where a crew of firefighters could be seen peering in.

“Are they alright?” someone from the building asked as Eddie scrambled to grab his jacket from the corner and cover you up with it.

“Yeah, looks like they’re doing just fine,” one of the men announced as they broke out in surprised laughter.

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless reader...

Imagine how alone she must've been for all her life. It started since she was young, her parents pushing her to the corner of the home, away from the family, and naturally, her siblings would follow their parents' lead, pointedly ignoring her, and finding any excuse available to be out of her presence. She wouldn't understand them anyway, she can't tell the difference between noises nor could she even recognize scents. It just wouldn't work.

Reader thinks that maybe she could find someone, anyone in school, but kids are like sharks, except instead of smelling blood, they smell the lack of all scents on her. Most kids have a combination of their own and their family members' scents. Reader has nothing, so everyone continues the pattern, but now with more stares and jeers and hushed giggles. Reader knows that bullying is bad, but anything would be better than simply not existing to anyone. That's what the others say, at least, that she's nothing, nobody. Never to her face, though, just in the whispers shared between friends.

She eventually tries to find others like her through the wonders of the internet. There's maybe a handful more scattered in her country, but none are her age, and all have their own families who care about them. Was it just her who wasn't deserving of love, of connection? Reader reaches out to them, and they talk a little, but before long, through no one's fault, it falls through. She was bad at talking anyway, even if she doesn't have to worry about scents or sounds that aren't there, she never knew much about context or connotation. She never had the opportunity to learn about the intricacies in communication. Reader is back alone.

The military eventually scouts her, and it's the first time anyone has ever really looked at her. Sure, they look at her like a valuable tool, but a tool is better than nothing. Reader obviously joins, desperate for crumbs. She climbs the ranks, gets the job done. She is good at her job, so people respect her. She learns how to talk professionally, emails, texts, and so one, but no one talks to her on leave. No one invites her to the pub after a good mission. No one even talks to her in the mess. But people do talk to her when they have to, and that's enough. Maybe she even gets a callsign. Doe. After Jane Doe, the placeholder name for unknown individuals, and insult if anything.

Now there's the 141. They invite her to things. They talk to her. They touch her. Reader exists for them. She isn't just an unknown person stuck in the background and invisible to everyone else, and Reader doesn't know what to do. Her speech is awkward and overly professional, even in personal settings. How is she supposed to be friends with someone, multiple someones? How is she supposed to move? To act? To express? She doesn't know, but she really wants to learn. At least now she has good teachers.

ANON YOU GENIUSSSS okay but this? Perfect. AHHHH I ADORE THIS IDEA!! Esp the jane doe callsign omg yes

You weren’t used to being seen.

Growing up, you learned quickly how to make yourself small- how to exist quietly, without taking up space, without asking for too much. Because the few times you had asked- asked for a hug, asked to be let into the nest, asked why you felt so different- the answers had all been the same.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

It wasn’t that your parents didn’t love you. You were sure they did, in their own way. But love was hard to feel when your mother flinched at your touch like you were something disgusting, when your father sighed like he was tired every time you entered the room as if you were taking up space he was saving for his other children. When your siblings built their nests without you, curling into piles of warmth and safety while you sat outside the door, knees pulled to your chest and hands balled into fists to keep them from knocking, a cold ache burrowing itself in your chest.

You stopped knocking eventually.

You stopped trying.

You used to wonder if you’d done something wrong- if maybe you could fix yourself and everything would go back to normal. But it wasn’t something you could fix. It was just… you.

Scentless.

Designationless.

Invisible.

School had been worse, perhaps the worst. At least your family had pretended not to notice how different you were. The other kids didn’t bother pretending. They stared openly, whispered behind your back, laughed when you walked by. You’d caught bits and pieces of what they said- weird, wrong, broken, as if they hoped by having you hear their words, they’d convince you to leave at last.

You’d started keeping your head down after that, slipping through the halls like a shadow. No one talked to you unless they had to, and even then they either did it with a mocking, jeering tone that echoes in your nightmares or with a meek tone; as if your lack of everything is contagious. No one sat next to you at lunch, either. When partners were assigned, you always ended up working alone per your teachers’ instructions.

It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

By the time you joined the military, you’d gotten good at being alone. You didn’t need friends. Didn’t need packmates. You had work, and work didn’t care if you were quiet or awkward or too stiff to laugh at the right jokes. Work didn’t care if you flinched when people got too close or froze when someone raised their voice. Work demanded to be done, and you had nothing and no one to stop you from that.

But the military also has the same teens who used to bully you so consistently. Rookies all to ready and happy to lord over you. It’s how you get your despised callsign, Doe. Jane Doe. A cruel mockery, comedy wherein you are the joke that has the world laughing.

Still, you wear it. It’s still an acknowledgment and that will always be better than never being seen. You flit from team to team, unit to unit, always an observer from afar, watching everyone around you speak a language you can’t.

But the 141 was different, when you eventually end up working for them.

They cared.

They cared in ways you weren’t ready for.

Soap was relentless, dragging you into conversations even when you barely knew what to say. He filled the silences like it didn’t bother him, kept talking for the both of you, lounging against you unbothered, until you started talking back. Gaz was gentlest, steadier. He never pushed, just lingered close enough to remind you he was there, waiting, whenever you were ready. Quiet, silent acceptance you’d never been given before, and you were yet far too afraid to so easily cling to it.

And the Alphas- Price and Ghost- were worse.

Price had a way of looking at you that made your chest ache, like he saw you, really saw you, and didn’t mind what he found. Scentless, with no designation and all. Ghost was quieter, sharper, but his eyes tracked you everywhere, presence wrapping around you like he was staking a claim you didn’t understand, like he was teying to etch every part of you behind his eyelids.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

They didn’t give you space. They sat next to you at meals, tugged you along when they went out for drinks, called you over during breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt natural- until it didn’t, because sometimes you still felt like an outsider.

Like you didn’t belong.

You tried to hide it, but they saw through you. They always did, and they never shied away.

When you started avoiding the mess hall, it was Gaz who caught you, shoving a plate of food into your hands and dragging you to sit with him like it wasn’t a big deal. When you hung back during missions, letting the others fall into their pack dynamics without you, Soap was the one who looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled.

And when you flinched, once, at the sharp sound of someone’s voice echoing down the hall- when you tensed so hard it made your fingers tremble- it was Price who closed the distance, standing in front of you like a wall and letting Ghost linger at your back. Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

You weren’t used to being protected. You weren’t used to belonging.

But they made it hard not to.