#It just makes making them identifiable as individuals SO BLOODY HARD

[little-candy-store-of-horrors]

Me when i am drawing that wretched family tree and i reach francis stephan and i dont have to draw that WRETCHED jaw anymore

[cryptid-killjoy]

HC: Willem

The first thing Willem does before going back to Nola (as he only learns of the new name upon entrance when Delta gives them a welcome speech is get Figaro Valentine gifts from the outside a little worried after all Delta’s warnings about not getting out and how it’s changed of what they’ll have available to them. He’s not sure what they can loot, use, or ship in, or what kind of survivor population is there. So, he purchases Valentine chocolates Figaro before going in just in case. 

He’d make Diana a box for Valentine’s Day. Nothing too fancy. Just a hinge box, but lined nicely, good for storing jewelry or her eyes and other doo dads. 

He’d even get Hansel two new V-day lady pack of cards with hearts on them. It’s a bit of novelty now that’s he’s gotten him so many, but as a welcome home and Happy Valentines, nostalgia of their friendship, it just felt right. So to make it funny one had real ladies and the other had cartoon ladies like Betty Boop and Jessica Rabbit hoping he’d get a kick out of it and a laugh. 

He’ll also try to take notes from Valerie anything Diana might have mentioned in their dress up sessions to help inspire him for her since she had so much time with a real life woman, not a doll, no offense Figaro. Not that Diana and Valerie have the fashion sense but neither do Fig and Diana. So without Gep and the more official seamstress / tailor / fashion designer person of the house for the dolls he wanted to pick up on anything and everything that might have leaked in those girly time sessions she piqued interest in. 

He will also write a very detailed letter detailing everything Scout and GoGo need to know about Parrish and his family. He really does not want them caught off guard with this guy so it will have a history of every doll and their personality and life history with the man including maintenance issues and tech problems, the best way to handle and approach, and even speak, when to in third person or directly to him, but knows they’ll have to get a feel for it when they meet them. (I’ll try to actually write this letter later in brief form but Willem’s would be overwhelmingly long like a flight manual) Scout will see on her desk after Willem leaves like what the fuck did I just get myself into? 

Saying goodbye to Young Gep would have been the hardest. He’d make sure he had knew to make a copy of the manual not that he didn’t know his job. After a handshake he’d wish him fair winds forever and always until their return. Then he wouldn’t be able to stop him and just throw around a big ol’ hug because that’s Will. 

Then the first thing Willem will do since they don’t enter through Funkytown is run to check on his favorite dog walking dog. The owner sadly had died with Horned King army and poor old McStinkeye was not very McGruff and very scared, hungry, and all alone when he was reunited with the pirate. It was even hard to identify the right home with all the structural changes but he found it. He obviously had to take McStinkeye McGruff back to Funkytown with them. But this will make it dawn on him that old Stinkers there can’t be the only abandoned pet after these deaths in this empty city. Some might not have lasted. It’s going to feel like a job for the Rescue Rangers. But they weren’t here right now.  Feral is a big place for just him and Figaro to go combing through. Hell, he and Smalls would probably both realize it at the same time the moment they found this dog how many others there could be. He’s going to look at Smalls like damn, “We have a big job ahead of us.” 

Then of course when he gets back to Funkytown he’ll be greeting every single doll individually, not one left unaccounted so happy to finally see all his favorite “people” in the whole word. Hansel back in his own walls is beautiful. Willem is ready for bloody V-day movie marathon on their own tv in their own living room where they belong with Slips eating his favorite order of pizza like it’s supposed to be. No offense honeymoon suite. 

[ciralys]

It always starts with a soft kind of ‘fiewww’. Just a little, fluttery sound.

Zachariah knows it will be his demise.

There are no therapists in Heaven but soon there’ll be such a need that some angels will have to buckle up and make it their job – maybe those from the Eden Supervision Department, it’s been a few millenia, God knows what they do all day (scratch that, She might not). So you might just say: there are no therapists in Heaven yet.

Because then the ‘fiewww’ gets louder, becomes a ‘fiEWWW’ then a “oh hello, there” then a “didn’t see you there, pal”. Yeah man, fair enough, I must’ve been so hard to spot in that huge fucking empty corridor. Nothing but white walls in a five miles radius, albeit with sometimes the nice addition of Saraqael squinting menacingly from a distance.

So that’s the point when you must turn and smile politely. “Pleasure, Chief Executive Manager Crowley. How are you?”

Although by now Zachariah mostly does a 180 degrees turn on the white floor (squeaak) and blurts “hi”. You don’t want to make the moment last.

Then the man smiles at you behind those terrible, ominous black glasses. His hoverboard is wobbling, as if to notify you that he can and will come roll over you any minute. Or at least make you retreat until you disgracefully hit the wall and start crying. Zachariah knows someone did that once. Might have been him.

“So are your tasks coming along well?”

And that is just the worst, isn’t it? Cornering you alone for a random checkup, smiling like a manic, holding a clipboard. A clipboard. Chief Executive Manager Crowley invoked material matter in the sole purpose of looking intimidating.

It works.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic. There is a meeting in a few moments.”

Of course. Of course, there is.

Gabriel was terrible. He would smile with way too many teeth visible, mightily clap you on the back for no identifiable reason, and wink at you as if you somehow shared a bond (you didn’t) and he wanted to deepen it (physically painful thought, that. No-go zone).

But new boss Aziraphale wants to do things ‘right’. Asks for input or whatever. And so he holds meetings. With everyone, together. Then with everyone, individually. He wants to know what they think, what they’d like to do, what Future they envision for Heaven and for his little planet Earth. Zachariah likes Heaven, doesn’t care about Earth, and simply wants to walk around in corridors without the fear of that ‘fiewww’ sound manifesting behind him. And without having to attend so many bloody meetings.

He’s fairly certain that everyone would have started calling in sick, if Chief Executing Manager Crowley didn’t bully them into attending.

Sometimes, Zachariah can’t help but think Gabriel was actually not so bad.

(So @twilightcitysky asked for someone to write it so I did bc hoverboard!crowley is cracking me up)

Crack AU where Crowley goes to heaven and acts as Aziraphale's assistant. This is a horrible idea and would be absolutely awful but if we ignore all the realistic implications of it, it has endless comedy potential! Have some dumb doodles

[casspurrjoybell-31]

The Consort's Will - Chapter 23 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Brayden

It saturates the air and seeps into the walls, branding the moment with an invisible tattoo.

Years from now, the ghosts of today will whisper their vengeance to generations to follow.

Forever trapped, forever haunted within this realm of hell.

Their pain bleeds into their cries, the very essence embodying the demon of dismay.

Humans, Secondaries and Vampires alike beg for their lives.

Mostly, however, they beg for death.

My eyes scan the wide expanse, looking for a way to escape with my human.

Familiar blood scents intertwine with the unfamiliar.

Some of Axel's followers are among those being held captive.

I smell Axel's distinctive flair coagulating in their blood.

I also smell Mark, the human leader of this uprising.

I cannot locate him in the dim light, there are too many bloodied facies and bodies.

But I know they are here, rotting and clutching to their own form of life.

There are too many prisoners for this to have happened so quickly.

Far too many.

Thousands are dead.

Perhaps hundreds of thousands.

Yet even more are waiting for their turn with the grim reaper.

Florescent vials of the serum are being carted throughout the floor.

They act as demonic lightening bugs, a final glimmer of translucent color before taking their next victim.

The Secondary army isn't wasting time getting them dispersed.

More vampires and humans are dying by the second.

"Why are they killing the humans too?" I mutter.

"They're giving them a choice," Leo answers behind me.

"To die or to become subservient to the Secondary people."

His voice trails off but his thoughts are aligned with mine.

It appears most humans are choosing the first option, leaving this world of their own accord and clinging to whatever dignity that remains.

Despite my own distaste for Mark and his followers, there is a level of respect knowing they refused to abandon their cause.

They refused to live out the rest of their days as puppets to a man spun together with the fibers of evil.

"Welcome," Reyo's voice booms through the underground dome.

His gaze fixates on me as I squint through the darkness, identifying the black thread of a microphone pressed against his lower lip.

Leo tenses before coming to stand beside me.

Reyo's eyes flicker to my human companion and he chuckles.

"I've been expecting you both for quite some time. Though Leo, I must say, you continued your act of loyalty to the Secondaries far longer than I anticipated."

He waves a dismissive hand around the room of massacre.

"Unfortunately, we had to begin without you. But please, do join me up here."

Neither of us moves.

Footsteps shuffle in from behind us and Secondary blood fills my nose.

A sharp point of a needle presses at my back, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to give a warning.

"One wrong move and you'll be at Death's doorstop faster than your vampire friend, Kelly."

"Regardless of my fate, you have just sealed yours," I whisper darkly.

"Before the end of this night, you will die by my hands."

Tegan growls at the back of my neck.

"I'd love to see you try, vamp."

Two, additional guards flank my sides.

Each of them binds me in an individual cuff made of a metal I have never encountered before.

It is heavy and as soon as it connects with my skin, it begins to dull my senses and deplete my energy.

The guards tug me forward.

For the first time in my immortal life, I do not fight back.

Only one guard monitors Leo and the six of us climb over a floor of dead bodies as we make our way up to the platform.

The deeper we move into the pits of hell, the more my humanity slips away.

I am dead, after all.

Death incarnate.

I was never meant to feel or experience emotions the way humans do.

I was always willing to live peacefully but I am of a different species.

It was not until I met my human and tasted his blood, the true blood of a Nirv, that I experienced humanity once again.

With it came slivers of emotions, small bursts of happiness, jealousy and pain.

Bones crack beneath our feet as we traipse forward.

Bloodied fingers claw at my calves and feet, silently begging for my help.

Leo sucks in a ragged breath beside me.

This is too much for a human heart to bear.

"It will be over soon," I say to him.

The guard between us snorts and shakes his head.

One of the humans beneath his feet reaches for his ankles.

It's a young man, no older than twenty.

His crystal blue eyes seem to shine amongst the sea of blood.

His dried lips part and he mouths the word please.

The guard doesn't look down.

He shoos away the helpless touch before raising his boot and smashing it down with finality.

Fresh blood spills around our feet as the man's skull folds in on itself and the crystal blue eyes disappear.

[jaskierswolf]

Little Shop of Whorerors

A Little Shop of Horrors AU... except the plant needs come not blood. So buckle down for some shameless smut, and mind the warnings!

Ship: Geraskier (feat plant) Rating: E (in case the title didn't give it away)

CW: Monster fucking, vines, extremely dub con, overstim, dry orgasm, double penetration (sort of? Do vines count?), anal, sex pollen, altered biology (plant lube has side effects y'all), ovi.

On AO3

_

Jaskier wasn’t sure when he’d become such a plant dad, but between anxiety and depression and lockdown… he’d just needed a little greenery in his life. One plant had become two which had become a whole nursery and Jaskier was getting better and better at looking after his new children. A year after he’d bought his first plant, he’d decided to move onto something a little more challenging so he toddled off to the garden centre in the hopes of finding his newest plant baby! 

He couldn’t wait. 

In his mind he was already trying to pick out the perfect name for it. His boyfriend, Geralt, would suggest Roach, but Jaskier was better than that. So far all his plants had individual names, with little name tags in each of their pots. They were named after all of his friends but he hadn’t yet found a perfect plant to be Geralt Two. Whilst he had some beautiful plants, none of them felt quite right to be named after his beloved boyfriend. 

The drive to the garden centre went by quickly, as he talked to himself about the pros and cons of starting a herb garden. By the time he grabbed a basket, he was pretty set on starting one, and maybe grabbing a monstera deliciosa… god, he was awful at making decisions…

There were just so many pretty plants and he wanted them all.

No. 

He wanted that one!

As he walked in there was a gorgeous purply, viney looking plant with reddish leaves. So colourful, so wonderful… just his. It was so small and so beautiful and urgh… he had needs! It would be his Geralt Two! And he already knew exactly where he was going to put it - above his bed on the little shelf that Geralt helped him install. Hopefully that would be okay, he would have to look up what it needed in terms of light and water… but he was sure the shelf would be okay. 

Before anyone else could swipe up Geralt Two, Jaskier pulled it from its shelf and plopped it in his basket, completely forgetting about the herbs and the bigger pots he’d come to the garden centre for. The cashier struggled to find Geralt Two on his system but eventually after talking to their supervisor, Geralt Two was officially part of the Pankratz family!

And Jaskier couldn’t be more excited. 

Now he just had to work out how to care for his new darling. 

_

At first, Jaskier didn’t notice anything strange about Geralt Two. The plant seemed to be growing well enough… well not growing exactly but not dying either which was a win for a new plant that he still couldn’t identify for the life of him. Nothing he found online seemed to match but it was a fun project and there was a little spark of joy with every day that passed and his new plant was still alive. Although the real Geralt wasn’t best pleased with his namesake. Apparently it was too small and baby for Geralt’s liking, but that was fine. That just meant that if Jaskier could get the damn thing to grow then it was all his hard work! No one would be able to take that away from him. 

And then tragedy struck. 

After just a few weeks, Jaskier woke up to find Geralt Two wilting and yellow. It was a complete disaster and he felt like a failure. He tried moving the plant somewhere with more light, less light, every water level and nutritional food and treatment he could think of, but the plant didn’t get any better. The bloody thing wasn’t even root bound. The humidity hadn’t changed all that much either. There was no logical reason for the sudden change in its state. 

It was ridiculous! Jaskier even tried giving the damn thing some of his blood after he started watching Little Shop of Horrors when Valdo mentioned it offhandedly, although he’d never actually reached the end - too excited to try his newest theory!. But of course that didn’t work. Blood! What had he been thinking?

Nothing was working, and it wasn’t fucking fair. Geralt Two absolutely could not die on him.

And then, one morning, after Jaskier had nearly given up, he woke up from a rather wonderful dream about Geralt to find that one of the vines had grown almost a metre overnight and was now wrapped around his hard cock, pressed right up to the head.

He squeaked, staring down at the vine, suddenly regretting his choice in bed clothes… or lack thereof. But the vine was glowing where it touched the leaking precum. Jaskier wasn’t even aware that vines could glow. The pieces all seemed to fall into place at once, and Jaskier knew exactly what the plant needed. It wasn’t blood, but the film hadn’t been completely off the mark. 

It needed his cum. 

And strangely Jaskier was okay with that, whatever his darling child needed to grow and make Geralt proud!

So, tentatively, he reached down and stroked the tiny vine. It was long, reaching down from the shelf above his bed, but it was narrow, a weird sort of lube substance secreting from the pores. It shivered under his touch, unwrapping from Jaskier’s cock just long enough to caress Jaskier’s palm and then it went back to its meal, if one could call it that. 

Fuck it. 

He was hard and horny anyway, he might as well get off… right? 

Jaskier closed his eyes, trying to recall his dream as he began to stroke his cock, using the plant’s lube instead of the bottle he had stashed under his pillow. God, whatever was in the plant lube was fucking amazing. Maybe he could bottle the stuff… he’d make a fortune. He felt dizzy with lust, his cock aching and desperate for release already. The vine moved with his hand, much sturdier than it looked, oozing over his cock and paying special attention to the tip, absorbing any precum that leaked before it could drip onto Jaskier’s stomach. 

“Holy fuck,” Jaskier gasped, his back arching off the mattress as he hurtled towards his orgasm, but before he could cum, the vine pressed inside his cock, and he howled.

Sounding was something that he’d heard of but had never found the courage to try. The vine didn’t care as it inched deeper and deeper inside of him. The whole vine was glowing now, possibly the whole plant, but he couldn’t see and he couldn’t move, too transfixed by the tendril fucking his cock. 

It was… unbelievable. 

His hand fell away from his cock and gripped at the sheets, letting the plant fuck him as it pleased. A pathetic whine escaped him and he bit his lip. God, if Geralt could see him like this… 

“Shit!” he hissed, his other arm covering his face to hide his blush. 

It was as if he were drunk on pleasure. He cursed and swore and whimpered, not noticing as a second thin tendril creeped down from the shelf. It joined the first, wrapping around him and stroking him with feather light touches as its kin fucked into him. 

“Oh god!” The moan tore from his throat as he came, his whole body spasming as he was nearly blinded by his orgasm. 

The plant sucked every last drop of cum from him and then retreated back to the shelf, leaving Jaskier boneless on the bed, drifting off to sleep. 

When he awoke the second time, the two long vines were curled up in the pot. All the yellow spots were gone, and it was no longer wilting. It looked perfectly healthy… and it had obviously grown! 

Jaskier had done it!

_

After that, masturbating and fucking Geralt Two just became part of his nightly routine. His poor boyfriend wasn’t allowed to stay over anymore, not that Jaskier had said anything so explicitly. He just… always managed to make excuses. On the now rare occasion that he stayed over at Geralt’s, Jaskier always made sure to feed Geralt Two before he went over. It left him feeling more than a little exhausted, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d fucked his actual boyfriend. 

Geralt Two was a thirsty little bastard and Jaskier could only cum so much. 

Only the more Geralt Two grew, the more he needed and Jaskier was really starting to struggle. He longed for a day when he wasn’t woken up with a vine wrapped around his cock, when he could fall asleep without being fucked out of his mind. Although maybe if the vine would actually fuck him he’d feel a lot better. His poor cock was oversensitive all of the time. 

But the plant was persistent and Jaskier wanted it to be happy. He needed it to be happy. The stupid thing had him completely smitten from the first day in the garden centre. As far as Jaskier was aware, Geralt Two was still young, definitely not nearly fully grown. It spilled over the larger pot Jaskier had given him, leaves flourishing and vines covering half his ornaments and books on the shelf.

The real Geralt thought it was ridiculous. 

Well.. the real Geralt was just sort of grumpy all the time. It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if he dumped Jaskier’s arse. As much as it would hurt, Jaskier understood. He’d been a shitty boyfriend recently. Hell, Geralt probably thought that Jaskier didn’t love him any more. He’d been so distant and tired all of the damn time. 

Crap. 

But there wasn’t anything Jaskier could really do about it. Geralt Two was needy, and the two original vines grew stronger and larger with each day. They were able to hold him down now. It didn’t matter if he was late for work, Jaskier had to feed the plant before he was allowed to leave. 

And he fucking hated how much he always loved it in the moment. 

Something about that lubrication it produced meant that he was really unable to protest, and within minutes he was always begging for more. He wanted to be filled up, bred, fucked beyond belief… but the closest he got to that was a vine sliding down his throat.

Afterwards though… afterwards he was just… done. 

He thought about getting rid of Geralt Two, but- 

But he couldn’t. What if he fell into someone else’s hands? 

Despite everything, Jaskier couldn’t do that. He would just have to manage Geralt and work as best as he could. Thankfully he worked with his boyfriend so it was sort of two birds and one stone. 

Only of course that meant that Geralt knew when he was late. And he was starting to be late more often than not. 

Geralt Two just didn’t give a shit, and at that moment, neither did Jaskier. 

“P-please…” he gasped in between sucking at the tendril in his mouth, lapping up the sweet elixir like a starved man. “I’ll cum for you, just fuck me! Please, please, please!” 

A thick vine just tightened around his cock, the grip almost painful. Jaskier whined and struggled against the vines wrapped around his wrists and ankles, as a tiny tendril snaked down his chest. 

“No! No, no, no… not that!” His cock was too sensitive. The touch was burning, and he couldn’t catch his breath. After two orgasms that day already, he wasn’t sure he had another one in him. 

And yet if the plant didn’t fuck his ass he felt like he might actually explode. He’d never needed anything more in his life. More than food, more than oxygen… more than- 

The door flung open. 

“Geralt!” 

Golden eyes met his as Geralt froze in the doorway, taking in the sight before him. Jaskier had never felt so vulnerable in front of his boyfriend, tied up, legs forced open, a vine around his cock… nearly in his cock, another around his neck. 

Geralt Two protested the new arrival by shoving a vine back into Jaskier’s mouth and he moaned helplessly, tears rolling down his cheek. 

“Jask, what the fuck?!” 

Unable to say anything, Jaskier just moaned again as another burst of elixir trickled down his throat and he felt himself relax into the grasp of the vines, floating happily as the smaller one pressed into his cock. It didn’t take long after that for the vine to tear another orgasm from him, glowing as it absorbed the pitiful amount of cum that spilled from him. 

He was failing his child. 

A sob caught in his throat as he fell into Geralt’s arms. He was exhausted and sore and humiliated. The last thing he’d wanted was for Geralt to see him like this, but taking his boyfriend’s house key would have really been the nail in the coffin. 

And he really didn’t want to lose Geralt. 

“Jaskier, what happened? What the fuck is that thing?” 

But before Jaskier could answer, a flower sprouted from one of the thicker vines and a cloud of pollen sprayed in Geralt’s face. Golden eyes darkened, and Geralt let out a low growl as he flipped Jaskier onto his front. 

“G-Geralt?” 

It was no use - Geralt couldn’t hear him. The plant had captured his boyfriend under its spell and Jaskier was going to pay the price. Another vine was pressed into his mouth and he let it, unable to find the will to fight. It would feel amazing with the nectar… why would he fight against that? And now Geralt was there too. He didn’t have to provide for the plant on his own anymore.

It really was just a perfect morning. 

When Geralt’s slicked fingers pressed against his hole, Jaskier felt as if he had gone to heaven. His body welcomed Geralt’s fingers, loose and stretched despite no actual prep, and Geralt cursed. 

“Fuck, Jask, you look so good,” he breathed, pumping his fingers in and out with ease and brushing up against his prostate. 

Jaskier keened and pushed back against Geralt’s fingers. It felt amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The emptiness that had been plaguing him for weeks was aching at his core. More. More. More. Even with Geralt’s glorious cock, he knew he would always need more. 

“G’ralt…” he slurred, half muffled around the vine. 

Fingers dug into his hip, bruising and possessive, holding him in place. There was a ruffle of clothes, which Jaskier could only guess was Geralt stripping down, and then the blunt head of Geralt’s cock was pushing against his entrance. The usual blissful stretch was absent as Geralt sunk into him with one hard thrust, burying into Jaskier’s body as if he was meant to be there. 

“So loose, Christ, Jask… what have you been doing?”

“Needed more, plant needed more…” The reply was nonsensical but it was all Jaskier could manage as Geralt began to pound into him at a brutal pace. 

It was almost animalistic, nothing like their usual fucks. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed in the room, the squelching of lube as the plant covered them both in its slimy elixir, poisoning their minds in a cloud of lust. 

Jaskier was on fire. Every cell was burning with pleasure, his skin tingling and his throat hoarse from screaming, begging, crying. Still Geralt fucked into him, even as Jaskier came again, his cock barely leaking as he sobbed into his pillow. 

Why wasn’t it enough? 

Empty. 

Desperate. 

Burning. 

Geralt roared as he spilled into Jaskier, rutting against his arse and fucking the cum deep inside him. But Geralt Two couldn’t be fooled. Before Geralt’s cock had even started to soften, a vine had pushed in alongside it, finally filling Jaskier as he’d wanted for long. The vine wrapped around Geralt’s cock, still buried in Jaskier’s hole, teasing at his prostate as it fed. 

Jaskier had never been so happy to see the plant glow before, but he didn’t have the energy to enjoy it before he collapsed onto the bed. 

———

Things got easier after that. His relationship with Geralt was back on track and between the two of them they were able to sate Geralt Two’s unquenchable thirst… well mostly. 

It was, for a time, the calm before the storm. Geralt Two grew larger and larger with every day that passed, becoming brattier and nastier the more it grew.

One day, when Jaskier and Geralt returned from work together, they found the flat trashed. Vines were everywhere, books thrown to the ground, glasses shattered on the rugs. It was like a petulant teenager that hadn’t got his way. 

Geralt and Jaskier turned to each other. 

“We need to quit work.” The words were spoken in unison and then they rushed to the bedroom, gleefully anticipating what Geralt Two had in store for them. 

It turned out the plant had rather a lot planned. Once again, the darling had shot up over night and he now emitted a soft glow even when he wasn’t feeding. Both Jaskier and Geralt were completely entranced, unable to take their eyes off of the creature. 

That was their downfall. Their clothes were shredded by a vine, far larger than any they’d seen before and they were pinned to the bed. Jaskier briefly wondered if he should be afraid, but by then just the thought of his beloved plant had his cock hard and heavy between his legs. There was no reason to suspect that this time would be any different. 

Jaskier barely had a chance to grab Geralt’s hand before the vine was penetrating him, pushing deep inside him. The elixir guided the way, sweet nectar that made all his worries go away, and he moaned wantonly. Beside him, he heard Geralt grunt and Jaskier turned to look at his boyfriend. God, it was a sight. A thick vine was fucking Geralt’s arse, just as it was Jaskier, glowing a beautiful. Geralt’s face was flushed, sweat dripping down his cheeks and his eyes were squeezed shut as he bit his lip. 

Their darling plant really did look after them ever so well. 

“Oh shit!” Jaskier whined as the vine fucked relentlessly against his prostate. 

Waves of pleasure rushed over him. Again and again and again. It was never-ending and brilliant and overwhelming. Geralt Two never fucked them like this, always too needy for their cum. The vine was thick, stretching him more than Geralt’s cock ever had, and yet it didn’t hurt. Jaskier could feel every single twist and turn of the plant as it impaled him, over and over, until he was a quivering wreck, sobbing and gripping onto Geralt’s hand so tightly that he thought he might break it. 

“G-geralt… I can’t…” 

But oh he wanted to. That was the worst part about all of this. He always wanted it. Cumming over and over again until he was dry. 

“Hnnnnng…” came Geralt’s garbled response and he pushed back onto the vine, his face pressed into the pillows. 

And then the plant pulled back before either of them could cum, smaller vines wrapped tightly around the base of their cocks, another weaving around their torsos, holding them firmly in place. 

Something was… wrong. 

Deep down, a primitive instinct yelled at Jaskier to run, but he couldn’t. Physically he was trapped and… well… he was still rather enchanted by the plant. The creature. So instead he just whined, struggling in the vines’ grip as he tried to get some sort of friction to his cock, or even try to push the vine back against his prostate. Something. Anything. He was desperate… for what he wasn’t quite sure of yet. To cum? To be stretched more and more? To sate the endless emptiness?

“P-please!”

The plant listened. Before he could protest any more, the vine penetrating him seemed to grow, widen deep inside him. He could hear the sound of squelching as more of the delicious nectar flooded inside him… and then something else. 

“I- what’s happening?”  he managed to gasp, but Geralt was just as fucked out as he was, eyes clouded over as he suckled on a vine in his mouth. 

Something moved along the thick tendril and pushed inside him. Whatever it was stayed behind as the vine moved back once more. Jaskier tried to turn his head to look at Geralt Two, but the plant pinned him down. He whimpered, closing his eyes as the vine began to thicken once more. The stretch on his rim was larger this time… blissfully so. That void inside him was finally dissipating, and he sighed, sinking into the bed, his grip on Geralt’s hand loosening. 

The second object was dropped inside him, nestling in alongside the first… and then another… and another, until Jaskier was sure he might explode. He felt so full, his stomach feeling tight underneath him. 

“J-Jask…” Geralt panted, “feels so good.”

“Yeah, fuck, Geralt.”

When it was satisfied, Geralt Two retreated back to the shelf, glowing and full of flowers, leaving Jaskier and Geralt incapacitated on the bed. 

They were left like that for two days, unable to move, to drink, to eat. Whatever the plant had dosed them with left them hollow, shells to be bred full of the egg like seeds until the young were able to break out, slithering from their holes and making their way into the world. 

And then it began again. Jaskier and Geralt were trapped in their apartment, at the mercy of the strange plant creature… fucked and bred until Geralt Two and its kin spread all over the world, taking over humanity one curious plant lover at a time. 

Really, Jaskier should have finished watching the copy of Little Shop of Horrors that Valdo had lent him… but it was far too late now. 

[girl4music]

BUFFY REWATCH - S05E02 - Real Me

TARA: “Poor Dawn. 

*Cut to Tara looking at herself in a mirror, which is above a sink with a towel rack beside it*

She was pretty shaken up.” 

WILLOW: “Well, sure. Bloody death and stuff.

*The camera pans out and we see they are in a dorm room, unpacking. Willow goes to hang a painting while Tara is unpacking bathroom stuff from a box* 

She'll be okay.”

TARA: “It's just... I, I think it's tough for her, not being able to... well, allowed to, you know, help.”

*Willow tries the painting in a few places, then puts it atop a bureau and begins unpacking another box*

WILLOW: “Help?” 

TARA: “Oh, you. You guys. The Slayer circle.” 

WILLOW: “Well, Buffy doesn't really need... a-and I think Dawn's a little young.” 

TARA: “I-I know, you're right. It's just hard. That outsider feeling.”

*Willow looks over at her*

WILLOW: “Tara... you're not an outsider.”

TARA: “Well, yeah. I kind of am.”

WILLOW: 

*Walking toward her* 

“No, no you're not.” 

TARA: “Willow, it's okay. 

*Holds up a shampoo bottle* 

Where does this go?” 

WILLOW: “Somebody making you feel uncomfortable? Is it Xander? It's Xander, isn't it?”

TARA: “Xander's a sweetie.”

WILLOW: “It's Giles! It's 'cause he's... British and doesn't understand about stuff.”

TARA: “It's no one. 

*Continues taking stuff out of the box*

You guys all just have this really tight bond. It's-it's hard to break into that. And I'm not even sure I want to.”

*Willow walks up behind Tara and puts her arms around Tara's waist, resting her chin on Tara's shoulder*

WILLOW: “I'm sure. 

*Tara puts her hands over Willow's*

You're completely one of the gang now. Everyone accepts that.

*Closeup of their faces as they both smile*

You're one of the good guys.

*Tara's smile disappears and she pulls away, disengaging herself from Willow's embrace. Willow doesn't notice her expression* 

Maybe I can talk to the rest of the group and we can do something. Some kind of Scooby initiation.

*They both return to what they were doing*

Oh! Maybe we could wear some kind of special ring that identifies us as members.”

TARA: “I don't think so. But maybe something like that would be nice for Dawn. I do worry about her sometimes.”

WILLOW: “You don't have to. She's got big sister Buffy happily looking out for her.”

With this episode we have the introduction of a brand new main character... only we’re not supposed to think of her as brand new. We are given no explanation as to why Dawn Summers has never been mentioned before the start of this season until later in it. Therefore, it’s odd to us how all the other characters act as if she’s always been there with them. Part of their lives as Buffy’s little sister. 

That being said - it means we have to acknowledge that all the other characters have had different experiences and situations happen to them than what we have seen and remember with the inclusion of Dawn to the show. Especially with Tara - who Dawn has seemed to have established a personal connection with more than anyone else. And it appears that the reason why is that they’re both outsiders to the tight-knit team of the Scooby Gang family. They feel excluded.

When Dawn is told to wait outside the Magic Box store while the Gang deal with the murder of the owner, Tara eventually goes looking for Dawn, knowing that she has no real business helping the other characters with their detective work. They bond and share in their discomfort at being “in the way” as “non-Scoobies”.

Later, as Willow and Tara are unpacking belongings in an apartment - now taking the step of moving into an off-campus living environment together, Tara relays her concerns about Dawn feeling left out - to which Willow intuitively senses that it’s not just Dawn that feels that way. Tara does too. And she refuses to let the conversation drop when Tara tries to change the subject. As I mentioned in my recap for ‘Hush’ - this is one of the ways in which Willow and Tara bond emotionally. In being outcasted or rejected from society. In their individual feelings of being ostracized or invalidated in particular. And here’s the thing - every protagonist character does to some degree at different points in the show. In this season, it appears to be Tara and Dawn that does as they are the “newbies” to the group dynamic and haven’t really found their feet in how they can be useful or beneficial to the team-working machine yet. As the season progresses, we learn much more about these characters and we see the romantic relationship between Tara and Willow really blossom because of it.

[bullyingbatman]

the night market

wrote a weird cass-centric urban fantasy au snippet & it wasn't complete enough to post on ao3 so here y'all can have whatever this is

///

Cass slips down the side of the brick wall into the alley below, her presence no more than a rustle of the wind. One end of the alley is a dead end, and in the back of her mind she logs it as a potential escape route, while beyond the other is the hustle and bustle of the Night Market. Behind her, Stephanie emerges from the shadows, hovering at her elbow. Her fingers brush against Cass’ hoodie, a silent I’ve got your back. Cass appreciates it. She checks to make sure her mask– black, expressionless, featureless except for the glowing white eyes– is fixed firmly on her face, pulls up her hood, and steps out into the light.

The Night Market is bright, full of red and gold lantern-light, and packed with figures. It’s hard to distinguish anything about anyone here at first glance, all of them draped in formless, oversized clothing, hoodies and cloaks and coats, obscuring any identifying details. Then there are the masks– horrid wooden things, each one painted with its own unique design. Over there, a black-and-white mask grins, its owner leering wherever they turn; manning a stall, a yellow face weeps bloody tears, mouth open in an eternal scream. The Night Market, for most, is a confusing and disorienting experience.

For Cass, it is anything but.

She recognises people by their gaits, the ways they twist and turn; a man dressed in monochrome with a mask painted with cawing ravens is Mr Porter from the library, the young woman dressed in green-yellow-red, mask painted with thick goggles, is her brother’s drama teacher. She weaves in and out of the crowd, finding herself assured as she brushes off calls from vendors. There are no secrets from Cass, not in the Night; she’s one of the few people here who can see through the masquerade.

As she approaches the edge of the Market, the stalls give way to buildings, seedy bars and ramshackle dives. She spins around and finds the one she’s looking for– a single doorway on a stone wall not even three feet wide between two wooden buildings, covered by a ragged red curtain. She beelines towards it, Stephanie hot on her heels as she ducks inside.

The inside, as expected, is much larger than the doorway implies, stretching out into an average-sized bar. It’s relatively busy, tables filled with masked individuals sharing drinks or playing games or having hushed discussions. She ignores all of them and heads to the bar.

“Well, if it isn’t Spooky Girl!” the bartender says. His mask is red-and-white polkadots, like a pale face covered in raw poxes. “You’re back again?” Cass doesn’t reply, simply fixing him with her mask’s blank expression. “Lemme guess, you wanna see the boss.” She remains silent; he sighs. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Cass is waiting for five minutes, during which time the bartender– Cass has never met him in the day, doesn’t know his name, and knows better than to ask– gives her a coke to sip on. Finally, from the stairs at the back, the man she came to see emerges, glares at her from behind red wood, and gestures harshly with his head.

Cass gets to her feet and follows him upstairs.

The upstairs room is smaller than the bar below, a bare-bones bedroom with a bed in one corner, set of drawers, a desk, and a window-seat. Jason sits down on the window-seat and folds his arms, scowling at her from behind his mask.

“Did you have to bring her with you?” he asks, pointing at Steph.

Steph scowls back. “Well, nice to see you too,” she mutters.

“Creep,” Jason shoots back.

“Stop,” Cass says, and they do. “Spoiler is a friend,” she says to Jason.

Jason ignores her, changing the topic. “Why are you here? And it better not be because he sent you.” Cass doesn’t reply, and he groans. “Seriously, Orphan? You’re still doing his bidding?”

Cass doesn’t like his tone. “I do what I want,” she shoots back. Then, more softly, “He is worried.”

Jason snorts disbelievingly. Cass almost can’t blame him. Almost.

“Yeah? I want to hear that from him.”

“You know he can’t come here.”

That makes Jason pause. “Wait, seriously? That wasn’t some kind of trick?” Cass shakes her head, and he lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s stupid, even for him.”

Cass sighs. “Please,” she says. “He wants to talk.”

Jason stares at her for a long moment. “I’ll think about it,” he finally relents. Cass can see, with some surprise, that he actually will. Something about the bent of his shoulders. “Is that all?”

Cass considers for a moment. “Be careful,” she says. “Some people downstairs… they’re up to no good.”

A snort. “Yeah, I dunno if you noticed, but this place ain’t exactly the Ritz.”

She glares. “Serious.”

He sobers at that. “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, Orphan.”

She nods in farewell, and turns back down the stairs. She slips out of the bar without a stir, and Steph says, “That went surprisingly well.”

Cass nods thoughtfully. “I think he’ll come.”

“You do?” Steph seems surprised. “Damn. Then again, I guess B really messed up this time, huh?”

He really had, Cass thinks, as she heads back through the market to the alleyway she’d passed through on the way here. “Things are in the air,” she says, after a moment, gesturing with one hand. “It will be… interesting. Where dust settles.”

“Remind me to get the popcorn,” Steph jokes. They arrive at the dead-end wall Cass had noticed before, and sure enough, she feels the familiar prickle of an exit. This one isn’t on their maps; she’ll have to get Tim or Barbara to update them. She glances up at Stephanie, who grins at her, clicking her tongue and doing some kind of half-salute, half-finger guns gesture. Cass smiles back at her best friend, despite knowing that she won’t see it through the mask, and passes through the gateway.

Gotham at night is much quieter than Gotham at Night, and Cass knows she has to be careful; she doesn’t want to be caught breaking curfew, after all. Hiding in the alley, she carefully takes off her mask, wrapping it with cloth before fixing it on her belt. She can feel Stephanie’s presence at her heels, even if she can no longer see her, and so indicates her path before she takes it, looking up before she begins to scale the fire escape.

At this point in her life, Cass thinks could cross Gotham at night in her sleep. She makes it back to the Clocktower just as the sky is beginning to grey with pre-dawn light, and is halfway to her room when she hears a pointed cough and freezes in places. She feels a phantom tap on her wrist, and can practically hear Stephanie whispering, “Busted.”

She turns to see Barbara sat in the high-backed chair by the computer, one eyebrow raised. “What time do you call this, young lady?” she asks.

(Cass thinks that Barbara is not that much older than her, but she holds her tongue; she knows better than to try her older sister-slash-adoptive mother’s patience.)

“Early,” says Cass, who doesn’t actually know what time it is.

Babs does not look amused. “I told you I didn’t want you going out after curfew,” she says sharply. “Especially after all the disappearances lately.” Her eyes land on the mask on Cass’ hip, and her expression sours further. “Seriously, Cass? You know what I said–”

“I just went to the Market,” Cass says. “I saw Jason.”

Babs pauses. “Jason?”

Cass nods. “Bruce… wanted to see him.”

Barbara’s eye twitches. “And he sent you?”

“I offered.”

Barbara sighs. “You don’t owe him anything, Cass.”

She does, but she can’t expect Babs to understand. “I know,” she says instead. “I wanted to.”

Barbara shakes her head. “Go get some sleep,” she says.

Cass nods. She pads to her bedroom door, pausing outside and turning back to her mentor. “Am I in trouble?” she asks.

“I’ll think about it,” Babs says. Probably not, Cass concludes. “I meant it. Sleep.”

Cass nods. “I will. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She shuts the door behind her and leans against it with a sigh. She feels Steph’s presence at her side, exasperated and comforting and sheepish all at once, and she smiles at the space where her friend stands. Then, she pulls herself together, taking the mask from her hip and stashing it away again at the bottom of her drawer.

It’s brighter, outside, now, the faintest glimmer of gold on the horizon. Cass pauses by the window to take it in, feeling exhaustion creeping up on her. Even if she doesn't agree with Barbara’s other arguments against her nighttime excursions, she can at least agree that it leaves her spent. Well, she’ll do what she’s told for now. She yawns, turning away and pulling the curtains closed before collapsing into bed.

She’s asleep before her head even hits the pillow.

[10kiaoi]

For the 007 Fest Anon prompts: Magical realism

Scav hunt item #55: Create art using a prompt from the MI6Cafe Weekly Art Prompts + “Mayday”

Notes: Unbetaed as always. Canon typical violence.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday-!"

The city is caught in a deluge when he arrives. 

Traffic is backed up for miles, vehicle after vehicle trapped in complete  frustrating gridlock. 

He's walked the two miles to his destination, leaving behind an irate cab driver with a generous tip for his trouble.

Along the way, a young nymph looking to be no more than 10 summers old, offers a flower garland weaved of fresh white Heather from the shelter of a narrow porch. He eyes the fresh cut hanging over the front door. 

He purchases two, to the girl's cheery delight. 

----

“We've lost three engines! Requesting immediate vectors to the nearest airfield! Mayday, mayday, mayday! Shit, Number 4's go-"

----

One mile in, he stumbles across a heavily flooded street.

Earsplittingly loud lighting cracks overhead, an occasional flash that lights the street up. 

The flood waters are ice cold. With the water level at thigh height, his wellies do nothing to keep them from gushing around his equally frozen feet. He resigns himself to a hot bath later.

Here, no cars are able to pass through at all. 

Despite the hazards, there are people out and about in front of their buildings. There are merchants desperately hauling their merchandise to higher ground, attempting to salvage what they can from the havoc. Some are putting up brightly coloured banners and decorative displays. At every door, a stalk of white Heather hangs, children gleefully arranging whole seashells in intriguing patterns around them. 

The mood, though dampened by the terrible weather, borders on festive. 

There are neighbours exchanging sweet breads, a friendly trade of roasted poultry, a shared fish or two in covered dishes to shield the food from the downpour. 

Their joy is a distant consideration in comparison to his inner disquiet. 

An elderly man catches sight of him standing and staring openly at the activities. He glances down to his hand, to the two Heather garlands cradled protectively.  The old man tuts reprovingly and wades through the waters towards him. 

"Shells," the old man tuts as he offers two perfect clam shells, canine tail wagging, "Intention means nothing without it."

He crosses the street, with his gifts in hand. 

----

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! We've lost all four engines- Christ, we're not going to make it back to land-!" 

----

He hears the adolescents well before he sees them. 

In a deserted street, dull with old street lamps and filthy storefronts, the hooded teens giggle with cruel delight as they rip down fabric banners and shatter the crystal glass figurines of various marine creatures. The lovely shells and stalks of white Heather meet the same dismal fate.

Amidst their destruction, one of the teens happens to look up, forked tongue flickering out to taste the wind. Their eyes drop to his arms and they elbow their companions. The group sneers, wisely backing off momentarily and not doing anything as foolish as engage him in a fight. 

Given his state of mind, it is more than likely that the teens will not come out the other end of the fight unscathed despite the protection of armoured scales. 

"The sea witch's a fucking sham anyways!" the kid yells over their retreating backs, "ya'll nuts for believing that shit!" 

When the last teen disappears round the street corner, he sighs, taking the moment to sweep the glass shards to the side with his foot instead of leaving them in the middle of the pavement for some poor sod to injure themselves on later. The rising waters will take care of the mess soon enough anyways. 

The glint of light on glass draws his eye to the ledge, where several pristine figures lie untouched. He is irrepressibly drawn to one in particular- a carving not of an animal but a floating feather caressed by an invisible wind. 

His eyes surveys the street warily for a moment. The glass feather slips unnoticed into the depths of his jacket. 

In the distance, the sea churns with rage. 

----

"Mayday, mayday, may-"

----

There is little else he can do but scour the shores, buffeted by strong gusts and blinded by sea spray. 

The boats are all docked away, no skipper daring enough to take on the sea in her volatility. The worst of the storm is miles away from land, but its effects are felt all the same. 

A set of files arrives in his email courtesy of Q Branch and Tanner- maps and coordinates and prediction models, all of which he studies intensively in the comfort of his temporary safe house. The glass feather sits prominently besides his laptop, a silent but steadfast companion to his activities. 

It, along with the Heather garlands and clam shells, bear witness to him smashing his ceramic mug in a fit of fury. 

The lone image glares accusingly at him from his laptop screen, a low quality shot worsened by the movement of the camera it was shot with. 

The object is a blurry mess, details rendered indistinct by the rolling waves and heavy rainfall. But enough of the form remains for the item to be identified- its implications are what trigger his episode of temper. 

A lone tail fin, ripped from its place at the rear of an aircraft, is a death sentence. 

----

He's on his fifth bottle, drowning his sorrows with a vengeance. Outside, the deluge lets up a little into a light patter against the balcony. 

The helplessness weighs heavily like an albatross around his neck. 

Squeals waft up from the street below, a pod of local mers grasping the opportunity the flood waters present and taking the chance to explore streets they have never traversed before. Their melodious cries of astonishment and wonder, once music to his ears, prove too much for the dark cloud hanging over him. 

He throws back his head against the couch and guzzles down more bitter ale. 

----

He comes to in his tiled bathroom, curled over the toilet seat with acidic sick stinking up his nose. It's no gentle thing, he wakes up with a jerk, disorientated and without memory of how he has gotten to the bathroom in the first place. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. 

With the fog in his head clearing up, he notices the rattling coming from his balcony, accompanied by quiet curses. 

He gets up, hand curling around the walther under his arm. He creeps towards the source of the commotion, feet as light as a cat's paws. Whatever and whomever the intruder is, he's of no mood to be gracious. 

The rattling pauses, an indignant squawk of frustration follows it. 

It speaks volumes of his training, both military and 00 that he does not drop his piece from shock. 

There on his balcony, his Quartermaster scowls angrily at the offending lock while looking like a drowned rat. 

In his chest, his heart leaps. 

His movement draws Q's attention and it's then he's hollered at to "open the bloody doors before I kick them down!" 

There's no word vast enough, deep enough to encompass the depth of his emotions as he swiftly undoes the lock and throws the double doors open. Heather and shells are sent flying but all he cares for is pulling Q into a bone crushing embrace. 

----

The rain picks up, droplets soaking through the cotton of his shirt. The front is already soaked through, thoroughly pressed against a sopping wet Quartermaster as he is. 

He pulls them inside, away from the storm, away from the windows. Disbelief and hope war within his chest as he studies Q with an anxious eye, warm towels in his hand to replace soaked clothes. 

He says nothing of the massive bruising on Q's torso, a large swath that belies the extent of physical trauma its owner has gone through. 

Belatedly, he registers the noticeable lack of glasses, the raw scrapes and bruising over pale cheeks and knuckles. 

The hulking set of white wings tipped with black and dusty grey. 

"Albatross," he breathes reverently.

He'd assumed from Q's presence in the tunnels of Q Branch, the way he draws comfort from his underground haven, that his Quartermaster is a member of an underground species of sorts- a Null even, rare as truly non-magical folk are amongst the general population. The personnel file certainly hasn’t provided much insight either given their propensity for obfuscation when executive members of staff are involved.  

"Yes, well, turns out I was just a late bloomer" Q sniffs, squinting at a dust speck on the wall through the conspicuous lack of glasses, "you're not on the water all the time either." 

Bond smiles indulgently though offers no contest. 

With his parents and kin long gone, there was simply no incentive to remain near his family’s seat of power all the time. The murky depths of the loch holds no interest, lacking in the thrill and constant entertainment cities like London offer. Besides-

First M, a hawk, now Q, an albatross - he's always been drawn to the sky much more than his peers. 

He feels out Q's wings carefully, stretching one out to examine the feathers and bone. The appendage trembles under his tentative scrutiny, morphing into a full body shiver that goes right down to Q's toes. The first wing passes muster, so he moves on to the other. 

Q yelps loudly as his fingers prod a particular sore spot. 

It has him relaxing his fingers immediately, though he does not cease supporting the injured wing. 

"I don't think it's broken," Q whimpers, fingers twisting anxiously. 

Like a dam, Q's hard won composure crumbles. "Couldn't get them out," Q sobs, "They were too far forward, I barely got myself out-" The frantic babble dies away into hitched sobs. 

He croons lightly in response, a soothing rumble he's heard mers sing to their fry. He runs his fingers through mussed curls, letting the grief and guilt run its course. 

The kit he has isn't stocked for treating winged individuals or traumatised ones for that matter, but he's a witch- he'll make the best with what he has. He'll get them both home. 

---

In the distance, the sea finally calms.

[nikkoliferous]

Nikko, I just want to say, that latest check-fact post is both hilarious and awesome! Tbh I silently hope more Anti-Loki's would start their argument just so I can watch you murder them😂 That being said, stories, i.e myths, do seem to like villain-washing characters just bc they don't fit in the Society™. And people just follow the narrator to the end-comma without giving a damn. Now the first thing I do if I find a myth-based book is to check who is the villain and why they are the villain

Haha. I sort of feel like a cat playing with a dead mouse. Like, it's fun for a little while, but eventually you get bored because you're not really being stimulated in any way. But I did have a lot of fun doing the fact check format. Made me feel all official somehow. Lol

And yes! Hero characters are, by definition, defenders of the status quo. And consequently, villain characters are, by definition, challengers of it. Their behaviours are often either temporarily (as in the case of Loki) or chronically immoral, but it's always worth looking at why they are considered villains. Especially when their history is, more often than not, no more bloody than that of many characters who are allowed to claim the mantle of "hero". What would it take for Loki to be widely accepted as a hero? Simply not doing evil things? He hasn't filled the role of the "villain" in nearly a decade, and yet he is still considered by many people to be one. So surely, it's not that. Perhaps if he were to finally prostrate himself before our heroes, consent himself to being judged by—in his own words—people who are no more virtuous than he is. In other words, if he too were to become an agent of the status quo. Then he might be worthy. Then he might be redeemable. Loki's greatest crime, not only in Odin's eyes but in the eyes of many consumers of media, has always been non-conformity. Even when he was being a "good boy" for the one thousand years prior to the events of Thor (2011), it is clear he failed to conform on some level to Asgardian social norms. Even while struggling to measure up to Odin's impossible demands, he retained his spirit of individuality. His descent into "villainy" only amplified his persistent quest for independence, for agency, for his own identity. And that's just not okay. Humans need the world to be able to be broken down into neat categories like "good" and "bad". It is how they make sense of the world. It is how they protect themselves. It is an understandable impulse. And it should be resisted.

What is most troubling, I think, is that I suspect many of the people who think this way do not even realise it. Many of them believe they are objective. Many of them believe they do think critically. But their behaviour and their inability to recognise narrative spin says otherwise. Something my former pastor used to say often was, "The only true objectivity is subjectivity rendered conscious of itself." Meaning, there is no such thing as a truly objective person. We all have biases. We are all susceptible to spin and propaganda. The best that we can do is to be aware of what our specific biases are and be willing to challenge them by asking ourselves hard questions. My bias is that I identify with and empathise with Loki. Why do I connect with him? What is it in him that calls out to me so strongly? Why is it important to me that he be defended? Why does it matter that people see him the way I do? Am I being overly merciful to him? If I am, what's compelling me to do that? Am I not being merciful enough? If not, why? How has my perspective been skewed to this point? What does my perception of Loki say about my core values? Am I satisfied with what it says about my core values? And on and on.

This got way longer and ramblier (not sure that's a word? lol) than I intended, but TL;DR it's always a good idea to take the time to ask why a villain is a villain and a hero is a hero, even if you ultimately come away with the conclusion that they indeed are one. The value is in the question as much as it is in the answer.

[antoine-roquentin]

The popular conception of chivalry, as a moral code guiding the behavior of honorable knights, is flat-out, laughably wrong. That’s a creation of 19th-century authors like Walter Scott, and the popular fantasy authors (basically up until George R.R. Martin) who built on their worldview in the 20th.

In reality, chivalry was all about one particular version of Guys Being Dudes. Chivalry could refer to a few different things, but the most common meaning was simply battlefield deeds, executed with some style. This, what knights referred to as “prowess,” was at the core of the broader ideology of chivalry: raw, bloody, physical performance, violence done effectively and to an agreed-upon aesthetic standard. The second major concern of chivalry, honor, grew directly out of the first. Honor wasn’t an abstract concept to medieval knights; it was a possession, a recognition of their particular status and place in the social hierarchy, which they were well within their rights to violently defend and assert through their prowess. Piety was the icing on the cake, but no knight really doubted that God approved of their actions.

An oral culture, passed around during training sessions and drinking bouts and feasts and military campaigns, produced this culture and inculcated new knights into it. A whole universe of texts, the kinds of things knights read or had read to them, sent the same message, like this 12th-century poem called Girart de Vienne:

When I see the whinnying war-steeds plunge

With worthy knights into a battle’s crush,

And see their spears and cutting blades well struck,

There is nothing on earth I love so much!

These were dudes who loved getting after it, and for them, getting after it meant blood-soaked deeds on the battlefield. It’s not that there was nothing more to it - sure, there were some bits about romance and ladies, debates about religiosity and moral actions, exhortations to do better - but the core was always physical, male violence. And it obviously wasn’t for everyone: Knights were members of a hereditary military aristocracy, and their possession of chivalry was what set them apart from dirty peasants.

Two aspects neatly parallel modern Bro Culture: first, the emphasis on physicality and the body, and how that provided both a sense of the self and secured social status; and second, the restricted, bubble-like world that produced and emphasized it, with its fictional and real heroes, its stories about great deeds, its values, and its models to be emulated. Your average knight would absolutely identify with and appreciate this impossibly toxic meathead sentiment:

Obviously, there are pieces that don’t neatly parallel, the biggest ones being the hereditary and explicitly military nature of chivalry. You don’t have to be a soldier to be a Bro, though it doesn’t hurt. And - much more important - you aren’t born into being a Bro; you become one, by doing worthy deeds of prowess.

That’s a quintessentially American value: the idea that anybody can make something of themselves if they work hard enough, move enough weight, run fast enough, practice enough to shoot a tight grouping, make the right sacrifices. The physical meritocracy (and its potential rewards of fame and fortune) is open to anyone willing to do whatever it takes to climb the ladder. Even the least intellectually gifted meathead can make something of himself if he does the workouts, takes the right gear, and builds his audience on YouTube and Instagram. Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and smash that follow button.

In a moment of stagnant social mobility, rising inequality, and incredible uncertainty around the future, this strongly visual message of self-betterment and improving one’s socioeconomic status through literal sweat can resonate deeply. It’s all within the individual’s control, if they simply work enough - an antidote to all that uncertainty, everything that’s so obviously beyond an individual’s control and reckoning, no matter how misleading and incomplete the formula actually is.

That’s especially appealing to the many millions of American men who don’t have college degrees (many more of them than women, given the gendered trends in undergraduate enrollment) who are effectively locked out of professional-managerial culture and its straightforward path into the comfortable upper-middle class. Accomplishment through physical prowess is thus a means of building both a sense of self and community.

The connections to this particular moment in American culture and history go much deeper than that, though. This whole edifice of Bro Culture grows out of the broader rise of influencers, performative self-branding through social media, and the construction of identity through consumption.

With the right protein powder, shilled by your favorite strongman, you too can deadlift 800 pounds, or at least tell yourself you’ll get there someday. With the right brand of CBD tincture, which sponsors your favorite Crossfit athlete, you won’t feel that burning pain in your rotator cuff after you clean and jerk too much weight with suboptimal technique. By religiously listening to the right Bro-approved entrepreneurship podcast, hosted by some guy who happened to get booked on the Joe Rogan Experience during a slow week, you too can buy a McMansion in an affordable suburb.

Much of what happens in Bro Culture is driven by lifestyle consumption: ads for sunglasses on Barstool Sports’ Pardon My Take podcast, brand partnerships between supplement companies and YouTube stars, tactical holsters for concealed-carry that an ex-Marine with a million Instagram followers wants you to buy. It’s self-actualization through sponsor codes.

The tactical lifestyle craze, a natural outgrowth of this particular slice of Bro Culture, is the logical endpoint of all this. It’s where entrepreneurial late capitalism and influencer trends meet imperial wars, the militarization of the police, and the emergence of Gun Guys as a default protected class within American society. You’re not a Crossfitter anymore; you’re a “tactical athlete,” doing varied types of interval, cardio, and strength training so you can be a more effective soldier or cop or firefighter or whatever, or you just want to feel like you could be one. The physical training is only part of this, since you can prominently declare your tactical affiliations with a variety of lifestyle products, ranging from coffee mugs to American flag stickers for your car to, naturally, firearms....

Just as much as its coffee, whose quality I can’t speak to, Black Rifle Coffee Company is selling the tactical lifestyle. They offer a staggering variety of T-shirts, hoodies, hats, mugs, thermoses, and stickers, many of them prominently branded with the eponymous “black rifle” of the brand. There are a lot of American flags and pieces of law-enforcement and military iconography, signifiers of the in-groups to whom the consumers of BRCC’s products belong, want to belong, or for whom they want to signal their support. BRCC has explicitly labeled itself as a coffee company for conservatives, an active participant in the culture wars. If you don’t like Starbucks and its effete, refugee-supporting, liberal tendencies, buy some Black Rifle product instead. If you like Trump, you’ll be at home with BRCC. Don Jr. endorsed them.

After the picture of Rittenhouse in the Black Rifle Coffee Company shirt appeared, its founder Evan Hafer quickly disavowed the youthful shooter. Even for an explicitly MAGA coffee company, supporting a teenaged AR enthusiast with blood on his hands was a bridge too far. But Rittenhouse had already been shaped by the world BRCC and its fellow-travelers have made. He got the message, loud and clear: You too can become a hero, or at least dress and drink coffee like one, by purchasing the right products, watching the right videos, and following the same Extended Bro Culture influencers. Don’t forget to like and subscribe.

The Veteran-owned piece of BRCC’s appeal isn’t a coincidence. They’re selling a position in the culture wars, a sense of belonging, but also a particular vision of what it means to be American, a man, and an American man. A staggering number of this part of Bro Culture’s key figures are veterans. Jocko Willink, perhaps the best known (and least openly political) of the bunch, was a Navy SEAL officer; he was actually the commanding officer of the famous sniper Chris Kyle during the Battle of Ramadi in 2006.

After retiring, Willink turned his SEAL experience into a career as a leadership consultant, motivational speaker, media personality, and energy drink salesman. His intensity, built on his military service, is legendary: His exhortations to do hard things regularly, to live by a code, and take responsibility for oneself, resonate with millions of people. And Willink is far from the only one to do so, turning overseas service in imperial wars, especially as a special forces operator, into a key component of his entrepreneurial appeal. This isn’t a judgement on his military service; it’s a statement of fact. Being an undeniable badass is a the core part of why Jocko Willink is a quintessential Bro Hero.

Imperial wars overseas always come home eventually, and they do so in complex ways. The fact that millions of people listen to Jocko Willink, buy Black Rifle Coffee Company merchandise, and dabble in more extreme fringes is a product of decades spent elevating not just military service writ large but violent combat overseas against ill-defined Others. For every Jocko Willink, there’s an Eddie Gallagher, the SEAL who was convicted of and then recently pardoned for war crimes after becoming a cause célèbre for large swathes of the online right.

If these are the heroes Bro Culture puts forth - special operators accustomed to high-intensity, high-volume fighting overseas, who then develop enormous media platforms - it’s obvious what message Kyle Rittenhouse and the innumerable police officers, tactical fitness enthusiasts, and more run-of-the-mill viewers and listeners will take. Millions of people listen to Joe Rogan when he talks to Jocko Willink, Tim Kennedy (the Green Beret and MMA fighter and increasingly open right-wing figure), or Cameron Hanes (who advocated for Eddie Gallagher’s release). They’re warriors. Joe Rogan isn’t a soldier, but he’s a black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, a former competitive kickboxer, a bowhunter, and a firearms enthusiast. If these are the people at the core of Bro Culture, a culture that directly touches tens of millions of American men, then there are bound to be knock-on effects. If they’re constantly telling their listeners to be ready, to be tactical, to be prepared to fight and to be good at it, that means something.

This is why I think Bro Culture, or at least its extended reaches, deserve more scrutiny and attention. The code of American manhood that’s developing out of this social-media melting pot has some aspects that bear watching: A love of firearms centered on tactical usefulness (for use in what context, exactly?), a vision of muscular physicality, self-defense as a personal obligation, an unquestioning hero-worship of military culture, and far too often, a deep suspicion of people who don’t subscribe to this precise view of being a guy. Support the Troops, and if you don’t, you’re not really a man at all. If cops - quintessential subjects of Bro Culture - are told that they need to be bigger and stronger and quicker on the draw, that they’re basically Troops, and that the targets of violence deserve what they get, what’s the likely outcome of tense interactions between police and the people they’re supposed to serve?

[thegoldensage]

@theburiedbookworm​ || from here

The rain pelted down on her, beating into her skin, soaking her to the bone. Lightning flashed above her, accompanied by loud rumbles of thunder. The thunder was why no one had heard her cries while she was being beaten bloody, but the flashes of lightening were enough for her to see their faces. If she lived, she would be able to identify them.

She wasn’t sure that she was going to live.

The men had set upon her on her way home that night, and Sheska hadn’t been able to do much to defend herself. They had pulled her into this alley, robbed her of the meager money she had on her and then, for whatever reason, proceeded to beat her mercilessly. Her glasses were broken, her uniform was ruined. There was something wrong with her hip and she couldn’t get up. Pain flared through her back. She was sure that her left hand was broken, and her right collar bone as well. Her ribs were killing her, nose was, she was certain, swelling, despite the cold, soaking rain. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t hurt, and she wasn’t sure if she was laying more in rain or more in blood.

Between her injuries and the elements, things weren’t looking good for her. She could have internal damage. She could go into shock right here. She could not be found until morning. None of those were good things.

Sheska tried, again, to get up or move forward, only managing an inch or two before the pain became too much. “Help!” she called out, but it was so weak she doubted that anyone could hear it. She was going to die here, wasn’t she?

Tears jumped to her eyes as she took in that realization, her head spinning with thoughts of what would happen if that were so--or maybe the spinning was just the injuries of her head. It was hard to tell, and even harder to focus. She suddenly realized that there were footsteps approaching, and someone stopping in front of her. A gentle hand hovered above her, and Sheska tried to turn her face towards the individual, tried to see him without her glasses.

“...help me... please.”

A lot of rain seemed to be plaguing the country as of late, setting the mood for what was surely to come. The thunder and lightning had been hovering over their heads for what seemed like a few hours now and didn’t show any signs of letting up any time soon. Hohenheim kept his head down to keep the rain out of his eyes as he trudged forward towards the hotel that he had holed up in during his stay in Central. He could see men and women walking up and down the sidewalk in uniform, their boots splashing in puddles as they went. It seemed that most citizens were inside rather than to endure the brutal weather. Not that he could blame them.

A flash of lightning revealed something blue in his peripheral vision. Someone was laying on the ground in an ally--- a soldier. Without thinking, Hohenheim turned and quickly made his way towards the young woman.

“It’s alright. I’m here.” He said as he gently reached out to touch her arm. He didn’t want to move her much until he was certain of the extent of her injuries as he didn’t want to harm her more than she already was. “Would it be alright if I took a look at your injuries?” He asked as he adjusted his glasses. Rain was starting to bead up on his glasses, making it more difficult for him to see... but he knew that he could fix this... and make sure that she wouldn’t be in terrible pain. He only needed to figure out the depths of her injuries first.

“Let me see... I will try not to hurt you.” He assured her as he started to feel around for broken bones and various other injuries that could have been accumulated during what looked like a mugging to him. He hoped she would trust him after the ordeal that she had gone through.

The young soldier had a few fractures and broken bones along with some cuts, scrapes and bruise... and no doubt a few internal injuries as well. He would start by fixing her left hand first. Reaching out, Hohenheim placed the young woman’s hand in his own and held it there for a moment and within a moment there was a light glow and the bones in her hand repaired itself. “I can fix the rest of you, if you will allow me.” He waited for a moment, waiting for her permission, ready to get both of them out of the pouring rain.

[the-goth-catte]

A Shifting of the Sands: II

The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd in the arena rumbled like a persistent, pervasive thunder in the tunnels below the blood sands. The individual voices, the sounds that one could pick out to distinguish anything as even remotely related to mankind, were so muffled and dulled through the thick layers of stone and long twisting passages that what remained was an almost inhuman roar. A tempest of voices, a wall of humanity all calling out for one thing: blood. The fights had been going for some time now, so long that Naalie had lost track of how many bells had come and gone since the opening contest; she often wondered what it was that kept those men and women so enrapt, so enthralled that they would spend the better part of an entire day watching the trained fighters of the gladiators’ guild dance their deadly dance over and over again. Certainly after so long it became repetitious, did it not? While, yes, the different acts all fought with different styles… but when one got down to it, how different could any of it have been?

The young Miqo’te woman crouched in one of the many narrow, dimly lit passages beneath the arena proper; her back rested against the cold stone of the wall, though the majority of her scant weight was supported by the taut muscles of her calves. All of her gear, save the plumed helm which rested beside her, was polished and equipped, the weight of the steel, leather, and cloth a familiar comfort to her. Many of her colleagues cracked wise that her attire must weigh as much as she did, and while it wasn’t quite so burdensome as that the armor did add a significant amount to her overall weight. In moments like these, when the call would soon come that her fight was next, Naalie found herself repeating this same routine time and time again: crouch in the dark tunnels and allow the weight of arms and armor to ground her, to center her. It reminded her that she was in this moment, in the now, and that no matter what came next nothing could change that. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic: inhale to the count of five, exhale for seven, hold for five, repeat. It kept her heartbeat from slamming wildly in her chest, and the anxiety that always came with an impending fight from running wild with her emotions. At least… it usually kept her anxiety in check. 

This fight… this one was unlike the others. She’d faced challenges, gone up against odds that she’d been unlikely to best - and won. This wasn’t even supposed to be a challenging fight, according to the word from the back alley bookies taking bets on the outcomes. While the Hrothgar she was pitted against was significantly larger than her, the skill with which she wielded a sword outclassed him in nearly every imaginable way. Light and nimble, Naalie glided like a shadow over the blood soaked sands to strike quick, hard, and decisively. There was little at risk in this fight. What gnawed at the back of her mind, instead, was the cryptic warning that came some weeks earlier while finding a measure of solace in the desert night.

The Lalafellen man hadn’t identified himself, only insinuated that he was a man of power and influence. The exchange had played out in her mind’s eye repeatedly in the days that followed, twisting and turning the encounter every which way to make sense of it; part of her wondered if he’d been bluffing, some costumed man with a mummer’s farce trying to scam her into providing a big pay out, while the remainders believed he was legitimately who he suggested he might have been. What would happen if she didn’t do what was so kindly asked of her? She, and her tribe, had so very little that there wasn’t much that could be taken from them; she had very few personal ties, fewer still beyond her immediate family. And what of her opponent? Had the man approached him as well with some enticing offer to encourage him to win? Or simply told him he would be going over in their bout? Undoubtedly he’d done something with Bjornulf, Naalie just couldn’t guess what it might have been. In silent frustration, the young Miqo’te woman leaned her head back and began idly bouncing it against the stone behind her; it hurt, but it distracted her from the racing thoughts swirling about her mind.

Far above her, Naalie heard the crowd roar with approval at some unknown deed that had just transpired; whatever it was, it had been exciting. A particular bloody outcome? A surprising upset for one of the underdog fighters? … A death? Those weren’t uncommon in the dangerous world that revolved around the Ul’dah Bloodsands. Would she soon meet such an ignoble ending, sprawled in the dirt and grime while the fans who had so loyally cheered for her now called for her death? A slow sigh slipped past her lips, and Naalie’s eyelids dropped tightly closed. In that moment, the sounds of the arena seemed to fade, becoming a dull background roar… a white noise she could tune out. It was a strange, unexpected moment of peace, which left her yearning for somebody, anybody, that she could reach out to.

"Vhenna!" the call came from somewhere to her right, just around the corner of the tunnel. "You're on next. Get your ass up to the gate."

Her silence broken, Naalie let out one more quiet sigh before pushing up to her feet. The footfalls that carried her down the tunnel were leaden, her body refusing to cooperate with the demands she was making of it; each step felt as if she were walking to her execution, a sense of dread lingering about her being with a strong defiance running to her core. No matter how this day went, no matter the outcome of this fight, she knew that things would never again be the same.

-----

Sand kicked up into an arc as Bjornulf the Hellsbeast slammed the head of his mighty mace into the ground where Naalie had been standing but a scant few beats of the heart before; the thick metal hit with such force that the percussion could not only be felt by the nimble Miqo'te, but actually heard over the cheers and jeers of the spectators. Naalie wasn't sure if they called out in excitement as she easily twisted to the side before the blow fell, or if they were disappointed that her flesh and bones hadn't been crushed instead of the sand.

The way she moved wasn't unlike that of a dancer, albeit one decked in heavy armor and wielding a short sword; as the mace came hurtling down, Naalie had jumped to the side, twisting in air and coming down in a crouch a few fulms to the left. Was the crouch necessary? No. The crowd, though, usually ate that kind of thing up... and anything you could do to get the crowd wanting to see more of you was well worth doing. As she lifted her head, magenta eyes slowly lifted toward the rings of spectators looking down on them (yet another fan-favorite move that she tried to throw into the fray when she could). She tried to tell herself that she wasn't looking for anybody in particular, but she knew in her core that she was damn well looking for that Lalafell. The quick, stolen glance wasn't long enough to make out any faces, however; in the heat of the moment, in the midst of battle, she could scare spare more than a few heartbeats to play around before getting back to business.

As the tan Hrothgar began to heft his mace from where it has embedded itself in the sand, Naalie dove and rolled forward behind where his legs were planted; there was the briefest bits of hesitation as she brought out her blade to attack.

Should I? He warned me...

Flash

The bright lights of the arena caught the reflection of Naalie's blade, flashing brightly as the steel bit into the bare flesh and fur of her opponent. The man groaned aloud as the keen edge dug deep into the muscle of his thigh, mouth contorting into the shape of a silent scream and eyes narrowing. Blood poured free, matting the fur of his legs and spilling down onto the already stained sands below.

The crowd went wild, on their feet and cheering wildly.

All... but one.

In the sea of sound and moving bodies, there was one lone figure; Naalie caught but a glance as her eyes flicked back up to the ground, a few heartbeats at most... but she was sure. The ostentatious clothes, the smug expression, the two flanking morons. Yeah, it was him.

The corners of her mouth turned downward in a scowl. The entire fight until now had been spent in a mounting state of dread and indecision, not knowing what to do... what would be best for her career, or her well being. But seeing that short statured pompous ass standing in the crowd, watching her with his judgmental expression... Naalie knew.

As Bjornulf staggered forward, his right leg no longer fully supporting his weight, Naalie began to strike. She never went immediately for one killing blow, unless it was a guaranteed success. She preferred, instead, to dart in and out and make numerous strikes to further hinder their ability to attack or defend themselves. Precise cuts crippled his other leg, bringing the big Hroth down to his knees; his right arm was shortly rendered useless as he made the mistake of lifting it to guard against a blow, taking several ilms of cold steel into his flesh. Naalie was fairly certain she felt bone scraping against her blade when she slid it from the wound she'd created, and from the amount of blood that began to pour out it wouldn't have surprised her. He was helpless now. He knew it. She knew it. The crowd knew it. And the crowd... the crowd was going wild, their lust for blood and death at a pitch.

Naalie stood before the felled Hroth, blade held outstretched with tip pointing down at him. His eyes were wide and watery, but his brave face held as he stared potential death in the eye. It wasn't at her helpless foe that she looked, but to the mass of humanity beyond him... through the cheering fans... to a single, solitary Lalafell. With a defiant incline of her chin, Naalie's voice rang out in the arena.

"I refuse to kill this helpless gladiator." She paused, her eyes lowering to meet those of Bjornulf. "Yield," she demanded.

His breath came in pants, gasping for air through the pain of his wounds and the shame of his defeat. "He..." Bjornulf started, his voice low... low enough that his words were lost to all save a single Miqo'te. "... He promised... me riches... if I could kill you. And...  he... he promised suffering... if I couldn't." Bjornulf spat, red phlegm staining the sand at Naalie's sandals. "You... have to... finish it."

The desperation was heavy in his words, carrying the weight of his fear and chilling Naalie to her core. Before she could process this, the Hrothgar lunged forward with a strength she didn't realize he still possessed; the severity of his wounds made it a clumsy endeavor at best, but Naalie saw it for what it was worth: an opening to give his death some glory, so he would pass from this world a fighter on his feet rather than a weakling on his knees.

With a quick motion, Naalie stepped to the side as he staggered in front of her; turning her sword in hand, Naalie brought the point downward just behind his clavicle. It cut through flesh and down into his pumping heart, stilling the organ. With a cry, Naalie jerked her blade free; the cooling corpse of Bjornulf slumped face-first into the sands as his life's blood spilled across the aptly named arena's floor.

Bitter tears stinging her eyes, Naalie lifted her head to stare out to the crowd in victory. She saw none of the cheering faces, the contorted fans enrapt with the spectacle before them. Only a solitary Lalafell turning his back and slowly walking away.

[fallenrepublick]

Domino

SO... This is extremely experimental. I’ve had thoughts swirling around in my head for quite a while about Maul’s past, and now that I’m here, it occurred to me that I might want to... do something with it. I wouldn’t call this a “Fix-It Fic” because I’m more fucking up the canon if anything, but call it what you will.

No warnings!

Synopsis: Basically, the idea is that Sidious is “raising” Maul, right? He brings him back to Coruscant temporarily as part of his training. Thresh, a grey Jedi with a strange past feels a crazy strong urge to return to Coruscant, leaving you, his current apprentice on Alderaan as he investigates. Keep in mind, this is the intro chapter. PLEASE tell me what you think afterwards, because I’m still iffy on it.

Without further ado, here ya go!

Coruscant. A city of starlight if ever there was one, though any natural glow from distant planetary systems was paled away by the artificial shine that emitted from the windows and speeders that populated nearly every centimetre of both the planet’s surface and atmosphere. Not a moment went by where the hum of a motor rumbled past or loud voices were heard calling out the name of a distant companion, ushering them over to the group in preparation for another round of drinks to celebrate the dawn of a new day in the midst of interplanetary outrage.

No, the stars that Thresh saw weren’t stars at all, but rather the markings of a planet, so metallic and cold in structure, teeming with life from every angle, so much so that the individual thoughts and prayers of the population seeped into one another, creating the very soul the celestial body relied on as it spun on its axis.

He still didn’t know why he had felt a call here, an urge so great to return to his childhood home at the Temple that he unceremoniously urged his sole apprentice to remain at the base on Alderaan while he scoped out his senses. One thing was for certain, though: It was not the Temple that had called him.

The rubber soles of his boots scratched at the concrete, his mind reaching out through the force, trying to identify the object that required his attention so greatly that its call had pierced through the fabric of the galaxy as easily as a knife through a sheer curtain. The looming shape of the Temple rose as he approached nearer, his lure so close yet so far, and a silent sense of dread draped over his pathetically human heart, almost forcing him to recount memories that didn’t need recounting. As much as he told himself everything was in the past, the fact that he found himself at the doorstep of that which he avoided most was proof enough that his lies were not yet good enough to fool even himself.

This area of the city was more peaceful, the tranquility of the building such a mask for the reality inside that even the most educated would never be able to see the true colors of what lay inside, let alone those foolish enough to fall prey to their hypocritical teachings. The contempt Thresh harbored here, unprovoked as it may seem, was rooted deep in the foundation of the Temple, built low in the walls and in the structure’s hollow bones, and, as far as his senses were telling him, as did something else.

Moon high above, his path was lit as he crept close to the side, hand outstretched as he concentrated for that singular aura he had followed all this way. His palm dragged along the stone wall, the rough surface clicking lightly as a greeting in his passing, and the further he went, the more terror he felt, the stronger his need to leave. And it was only once he stepped into a blinding moment of childish desperation that he realized the emotions he felt were not his own.

It was futile, he knew, but pressing both of his hands up against the wall where the emotions flowed the strongest, he became even more horribly sure that there was more than simply Jedi younglings inhabiting the Temple. He circled the premises once, twice, eyes darting across every surface available to him, seeking the entryway that even the oh-so-wise Jedi Master Yoda remained unaware of.

Until it dawned on him. Calling upon not the Light, but the Dark, Thresh followed the emotions, trail painting the air a bloody path that he followed like a trained hunting dog, the way he sought blindly before now illuminated before him clearer than his own two hands that remained in front of him as he walked.

He followed the path down steps and across winding walkways he had previously been unaware of, and found himself just outside the wall in a small cranny that no-one ever bothered to look behind, the faintest outline of a door carved into the face that no doubt required the force to pry open. He tightened the grey scarf around his neck, taking a deep breath before pushing as hard as he could with the force, the door hesitating to open for the intruder, yet relenting, letting out a soft whine as it turned on its hinges.

The hallway before him was pitch-black, instead of the creamy walls of the Jedi Temple, the barriers were darker than brimstone, deathly cold and an aura that would make any sensible person turn tail and leave this memory in their wake. Thresh was not a sensible person.

He pressed on, pulling the door shut and lighting his way with his lightsaber, the yellow light almost being absorbed by the void of the unknown. The light, however, was only insurance he wouldn’t trip. He still held on tightly to the emotions he had felt, the call that he was entirely sure was what he had come for taking precedence in his mind over every other goal or tentative thought that crossed his mind. The sense only strengthened as he journeyed, and in his head, he was almost sure he could hear something cry.

There were doors now, metal and numbered, no other labels to identify them with, their thresholds lining the walls of the hall as prison cells shut out the unwanted and shut in the targets.

A beat, an emptiness. And then, Thresh was overwhelmed. To his left stood a door, the same as all the others in appearance, but in aura, it was unique. The control panel on the door’s right had been tampered with, the wires moved and re-attached in various places. It could be opened from the outside. It could not be opened from within.

The crying was louder now, not in his head, no, but from within the room. The door had no window, so any idea of what could be inside was shut out to him. But he felt it. As much of a trap as it might have been, no one, not even a Sith, could replicate this.

Brushing aside black hair, his hands, shaking from the cold of the passage, went to work on the control panel. The buttons had been rearranged, albeit crudely, and certain controls had been completely removed, most likely for insurance. Taking his lightsaber, he sliced through the panel, sparks emitting from the box and door sliding open immediately, the hiss startling him.

He stepped inside. A small, lone bed sat on the far right corner, the room almost as dark as the hall, save for a single flickering bulb fixed into the ceiling, dimmer than even the light the moon gave. A tiny dresser was across from the bed, not nearly large enough to hold anything essential.

At the foot of the bed sat a tiny figure, red skinned, with black tattoos reminiscent of a midnight fog lining his body from head to toe. Horns poked out from the top of his head, no longer than a few centimetres in length, yet sharp as a cat’s fangs. He wore a plain black shirt with dark grey pants too short for him.

He looked up, brown eyes tear-stained and bloodshot, and Thresh knew. This one. This one was it.

[captainclickycat]

Recollections

My entry for the GO Secret Santa exchange, for

@teslatherat. Hope you like it :)

oOo

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

So now here they are. Aziraphale hovers awkwardly in the doorway, taking in his surroundings, every inch the uncertain guest.

Crowley bustles about. He’s never hitherto been in the habit of bustling, but Aziraphale’s presence seems to have brought the inclination out in him. He stalks about the flat, jittery, plumping up the cushions and moving his Golden Girls DVDs off the coffee table.

That’s when he notices the letters, stacked on top of each other. One sealed with a crest of golden wings, the other smelling of sulfur, sealed with a blob of black sludge. No doubt as to the identity of the senders, and Crowley can guess at the contents.

He ignores them, for the time being. There’ll be time enough to look at them.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing towards the sofa. “If you want. I can get us another drink.”

Aziraphale sits almost daintily, clasping his hands together. Crowley bustles off to the kitchen, selecting a bottle of the whisky he’s been unconsciously saving for a visit. Angel’s Nectar. Aziraphale smiles weakly at the label.

They sit beside each other in silence, clutching their tumblers.

Aziraphale speaks, haltingly. “I believe I’d like to rescind my previous claim.”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“It appears there is an our side, even if I was too silly to see it before.”

“Oh, don’t worry your head about all that. I’ve forgotten it already,” lies Crowley.

Angels and demons have good memories. It’s all part and parcel of the deal. Sometimes it’s an advantage. Being able to remember the way Aziraphale looked at him when he’d fixed things with Hamlet, for example, or the borderline-carnal pleasure on the angel’s face when he ate tres leche for the first time. Crowley collected little moments like this, snapshots in time, the way people collect stamps or butterflies. The conversations, too. The banter about each other’s outfits, the drunken philosophical discussions that went on into the wee small hours, the critiques of plays. He catalogues the appreciative accounts of different foods, the fussy comebacks to Crowley’s snark, the customer-related grievances.

On the downside, he can also remember things like we’re not friends and it’s over and you go too fast for me. He could also remember Jesus’s crucifixion in rather distressing detail, and the Crusades, and that time he had to spend an entire evening in the company of Dr Samuel Johnson, who inexplicably considered him an appropriate sounding board for every opinion he’d ever had.

“I do so wish I’d embraced you from the beginning,” says Aziraphale, swiftly bringing Crowley back to the present. “Er. that is to say, embraced our… alliance.”

Could’ve done both, if you’d wanted, Crowley doesn’t say. What he does say is:

“Doesn’t matter now. Who knows what they’d have done? Anyway, we managed to have some fun together, didn’t we? Over the centuries? Sampled a few dishes, that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs in reminiscence. “Do you remember that little place in Paris, with the crepe cake? That was divine.”

“Still can’t believe you ran off to France in the middle of a revolution for dessert.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Never going to let that slide, are you? Quite turned my head, though, you putting in an appearance to save me like that. Tell me, how long did that hair take to style, exactly?”

“It was fashionable! Least I wasn’t running around dressed as an aristocrat.”

“I believe you enjoyed it, you know. Being able to swoop in and save the day. Being kind.”

“Fighting talk, that is. Anyway, someone’s got to get you out of trouble.”

“Strong words from the one who lost the antichrist.”

“I didn’t - it wasn’t - the nuns, if anything…” Crowley splutters. Aziraphale is giving him a discreet smirk. It’s nice, he supposes, that at least one of them can laugh about it now.

That soon trails off, though, when they remember the predicament they’re in.

Crowley finally turns his attention towards the letters. There’s no mistaking the contents. You have been summoned on trial. Attend, or we’ll just come and get you. Dressed up in fancier terms, naturally, but that’s the gist of it. Undoubtedly their former employers don’t intend to send them off with a slap on the wrist. Crowley tries not to dwell on the prospect too much.

One look at Aziraphale confirms that he’s thinking the same thing. Cautiously, Crowley lays a hand on top of Aziraphale’s, and finds it gripped tightly.

“It does occur to me,” says Aziraphale, “That we were always, perhaps, in the best position to understand each other, in a lot of ways.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, in terms of… well. The experiences we’ve had, never quite fitting in with our head offices. But we found each other. I think that’s terribly important. I never would have had the courage to sever ties, I think, without you by my side.”

Aziraphale stares into his tumbler as he continues, swirling the liquid around. “But there’s something else you must understand. It’s not just because of that. I know that it’d be easy to latch on to the first individual I met who I felt I could identify with. But I do believe I very much came to like you for your sake. Even though you’re very silly and rather rude and have the most abysmal taste in fashion, you’re also funny and generous and really rather sweet, underneath it all. Now, please don’t be silly and argue. I know it.”

“Er.” I love you more than my bloody car. “Er. Yeah. You too. For yourself, and all that.”

Aziraphale nods, swallowing hard, and doesn’t let go of Crowley’s hand. “I loved our little meetings. I believe I’d have been driven quite round the bend, without them.”

They spend some time reminiscing. It’s a warm and welcome distraction from their eventual fate. There something oddly comforting about the way they can claim these memories now. The tangible reminders that they had managed, in small ways, to be a little defiant, for the sake of whatever hazily-defined but cherished relationship they had.

They’re laughing about a particular night in the pub during Shakespeare’s day when Aziraphale’s expression shifts to contemplation.

“Crowley, do you remember that conversation in… oh, must have been in the 1620s or thereabouts? We went to see Much Ado About Nothing…”

“Oh, yeah. That lead guy was awful. Far too hammy.”

“Anyway, my point is, you made a bit of a proposition that day, do you remember?”

Crowley does, although he’s not sure why he’s being called upon to remember it now.

Standing around at the Globe on a bracingly cold day. He’d lost the beard by then - feeling that it wasn’t really him - but he’s still bothered to style his hair according to the fashion of the times. He always liked to make a little extra commitment, when he knew he’d be seeing the angel.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Aziraphale during a scene in which the plot came to rely heavily on mistaken identity. “We should do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be each other, for Head Office meetings. We’ve already got the Arrangement, eh? Couldn’t hurt to go the extra mile.”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said primly. “It’s bad enough that you’ve got me involved in this little scheme of yours. I’m not tripping around in your silly flashy outfits to add insult to injury.”

Crowley pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley now. “What about it?”

“Well, now,” says Aziraphale. “Do let me know if you think I’m being silly, but I think the idea might actually be worth revisiting.”

oOo

“Is it as you remembered it?” Aziraphale asks.

It’s Crowley’s first time back behind the Bentley’s wheel, after they’ve succeeded in pulling the wool over their respective former employers’ eyes. He still can’t quite believe they got away with it.

“Yeah. You were right, angel. Not a scratch on it. Even got that new car smell back.”

“Good.” Aziraphale is fidgeting in the passenger seat. “That’s just lovely. Glad to hear it. Ah.”

“You all right, angel?”

“Oh yes, yes, perfectly… I simply… well. We were talking about… about old conversations, the other day, and it got me remembering another… something I’ve meant to resolve for some time, I suppose.”

Crowley shoots him an enquiring look, and Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath.

“You made me an offer once. Here, in the car. A few decades ago; must have been… oh, 1967? Do you remember?”

Crowley nods, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“Ask me again.”

Crowley turns to stare at him. Aziraphale is sitting there quite guilelessly, only the restless movements of his hands betraying the idea that he might not be as calm as he lets on.

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley says softly. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Oh, gosh,” he says. “Rather spoilt for choice, now, aren’t we? Perhaps we could, I don’t know, nip back to Paris for a while. Take a fortnight in the countryside. But do you know, I think at the moment, what I’d like most of all is to come back to your flat.”

Aziraphale flashes him a brisk smile, looking for all the world as if he hasn’t just made such a huge, life-changing revelation. “If you’re amenable to that, of course.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. I think, perhaps, we have rather a lot of lost time to compensate for. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley nods slowly, before unbuckling his seatbelt to lean over and cradle Aziraphale’s face in his hand.

A demon kisses an angel in the front seat of a vintage Bentley, and suddenly that particular conversation doesn’t seem like quite such a bad memory after all.

[hellshores]

switchblades and sinshots

chapter from my current wip, viva la vida - there are no spoilers:)

It had been late on a rainy night when Switch had gotten the assassination job, but then again, Switch only operated during the darkest hours.

Switch – always referred to as they, as their identity was so well-hidden that the people of the streets couldn’t even figure out whether the feared assassin was female, male, or neither – had been perched on the fire escape of a gambling den when it had happened. 

They’d been biding their time, waiting for nothing and no one, as they weren’t in the middle of a job and had nowhere else to go except for their shithole of a home. Depending on the job, a life as an assassin paid well, but it wasn’t nearly enough to live comfortably.

As Switch surveyed the dark street, slick from the rainfall, they wondered just how the hell they’d gotten to this point, how the hell they’d become someone like this – a question the assassin often found themselves contemplating. Falling sins, even their very street name came from their weapon of choice: a switchblade, small but fast, unassuming yet deadly.

The last thing you’ll see is the glint of their switchblade, the people of the streets liked to whisper. In a strange, twisted sort of way, they loved the notorious assassin: most things in this side of the city – nicknamed Hellshore, as it was right along the ocean that divided Tenebra and Lumen – were gambled for, so it was no surprise that many people had placed countless bets on Switch’s identity.

In fact, there was one occasion when a particularly talented and sneaky – or, more likely, desperate and stupid – individual became dangerously close to finding out. It was really rather unfortunate that the night had ended with the dreaded switchblade of the very person the idiot was trying to identify buried in his gut.

But what was done was done. Switch couldn’t shed their reputation as an assassin any more than Argent and Mech, the other two faceless, notorious figures of Concordia, could.

Argent, Switch, and Mech. The infamous three names that everyone both feared and respected, the Unholy Trinity, as the people of Hellshore liked to call them, the rulers of the streets – until, of course, another piece had entered the board: Deadfall, possibly the most dangerous, mysterious of them all. No one knew who he was or what his intentions were, not even Argent, the thief of secrets. He seemed to be utterly untouchable; as far as Switch knew, no one had ever made direct contact with him. The only thing Switch was aware of was that, while it seemed as though Deadfall had been on the streets since the beginning of time, he’d only materialized shortly after the fall of King Drystan Alastor.

Many assumed all four dangerous, unidentified figures worked together, or that the Unholy Trinity worked under Deadfall himself – but in truth, they all worked for no one but themselves, and they rarely interacted; on the contrary, they had an unspoken, mutual agreement: Don’t interfere with my dealings, I won’t interfere with yours.

Though it seemed as if Switch had been having a severe lack of jobs to be interfered with recently. Of course, one might consider that a good thing, as less people were being killed – but as their only source of income, Switch didn’t find this a positive, especially because the targets they were tasked to assassinate were usually the sewer-rat-type sinshots who more likely than not deserved to die.

Before Switch could sink further into their rather ironic self-pity, the faintest noise reached the assassin’s ears: a nearly imperceptible flick, like a card being flipped in the air. Holding their breath, Switch waited until they were completely sure the person was gone before slowly leaning over to see where the sound had come from.

Sure enough, a playing card lay on the ground, rainwater soaking it through.

Quickly and soundlessly, Switch leapt from the fire escape and landed lightly on the street, the puddles under the assassin’s feet barely rippling as they leaned down to swipe the card. There was writing on the back, part of it smudged unintelligibly thanks to the rain, and Switch melted back into the shadows of the gambling den’s dirty alleyway to try and decipher the smeared words.

 I have a job for y willing to pay a price you can’t turn

To meet me, follow the ca

 Stifling an irritated sigh, Switch tilted the card, trying to figure out what the missing letters were.

 I have a job for y . . . ou, and I’m willing to pay a price you can’t turn . . . down.

To meet me, follow the . . . cat. . . . cart. . . . call. . . .

 The first two lines were safe bets, but the last one was questionable – until a group of obnoxiously loud men barreled out the door from the gambling den, drunkenly shouting something about heading over to the club on the next block over, and it finally clicked in Switch’s mind:

 To meet me, follow the card.

 Switch flipped the playing card over. The fifth of clubs – the club on Fifth street. Absurdly obvious now that they understood. Oh, how so gods-damned clever of you.

The rain dripped off the water resistant material of Switch’s dark hood as they leapt back up onto the fire escape, quickly climbing up to the roof. Of course, they could have taken the route through the narrow alleyways, but the rooftop made a far better vantage point – and anyway, the assassin could use the adrenaline rush.

The buildings of Hellshore were tightly packed together, making it all too easy to jump from one to another. Switch enjoyed the rush of the wind as they flew from roof to roof, each landing light and silent, each leap smooth and graceful.

If the assassin had any sort of favorite pastime, this would be it.

Almost too soon, Switch had reached Fifth Street, a busy main road with people and carts hurriedly rushing in every direction. From Switch’s viewpoint, they all closely resembled a colony of panicking ants, scurrying around with no real place to go – open, vulnerable, all-too-easy prey.

But you’re not here to hunt them, Switch reminded themselves, quickly locating a drainpipe to slide down. There was only one club on Fifth – the notorious Nightshade institution, known for its sketchy dealings and, according to the rumors, the best drinks in all of Tenebra. And since everyone in Hellshore ultimately ran on alcohol alone, Nightshade was always packed, any and every time of the day.

Switch made it to the club, considered entering through the door, and then deigned to go through the club’s large vent system – not to be unnecessarily complicated, but because the assassin didn’t have the time nor motivation to battle the crowds and whispers.

And yes, fine, going through the vent system was also undeniably fun.

Switch located the opening to the vent and was just about to pry it open when a faint whisper reached their ears.

“Assassin.”

Switch was already standing, that infamous switchblade in their hand, glinting dully in the weakly flickering street lights.

“Come out slowly with your hands up,” Switch said, their voice disguised by a special microphone in their hood. “If you so much as flash a weapon, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

The phrase was usually enough to subdue anyone who dared hire the dangerous assassin, but whoever had led Switch here only gave a dark, quiet laugh. “You won’t kill me,” they said. “I have a price you can’t refuse – and from what I hear, Switch, you never turn away a good price.”

By the sound of their smooth baritone, Switch assumed the unknown figure was male – though they could have been using a voice-changing microphone as well, so there was no way to be sure.

“Show me your face, and then we’ll talk,” Switch replied, an unfamiliar sense of uneasiness beginning to press in. No one had ever been able to stay unseen from the assassin for this long; the fact that they were accomplishing so was enough to set Switch on edge.

“You say that while still keeping your own identity hidden,” the unknown person remarked, sounding faintly amused. “That hardly seems fair, now, does it?”

Falling sins. It took quite some nerve to provoke the Switchblade Assassin – if Switch could have even just seen this mysterious potential hirer, the bastard would’ve been dead long ago. But they couldn’t even sense the other person, couldn’t even hear a whisper of their breath, something that rarely – indeed, never – happened.

Switch’s teeth gritted together. After a long moment of silence, they finally said, “Just tell me what the bloody job is, sinshot.”

Though the assassin couldn’t see it, they could sense the other person’s humorless smile. “I knew you would come through for me.”

“I swear to all the gods, I will carve out your ass and leave it on the street to rot,” Switch snapped. “You have thirty seconds to tell me the job, or we’re done.”

“You truly do drive a hard bargain,” the other person deadpanned. After a pause, they said almost too simply, “Assassinate Prince Laurent Aldrich.”

For a moment, Switch was entirely caught off guard – and Switch was never caught off guard.

Finally, the assassin said, “That’s the job?”

“That’s the job.”

“Falling sins and saints, you’re a blasting idiot.” Switch turned to leave. “I’m out. Find some other lucky sinshot to pine after.”

“Ah, but there’s more to it than I’ve told you,” the other person said. “Unfortunately, I cannot detail the rest unless you accept – and remember, I’m offering you a price you can’t turn down.”

“No amount of coins will make this worth it. It’s impossible, risky to the point of idiocy.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not offering coins.”

Switch laughed in disbelief. “Then what is this un-turn-downable price you claim you can give me?”

There was another pause. “I can give you the identities of both Argent and Mech.”

Again, Switch was thrown.

For a moment, it sounded unbelievably tempting – but reason finally caught up with the assassin, and they shook their head. “Hardly worth it. It makes it easier for us to operate unknown and unnamed – and anyway, why the hell should I trust that you even know?”

“Because,” the sinshot answered, “I know your identity as well.”

Switch shook their head again. “You’re full of shit, sinshot. We’re done here.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t walk away quite yet,” the other person said, and though their voice remained pleasantly indifferent, Switch could hear the veiled threat behind the words. “The impossibility of your situation hasn’t yet clicked, has it?” There was a pause where Switch imagined the sinshot leaning forward, as if coming in to share a secret. “If you don’t do this job, Switchblade Assassin, I will tell both Argent and Mech who you are – and once the thief of secrets knows, no one can predict where that juicy little tidbit of information will spread.”

For a moment, Switch was frozen. Falling gods-damned sins and saints. Now that this unknown figure had pointed it out, the assassin finally understood too late the amount of saintshit they were in. Even if this bastard was making it up, there was that slightest chance they weren’t – which meant Switch’s entire life was hanging precariously in the balance.

Was it worth taking that risk?

“If you’re really telling the truth,” Switch finally said, “you can tell me either Argent’s or Mech’s identity now.”

“Oh, I could,” the sinshot replied. “But if you decide to back out of the job at the last second, I will have traded the name for nothing.”

“So you want to pay me after I kill the gods-damned golden prince of Lumen – and if I don’t, you’ll tell all of Concordia my identity.”

“Again, there’s more to it than that – but ultimately, yes.”

Switch very much wanted to stab something – preferably whoever the hell they were talking to. “You could be a lying bastard for all I know.”

“I could,” the sinshot said, “but do you want to wait and find out, knowing there’s a minute chance I’m not?”

The assassin silently cursed themselves – they were well and thoroughly trapped. “At least tell me how you know my identity.”

“I have connections.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the only answer you’re going to get.”

Switch shook their head in incredulity. “At least show me your blasting face.”

“That’s something I simply cannot afford.”

Oh, Switch very, very much wanted to stab them. “Give me your name, then, sinshot, because I don’t deal with people I don’t know.”

The mysterious hirer gave a dry laugh. “Well, since you asked so gods-damned politely,” they replied, and then paused for a long time – not for dramatic effect, but as if they were slowly, carefully thinking of how to respond.

Finally, they said, “Call me Deadfall.”

[gumnut-logic]

We’ll Be Home For Christmas 4.3

Title: We’ll be home for Christmas

Day Four – Five Billionaires and No Wives – Part 3 Prologue | 1.1 | 1.2 | 2.1 | 2.2 | 2.3 | 3.1 | 3.2 | 3.3 | 3.4 | 3.5 | 4.1 | 4.2 | 4.3

Author: Gumnut

11 Feb - 23 Apr 2020

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: The boys can’t fly home for Christmas, so they have to find another way.

Word count: 2876

Spoilers & warnings: language and so, so much fluff. Science!Gordon. Artist!Virgil, Minor various ships, mostly background.

Timeline: Christmas Season 3, I have also kinda ignored the main storyline of Season 3. The boys needed a break, so I gave them one. Post season 3B, before Season 3C cos we haven’t seen it yet.

Author’s note: For @scattergraph​. This is my 2019 TAG Secret Santa fic :D

I’ve finally got my head back into this fic!

Many thanks to @scribbles97​ and @onereyofstarlight​ for reading through and for all their wonderful support.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

Gordon stared at the two dots circling A Little Lightning.

Raoul Island sported some excellent scanning equipment and with John enabling access to Thunderbird Five, Gordon could see for miles.

He could even see the far off dot that was their ultimate destination tonight. Tracy Island was such a tiny smudge in the middle of the ocean, so much smaller than Raoul. A moment to acknowledge it and he realised he missed it badly.

Well, they would be home tonight if they got moving soon enough.

But the whales...

“Yeah, they are the same two from yesterday.”

Sam stared at him. “How can you tell?”

Gordon pulled up the feed from the Raoul sea buoy network ring. A hologram appeared of the mother and calf with just enough detail for Gordon to point out the healing net injuries on the little one.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, she was caught nasty.”

“Bastards.”

“Don’t worry, we got them. Hell, IR has identified the money responsible and we have our legal team in motion.” A polite way to say his beautiful girlfriend was wreaking havoc in a calm but final way only she knew how. He had no doubts there would be very little left of the Polominka guy by the time she finished with him.

And what was left would probably be swept up by Parker and deposited in the nearest trash can.

Gotta love a girl who knew how to get a job done.

“Gords, you with us?”

“Huh?” A blink. Sam was grinning at him as if he knew exactly what Gordon was thinking about. He glared at him.

It didn’t faze the man. “Penny for your thoughts?” That was followed by an outright snigger.

“Shut it, Samwise.” So, he flushed scarlet, big deal. Idiot.

“Hey, is it my fault you go all moony-eyed at the mere thought of your girl?” Sam’s smirk was glare-worthy. “So, do I get a chance to meet this legend of blonde and pink?”

The glare turned into a frown. “How do you guys know so much about me and Penny?” It wasn’t like he had posted a billboard to advertise what was a very new relationship.

Sam shrugged. “Mel heard you were injured, raised a ruckus and Lady Penelope fell out of the sky. Apparently, they get on like a house on fire.”

Gordon stared at him. “Penelope and Mel?”

Another shrug. “Don’t look at me. Liam and I were in Perth.” He poked Gordon in the ribs. “You need to find a way to let us know how you’re doing, man. The news nets were screaming about an injured Tracy brother. It took them hours to work out which one and during that time you had died and been reincarnated six times. You gave us a bloody heart attack. I know you have to be secret and all, but you’re my friend, Gords. Don’t do that again.”

A blink. “I’ll try not to.” But there would be no promises. “I’ll speak to John and make sure Raoul gets notified.” But there would have to be restrictions. Their privacy had to be maintained. Scott would be a challenge. “You have to realise that there is just us, and we prefer to play it close. The media sucks.”

“I bet.” Sam turned back to the holographic display. “They appear to be waiting for you.” A breath. “Extremely odd behaviour.”

“What do you think they want?”

Sam shook his head. “My initial suspicion is either you or Virgil. Scott said Virgil was trying to walk into the water. You yourself had very close contact yesterday. My guess would be they want to make contact again? But really, we know so little about cetacean reality, our interpretation is far too anthropomorphised to be considered.”

“Virgil said the mother spoke to him with emotion. That he received an impression from her singing.”

“A human interpretation. This is where linguistics between species breakdown. Points of reference. The cetacean environment is so different to ours, there is very little shared reference to enable translation.”

“But they are mammals like us, surely they feel emotion?”

Sam held out his hands. “I’m sure they do. Hell, I know they do. But how do you communicate emotion through dissimilar body structure? We primarily communicate through our facial expressions and body language. Across species we don’t have that avenue.”

“We have their song.”

“Yes, we do. But human communication is only five percent vocal.” Sam swallowed. “I have theories and suspicions that whales rely much more on sound than we do due to their environment, but research is difficult.”

“That is why you pounced on Virgil.”

A sharp nod. “This is a bloody breakthrough, Gords. It’s a first.” He prodded the display to bring up audio. “Your brother managed something no-one in the world has ever been able to do. We need him.”

Now that wasn’t a first. Virgil was needed on a variety of fronts daily, not the least of which was by his brothers.

“Take it slow, Sam.”

“I know, I know.”

“We should also speak to John. He’s our communications expert. Speaks a gazillion languages. He might be able to help.”

“How many is a gazillion?”

“That you will have to ask him. I’ve lost count and he keeps learning new ones. Useful on the job.” Gordon twiddled with the focus of the sensor array. The two whales continued their slow circle around A Little Lightning. “How do you think they will react when we return to the boat?”

Sam drew in a thoughtful breath. “Hard to tell. Humpback whales don’t tend to be aggressive. In fact, they are one of the gentlest species. The only cases of aggression I’ve encountered involve threat to an individual or a calf. Having said that, this behaviour is very unusual.”

“You want to come out with us?”

Pale green eyes shot at him. “You just try keeping me away. I’ve already got the inflatable ready.”

Gordon had to smirk. He had already figured he’d have company. Hell, Mel would probably want to come with, as well. Even if only to kiss Scott goodbye.

Hmm.

“Well, I guess we will find out.”

-o-o-o-

It was an hour before they made it out onto the water. Packing and the fact Virgil had fallen asleep, held them up.

Scott was missing for most of that hour and John refused to say where he was. Not that Gordon had to work too hard to guess with Mel missing at the same time. The less time spent thinking about his eldest brother getting ‘together’ with his friend, the better.

Alan surfaced talking a mile a minute about the telescope on the other side of the Island. Apparently, it was ‘brilliant’, ‘amazing’ and ‘John should get one’.

John’s response to that was two words, “Thunderbird Five’.

“Oh, yeah.” But Alan was undeterred. “I might get one myself.”

“Alan, you have access to Five.”

“Yeah, but it is so cool!”

John rolled his eyes and went back to packing.

Virgil woke eventually and stumbled off to the coffee pot. The expression on his face warned that any obstacles would be obliterated.

Even Sam read that one correctly.

Scott appeared in his running clothes shortly after. He was flushed and Gordon noted several suspicious marks on his neck.

That thought led in icky directions and he had to derail that train. But at least Scott’s mood appeared to have improved. He disappeared into the shower and emerged ever the efficient director of operations.

John was seen to roll his eyes again.

During this time, Gordon kept an eye on the whales. They were still circling when the Tracy brothers, Mel and Sam finally left the compound and made their way back to Fishing Rock.

“No.” Virgil’s expression was stubbornness itself. The skyrail loomed above him, the harness set and ready.

Scott’s shoulders straightened, lining up for a bullfight with his bull-headed brother. Gordon readied to intervene, but was pre-empted by John.

The astronaut stepped up to Virgil’s side and simply touched his arm. Brown eyes flickered and were caught by turquoise. The engineer’s lips thinned but John’s frown deepened just a little.

Virgil’s shoulders dropped along with his eyes. “Fine.”

John’s frown hit Scott between the eyes and big brother relaxed just a little.

Virgil was harnessed up without further protest.

Scott squeezed his arm gently before they released him onto the line and Virgil turned to stare at him as he disappeared into the foliage. Their luggage followed.

Mel stepped up to Scott, rather closer than necessary, noted Gordon. “Race you to the bottom?”

Scott’s first grin for the day spread across his face.

Gordon couldn’t help but smile with him.

A heartbeat and Mel and his eldest brother took off down the path.

Sam snorted. “They make quite a pair. I hope he knows what he has got himself into.”

John frowned a little, but it was Gordon who answered that one. “Does she know what she has gotten into?”

“I guess we’ll all find out.” With that Sam headed down the hill. Gordon, John and Alan trotted after him.

The reason for the impromptu foot race revealed itself when Gordon finally made it to the beach. Virgil was already out of the harness with no repeat of the dangling helplessly incident. Scott was laughing, obviously the victor, though the expression on Mel’s face had Gordon suspecting a little planning on her part.

But the best part of it all was the arm Scott had around his brother.

Oh, thank god. It sucked big time when the two eldest were at loggerheads. Nothing worked smoothly when Scott and Virgil fought. A glance at John and the small smile on his face only provided more relief.

Their inflatable was where they left it, secured and protected. Gordon examined it from bow to stern satisfying himself of its safety and he and John lugged it over the rocks and used the crane to lower it into the water. Sam and Mel were only a few steps behind with their own, much larger inflatable. Both boats were secured on the swell, Gordon jumping into his first to make it ready and help load their luggage.

Scott joined him a moment later as he and John helped Virgil to board. A grunt and his engineer brother made the stretch and holding himself, curled up in one corner. Alan climbed on board just as Mel joined Sam in their boat.

All secure, Gordon started the engine and turning the boat around, headed out towards the distant A Little Lightning.

-o-o-o-

He felt it as soon as he set foot in the boat. A deep hum in the soles of his feet.

His belly ached from the trip down and sitting in the boat itself wasn’t the most comfortable, but the inflatable was bare insulation from the water and it carried the sound he couldn’t hear.

Around him, his brothers chattered and settled. Virgil closed his eyes and just felt.

Water on rocks, water on boat, water on water, birds, the breeze….and a weaving hum. He frowned. No, two, there were two voices singing through his feet.

He cherished the accomplishment of identifying the soft interwoven-

Gordon started up the outboard engine and the boat shot out into ocean.

“No!” His hand shot out. “Stop!”

It was a sign of trust and instinct that had Gordon killing the engine at that simple word from his brother. Mel and Sam shot past them.

“Virgil?” Scott was frowning at him. “What is it?”

“No engine.”

“What? You don’t expect us to row all the way out there do you?” Alan’s eyes were wide.

Mel and Sam turned their boat back towards the Tracy’s becalmed inflatable. A word from Gordon over comms and their engine died under Sam’s hand. They coasted alongside the Tracys.

Virgil reached over the side and put his hand into the water.

Song sung up his arm and he closed his eyes again, noting the notes by intensity.

“What’s going on?” Alan’s voice was worried.

“Shh!” Gordon’s voice was quiet but sharp.

Virgil was suddenly surrounded by brothers. Gordon sat down beside him and Scott and John opposite. Alan hovered behind them.

“Thunderfish?”

Virgil didn’t hear his brother’s response, but the question wasn’t asked again.

“Virgil?” Scott’s voice was ever so quiet. “What is it?”

Opening his eyes caught concerned blue. “They’re singing.” He frowned. “Calling.”

“Calling? How do you know?” Gordon’s voice was just as soft.

Virgil turned to his fish brother, catching those curious russet-brown eyes. “I…I don’t know.”

“We need to get out to the boat, Virgil.” Scott, ever the goal orientated.

“No engine.”

Gordon shifted beside him and began unfastening oars. “Then I guess we are rowing out.” One oar free, he nudged his older brothers out of the way. Scott ended up beside Virgil and John beside Alan at the bow of the boat. With the second oar free, Gordon secured them and himself and dipped their tips in the water. “It’s been a while. Should be fun.” Swimmer’s shoulders bunched up and he took the first stroke, a second and then eased himself into a steady rhythm.

Beside them, Sam broke out their oars and followed.

It was slow, but steady going after that.

Virgil let his fingers trail in the water. Except for the water, wind and birds, it was peaceful, the song interweaving amongst it all as if luring him.

His eyes closed again.

A random beep and he opened them to find Raoul further away and John with his tablet out, a holoprojection above it. Four dots, two circling, two approaching.

Gordon smiled at Virgil.

And the song changed.

It was so sudden his heart missed a beat. Scott grabbed his arm. “Virgil?”

“Can you hear it?”

Scott just stared at him, but Gordon stopped rowing and tipped his head to one side. Behind him, John had a puzzled look on his face which was quickly replaced by one of concern. “The whales have stopped circling. They are headed this way.”

As his brothers turned as one to look in the direction of the yacht, Virgil realised they were closer to A Little Lightning than he had thought.

“Here they come!”

Virgil leant over the edge of the boat, ever aware of Scott’s grip on his arm, and caught sight of what was no doubt the mother whale as she passed under their inflatable. Virgil’s jaw dropped. She was massive. Sure, he’d seen her from a distance, holographically in scale up against his brothers, but to see her this close.

“Oh my god.”

“Are we safe?” Scott’s sharp words were aimed at Gordon.

“Humpbacks are gentle creatures. Generally, they only become aggressive in self-defence. We’re not attacking them.”

“But what are they doing?”

“They are curious.” The words fell from Virgil’s lips without much in the way of thought. The sense of the song had switched from calling to curiosity. He hummed the dominant audible melody. It was little more than a series of pulsating tones backed by the infrasound in his bones.

His hand was still in the water, still seeking the unheard notes when John drew in a sharp breath. “Gordon, move the boat!”

Their fish brother grabbed the oars, but before he could take a single stroke, something touched Virgil’s hand.

The mother whale surfaced, the tip of her massive chin lifting out of the water directly beside Virgil.

“Woah.” It was a whisper of wonder from Gordon.

Virgil, initially pulling his hand back in surprise, was mesmerised. The very colours he had painted barely two days ago, the shapes, the glisten, the immensity…

The all-consuming sound.

His fingers touched soft skin.

It felt like touching music.

He couldn’t help but respond, deep in his throat as best he could as the song shifted to one that echoed his amazement. The notes were organic, simple, yet complex and missing the sound he could not create.

Curiosity.

Puzzlement.

“Virgil?”

His voice wasn’t deep enough.

Or high enough.

“Virgil?” Someone was touching his cheek, a hand cupping the side of his face. He opened his eyes to find Scott in front of him, that ever-present worry on his face.

“I still can’t answer.” It was frustration and sadness all of his own.

“We’ll get you back on the yacht. We have the technology there.” Scott ever the enabler.

Ever the rescuer.

But suddenly his connection was lost. The song stopped and mother whale slipped beneath the surface. Virgil leant over the edge of the boat and might have followed if it wasn’t for that same grip on his arm.

There was an order from Scott that Virgil wasn’t focussed on, the oars cut the water and the boat resumed moving towards the yacht.

Virgil stared into the turquoise depths, lost without the buoy of the song. He sagged against the inflatable plastic.

“Gordon, faster!” It came from John. “She’s coming up again, but she’s not slowing down! Move!”

“I’m try-“

The whale hit the underside of the inflatable lifting it and all the brothers off the surface of the ocean for just a moment before tipping it over and throwing all five of them into the water.

-o-o-o-

End Day Four, Part Three.