#Prod Savant
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producedbyjxdemidnightt · 6 months ago
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anxiously-kk · 4 months ago
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sorry y’all but i’m pretty sure tucker is a big brother production savant! like he studied the game and realized giving prod what they want is how you get far. like he’s giving them the drama, the wild game moves, the rivalries, the comp wins, the muscles and now he conveniently is starting up a showmance on the very day he’s in jeopardy?!! oh this man is a master and production WILL be rigging AI arena for him tonight l.
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sarahowritesostucky · 8 months ago
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Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes
Tags: Fresh AU, dark rom-com, dark!Bucky, pre-serum Steve, cannibalism, kidnapping, yandere/basement wife, meet cute-ish, gay sex n' stuff, dub-con
Summary: Steve is so tired of the meat market that modern dating has become. Just when he's deleted all the apps and given up on ever finding Mr. Right, he meets the perfect guy at the grocery store.
A dark, cute, funny, fucked up, and very tasty love story.
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It's a Fresh AU. "If you can't handle the cannibalism, get out of the kitchen"--or something like that
3. Hors D'oeuvre
Wait! I haven't read the previous chapter(s)
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James winds up apologizing profusely for the insanely bad bite.
Steve’s a little disturbed that the guy would do something that rough on their first time together, but he chalks it up to the heat of the moment and forgives him,` telling James that: it's okay, he’s always been a freaky-fast healer anyway.
“S’my superpower,” he quips, making light of it when it's obvious James feels terrible.
“I’m still sorry,” he insists, thumbing carefully over the mostly-healed skin two days later. He stares at it like he stares at everything else—intensely. “I got carried away. Won’t do it again.”
Steve believes him.
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Within a week, it’s pretty obvious that they’re dating. Steve kind of feels like the other shoe has got to drop at any moment, but that just keeps not happening. James is like, the perfect guy.
“He’s a doctor?” Clint says, on the third day after Bite Night. It’s movie night and he and Steve are rewatching Midsommar, because Clint’s a movie nerd and is convinced there are still hidden themes he can pick apart in the freaky-ass film. Right now the screen is paused at the exact second where they hammer the old guy’s head into paste. Clint really is a savant with a remote control.
Steve looks the gore over critically and stuffs more chips in his mouth, crunching. “Um, yeah,” he says distractedly.
He wonders how movie people make it look so real. How would they even know what to make it look like? Did one of the movie people see somebody’s head collapse in real life?”
“Earth to STEVE,” Clint waves a hand in front of his face and Steve blinks.
“What?”
“I said: what kind of doctor is he?”
“A surgeon,” Steve says, feeling warm and tingly even as he remembers it. He’s not only met a smart, sexy and funny older guy— he’s met a surgeon. Which automatically means he’s rich, too. Nobody is that fucking lucky in love, certainly not Steve.
“Of what?” Clint prods. “Like, hearts and brains? or boob jobs?”
Steve pauses with another handful of chips. Hm. That’s a good question. “I don’t know,” he says. “What’s it matter?”
“It matters because it’ll determine how much I esteem the guy,” Clint insists.
Steve snorts. “What? If he's a plastic surgeon he doesn’t deserve your respect?”
“Are you kidding? I’d respect him more if that’s what he was.” Clint grimaces. “I respect the hell out of anybody who can pull people’s skin off and rearrange it and unnatural shit like that. S’way more horrible than operating on a regular old heart or whatever.”
Steve makes a face as he considers that. “Yeah, I guess so. I heard once that when they do a nose job they literally like, pull the nose up off the face first.”
Clint gags. “Dude! No. My brain can’t unknow this now!”
“And yet you can watch shit like this.”
Clint presses play and the film resumes, the frame shifting from pasted-guy's head, to Florence Pugh's horrified face. “That's different," he says. "It’s movie magic, dumbass.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re a dumbass.”
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James tasks Steve with picking an actual date activity for them to do next. “No pressure,” he teases him over the phone, “but I hate stereotypes.”
Well. So much for mini golfing or the movies.
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The place is called Bad Axes, their logo is a butt with an ax lodged in it, and the only two things to do there are drink beer and throw axes. Steve doesn’t reveal what they’re headed for when they meet at the subway, so James doesn’t know what's in store until they’re standing right outside the business' doors with the logo on them.
He stares for a long, long moment, and then busts out with the loudest, most sudden laugh. He looks over at Steve with a pained, almost hysterical expression.
Steve laughs. “What?”
“Nothing!” James squeaks. “This’ll be fun!”
Steve spends the rest of the date preening over the fact that he’s impressed his boyfriend.
(He only calls him that in his head, so far. He knows they’re not ‘boyfriends’ yet. They’re still feeling each other out, trying on the idea of being boyfriends. It’s just hard for Steve to remember that, when everything feels so natural between them.)
They grab drinks and get the safety and throwing tutorial from the unimpressed girl whose job it is to supervise drunk businessmen throwing sharp objects after work. It’s an over-the-head kind of deal, and Steve is prepared to nurture his manly pride and leave feeling a little bit like a Viking.
“Want to bet on who wins?” James asks, where he stands beside Steve in their little throwing area, a devilish gleam in his eye.
Steve considers it. The Axe Girl had told them it’s not so much a strength thing as a technique thing, so he’s not worried about being at a disadvantage. “Sure," he decides. "What are we betting on?”
“Hmm, how about … loser has to tell a secret about themselves,” James says. “First to stick the target twenty times wins.”
Steve’s stomach jumps at the look in James' eye. He grins. “You’re on.” Steve doesn’t have any good secrets anyway, so losing won't be a big deal (even though he fully intends to win).
They throw.
There’s a certain amount of body memory to it, Steve discovers after about fifteen minutes of fruitless throwing, his axe cracking off the plywood and thunking pathetically to the ground each time. He winds up getting the hang of it, but not in time to win the bet. James’ axe sticks on the first throw, and the second, and most of the times after.
Steve sulks about it as they take a break at one of the high-top tables, drinking their second round. “You’ve done this before,” he pouts, accusing. “Admit it.. You're a secret lumberjack.”
James looks at him fondly, like he thinks Steve’s reaction is cute. “Not exactly. But I've chopped enough to know my way around an axe.”
Steve grumps playfully at him. “Fine, cheater. I’ll think of a secret to tell you.” Bucky chuckles while Steve sips his beer and tries to come up with something juicy enough to be a ‘secret’ but not so juicy that it reflects badly on him. “I used to get in fights a lot."
James rolls his eyes. “Like as a kid? That doesn’t count.” He shoots him a sly look. “Adult secrets, Steven.”
Steve flushes at the use of his given name. There’s something oddly domineering about it that he likes. “Um, well … I've been arrested?”
James’ eyes light up. “Oh, do tell.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course not.”
“It wasn’t!” Steve laughs, shoving James’ shoulder. “It was a bar fight, basically. Some asshole bothering this woman he didn’t know, not taking no for an answer.”
James’ smile softens to something fond. “Aw, Steve. I should'a known. That's you then? Always trying to be a white knight?”
Steve scowls at the term but doesn’t try to deny it. “Well somebody had to do something,” he mutters. “I wasn’t the one who threw the first punch.”
“Why the arrest, then?”
“The charges were dropped. But I guess the jerk had some friends backing him up when the cops came, so I got rounded up too.”
James hums in understanding. “Well, I suppose that’s sort of a secret. But I have to say, I was really hoping for something a little more intriguing from you, Steve. A little more naughty.”
Steve snorts. “Why? You planning to blackmail me?”
“No.”
“You just like bad boys, then,” he jokes. He’s about the farthest thing there is from a bad boy. “Sorry. You’re outta luck with that one.”
“I’m not,” James says quietly, looking him in the eyes. “I actually like the sweet ones.”
Steve colors, he knows he does. “Oh.” He’s a sweet one. He chuckles and looks down at his beer bottle, turning it in little circles. “Thanks. I guess.”
James hums. “Hey, why don’t I apologize for my non-disclosure of my axing abilities, huh? I’ll tell you one of my secrets, too.”
“I’m all ears. What’s your secret?” In his head, Steve sarcastically imagines James saying something like, “I’m actually married and have two point five kids,” or, “I’m addicted to piss and shit porn.”
That’s not what he says.
“I’ve eaten human flesh.”
Steve blinks. “What.” He waits for the punchline, the second part of that confession that’ll make it funny, but there isn’t one. James just sits there and nods somberly. Steve laughs. “No, you haven’t. You have not.”
“I was just out of med school and interning at a center for pediatric reconstructive surgery in Shanghai.”
The smile drops right off Steve’s face. So he is a plastic surgeon, he thinks. He'll have to tell Clint. "The fuck?" he breathes.
James' mouth twists. “Yeah. That's what I said, when I realized."
"You're making this up," Steve says weakly, even though he can tell he's not, because James is sitting there looking completely serious and nodding grimly.
"We'd gone out to a rural village, to assess a few kids for cleft palate correction. There was a mud slide on the only road out of the valley, and we wound up stuck there for a few days."
“What—” Steve realizes he’s nearly whispering. He firms up his voice. “What happened?”
“I was served a meal from a local family, already cooked.”
“Oh." Steve exhales in relief. "So then, you didn’t actually see—”
“No.” James cants his head. “But it wasn’t any meat I’d ever had before. It was …” He trails off, eyes going distant as he thinks about it. “It was so different.”
Steve stares at him, shocked. “But … but that's a big leap. I mean it could’ve been anything. Dog or ... or tiger. Don’t they have tigers in China?”
“Not in that part of the country.” James watches Steve closely for a moment, gauging his reaction. Eventually he looks away, frowning. “And you could tell there was something going on. There was ... At the time, I didn't understand, but it was the way the villagers acted. There was something off about them, something about the way they skulked around, the way they looked at us. How gaunt they all were ..." He shakes his head, deep in thought. "I did some research once I got back. There are some recorded accounts; those soccer players that crashed in the Andes, the Donner party. An anthropologist in the thirties who ate with a tribe in Africa. He wrote a very detailed account of how the different cuts of the meat tasted, what it looked like, what it smelled like.” He inhales deeply, as though pulling himself out of the memory. When his gaze lands back on Steve, it's dead serious and shockingly nonchalant. “It all matched up to what I’d eaten.”
Steve gapes, horrified. He can’t believe that it was a … a human that James had been served. It was too awful. People wouldn’t do that. ... Would they? “It wasn’t,” he says, as if he can make it so by saying it. “They wouldn’t have.”
James still doesn’t seem bothered, though he has pity in his eyes for Steve, apparently able to see how shaken he is by it. “You gotta understand, it was a bad situation. A dead, closed off valley where nothing ever grew. The Chinese government had banished these people out there for some slight, blocked off their access to food. It was like a gulag. These people were living in extreme poverty: cold, sick, and halfway starving. Animals'll do anything when they’re starving."
"Animals ..."
He shrugs and sits back in his chair. "At the end of the day, that’s all we really are. Some very big, overly-clever animals.”
Steve swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He reaches for his beer and takes a hasty swig. “How do you, um, how do you deal with it, then?” he asks. “If you really think that’s what it was?” He’s a little bit stunned by how calm James has remained through telling the whole story.
“It doesn’t bother me,” James says easily. “There’s no way I can know for sure that’s what I ate that day, and I didn’t do it on purpose.” He shrugs and waves it off. “It was so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Wow,” Steve says, stunned. “I mean, just … no. And wow.”
“Pretty big secret, huh?”
“Yeah,” Steve mutters, trying to lighten up. James isn’t dwelling on it and he probably doesn’t want Steve to, either. “Yeah, you have, um. Much juicier secrets than me.”
James tips his bottle back for the last dregs of his beer, then clacks it firmly down onto the table. “So,” he says, eyes regaining their challenging, sly glint. “Now that you know my deepest, darkest secret; want to throw another round?”
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A few days later, at precisely 11:30 am, Steve receives a text:
Weird Meat Guy: Hey you. I’m starving. Want to grab lunch with me?”
Steve looks down at his dirty work clothes. Yikes. Knowing himself, he figures there's a good chance he also has paint in his hair or on his face, or both.
Steve: yeah sounds good. In 30 or so? Gotta wash up.
Weird Meat Guy: see you soon, handsome.
James texts him an address that's in Park Slope, followed by a cartoon ‘nom-nom’ eating GIF. Steve holds his phone with gesso-crusted fingers and beams at the screen. James must like Steve just as much as Steve likes him, because he’s thinking about him during the week. He’s texting him and sending stupid GIFs and asking him out on lunch dates.
This is going incredibly well.
It's nothing fancy, which Steve appreciates. They meet inside a Panera by Prospect Park. They order drinks and find chairs to sit in by the windows while their sandwiches are made. “Don't you work in Midtown though?” Steve asks, confused. “This is a bit of a hike for a lunch break.”
James stares at him for a long few seconds, blinking repeatedly. “... Oh! Well … I had a big gap between clients today.” He smiles winningly and covers Steve’s hand with his own on the tabletop, giving it a squeeze. “There’s nobody I’d rather make the hike for.”
Steve tries not to let his smile overtake his face, but it’s hard.
Their food arrives, and they eat while trading stories about themselves. Steve tells James how he lives and works alone, but doesn’t mind it one bit. He tells him about his family, or at least, what family he used to have.
“So, nobody?” James asks. “You’re all alone?”
“It’s okay,” Steve says, thinking that James might be feeling pity for him. “I miss my mom, but it’s been a long time. And I’ve made a couple friends. They help.”
“Oh yeah? Who're your friends?”
“Oh. Well there's Clint. We met back in college. And Natalie. She’s the one I told you about.”
“Your patron.” James nods. “I remember.” He leans forward. “So do they know about me?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell them about me?”
Steve smirks. “Oh I dunno. Just that I met a really good looking weirdo at the grocery store. Haven’t called the police on him yet.”
James laughs. “That’s all?”
“Pretty much.” Steve shrugs and takes another bite of his sandwich, unconcerned with it. “Clint says he respects you for being able to—and I quote—‘pull people’s skin off and rearrange their outsides’.”
James’ lips quirk. “Well, it is a skill.”
Steve shivers theatrically. “Uck. Power to you. I guess somebody’s gotta do it."
"Alas, yes. The meat market. Demand is only ever growing."
Steve snorts. "Well hey, at least it means you’re, ah … intimately familiar with anatomy.” He winces before he's even finished saying it. Ew, what a lame joke.
But James’s eyes crinkle in amusement anyway. “Yes," he says, reaching for his sandwich again. "I certainly am.”
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Steve has James over to Netflix and Chill. He’s not sure if this counts as their sixth date or seventh, but they’ve been seeing each other steadily for the past three weeks, calling and texting daily, so it’s definitely not too soon to start thinking about the “R” word. That’s where it feels like this is headed, but Steve is too chickenshit to speak up and ask if they’re officially in a relationship.
He researches how to make eggplant parmesan and mostly doesn’t screw it up, and James seems touched that he went through the trouble of cooking something vegetarian for him.
“It’s delicious,” he reassures Steve. “I even like the crusty black bits.”
He asks Steve what he does for fun, and Steve is once again left feeling like a boring dolt when he can only answer, “I mean, I really just paint or draw, or watch tv. Clint tries to drag me out for bowling or karaoke once in a while.” He fights not to wince at himself. Jesus god is he boring. He thinks again about joining a gym, maybe getting into boxing or Krav Maga or something. “What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not carving people up?”
“Hardy har.” James thinks about it. “Well, I do love to do stuff outdoors. I work out ...”
“Yeah you do,” Steve teases, leering a little. James laughs him off.
“I read some, usually have two books going concurrently.”
Steve imagines James having a big, expensive library, complete with those nifty rolling ladders.
“And I’m a pretty good cook,” he adds. “I enjoy it. Working on being an amateur cuisinier, as I said.”
Steve pointedly looks at both of their plates of semi-burnt eggplant slop. “Then why am I the one making us dinner?”
James chuckles, leans across the table to kiss him on the cheek, and promises he’ll cook for Steve sometime soon.
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After dinner, Steve pulls up his Netflix queue and scrolls through for something that looks good but not too good, since they’ll probably start fooling around partway through and miss half of it.
They watch a documentary about Richard Ramirez, which Steve apologizes for. (“I know, I know. Me and every other basic white girl likes the true crime stuff.”)
Halfway into Ramirez’s fucked up childhood, Steve says, “Man, what would you do if your kid turned out like that, huh?”
“Question my parenting choices, that’s for sure.”
“I know, right?" Steve shudders. "I feel so bad for Jeffry Dahmer’s mom.”
“Why? She’s alive and kicking. Feel bad for Ed Gein’s mom: pretty sure she’s a lampshade now.”
“Christ.”
James looks over at Steve. “Do you want kids?”
Steve freezes, the unexpected change in topic throwing him for a loop. “Um …” Not ones that'll turn me into a lampshade, he doesn't say.
This is something they haven’t done yet; asked each other what they want for their lives long-term. Because such questions naturally infer that they might be considering each other for a starring role in said life.
Steve swallows heavily and works up the courage to softly admit, “Yeah, one day I do.” He dares to meet James’ eyes, and is relieved when he doesn’t see any rejection there. “I want what most people do, I guess. Get married, have kids.” He shrugs. “The American dream, right?”
“What? No white picket fence and a dog named Fido?”
Steve deflates a little. “Don’t make fun.”
“I wasn’t.” James scoots closer and puts his arm around him. “Hey. No, Honey. I wasn’t making fun of you. I want that stuff too.”
“You do?”
“Mmhm.” He kisses Steve's cheek. “I’m glad you told me,” he says. “Makes you even more of the perfect catch.”
Steve snorts. "Yeah. Sure."
James is the perfect catch, Steve is just incredibly lucky.
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James has to go on a sudden work trip, and it's a solid week that they're apart.
The next time he comes over to Steve's place, he’s barely in the door before Steve is slamming it shut and pushing him up against the wall. He sinks to his knees and looks up at James, whose eyes have gone from widened to heavy-lidded in seconds. "Hey."
James smiles lazily and cups his cheek. “Hey there.”
Steve touches him over his jeans, starts rubbing slow and purposeful. After a moment or two, James gets hard enough that he can feel it through the denim. He knees in closer, pushes his face into his groin and rubs his cheek along the bulge of his dick.
James’ hands migrate to his head, running through his hair, over his scalp. “Mm,” he hums, amused. “Did you miss me, Sweetheart?”
It’s been little more than a week apart, but Steve has missed him embarrassingly much. He makes a plaintive noise against James’ crotch and nods. “Yeah.” He’s barely heard from the other man. He doesn’t want to complain though, because it’s still early for them and he doesn’t want to seem too needy.
James had warned him he’d be very busy working and mostly unreachable. He'd had to take a flight out for a surgery consult somewhere—Steve can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter. He’s just glad James is back. He looks up from his spot on the floor, batting his eyelashes and reaching for the front of James’ pants. “Can I?”
James grins and relaxes back against the wall. “All yours,” he says, watching Steve like he’s ready for a show. Steve flushes in a heady mix of arousal and shyness. He tucks his lips in as his fingers find the button at James’ fly, pop it open and pull down the zipper. He curls his fingers over the waistband at James’ hips and pulls, until the jeans are halfway down his thighs. He stops.
James is wearing briefs today—white, and with a waistband that has black lettering: Calvin Klein. Steve grins as arousal hits him harder, his own dick stirring in his sweats. “Tighty-whities, huh?” he teases, and when he looks up, he sees James looking down at him, amused.
“What? You don’t approve?”
“Oh, I approve.” He presses his face against the front, against the hardening line of James’ dick beneath the fabric. What he really likes is to see it get hard from the very start, and he's already making a plan to have James naked for this from the get-go, next time. He palms the soft weight of James’ balls through the fabric while placing kisses along the length of his stirring dick. “Been wanting to do this since that first night,” he murmurs. He rubs his other hand over him, circling the wet spot just by the head. “You've got such a nice cock.”
James makes a pleased noise. “Why don’t you get it out, then?” he says softly, one hand cupping Steve’s chin. His thumb pulls down on Steve’s bottom lip. “I want to see your pretty mouth stretchin' around it.”
Steve moans quietly and nods, fingers hurrying to pull his underwear down. James’ cock bobs obscenely in the air once it’s released, still angled downward from the weight of it and from only being half hard. Steve licks his lips, excited at finally getting to really appreciate it up close. He hasn’t had much chance yet, but he’s seen it, knows that it's beautiful.
James is big—as big a top can get before it becomes counterproductive, in Steve's opinion. A respectable length, with a truly mouth watering girth. His balls are soft and warm in Steve’s palm where he holds them. James is shaved there, while everything else is trimmed down short. "Sir," Steve teases, fondling the smooth weight of his balls. "I may just have to wind up sucking on these."
Above him, James chuckles lowly. "Gotta do what you gotta do, Steven. I won't hold it against ya."
Fuck. What is it about James saying his given name like that? It's so hot, feels almost dirty. Steve can't hold back anymore. He takes his cock in hand and explores it with the gentlest of touches, tracing a prominent vein that runs underneath and up along the side, circling his finger on the wet head that’s peeking out, just barely pressing the tip of his thumb into the slit. He bites his lip as it twitches and jerks. Fuck. It’s fucking beautiful.
Above, James makes a sound in his throat, and when Steve looks up he sees him looking darkly amused. “You sure are taking your sweet time with that, Princess.”
Ooh, Princess. That’s a new one. Steve smirks. “I can take all the time I want.”
He says that, but in the next few seconds he’s already lost his patience, too eager for more. He wants to feel it on his tongue, wants to taste it. He sucks the head into his mouth and is rewarded by James’ quiet groan.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Mm.”
Steve sucks him, swirling his tongue over the head and pulling gently with his hand, jerking him off a little while he sucks. He keeps it up, feeling James twitch and grow in his mouth, until he’s fully erect, and Steve just has to pop off to see. His own hand looks tiny and pale on James' dick. He jerks him softly and groans at the sight of the foreskin sliding over the weeping, fat tip. God, Steve loves uncut guys.
James is watching him with heavy eyes, his lips slightly parted, enthralled at the sight of Steve exploring down between his legs. Steve smirks up at him and looks him in the eye as he kisses along his thigh, hipbone, pelvis; all the way up to his stomach and belly button and back down. He rubs his cheek on the hot juncture of his groin and returns to stroking his cock at a languorous pace. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “Could do this all day.”
“Oh yeah?” James cards a hand through Steve’s hair—a hand that Steve is very smug to note is trembling the tiniest bit—and leaves it there, caressing his scalp. “Can you go deeper?” he asks quietly, offering it up rather than demanding it.
Steve appreciates the concern, but he’s eager to show off. “‘Can I go deeper’,” he mutters, scoffing. “Hold onto your dick, Honey. This is gonna feel really good.” He sucks James’ cock back into his mouth, only this time he keeps going, taking it all the way until it's in his throat and his nose is buried in the short hair at the base.
Above him, James finally loses his composure, his breath stuttering out in a stifled, “Oh, fuck.”
Steve hums eagerly. He grabs onto the back of James’ thighs and squeezes, uses the grip to yank him even closer. He slides his hands up and grabs at his ass, able to feel the muscles tensing and relaxing as James tries so hard not to thrust into his mouth. Steve pulls off and meets his eyes. “You want to fuck my face?” he asks, eager to give James whatever he wants. “You can.”
James looks utterly smitten. He hooks his thumb in at the corner of Steve’s mouth and pulls gently. “Sweet boy,” he murmurs. Steve’s about to take that as a ‘yes’, but then James tells him otherwise. “Another time,” he says. “Right now I just want to watch you work for it.”
Steve’s belly flips in arousal. Fucking hell. He reaches down to squeeze his own dick, which is painfully constricted in his sweatpants by now. He mostly ignores it though, wanting to put all his focus into pleasing James and pulling more wrecked sounds of pleasure from him. This is a relationship Steve really wants to go the distance in, okay? So he shoots James his best sultry look while wettings his lips, and then sinks right back down with eye contact, prepared to give this man the best head of his life.
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They shower together, after coming from each other’s hands and mouths. It’s an intimate experience, standing naked and sated together under the spray of the water, touching each other’s bodies without intent. It’s almost more intimate than the sex they’ve just had.
Steve shivers and luxuriates in it as James stands behind him and runs water-slicked hands over his body, not speaking, just enjoying what he’s touching. He kneads the meat of Steve’s ass, his thighs, draws soapy-slick circles down his ribs and across his belly. He kisses and mouths at his neck as he touches him all over. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and that’s the only word uttered between them for the entirety of the shower.
Later, when they’re sitting together on the couch, drinking wine and talking lazily with nothing but towels wrapped around their waists, James describes his apartment in Manhattan. It’s centrally located but small, because “real estate in the city is sickening.”
“Tell me about it,” Steve murmurs, giving his own shoebox of an apartment a onceover.
James insists that he spends as little time in the city as possible. His preferred residence (because of course he has multiple) is “in the wilderness.”
“Jersey?” Steve asks, lip curled in a sneer.
“Oh no! A little more wild than that,” James laughs, pouring more wine into the glass Steve’s holding out. “It’s out in the Catskills," he confides. "My secret cabin."
"The Catskills?" Steve frowns, trying to think of how long of a drive that must be. “I’ve never been."
“Oh you’d love it,” James insists. “It’s gorgeous out there. Miles and miles of trees. Peace and quiet, no neighbors to bother you.” He smiles wistfully. “It’s the one place I can really let go and relax, be myself. It’s my retreat.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Steve says. James looks so happy when he talks about it, it makes Steve want to go there with him. “Will you take me there someday?” he asks. He’s very aware that the question implies that they’ll still be together down the line. That this thing they have, whatever it is, will continue.
James considers him thoughtfully, though, eyes soft and mysterious, not seeming to mind that Steve is envisioning them in the future. He peers at him in that intense, evaluating way that he has. “Well,” he says. "I mean why not? That'd be fun. Let’s do it.”
“Wait, what? Do it?” Steve repeats, surprised. “You mean like a trip? Like, now?"
“Yeah!" James laughs. “We can go for a few days. I’ll drive us out there and we can just relax together. Cook, watch movies. There’s hiking around the area. And I have a hot tub.”
Steve gasps. “I love hot tubs!”
James laughs and holds out his arms for Steve to climb into his lap. He wraps his arms around him and kisses him. “Okay then, it’s settled. When do you want to go?”
Steve tries to remember his work schedule for that next week, but his thoughts are a little slowed by the warm and gooey feelings he’s got filling him up. James wants to spend a weekend with him. He wants to take him away, show him his favorite place. Steve squirms happily in the other man's lap and tucks his face into his neck, inhaling the rich, clean scent of him and pleased as punch, because this means that James really likes him, and maybe even wants to make him a part of his life.
Jesus Christ, maybe Steve's actually, finally done it. Maybe he really has managed to scoop up the last remaining, non-married, high-value homosexual who actually wants to be in a serious relationship.
It's too good to be true!
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vilehated · 9 months ago
Text
OC Summary
this is my own attempt at trying to summarize my pets... Though unlike wife, most of my goals aren't complete so it's mostly In My Head, yet to be actualized on my account. Working on it though. :3
In the mean time, enjoy the flights of fancy.
On my main, hartmurmur...
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CHIALUXE (shee-a-loo) the rainbow Kyrii with her green meekins, Whistle, and mootix. (20 y/o)
A strikingly beautiful kyrii with a long, pale mane running down her back and large, grey eyes. Chi is the eldest daughter of an affluent Kyrii couple that reside in Faerieland. Vain, and elitist, her family is uniquely obsessed with looks and status, more than the average Neopian. To them, Chi is a very promising child who could go on to carry the family legacy...
... but regardless of their hopes, it doesn't stop their daughter from remaining a childish ditz well into adulthood. No matter what fancy schooling or events they try and coax her into, Chi only cares about playing with her younger sister, whom she has been enamored with since she was born. To Chi, her calling was found when Lux was born; fetching her baby sister toys and baby bottles was much more intuitive than academia.
Adopted her meekins from a litter with her sibling, where they each got to pick one. It was Lux's idea, but Chi's pushing and prodding at their parents (who are subconsciously less likely to spoil Lux...) Her mootix meanwhile was a gift from Lux, who had gotten into petpetpet hunting & keeping after reading about it.
RESIDES: (With Lux) In her wealthy parents' manor on Faerieland, pre-fall.
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LUXEIY (loo-shay) the christmas/halloween Kyrii with her rainbow meekins, Shimmer, and rainblug. (14 y/o)
With clawed feet, a squinted eye, and a large birthmark across her face, Lux also stood out the moment she was born (a humble shade of green, as well)... Growing up with sheepish awareness of her parents' disappointment in her looks. As such, she was compliant for numerous attempts at 'treating' her 'disfigurements'... made to try various tonics, ointments, even expensive neggs, yet all proved fruitless.
In perfect contrast to her parents' neglect, is the doting attention she has received from her older sister her whole life. Her greatest comfort is her bond with Chi.
Lux is a bit of a savant (... for a 14 yo), juggling various hobbies, always interested in trying something new. Despite her efforts, none of her peers really seem interested in being more than acquaintances, which Lux accepts with quiet resignation. In the first place, Lux's affinity for picking up skills was formed to preoccupy herself as her parents neglect her. Once again the silver-lining is Chi's affections — so eager to praise Lux's abilities. The one person she can dazzle and impress.
Wanted a petpet badly as a child, and so Chi pushed for them to get a pair! Their meekins are siblings, just like them. While her parents don't like to spoil Lux, they are glad she at least chose something fanciful looking... Meanwhile, the rainblug was a gift from Chi, who miraculously found it in their garden one day.
RESIDES: (With Chi) In her wealthy parents' manor on Faerieland, pre-fall.
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CZHOKE the checkered Aisha.
A solitary Aisha, once part of a full family, with a lot of siblings. He was a quiet, out of the way boy, though dimly interactive. A horrific tragedy befell their household, one which mangled the whole lot of the family, leaving Czhoke the survivor. Despite the objective tragedy of his circumstance, he found it didn't really make him feel anything... other than a pleasant sense of freedom. Simply wandered off after that, deciding the average Neopian lifestyle wasn't anything he'd choose again.
Found he enjoys observing pets at a distance as they amble helplessly through the Haunted Woods. Bewildered travelers, lost children, so-called adventurers... so often caught & dispatched in the dead of night. Few make it long. He doesn't intervene. Nothing urges him to leave the role of observer.
RESIDES: In the Haunted Woods, in a ramshackle shed. Enjoys random trinkets, but doesn't exactly have a furnished house. Mostly wanders, and doesn't come back to it for days at a time.
His eventual mate is Avvy's faerie/halloween Aisha Adolee, an unusual hermit-survivalist ekeing out a life on the outskirts of the woods. Finding her flitting through branches, he stalks her alone for months...
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HUSHHT (or just 'Hush') the starry Zafara with his cloud miamouse. (10 y/o)
Originally from Roo Island, from a small household of Meerca. A fine household, but regardless, Hush is perpetually lonely, beset by inexplicable persistent neediness... He wouldn't think of himself as morose or dreary, but he's almost constantly desperate. Always feeling 'at his limit' in some indescribable way.
A tiny bit of attention from anyone captivates Hush, who will doggedly attempt to appease and entertain them — often to his detriment. He comes off uncomfortably clingy, almost insincerely placating... bit too over-the-top.
In an impulse to seek change, he abandons his family without warning to head towards Neopia Central... where he imagines more than the tiny Roo Island populace might offer him something...
Meets his special little miamouse in faerieland, thanks to Lilayou (who has a natural charisma with exclusively petpets!)
RESIDES: Eventually, in Faerieland (pre-fall era)...
His eventual mate is Avvy's spotted Shoyru Lilayou, a very playful but lonesome girl who entertains herself all day long in a playpen in the clouds...
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QHASTELI the maraquan Acara with her faerie peo, Qadenze.
Sadistic, capricious, and a bit melodramatic — Qhasteli imagines herself as 'master of her domain', subjugating life around her as she pleases. It may be that in reality, she is a hermit that lives in a strange ecosystem, with no one to notice when she drowns a random civilian, as much as nothing stops her from preying on pfish swimming by. Whatever the case, it doesn't change Qhasteli's perception of herself.
The ego is delusionally high, though she is smart, capable, and competent at what she does, accomplishing her goals without issue or risk. She's well-versed in various magicks, and solves all of her own problems.
Enjoys trinkets, baubles, pretty things. Her favored peo is beautiful to her, an acquisition from downing a petpet trader's ship; her aera now has many fanciful colors of petpet that would not normally live in her waters. While Qhasteli often inherits the belongings of her victims, she curates her space with great deliberation; doesn't hoard wantonly.
Despite the isolation, she is very practiced at talking, enjoying listening to her own cadence, talking to herself, and the various creatures in her caverns. She's not "far gone" in that she's incoherent or clumsy with words, or foolhardy... She is well "put-together"... as murderers go.
RESIDES: A small unnamed island near Faerieland. Lives in a particular area by the shore, composed of trees with long roots that form large coral-like structures when submerged. Depending on the tide, the area feels like a mini coral reef, or a tangled system of roots to clamber over.
Her eventual mate is Avvy's baby Gelert, Luvvit. Like the trinkets in Qhasteli's collection, she is a pretty bauble to acquire. With her manicured demeanor and soft, elegant speech, Luvvit is effortlessly captivated and drawn into the illusion of Qhasteli as some sort of princess or goddess....
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EVENTOILLE the skunk/valentine crosspaint Ixi with his plushie tanizard, Wobbles.
Goes by "Eve". As rare twins, they were precious, beloved, and special to their parents both. While not extremely wealthy, their parents in Brightvale were the scholarly sort, and very conscientious of their twins' upbringing... They wanted to push for individuality in their children, encouraging unique hobbies, avoiding kitschy dumbed-down things suchas matching clothes or vocations... not wanting them to lack identity.
This is not appreciated. The twins hold an intense desire for symmetry, one that goes beyond anything rational.
If one is injured, the other urgently seeks to copy the wound. If one gets a black eye falling out of a tree, the other comes home with a mirrored black eye... and too-pleased about it. If one gets the Neezles, the other is desperate to contract their Neezles... their parents grew more and more concerned, and more strict about refusing absurd requests.
The twins entirely hated this awful insistence that they needed to be "different", loving NOTHING more than being just the same. Of course their parents could only push back, until the twins had enough and ran away from home together, at the tender age of 11.
Between the two, Eve tends to lead them places, make the decisions, and is generally more stubborn. He's more 'learned' and curious about their environment, knowledgeable of flora & fauna. He has an aptitude for magic.
Found his plushie tanizard dangling from a branch... she's typically flopped around over him.
RESIDES: (With Veil) In the mountain range that borders the Haunted Woods, often traveling between the base of the mountain and edge of the woods. Sometimes will make a pilgrimage to a more populated area near Central, for whatever amenities.
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VELLAIRIS the skunk/valentine crosspaint Ixi with her rainbow kookith, Wayward.
Goes by "Veil". The more emotionally perceptive twin, often fussing over her brother, preening him. While Eve is observant of their environment, he's no good at everyday tasks like... figuring out food, when to sleep, taking care of the basic needs. Veil tends to encourage stopping to appreciate things in a whimsical way, noting the turning of leaves or a little petpetpet in the bushes...
Her rainbow kookith simply started following her one day, not long after Eve had found his tanizard. It's a charming fate that they both wound up with a little something! Normal twinning behavior!
RESIDES: (With Eve) In the mountain range that borders the Haunted Woods, often traveling between the base of the mountain and edge of the woods. Sometimes will make a pilgrimage to a more populated area near Central, for whatever amenities.
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SIVAARE the striped Xweetok with her catamara, Peer, and fleaf.
A sweet girlie living in a lush, idyllic glade. Her existence is harmonious with the petpets around her; she helps the weewoo build nests for their babies, she nurses sick dogglefox back to health when they need it, and so on. In turn, the petpets in the area adore her, bringing her gifts of flowers, doughnut fruit, and the occasional bauble! It is altogether quite perfect...
Except as of late... she has been experiencing a kind of deterioration of her mind. There are gaps in her memory. She's seeing things that aren't there. Sometimes, it's as if she falls out of time... Waking up to find that hours, or even days had passed without her notice (as if plopped into the future, in the middle of her previous task.) Siv frets about her condition, though struggles to even ascertain what is happening to her. Her sweet catamara companion never leaves her side and does what it can, at its diminutive size, but a petpet is as helpless as she is. Without other Neopians around her to verify her experiences, she is stuttered, unsure of what has even happened, let alone what her needs are. She's spent the majority of her life reclusive— she doesn't quite know how to even seek help for this.
Nothing to do but hope things don't get worse.
RESIDES: In the area north-west of Neopia Central. The land is mostly uncultivated; Sivaare takes shelter in the natural openings at the base of a large weeping willow. She does not own furniture or belongings, and forages her food daily.
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CLAZZULIA the pastel Kau with her island yullie, Surprise.
A friendly Kau with a pleasant demeanor. Clazzulia is patient and interested in those around her. Despite seeming sweet and dressing cutely, she can never seem to maintain close relationships. The reason being... boundaries. Clazzulia has a chronic issue with struggling to perceive what is 'inappropriate' when interacting with others. A bit dense and slow to notice that she is standing too-close, or openly sniffing someone too loudly...
Bluntly put, she's a bit of a horndog, a persistent pest who shows her interest too forwardly. What is cluelessness will read at best as shallow ditziness, at worst like an act of unapologetic sexual harassment. No one really has the nerve to explain what she's done wrong, so she's never become self-aware of this issue. To Clazz, she is mysteriously unable to keep a single friend.
Feeling unwanted by the world, she eventually shifts her lifestyle towards a more 'naturalistic' one, no longer living in towns. Pretty easy when you're a Kau and can just munch some grass. She's hoping to someday find a place where she can belong.
Adopted and painted her yullie herself. The little critter is often on her back or head, clambering about.
RESIDES: Initially Neopia Central, then resides with Sivaare in her glade.
Her eventual mate will be Sivaare, the isolated yet beautiful Xweetok girl. Clazzulia's issue with boundaries won't be an issue with how much Sivaare needs her help (and her own issues mean she struggles to even remember what happened.) Happy end...?
(... potentially pending a genderswap on this one. I haven't committed yet...)
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HOUDAI the wraith Ogrin.
A long-lived, amorphous being that can take on the form of any pet desired. Houdai's form is fluid shadow, able to be bent and twisted into nightmarish shapes, all at a whim.
It's been lost to time, and Houdai himself does not dwell on it, but he started life as a sickly young Bori living in Terror Mountain...
Born to a small and humble town in the Terror Mountains, there was no one family who truly ever took him in. Houdai's illness was a congenital deformity that left him with improperly developed back scutes. He was physically debilitated inside and out, struggling with movement. His town had neither ample resources, nor the means to transport him someplace which could tackle the ailment. He floundered in his life without consistent care, physical or emotional.
Fed up with the pain and inconvenience of his existence, Houdai exiled himself in the night to die quietly, alone along some unreachable, snowy mountainside cave. Slowly buried under piles of cold snow, this circumstance cursed Houdai into what he is, now.
... despite this, his new form isn't so depressive. He's capable now, free from strain or attachments! With a new life, he becomes curious about the world around him, the vast lands he wasn't taken to in that previous life.
... but Houdai's "true nature" it seems is, not good. Observation of greater society in this form devolves into subjugation of others to his whims, taking life capriciously. Somehow, Houdai doesn't value anything individually. He never learned to.
RESIDES: Ever-roaming across Neopia, choosing different areas to haunt, though generally preferring the wilderness and places with thick vegetation. Deep in the Haunted Woods, thickets of Mystery Island, in valleys between Shenkuu, caverns of Terror Mountain and so on.
His eventual mate is Avvy's baby Ogrin, Hiikuu, who resides within a labyrinth. Houdai's unique body enables him to enter into it without its owner's permission. He observes her within her little bika herd, shapeshifted into a bika himself.
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AYQE the mutant Korbat with her valentine faellie, Loveberry.
Manic and excitable and QUITE!! Overbearing! Ayqe is a very active girl who likes to swing and climb across the thick vines and trees of Lutari Island. She screeps and trills, overexerts herself until she is out of breath. That's what feels best to do!
Her life is one of whimsy, not really tethered to any responsibilities or society. She was originally born and raised by a small population of Korbat living in a village. However, a freak incident when consuming a bizarre fruit left her mutated at a very young age. All those she approached panicked at her appearance, which in turn caused Ayqe to flee in distress. At first, she wasn't sure about being alone... but she soon found that she quite liked to freely explore the island herself. There was so much to see! So much to taste!!
Ultimately, her own mutated appearance does not trouble her at all. Ayqe is content to live a wild lifestyle. She's a simple girl.
With her faellie, it was love at first sight. Faellie aren't very common on Lutari island, and valentine is a color she has never seen before. He is incredibly handsome to her, she is absolutely head over heels for her darling Loveberry!! The petpet is shy to her advances, but seems contemplative... observing her at length. What does he feel~? Whatever it is, Ayqe wants to find out.
RESIDES: Deep in the tropical jungles of Lutari Island. While the ever-raging storm currently cuts everyone off from Neopia, Ayqe lives in a distinctly uninhabited area of the island. Not a hut in sight!
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POLLUAH the baby Gnorbu with her spring babaa, Cheery. (6 y/o)
The very, very spoiled daughter to two well-off Gnorbu shopkeeps living in Neopia Central. Polluah's parents are happy to dote on her, gifting her with anything she asks. Polluah in turn quite loves to ask for things! Her bedroom is filled with toys and books featuring various petpets, but most of all, she adores BABAA!! Her spring babaa, Cheery, was a recent birthday gift. They go everywhere together.
On a very special outing, Polluah was taken to the estate owned by family of Lupes that have been herding and keeping petpets for generations. She was able to see more babaa than she could ever dream of. Other petpets as well! It was such a dream... that Polluah did not want to leave! She quickly beseeched her parents to let her stay, SOMEhow... Promising she would do anything!
While hesitant... her parents couldn't help indulging her. It would be a good opportunity for her to grow, wouldn't it? And they wouldn't be too far away, if she ever wanted to come back. Tentatively, they arranged a sort of 'apprenticeship' with the Lupe family. It's not exactly something they need, but with enough pity, they could find a space for her to fit in.
In many ways, it's genuinely exciting to do hands-on work tending to babaa in the field... and her sweet Cheery is enjoying life here as well. But Polluah's been quite sheltered her whole life, and hasn't ever been away from her parents so long. The nights alone in her dorm... are quite frightening... She can swear, a scary monster is clawing at her door sometimes...
She may be in over her head...
RESIDES: Initially living with her parents around Neopia Central. Currently staying at the Lupe family's estate, which is located outside of Meridell & Brightvale.
Her eventual mate is Avvy's baby Lupe, Coever, a child born on the estate and trained in this lifestyle. Polluah sees Coever as a knowledgeable peer, and is excited to befriend him. Unbeknownst to her, he is the 'monster' that has been prowling around at night, frightening her...
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FOLTHY the stealthy Kougra with his wherfy, Cloudpop.
From a young age, was selected and raised at one of the secret ninja academies at Shenkuu, amongst many others. Was in a large 'class', with no distinct parent/gaurdian, simply answered to a mentor. Wasn't a prodigy, but was capable enough; by all means, technically proficient at espionage. Yet Folthy wasn't able to commit to the lifestyle; he found his mind wandering easily when at his post... instead, drawn to exploring the wilderness, finding long-abandoned villages.
Folthy eventually split off to become his own independent agent, exploring lands freely. He is quite resourceful, and enjoys the challenge of surviving in difficult terrain. Also has a bit of a penchant for exploring catacombs, tombs, not very bothered by the dead, this one... Accessories like his earrings, were (perhaps tastelessly) taken off bodies from these sites.
Typically, he's quite pleasant in demeanor. Calm and approachable. Though he also doesn't crave nor seek companionship, living a rather isolated lifestyle. His little wherfy, Cloudpop, took a liking to him, and he was surprised by his own endearment to the creature.
RESIDES: A traveler who has seen many lands. Originally from Shenkuu, spent years in the Lost Desert (& apt to return there.) Currently exploring the more inhospitable areas of Terror Mountain.
His eventual mate is Avvy's snow Draik, Wherfie — a name Folthy gives her fondly, reminded of the wherfy around him diving into the snow. Through investigation, he learns the reality of her body isn't so whimsical; she resembles a long-frozen corpse encased in snow. Folthy takes to this discovery unusually well, however. Maybe too well?
On my side, dark_heartbeats...
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ELIVON the grey Cybunny with his white crokabek.
Distinctly, Elivon's story is set in an older version of Neopia, where there are no large cities, and many pets had yet to be discovered and integrated. Cybunny themselves had only just begun communicating with others, and becoming known, having mostly kept to themselves in their burrows.
Elivon's family was a rather respectable one, owning a large piece of land; an idyllic hillside, with much land surrounding it. The hill was dug into, a foundation to the Cybunnies' home, lightly (yet elegantly) furnished inside. A fenced garden surrounds the home, with various beautiful flowers.
It was quite splendid... until the property fell into Elivon's care. Through some grievous error, there was no one else appointed to care for it aside from Elivon; everyone else had moved to live in more populated villages, seeking community. Elivon... was just left behind with this responsibility, and unable to talk his way out of it. He didn't have it in him to resist... At least, if he lived alone here, he could keep to himself.
Under his stewardship, the garden has become overgrown, wild plants, petpets and petpetpets have taken roost. He can't bring himself to do much about it... (a white crokabek has taken to perching on him and nibbling his torn ears whenever he is outside, even...)
Much to his shock, one day there is an uninvited guest that isn't just a rogue scamander. A baby pet of a species he had never met before manifests abruptly. And she's lost, and needs his help... Ackk.
Elivon has always been unmotivated to care for himself. Taking care of such a young girl is quite stressful — he wouldn't want her to become as neglected as the garden had. Though it feels feeble, he will try and care for her, to the best of his abilities...
RESIDES: An area located between Altador and Shenkuu, closer to the shoreline (but not too close; a decent pilgrimage away.) Living in a traditional home from his family, dug into the side of a hill, with a fenced-in garden surrounding the property. This was before there were many major settlements in Neopia, so Altador & Shenkuu possibly do not exist (more than scant, minor settlements.)
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MELOYIE the baby Acara with her pink greeble, Perk, and glyme. (5 y/o)
Back when Neopia was a less united continent, populations of pets were more isolated, unaware of one another. Meloyie once lived with many Acara in the ocean, blithely unaware of much of the going-ons of terrestrial Neopets. Until one day, she was plucked from the ocean, taken onto a boat and hauled away.
... the world being less unified meant that trafficking was quite easily conducted. There was no recourse for Meloyie, she couldn't recognize or understand the strange pets that were taking her away. She found herself in a cage with other baby pets, from various other species.
Eventually she was loaded onto a carriage, transported across a field... By a stroke of luck, there was a bump in the road, and Meloyie's cage was jostled. The bars were bent... enough for her to wiggle free. But in her impulsive escape, she took a tumble off the carriage, leaving her dazed and confused. She was left behind... but suddenly felt dizzy, lost and confused. Why was she here...? She couldn't quite piece together the unfamiliar dirt road.
She began to wander. The grass under her paws was strange... the weight of her body, a bit too heavy... Until a bright pink greeble hopped into her view. Delighted by the unfamiliar creature, Meloyie toddled after it, until it hopped its way into a garden with many beautiful flowers. The greeble eventually lead her to-! Water-! Unexpected, but much welcome! Meloyie crawled into the fountain and splashed about in childish delight.
This was the state the somber grey Cybunny found her in. Meloyie was a polite and well-behaved enough girl to feel sheepish as she was extracted from the fountain. And she was even more shy to find that she couldn't answer the stranger's questions, about where she came from... Ultimately, she is taken in, clothed and cared for.
While their meeting was unexpected, Meloyie is very intrigued by her moody companion. He keeps her company while she plays in his beautiful garden, often. She is very, very grateful.
RESIDES: Once living in the ocean with other Acara, until she was abducted. Now currently with Elivon, housed in the spacious interior of his burrow-home.
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CIPSER the baby Skeith with his pink noilkeet. (8 y/o)
An instance of a baby pet that was very recently an adult pet. Cipser was once a wealthy Skeith that owned a parent company that operated many small gaming parlors on Roo Island. Eventually he sold everything to some other bigwig, and began living off the residuals of his wealth.
For skeiths, there's a natural tendency to hoard wealth, and Cipser was no different. He had a big house, with many rare items and paint brushes stowed away. He had more neopoints than he could ever spend. But despite it all, he felt no real fulfilment or motivation to pursue his career further. He already 'had it all', and it didn't make him happy.
Falling into a slovenly depression, Cipser stopped leaving his home, until he was gnawing on the fancy furnishings of his Neohome for sustenance (as opposed to refilling a pantry...) He began eating his jeweled neggs and high-end paintbrushes, not even caring as his form changed as a result. That is, until he thoughtlessly gulped down a baby paint brush and — found himself diminutive, in footie pajamas. Finally, he was forced to reflect on his life and actions that led him here...
... but well, Cipser's mind was perhaps altered to be more childish — so his epiphany did not come as profound as it ought to. It was an incredibly simple conclusion: Why not start over? And who would even stop him?? Adulthood could be so easily abandoned, couldn't it... and he had plenty of resources at his disposal still.
Using his former identity (proposed as his 'father'), Cipser now chooses to pretend to be a regular child, despite still retaining memories of a lifetime before this. Duplicitous... but effective! This is the best way to get others to indulge him.
His noilkeet is a very recent petpet, part of adventuring into childish whimsy. A cute lil companion to play with now!
RESIDES: In a more populated area of Roo Island (though it's still not as dense as Neopia Central.) Lives in a fancy house at the top of a hill. Not a sprawling manor but spacious and well-furnished, a sign of a wealthier Neopian once living there.
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CHYRYLL the desert Eyrie with her plushie lyins. (19 y/o)
Just your friendly neighbood babysitter! Chyryll is very happy to take on jobs, preferring young kids, around kindergarten age. She likes doting and attending to their every need, playing with them, taking them out to amusement parks, anything-!! She's happy to be of service.
Perhaps, you could think of her as over-eager to perform the role. And at times, worrying so much of the approval of her charge, to the point where she will self-consciously fret about her appearance and voice. She's not very good at discipline, either... While playful, she's quite meek in conversation.
Perhaps... you could even think of her as an awkward girl trying to make efforts to impress a crush... which, isn't what most parents are looking for in a babysitter. As kind (and willing to take any hours and any pay...) as Chyryll is, there is an unconscious rejection she faces, from adults and children alike. It feels strange... and she isn't sure how to remedy it.
Thankfully for her, a Skeith has left her in charge of his lonesome son, who is VERY receptive to her doting, on account of having no friends his age. With Cipser, she seems to have great success; someone receptive to her doting, wanting nothing more to be fed sweets from her beak while he lays on his cushy pillows. Chyryll is desperate for this situation to work out... if the world could be so kind.
RESIDES: Originally from the Lost Desert, lived there for most of childhood. Family eventually moved to Central, though more recently she chose to move to Roo Island by herself. Drawn to the overall bright aesthetic and focus on games. Her house has a normal exterior, but it's interior is quite 'run-down' and bleak feeling. Her lyins is a childhood petpet, thankfully not minding the condition of her living quarters.
On my side, heartsthorn...
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FRAYBI the custard Bori with his chocolate intesteen, Palm.
The being that is Fraybi, might even be a Neopet at all... er, at least, he's certainly one of the many cursed beings that occupy Neopia. Fraybi's essence is housed in the two eyeballs that swirl endlessly, hypnotizing colors...
Fraybi's body is (currently...?) composed of custard, without a fixed mass. He can 'shrink' and 'grow' as he pleases. The only limitation is that his strobing eyeballs are a fixed size; he can only alter his form around it. That's okay though. He finds whimsy making himself a faux pair of eyes with whatever he's got lying around.
The limit of Fraybi's power is mysterious. He seems to be able to bring life to inanimate objects and inorganic material. But he might just be borrowing life force from else where, and transferring the vessel it occupies. He can interact with others directly, psychically. He doesn't really talk. He's not especially cruel or tormenting to others, yet he is quite wanton with what he takes interest in.
Always working on a 'project'. Palm seems to have been one of his favorite creations; the little intesteen can always be found slithering around his tail. Lately, he seems to be working on something that resembles a shoyru...
RESIDES: A chaotic wonderland composed of various whimsical materials like desserts, craft materials, and toys. The world is like a pocket dimension that doesn't physically occupy a space in Neopia; it bleeds into the normal world through 'rifts', which act like portals that allow things in and out.
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FLEIKKA the alien Aisha with her darigan gruslen and glack.
A very practical alien that happens to be a witch. Fleikka's natural psychic abilities allow her to pursue spellcasting and potion-making with ease. She is curious to learn the properties of Neopia's many magical flora and fauna, and spends most of her time conducting personal experiments, desiring to distill everything into constituent, usable components.
Whenever she happens upon pets in need, she lends a helping paw, as it is easy for her to accomplish. Fleikka doesn't necessarily prioritize 'the greater good', but rather, she sees herself as a resource that many could have access to. She has a lot of time and magic to give, so it doesn't hurt her to stop and help when she can. This turns her into, something of a fortunate 'random event'; something you could stumble into that blesses you.
Usually, Fleikka's interference is ephemeral; she only stays as she is needed. However, she meets an unwell baby blumaroo that winds up needing her help — endlessly, it seems. Her work never seems to be 'done' with him, no matter what she does. He's currently unfit to be released into society, so she houses him in the privacy of her home. Who knows when she'll be able to turn him loose?
The darigan gruslen functions as a familiar, enchanted and able to become a sizable beast to serve her. It is diligent and dutiful, able to to be tasked with fetching her materials and guarding locations. Glack dance happily all around her hut, simply drawn to Fleikka's presence and potionry. She quite likes their silly eye stalks... is happy to have them hop along her feelers.
RESIDES: Secluded in her hut, behind the rainbow waterfalls of Faerieland.
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ROESET the baby Blumaroo with his faerie apis. (9 y/o)
The world... is frightening, for Roeset. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere feels right... Everything is, hazy, unsettling, reality is slippery. He just can't seem to trust anyone around him, and no one can provide him comfort. Nothing ever 'happened' to make him this way; it's as if he was born with a mind full of thorns... as much as he was born a gloomy shade of black. Having always been delicate and prone to outbursts, he has changed hands in foster care multiple times.
One day, Roeset's worst fears are realized as he is taken away... (by some dark entity, the Spider Grundo, something of that nature (I'm undecided...)) He had always dreaded this day and had 'foretold' it's coming... yet, he is rescued by an Aisha unlike that he had ever seen. This part was unexpected... he is stunned, at first.
Of course, Roeset could not come to trust even his savior. He screamed and kicked whenever she came near. But the Aisha's magic abilities meant she could sedate him and keep him from fleeing. Her magic alters his mind... she makes him swallow things that make him feel funny. She does this often. There's no fighting her...
Even his petpet is assigned to him, acting as his gaurdian and alerting Fleikka whenever something is amiss. At least, the apis is kind, so he can't really get mad about that part...
Through sheer exposure and persistence, Roeset is forced to accept Fleikka as someone he can rely on... but how much, he isn't even sure. This relationship doesn't feel like one that will last. He doesn't quite feel treasured as much as he feels like her guinea pig... (but well, there's something more going on, isn't there...?)
RESIDES: Originally from Roo Island. Currently resides with Fleikka in her hut, behind the rainbow waterfalls of Faerieland.
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ISTHUL the plushie/ghost Gelert and his barbat.
There's not much Isthul can remember about how he found himself in his current predicament... somehow, in dark dim underground caverns, wading in water, only accompanied by stray barbats... How strange, how does a plushie wind up here? As far as he can tell (from just looking at himself) he's a plushie, and he knows that's a way a Neopet can be. He's a Gelert of course. But what else, what else...
The truth cannot be known to Isthul, but he's actually a spirit possessing a plush, as opposed to the conventional magical existence of one. Technically, he should be able to exist outside the vessel, but he is convinced it is him, so he's bound to it.
Before this current situation, he was a young shadow Gelert living a humble life in an older era of Neopia. Something led him to the tunnels... a fated death?
RESIDES: Winding underground tunnels beneath Neopia that intersect with different locations.
His eventual mate is Avvy's mutant Usul, Mumopy. An unfortunate girl who has found herself lost in the tunnels... Isthul will be able to provide her company and care. A diligent little helper, he will do his best to guide their way out of this place.
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rifleseye · 6 months ago
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— It feels like he's a hair's trigger away from reverting back to whatever state of panic he was previously in. His false-built composure and calculus slipping just enough to reveal a hint of the scientist that was left to die on Turmoil's ship. But then there is the static balm of white noise at the edge of his awareness, and it is... oddly enough to keep that panic at bay.
He realizes, belatedly, that in his stupor he revealed perhaps a little too much than he ever intended. He stops feeling the seam in his hip, now wringing his hands together, his gaze landing anywhere but in Prowl's direction. He wants for the elevator to stop. He wants to just stand, and vent, and pull himself back together.
Perceptor was able to run away before. No, Savant was. Not Perceptor. He can't pull that same trick again when it so obviously didn't work. It just prolonged the amount of time it took for Airies to find him. He got lucky a war got in the way.
The scientist hadn't realized how much such a simple thing would affect him. He feels like a newforge all over again. He worries his bottom lip until he tastes warm energon on his tongue. What does he say? He finally looks at Prowl, scraps of his composure stitched back together enough that he can somewhat detach himself from the situation again.
"Alright," he says carefully, conscious of the fact his voice might crack at any moment, "I-I'll stay. It's... There's..." He thinks of the secondary brain, strung up in his torso, all wire and neural nets, overheated and overused. He thinks of prodding needles. And then he thinks about his spilled drink on the pavement outside Maccadam's. A conversation, perhaps, for a drunken, shared moment in some forgotten place outside a bar.
"I can provide my memory logs providing the information involving Airies' role in Protihex's old regime. But I can't do anything about physical evidence. It was too long ago now, and I do not imagine the ISR is still functional, nor their Outlier research."
Perceptor has never truly raised his voice at him. It's not a very relevant thought, his processor unhelpfully supplies as the other's EM field jolts outward- Prowl makes a could-be-anticipatory-flinch movement- and dissipates into nothing. Still, the train of thought persists. The scientist had always been cordial- in his anger, in his words, in everything the tactician expected, both consciously and subconsciously. Detatched, methodic and borderline-practical in a way Prowl could understand and preferred. Prowl looks the change between them in the eye, in the form of Perceptor's lie. A very bad one, and they both know it. Perceptor's association- murders, experiments, everything the other leaves unaddressed in his involvement- if he were to ask the other's outlier status... well. Prowl doesn't. A moment passes in silence. The tactician unbristles his mind. It feels like tearing a piece of plating, except a little worse, because this was thoroughly abstract- nothing tactile he could hold onto, nothing real enough to assess risk. His EM field settles to a low hum. A blanket of white noise. A concious, nonphysical hand on Perceptor's shoulder. Prowl stands, restlessly silent. When he speaks again, it is with overcompensating caution. "He won't have you." Because find you wouldn't work- it was too late. "Airies. You know I both know I can't promise nothing will happen. But I need you for the investigation. I need- I can-" Where else can you go? remains unspoken. In its place, Prowl fills in, voice tight; "If you truly believe it may come to it- I will ensure your life over any cost. Should it be necessary, I can hide you. But I can only do so- with you here."
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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago
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King of Cups || Chapter 4
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Chapter 4: Page of Swords
Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three
Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader
Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.
Word count: 4.7k~
Rating: Mature
Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses
Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)
A shot rings out.
Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.
It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.
“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”
“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.
The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.
You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.
You think he’s doing it on purpose.
Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…
It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.
Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.
“I wanna give it a go,” you said.
He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.
How hard could it be? You thought.
Famous last words.
He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.
You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…
You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.
You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.
“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.
“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.
“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”
The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.
“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.
Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.
With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.
Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.
He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.
The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.
Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.
He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.
“Lucky shot,” you huff.
He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.
You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.
Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.
Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—
“Safety’s on.”
You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—
“It’s your stance.”
Three words.
Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.
You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.
“What about my st-”
Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.
“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.
“It’s not wide enough.”
You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”
“Turn around,” he says.
You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”
Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.
You guess it’s the day for it.
He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.
You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.
“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.
“Too much. Somewhere in between.”
You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.
“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”
Kriff, you panic.
You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.
“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.
“You aren’t.”
“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”
“You’re not.”
You blink.
“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”
He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.
“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.
“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”
You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.
“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”
Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”
“Dominant eye.”
You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.
“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”
Oh, huh.
You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.
Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.
He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.
“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.
“Got it?” he asks.
“Got it,” you respond.
“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”
You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.
“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”
“You sure?”
You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”
He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.
You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”
“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”
“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.
“You said it, not me.”
He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.
“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”
“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.
“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.
After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.
Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.
The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.
You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.
He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.
Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.
“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.
You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.
“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”
You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.
“Should be easier.”
“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.
“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.
Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.
“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”
Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.
It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—
“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.
“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.
“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.
“‘Atta girl.”
No.
No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.
Atta girl.
He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.
You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.
You can do this. You can do this. Focus.
“Take the shot,” he orders.
Focus.
Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.
You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.
Devastated, too. Gutted.
“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.
He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.
“Not bad.”
He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.
He prays you do.
///
“Cooling vents,”
Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.
“Gas refill valve,”
Another clunk.
“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”
“Module,” Din corrects.
“Module, right, that’s what I said.”
He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.
“Keep it,” he told you.
You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.
“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.
He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.
Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.
“Keep it.”
They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.
You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.
He can’t say no to you.
You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.
But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.
You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.
Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.
You want to know.
It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.
You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.
Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back
So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.
He answers. You laugh. He smiles.
The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.
You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.
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yougetoneshot · 3 years ago
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Suicide Squad: Reversal
What if Team 1 and Team 2 switched missions?
Focus is on Team 1: Flag, Harley, Captain Boomerang, Savant, Mongal, Weasel, Blackguard, TDK, and Javelin
Chapter 2
Outside the capital, Harley sent Savant to survey the area. He returned and sat down without a word. She waited patiently for a moment with a tense smile. As time passed, she patted her foot and cleared her throat. “Savant.”
“Yea?”
“The plan?”
“What about it? I think it’s a good plan.” He’d nodded while looking straight ahead. “We got power in numbers, especially if the others are just as gifted in their abilities.”
“…Savant.. you said that earlier.” Harley said through a tight lipped smile.
“..oh.. uh.. I got a bad memory.” He’d weakly responded.
“….you couldn’t’ve told me that sooner?!” She shrieked.
“Hey, I could go give it a look.” Blackguard raised his hand, his short toddler shirt raising up his torso even more as he lifted his arm.
“..I dunno..”
“Please.” He gave her the most puppy dog look and Harley relented. “You got fifteen minutes. Don’t get spotted.”
“I won’t.” He quickly disappeared out of the van and after a moment of the group listening to Blackguard run off, Savant spoke.
“I saw Flag.”
Harley spun around so hard she nearly fell over. “You saw Flag?! Do you remember where?”
“Yea. He was in a cell just on the south side of the building. Looked pretty banged up.”
“We gotta go get him!” Harley pitched to the rest of the group.
“What about Blackguard?”
“Oh. Right. Well he’s looking for the others, yea? So we just split up. Mongal, Weasel, and Javelin, you watch Thinker and wait here for Blackguard to get back. If he isn’t back in fifteen minutes, go look for him. Got it?”
“Roger that, Harley.” Javelin’s thick accent made Harley smile before she, TDK, and Boomerang followed Savant to rescue Flag.
-
Blackguard raced down a small pathway and leapt high over a tall security fence. He landed with a roll to his feet and looked around. A spacious outdoor garden provided ample hiding areas as he snuck towards a back entrance. As he reached for the door, a powerful shock radiated through his body and he collapsed. His vision faded as a dark shadow bent down over him.
-
Flag sat in his cell, wincing at his injuries. The Corto Moltese soldiers were brutal, prodding his gun wounds and shocking him for fun. He hadn’t even been tortured yet and he was already hanging by a thread. A glare from the sun beaming through the bars of his cell made him furrow his brow and look up to see what was causing it.
Harley?
He had to be hallucinating. The bars were 10 feet off the ground. How could she be there waving at him.
“What-“
She repeatedly pressed a finger to her lips to signal him to shush. He casted a look to the lone guard in the mostly empty jail. He gave Flag a disgruntled look before going back to reading a magazine with a scantily clad woman on the front.
Flag moved closer to the bars and before he could say anything more Harley dropped something down to him- an arm?! He nearly dropped it except it floated on its own once he let go of it. He looked in awe and disgust of the arm as he looked back up at Harley who disappeared from view. After a few moments, he could hear the distinctive sound of Boomerang’s Australian accent as he cursed about being the muscle before TDK came into view. He waved and Flag instantly realized the floating arm belonged to him.
Flag looked back towards the guard before grabbing the arm and shoving it to the ground and pushing it through the bars. Flag then backed up to where TDK could see him and began making motions with his hands to direct TDK’s movements.
“How are you holding up?” Harley patted the sweat from Boomerang’s brow as he stood holding TDK on his shoulders.
“Ay, just peachy. Exactly what I wanted to do today.” He growled lowly.
“Really?”
“No, of course bloody not! This guy is heavy!”
“Shh!” She pressed a finger to his lips. “You got this, Boomer. You’re like, the third strongest member on this team.”
“You’re the most annoying.” He sneered.
“No I ain’t!” She pushed him.
Harley and Boomerang’s quarrel made TDK lose balance and his arm bumped the desk. Flag looked up at the guard in a panic as he moved to find the source of the sound.
“Hey! When am I going to get some food in here?! You know the US military is going to rain down fire on you if you don’t treat me well.” Flag tried his best to distract the guard who slowly burst into laughter.
“You Americans are so funny!” He reached into a drawer where Flag could see the key to the cell and pulled out some Tic Tacs. He threw them through the bars at Flag who let them scatter to the floor. “There’s your food.” The guard then moved to sit back in his chair when he noticed the arm now perched at the edge of the desk. A scream started to erupt until TDK’s other arm came from behind and muffled it. The two arms worked together to shove the guard into the wall and knock him unconscious before grabbing the cell key for Flag. He took the key from the floating arms and opened the cell. Sparing a look down the hall, he exited out the south end door to be greeted by Harley hugging him. Behind her, TDK was reuniting with his arms and Boomerang was doubled over panting.
“Yea, so TDK stands for The Detachable Kid, did you know that?”
“Actually, no… I didn’t.”
“Crazy right?! Hey!” She suddenly slapped his chest. “Did you not know about the other team neither?”
“What other team?”
-
Meanwhile back at the van, Javelin looked at Mongal and Weasel. “Has it been fifteen minutes yet?”
Thinker ignored his question entirely.
“I don’t know how to measure Earth time.” Mongal shrugged.
“…and I do not have a watch.. I don’t think this beast has one either..”Javelin looked to weasel who coughed up a hairball. He made a disgusted face before he noticed something shiny. A watch. Javelin tugged the watch out of the hair ball and set a timer. “Okay. Fifteen minutes.”
The van returned to awkward silence.
-
Blackguard woke to the sounds of screams and machinery. He shook himself to consciousness out of panic and became aware of his body strapped down to a table. Next to him was a man in a lab coat taking his blood. Around him he saw others being experimented on as he began to shake in fear.
“What is this?!”
“The stepping stone to Jotunheim. We’re going to see if you’re worthy to go there or if we’re going to torture you until we’re bored.”
“I have information. You don’t have to torture me. I’ll give it to you. Just don’t hurt me.” His lip quivered as he begged. The scientist laughed and leaned in.
“You think we’d trust anything you said?”
“Yes. We would.” The scientist looked up as the dictator of the island walked over. “Tell me what you know.”
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sahvant · 4 years ago
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                                                                                       —  luca moon, 27, the savant.
                                                             about / info / pinterest
hey all! i’m belle and am in the gmt+9 timezone, so sorry in advance if i reply late/at weird times i’m used to being in basically opposite timezones from most people. i tend to vastly prefer pre-plotting out relationships and threads than putting up open ones so if you’re interested in doing so please like this or hit me up either here in dms or on discord!! i’ll throw down a tldr of luca + some prospective plot ideas so if anything interests you please let me know!! 🔥 
was born in plea and has one older brother who is far more noteworthy than he is. he has a real job and everything, something that luca can’t boast about himself. his brother moved three states away and luca’s still stuck in plea.
started playing the cello young. is as talented as he is obsessive. he wouldn’t be one without the other.
has chronic nightmares he can’t seem to solve. he even tried a sleep study while he was going to the state university and it didn’t seem to work. neither did meditation, lavender, or any number of self help tips he’s since googled. his solution is to keep himself awake for as long as possible and hope to be knocked out. that or some sleeping meds.
moved back home after college to help out his mother after his father became sick. he hasn’t found the opportunity to move back out again, despite the fact that his father has since passed.
tends to get overly wrapped up in things and forgets the world around him. has a tendency to believe in things that he shouldn’t. also has a tendency to lie.
bad at leaving things well enough alone. in the good of it, he’ll play a piece of music until it’s perfect. but it also means he’s the type to pick away at a scab until it’s turned into a scar. won’t be able to stop himself from unraveling the loose strings in a sweater. will poke and prod at bruises. will bear down on friendships until they split open and apart.
he’s not good at forging bonds, but he wishes he were. it’s not that he’s shy, just unwilling to open up. funny, considering how mundane one might describe him.
acts before he thinks.
speaks before he thinks.
maybe he should just think more.
at the moment lives in a terribly cheap (and also just plain terrible) apartment.
general r/s ideas
childhood/teenage friends, someone around the same age who he grew up with. could play it with them either being incredibly close or drifting apart as they got older.
i love antagonistic relationships, so anything playing into that could be fun. neighbors that got off on the wrong foot due to thin walls? unresolved drama? i’m open to near anything.
an awkward hookup that didn’t work out that they’re both trying to ignore but it’s impossible because they live in a town with more ears of corn than people.
some kind of relationship that didn’t work out, maybe? like a friendship with the life squeezed out of it, or a skinny love sort of situation where it just didn’t last. and there’s these holdover feelings that border on nostalgia or what if. can be romantic or not tbh.
idk does someone want to punch him in the face? i love when my characters get punched in the face.
i’m really flexible and down for a lot so if you have any ideas as well just let me know!!
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vullcanica · 7 months ago
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 She regards his evident, if mirthful, doubt with a smile right back, her own resolute, and the raise of her brow challenging. Tenacity unshaken. She can practically taste the tang of humility. It makes her want to prod it, gentle, see if it's real.
 "Professional is how I put it." One should hope after some decades her companion's developed aptness for the terrain, and after witnessing him in his element she'd assumed as much. "Though.. by comparison many may seem a savant." Still, assumptions mean little coming from a novice and sure enough, there's a question somewhere in her voice - a lift that points to suspicion. As it is, he isn't the first guide under her employment on this journey. Bellan had lasted a fair while by her side but he was long gone now - knowledgeable about terrain he had been, yet considerably slower than roper tendrils. Ever since then her deep misgivings towards rock formations had not abated. Nor her distrust of skilled companions. "Are you implying I picked wrong?" Something about duty and purpose made men want to abandon all caution. Better to let him go if he was equally as prepared to lose his life over an uncertainty.
 But first - lunch.
 "One matter at a time, of course." she quips gently, taking a quick, searching look around. "Though I may hold a camouflage for a far lesser time, hold one I can. You'll not have to worry for me." Descending to sit upon her soft voluminous skirts in the closest conspicuous nook she can find, she beckons him over mid-sentence, already unstrapping her waistbag. "Planning can wait for after food. Come sit. I have something for us."
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   a smile twitched onto his face.   not bitter or reprimanding, simply amused by the choice of words.   “professional is one way to put it.” and perhaps not the correct one, either.   no, the professionals were the druids that nurtured his wounds and pulled him from death’s cold grasp.   it was because of them he could ever hope to tread through these caverns and winding roads with a sliver of a chance to continue breathing.   they were the true treasure.   he had simply been on the receiving end;   and avita, indirectly.
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  if only they had one of them by their side, now.   they were of this land, but he was not. for all the gifts their magic had bestowed him, his eye-sight was still limited.   a drow would see them long before they could.   a dangerous thing, in these parts.   which was why asyrn didn’t mind avita trailing behind.   were he to see something, he could warn her.   or, should someone snatch him away, perhaps she’d see and hide.   either way, a win in his mind.
  “this leads to a dead end.   i could conceal the entrance for a while before we push on.   we’re dangerously close to the city—and we won’t be getting any rest there.   we can sit here and think over our plan.   i could change into something small and look for your mother unbothered but uh… you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” 
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formaldewrites · 4 years ago
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vent fiction!!
word count: 502 words
notes: pasodoble is a very fast spanish military march. it is also a music genre and style of fast ballroom dance which was used in bullfights when the matador won in the arena, hence the use of dance moves derived from the matador’s fighting style. just thought i should clear that up before you begin reading
references are made to stephen hawking, who is often regarded as the smartest human, and marilyn vos savant, who is said to have been the woman with the highest iq (this was also recorded in the book of guinness world records.) you’ll see why once you’ve read through
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Cynical self-loathing. Humanity born of inhumane actions. False accusations and drowning in obsession and affections. Perched at the very edge, even the smallest breeze could send him tumbling. Yet all he knew was the monster feeding on his insides, waiting for the perfect moment to break from its shackles.
And the perfect moment it was. The outbreak was too perfectly timed; a universe of calculations that was beautiful in the way an intricately carved cane may be considered, each small groove a perfect equation to create chaos from nothingness. Yet there it was, and it cut right through his bones.
It had been a warm, silent morning. The sunlight trickled in like light maple syrup, brushing the room in hues of tangerine and lemon. He lay entangled in a navy blue duvet slowly gaining consciousness, his chest rising ever so slightly and falling in time with his beloved’s. It was clearer than daylight to him that he didn’t deserve them. How could they have a care in the world for somebody so unworthy? Praise was a waste of respiration ― thinly veiled insults that prodded at his every movement never dug as deep.
And yet the picture they painted of themself was inundated with divinity ― more vibrant than the statues perched at temple entrances, more lively than the pasodoble. They were infinity and nothingness, an unsolvable enigma that even Hawking or vos Savant could not decipher. He craved the elixir that was their presence like an unrested spirit craves salvation.
Perhaps they hated to love him; perhaps all they hated was the core of his being. They tore down walls that even he didn’t know existed, but wished he’d known of sooner. He wished he had reinforced those walls before they’d found him.
But most of all, he simply wished he could be rid of the parasite that had seized his soul, overwhelming him with all the things he knew he wasn’t, all the things he never wanted to be. But most of all, it defiled his portrait, contorting his features and sending ink running in every which way. It crushed his lungs, releasing air back into the atmosphere and slowly building its precious dystopia within his walls atop his remains. A dystopia in which the population was him and him alone.
It was an eternal game of Russian Roulette to keep up with either of the two. But he couldn’t pull himself away. No, he’d never trade it for the world. It was the only gamble he’d ever enjoyed ― and he relished the thrill, whether or not he lost.
It had been a warm, silent morning that became hell on earth. The parasite tugged his strings ever so harshly, he nearly fell apart at its grip tripping over himself to meet every demand. And all he could do was stare as guilt and rage flooded his being, blinding him to reality as he finally felt himself snap and succumb to all the things he was never made to be.
He was finally no longer human.
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arbeaone · 5 years ago
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For “Great British Baking Show” Contestants, The Real Loss is the Endless Trolling
by Rae Robey Published on December 2, 2019 at 11:51am
Against the vast backdrop of high-octane and anxiety-inducing cooking competition television programs, The Great British Baking Show is an aberration. Internationally beloved for its affable contestants and endless supply of baking-themed anglicisms—“soggy bottoms” and “saucy puds” abound—the show follows a dozen or so home bakers as they compete to be named Britain’s best amateur baker. When the 2019 season premiered with a record-breaking 9.6 million viewers, each contestant was thrust into the public eye; most have racked up tens of thousands of Instagram followers since the season began in August. For American audiences in particular, The Great British Baking Show’s intrinsic wholesomeness makes it a cultural phenomenon: We could never be so well-mannered in a televised competition, but we do enjoy pretending.
The Great British Baking Show is, at most, an estranged cousin to American cutthroat cooking competitions like Chopped, Iron Chef, or even Cupcake Wars. In the Baking Show tent, contestants help each other finish their bakes, are graceful (even grateful!) in defeat, and despair when their purported rivals are dismissed from the competition. Each episode is predicated on kindness, love, support, and the freely-given home-baked comforts of the feminine domestic realm. Even the grand prize—a cake stand and some flowers, no cash—highlights the show’s near-pathological humility. Produced by a team called Love Productions, decency is, we can only assume, woven into the show’s DNA. But when Baking Show airs on TV, long after the last bun is iced and the final bap prodded, the trolling begins.
Each season, the bakers spend months immersed in icing sugar, bavarois, and ganache, frantically preparing for the 30 challenges of the competition. In addition to the generalized stress of executing difficult pastry skills while trying to impress professional judges on an international stage, the bakers are told by producers that they’ll likely deal with some backlash from a handful of disproportionately peeved viewers. After all, it’s a competition. But the backlash goes beyond competition, and, despite the warning, most bakers are blindsided by the frequency and ferocity of their trolling. And though adoring fans are certainly in the majority, online trolls yell the loudest. Stacey Hart, a Season 8 semifinalist, dealt with severe online harassment as soon as the season began airing. “I’m smug, I’m a bitch, I’m a worthless piece of shit, I’m a useless baker,” Hart told Bitch, describing the comments that strangers sent her. “[The show] was the best experience and the best thing—at the time—that I ever did. It became the worst thing I ever did.” Trolls loathed her pink, glittery bakes and how often she brought up motherhood; their caustic DMs and comments drove her into a months-long depression. “I’m quite a self-conscious person anyway, and it made me question myself,” says Hart. “Am I good enough?”
Before Hart, there was Ruby Tandoh, a Season 4 runner-up who was deemed a “filthy slag” who traded sexual favors and weaponized “female tears” for preferential judging. Tandoh wrote a piece for The Guardian in October 2013 describing the waves of “lazy misogyny” that followed each episode’s release, but shining light on the problem change much for future contestants. Claire Goodwin, the first to leave the tent in Season 5, was inundated with fat-shaming comments. Season 6 winner Nadiya Hussain, a first-generation British Bangladeshi, was told to “go home” on Twitter. Candice Browne, winner of Season 7, regularly endured comments from strangers who “fucking hate Candice, reckon she’s a right bitch.”
In a 2018 joint study with Element AI, Amnesty International named online trolling of women a human rights violation—one that social media platforms like Twitter continuously refuse to be held accountable for. The trolling of Baking Show contestants generally reflects the Amnesty International findings: White women are trolled hard, but women of color are trolled harder. Commenting on the viciousness of a particularly nasty troll, Hussain offered a succinct explanation: “I’m Muslim, brown, working-class and a woman! I may as well have ‘punching bag’ written on my torso.” In general, men are less likely to be trolled and, instead, are more likely to be trolls themselves, due to years of learned misogyny and—according a Brunel University and Goldsmiths, University of London report—a higher rate of narcissism. But on Baking Show, trolling often extends to the men with nearly as much vitriol and regularity as it does to the women.
Dan Beasley-Harling, a 2018 contestant and self-identified “gay-at-home dad” received the overwhelming bulk of Season 8’s cumulative harassment. “It was about five weeks of people just saying horrible things about me constantly. I had some really overtly homophobic comments,” says Beasley-Harling, referring to unoriginal jabs about queer sex and the suitability of a queer parent. Trolls can generally find a problem with any woman, but two types of bakers stand out as exceptionally deserving of harassment: women who don’t land neatly in the realm of palatable, perfect femininity, and men who aren’t stereotypically masculine. Beasley-Harling’s experience suggests that Baking Show trolls might take a more nuanced approach to their vocation.
Perhaps it’s not just about harassing women online—it’s about re-establishing gendered power dynamics and punishing those who flirt with the domestic on public-facing platforms. Domestic work has historically been an unpaid at-home venture delegated to women, so Baking Show contestants are either women overstepping their household boundaries or men crossing gendered labor lines. For a troll, either is a damnable offense. But with each record-smashing episode, Baking Show subverts the assumptions of where femininity belongs, who it belongs to, and how much it’s worth—roughly £24.2 million in predicted revenue. Still, exploitation is often and easily disguised as empowerment. Lest we forget, Baking Show contestants aren’t paid, and the grand “prize” has little to no real-world value.
To an extent, we all participate in the uninformed and unkind public judging that trolls have championed. We experience celebrities and public figures—especially women—as dehumanized subjects ripe for public dissection, each one existing in a vacuum sealed behind a screen. After all, the Baking Show contestants are filmed, edited, and packaged by professionals into easily digestible archetypes for the sake of a comprehensible and compelling storyline. For example, the latest season featured Michael Chakraverty as the optimistic goofball, Steph Blackwell as the irrationally insecure savant, and Helena Garcia as the spooky, whimsical free spirit. While these personas are fully inspired by who the bakers actually are, they’re ultimately deployed to create drama and tension where it doesn’t exist—that’s just the mandate of reality-TV editing.
But trolls live in the extreme, and for them the editing spurs online abuse. Beasley-Harling, for example, saw the trolling as a direct extension of Love Production’s editing. “I felt like the editing choices were very much treating me like collateral damage,” Beasley-Harling says. “I phoned Love Productions and said, ‘I don’t think you’re representing me fairly, I understand why people don’t like me.’ And they said, ‘No, you’re crazy, everyone’s getting a fair, balanced view on the show. It’s all in your head.’” Gaslighting, the Old Faithful of emotional abuse is regularly deployed against women, people of color, the LGBTQ community and other marginalized groups, is remarkably efficient at restabilizing power dynamics—exactly what trolls seek to do. A representative for Love Productions stated via email that: “Love Productions has always taken contributor care seriously and has robust protocols in place to protect and support those taking part in our shows throughout production and after transmission. These protocols evolve to acknowledge and address the changing media landscape and scrutiny.”
Depending on who you ask, however, the robustness of their protocols fluctuates. According to Beasley-Harling, past contestants have speculated that the Love Productions team tailors their level of attention and support based on the profitability of the contestant in question. After leaving the tent halfway through the competition, Beasley-Harling felt like Love Productions was less interested in protecting its contestants from trolling when money was to be made elsewhere, a behavior not dissimilar to reality television at large. “I barely left my house for three months. I was a shitty parent for three months,” Beasley-Harling says, describing the impact of his trolling. “To me, that felt like, ‘We’ve used you for the entertainment value and now we’re disposing of you.’” But Hart, the semifinalist who received the brunt of Season 8’s trolling and suffered a depressive period similar to Beasley-Harling’s, found Love Productions reassuring throughout airing.
“Every time I called them, they were wonderful. Didn’t matter what time of day,” says Hart. But she does concede that the emotional scarring from her online abuse outlasted Love’s self-proclaimed robust protocols. “They’ve got no idea how it’s affected me to this day,” says Hart. “I don’t think that’s their problem anymore, is it?” It remains to be seen how this year’s cohort of bakers will fare. Airing in the United Kingdom continued through October, and this year’s crop of bakers appear as chipper as ever, even online. So far, trolling appears to be minimal—maybe the bakers can avoid it if they subscribe more closely to normative gender expectations. “When I went on the Bake Off I wasn’t worried about my hair or my makeup or what I was wearing,” says Hart. “Maybe if I had made more of an effort, people would have been nicer to me.”
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orlha · 5 years ago
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Title: Shadow Through the Leaves Chapter: 3 Fandom: Naruto Genre: Angst Ship: Gen Characters: Hatake Sakumo, Orochimaru, Shimura Danzo, Hatake Kakashi Word Count: 831 Triggers(s): Depression, Suicide attempts Rating: M Summary: What if Kakashi’s mum died while giving birth to Kakashi when Sakumo was out on a mission? And Sakumo is told that the baby was a stillborn. Meanwhile Kakashi was taken by Danzo and given to Orochimaru as one of his lab experiments and Orochimaru didn’t know baby Kakashi was Sakumo’s child.
Ao3
PREVIEW: 
"Sensei?" Inoichi approaches him.
Sakumo had been hiding in the back, watching the people mill around the Uchiha's hall. Ten years later and he's brooding over it. Some teacher he is. Hadn't he told his own students to learn to let go? It would be easier, if only his Hatake pack instincts aren't trying to reach out to something.
He looks out the window, into the darkened forest.
"Sensei?" Inoichi touches his elbow, having not gotten a response from his first greeting. "Have you been spending too much time in the office again?"
A smile briefly crosses his lips, sardonic and deprecating. "Didn't you know? Hokages live in their offices," he says.
"Perhaps we should permanently assign Minato as your secretary?" Inoichi hands him a plate full of food and a pair of chopsticks. "He's a paperwork savant. At least he had gotten you out of the office before eight."
"Or maybe Minato and a proper secretary," Kushina adds, sandwiching him between Inoichi and prods him into taking a bite. "Minato can focus on cataloguing all your paper into the levels of urgency and a proper secretary will keep track of your schedule. Or make it a rotation. Shikaku—"
"Shikaku is getting promoted to Chuunin Leader," Sakumo says. He takes a bite of the karaage at Kushina's further prodding. Mikoto’s food that had always tasted good only tastes like sand in his mouth.
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pervasivethrenody · 6 years ago
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McShep Sims 3:  “You’re a Beautiful, a Beautiful, Fucked-Up Man...”
Rodney McKay, Ph.D, Ph.D., likes to tell people he knows a thing or two about the mysteries of the universe.
Time, for example.  Planck time.  Linear time.  Spacetime.  Time dilation.  Relativity.
He thought he knew these things, anyway.
But like so much else, knowing about something and knowing it are two different things.
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He’s not given to self-analysis, as a general rule--there are far too many other, more interesting things in the universe to be studying than the inside of his own febrile, neurotic brain, genius as it is.  There are entire soft sciences devoted to that nonsense, for god’s sake.
But something is definitely going on.
(For your listening pleasure, should you so choose.  I’m showing my age with these choices, I fear, but I’ve long since accepted this.  Good music is timeless.)
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Scientific research, the real research you don’t see on television, is meticulous, calculating, analytical.  For every discovery there are hours upon hours upon hours of plodding and prodding and plotting to get through.
It’s not part of the job he finds particularly thrilling, who does, but the tedium is something he’s always been uniquely suited to, both in personality and in life habits of, not having, you know, friends.
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But now...
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There’s this guy.
Literally, he just shows up in Rodney’s life and keeps on being there.
Asking stupid questions.  Saying stupid things. 
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Getting in the way.
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Except sometimes he doesn’t get in the way, and sometimes he says things that aren’t stupid at all (not that Rodney’s going to tell him that).
And time seems to be passing in a completely different way, the way it does when you lose track of it because you’re, you know, enjoying yourself. 
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Strangest of all, outside of the fact that he’s military and wandering around as a guard dog is basically his job here, this guy, Sheppard, seems to actually want to spend time with Rodney.
Nobody ever wants to spend time with him. 
It knocks him completely off balance.
What is this guy’s deal?
John Sheppard is an utter mystery to him as a scientist, and every time he thinks he’s found a piece of the puzzle, he turns around and there are two more in its place.
Rodney is very confused.
He doesn’t like being confused.
Being confused makes him angry.
Until the pieces start to fall into place.
One piece, anyway.  But it’s a big one, a major data point on his way to a conclusion:  the day he learns that this dumbfuck savant is, incredible to contemplate, exactly as screwed up, nearly as socially maladjusted as Rodney is.  Probably makes friends about as easily as Rodney does.  Which is to say, not at all.
Difference is, Sheppard’s learned how to hide it.  To fake a smile.  To charm people, let them see exactly what they want to see.
To lie better.
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And he thinks a lot of things start to make a lot more sense...
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...but then there’s day the dishwasher up and dies on them, and of course it’s Carson who broke it, and it’s Rodney whom Carson calls to fix it.
“Wonderful,” Rodney snarls, glaring at it.  “My tax dollars at work.”
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“You’re Canadian,” Carson points out.
Rodney won’t even look at him after that.  “And you’re Scottish.  Do you even look at your payroll slips?  You think that stops Uncle Sam from leeching every dime from you he possibly can?  Boy, have I got news for you.”
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“Fair point.”
They stare at the dishwasher for a while. 
Sparks start shooting from it.
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“Right, lads,” Carson says, “best leave you to it,” and beats a hasty retreat.
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“Coward,” Rodney mutters, already on the move.  “Figures he wouldn’t even--”
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“Wait!”
Turning around, he’s greeted by the Major wearing--what the hell face is that?  Some combination of terrified and hangdog?
It is not a good look for him.
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“Don’t,” he says, reaching out.  “I’ll--you can’t.  Don’t.”
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“I can’t, don’t, what?  Fix a dishwasher?  Sorry to disappoint you if you were hoping to one-up me, Major; this is what I do.  What they pay me the big boy bucks for.  I thought you knew that by now.  What the hell is wrong with you?”
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“I’m, I’m not actually going to stop you, am I,” John says, his expression going flat.
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“No.  No, you are not.”
“Will you--at least mop the floor first.”
“No, I was going to work on electrical equipment while standing in a puddle of conductive material,” Rodney snaps, busy looking for a mop.  “Did you score a negative number on the ASVAB?“
“Ninety-seven,” John mutters, still looking at him oddly.
“They won’t take just anyone these days,” Rodney says magnanimously and goes to work on the floor.
A moment later, Rodney’s aware of John having joined him with a mop of his own.
“Um.  Thanks,” because, well, he’s not a complete asshole.
“No problem.  I’ll get the rest.”
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He gets down to brass tacks, falling into the quiet state his mind reaches when he’s working a problem with both his head and his hands.
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Only when he’s finished does it dawn on him that Sheppard is still standing there.  Hovering, really.  Still wearing a look Rodney just can’t place.
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“Done.”  He tosses the wrench in his kit and dusts off his hands.
“Already?  That’s it?”
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“Sorry to disappoint you that it didn’t kill me this time either.  Third time’s the charm, perhaps?”
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“Oh, for--wait!”
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Rodney gives himself about two seconds to freak out before he thinks, oh, no, you don’t, asshole, and follows him.
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The guy is some black ops ninja freak, that much Rodney knows, so he’s already long gone by the time Rodney sets out looking for him.
But that doesn’t mean he’s difficult to find.
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“Knock knock,” Rodney yells over the wind, then actually knocks, by throwing his weight against the thing.
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After a long interval, the door opens a tiny crack.
“How did you--”
“You mean, other than your entirely obvious but quickly fading tracks?  Only that you seem rather fond of escape, in all its literal and figurative glory, so I expected you would go where you could imagine yourself doing it, which also happens to be a place about as far away from human contact out here as you can get without being, you know, dead, which I’m soon to be, seeing as I abruptly chased your ass out here--”
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That gets the door to open wider. 
“Not much warmer in here,” Sheppard’s voice mutters.
“Then come out of there, dipshit, and maybe neither of us will freeze tonight.”
After what seems like forever because it is goddamn cold out here, Sheppard emerges.
At least he has the grace to look sheepish.
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Rodney looks him over.
“You probably have like, what, two grams of body fat?”
“How much is that in American?”
“Don’t even pretend you don’t know.”
“‘Kay.”
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“Going, before we freeze to death.”
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They don’t get far before Sheppard makes a startled noise behind him and his footsteps veer away.
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Rodney sighs and follows.
“Look,” Sheppard says as Rodney draws closer.  “A bird.  A little one.”
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“That’s a bird, all right.”
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“But it’s so cold out here,” Sheppard says.  “It’s gonna freeze.”
Rodney straightens and just looks at him in disbelief.
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“You’re cold, you stupid idiot," he says.  “You’re going to freeze.”
Sheppard shrugs, still watching the bird with keen intent.
“You don’t even care,” Rodney says.  “You’re unbelievable. That’s just.”
A flood of warmth hits him right in the chest.  Even in the cold he can feel it, as he looks down at the stupid hair and bent head of this colossal dumbfuck trying to save everyone in the world but himself.
Who will be there to save you? he wonders. 
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Before he can answer...the bird flies away.
And Sheppard leaps to his feet, a little too quickly in the packed snow; slipping, lunging forward, reflexively reaching toward him.
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It feels like the easiest, most natural thing to reach right back.
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"Well,” Rodney says, breathy with relief that the dumbass didn’t smack his head and die, before realizing--
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“Oh.  This is familiar.”
John’s huff of almost-laughter is warm against his cheek.  He’s warm against Rodney’s whole body.  “I’d almost think you planned it.”
“Shut up.”
“Or that somebody did.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Is it?”
They move closer, infinitesimally--
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“Someone could be watching,” John whispers, like it hurts him to say.  He doesn’t look happy.  His body trembles.
“Watching what?  Your dumb ass slipped in the snow.  I caught you.  It’s not like we’re--”
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And the stupendous mystery that is John Sheppard melts away and vanishes like a shadow, snow filling the void of his footsteps until he may as well never have been there at all.
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To be continued...
(So, yeah...not entirely happy with this yet again, as I was trying to steer it one direction and it veered off to another...but sometimes you just gotta.......
....let it go.
Do you wanna build a snowman? :3
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Okay, bye...)
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keener-esme · 6 years ago
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the luxury of loneliness
ft: zig novak & esme song description: after frankie’s anonymous text forces her to reveal some of esme’s reckless activities, zig comes to her house in the middle of the night to check on her. date: february 14th location: esme’s house tw: mentions of drug use
Esme wasn't going into the day with high hopes as it was; she'd never been much of a Valentine's savant, and if she hadn't owed Fiona a favor, she'd have stayed home altogether. She was indifferent to the whole idea, and while she didn't have a terrible time after Declan salvaged the evening off campus, she never saw Frankie's conduct coming. It was a shock to say the least, and, coming after Esme offered to end her tryst with Zig, one she didn't think she deserved. Thinking it a salvageable enough idea to watch movies on the couch, the house empty for the night save for herself, Esme rummaged through the kitchen for a quick dinner idea, settling on the leftover pint of ice cream in the freezer. Satisfied with the selection, she settled down onto the sofa, drifting to sleep until hearing the knock on the door. She stood there for a moment, curiously. Her dad wouldn't be home all night, and he obviously had keys. Miles wouldn't know she was home. That left Frankie as the most reasonable person, come to apologize. Unsure if she wanted to face her, she paused to take a spoonful of the dessert in her hands, figuring she'd have to see Frankie at some point. Walking to the door, she took a deep breath before pulling it open, not expecting anyone else to be on the other side. "Zig," she greeted, confused. She stepped aside, silently inviting him in.
Zig wasn’t one for school sanctioned social gatherings. He found them to be pointless, especially one with a Valentine’s Day theme. It was a holiday for love, and as far as he knew, there was nobody he’d even come close to loving at the moment. For that reason, he considered the dance to be a waste of time. Rather, he spent his time at the ravine, downing Coronas and hitting on any pretty face that walked his way. The text from Frankie had caught him off guard. Esme was the last person he intended to put his focus on that night. The fact that she’d been mad at him was starting to get to him, for some strange reason. He had hoped the rose would help to ease the tension, but he had become quite frustrated with himself for even caring in the first place. He had hurt plenty of girls in the past and never thought twice about it, so why was this different? He looked at his phone, briefly took a look at this ‘Micah’ guy’s Instagram, then requested the address from Frankie. His initial reaction was to ignore her pleas and tell Miles to take care of it, considering the two were most likely closer than her and Zig. He decided against bickering with Frankie on the topic though, since she did seem genuinely worried over Esme’s well-being. He tossed his beer can into the trash, offered a halfhearted goodbye to those at the Ravine, and headed towards the direction of Esme’s house. His navigation app had informed him the walk wouldn’t be long, luckily. After a while, Zig finally reached a house that caused him to audibly groan with annoyance. Of course, she was rich. No wonder her and Miles got along so well. Surely, they must’ve spent their time bragging about their riches and looking down on people like him. The smarter part of Zig told him that Esme wasn’t like that, but the part consumed by envy was ready to turn around and call it all off. Instead, he sighed and knocked on the door, knowing very well that a part of him worried for the other’s well-being as well. “Hey,” He smiled, eyes widening as he took note of the elegant decor in her home. “So you weren’t gonna tell me that you were completely loaded?” He raised an eyebrow. The only other house he’s been in that could match the adornment of this one was the Hollingsworth residence. “Whatever, that’s not important. Are you... okay?” He asked with a bit of hesitance, wondering if she’d actually give him a straightforward answer.
Esme Zig was the last face she thought she'd be ending the night facing. She didn't expect him to take part in the festivities she herself was strong armed into, so she couldn't rightfully anticipate him to; romance wasn't for either of them. So it was all the more intriguing to be face to face with him now. "I didn't think it mattered," she responded truthfully, raising a matching eyebrow at the confusing greeting. It hadn't ever crossed her mind that her family wealth was something of importance, least of all to Zig, who didn't know much else about her. "But hello to you too, I guess? You can come in," she invited awkwardly, ushering him in off of the porch he lingered on. "Why would I not be okay?"
Zig paused for a moment. He supposed she was right, but the fact still bothered him. It almost made him feel like the two came from completely different worlds now, despite feeling so similar in the past. “Maybe because I heard you were coked out with Declan Coyne and some guy named Micah. God... that stuff’s dangerous, Esme. You shouldn’t just go off doing it with random guys.” He almost sounded like a scolding father, which was ironic coming from Zig, who always seemed to be the bad influence in all of his relationships. Zig was never one for the harder drugs though, preferring a simple blunt over anything that needed to be ingested or snorted. “I don’t mean to sound like a dick, sorry,” He murmured, knowing his mouth was what got him into trouble with Esme last time. “But why do you have to do that stuff? The coke and the pills?”
Esme's night was only getting stranger, certainly not pacified by how oddly concerned Zig's face appeared to grow. It was strange enough to have him at her doorstep at such an hour, but to hear his sudden chastise was flooring, her eyes widening at the specific knowledge he suddenly possessed. "What the fuck?" She nearly choked, her hands raising to stop him from continuing. "I... wow, okay, first of all, that's not what I was doing with Declan. And how the hell do you know Micah? No random guys, what are you even saying? Why are you here?" Lifting one hand to her temple, her other reached back to the forgotten ice cream, anxiously taking a heaping spoonful as she walked farther into the house.
Zig crossed his arms over his chest, almost irritated that Esme seemed completely fine despite Frankie's evident concern. "Okay, then what were you doing with Declan?" He questioned, anticipating an answer that he most likely didn't want. "I... I just know, okay? Who it came from doesn't matter. I'm here because I was worried about you." It was probably best not to dance around the subject and simply be straightforward, as much as he didn't want to admit that a part of him was starting to care for the girl. "Which I guess was pointless since you seem okay to me."
Esme lifted her eyebrows as if to question his audacity - and perhaps his sanity. Who was he to be pressing her for answers, especially if he still hadn't explained why he was, or how he'd found out any of the things he was prodding into. "I don't think that's really any of your business," she returned calmly, stabbing the spoon into her carton to set it on the kitchen island. "He's a friend. The dance was a mess so we left and had a better time," she explained, not out of the feeling of owing him, but because she could tell he wasn't one to let up. She didn't accept his answer, too bare and vague for her liking, and she mentally recounted anyone who had known her at both school, a small enough list to narrow it down quickly enough. "Did... did Frankie tell you all of this? She sent you here to babysit me?"
Zig rolled his eyes at her response, wondering why he even expected a real answer from Esme in the first place. In the beginning, he liked the fact that Esme was shrouded in mystery— things were easier that way since they both only came to each other for one thing in particular. Now, he found it a bit bothersome that every time he tried to make any type of connection beyond sex, Esme was far too keen on pushing him away. "Well, I'm glad you two had lots of fun together, then," he responded with heavy sarcasm and a sudden urge to pummel a rich kid. At the mention of Frankie, he knew there was no denying that she was the one who passed along the information. "Really? Frankie didn't send me over here to babysit. She wanted me to make sure you were okay. Is it that hard to believe that she just cares about you?"
Esme "I didn't see you at the dance, so I can only assume you were having just as much fun," she accused, picking up on his upset. "Do we have a problem here?" He queried, aggression in her tone. Her eyes narrowed, at an utter loss to why he was so unhappy that she'd spent any amount of time with Declan. To her knowledge, they didn't have issue with one another, so it couldn't have been personal, and past that Esme had no idea what to think. At the confirmation that Frankie had outed her, Esme shook her head. "Unbelievable, that little bitch," she scoffed, reaching for her cell phone. It was a shock to say the least, and, coming after Esme offered to end her tryst with Zig, one she didn't think she deserved. But the damage was done, and it would seem that Frankie succeeded whatever in whatever her plan was. It was just sex, Esme reminded herself, so it wouldn't be the end of the world if Zig never spoke to her again. That was the logical way to see things, but her heart wasn't making that connection, giving her that sinking feeling since she'd answered the door. "She cares so much that she booked it from the dance the second she saw me - and left Declan, who was her date, if you really need someone to be mad at."
Zig "I haven't had 'fun' with anyone else in... shit, how long has it been?" The question was enough to make Zig stop in his tracks and try to recall the last time he hooked up with anyone who wasn't Esme. It must've been a month at least. Though, this choice was not intentional as far as he knew. He simply excused his behavior with laziness as opposed to anything else, knowing the draining effects of talking to more than one girl at once. "I don't have a problem, I came to check up on you. That's it. If you want me to leave I'll leave." It wasn't as if he felt the most comfortable there anyways what with being so out of place. "Whoa, hey, chill with the name calling. She's your friend, right? The one you drunk texted me about not wanting to lose? I'm sure there's a reason why she did it, so why don't you talk to her before getting pissy about it?" He suggested with such eloquence. "I don't wanna be mad at anyone, okay? I didn't come to yell at you or anything. Maybe to tell you that what you're doing is stupid, yeah, but I'm not mad." If there was anyone to be angry at, it was himself for even caring in the first place.
Esme, while still annoyed by his assumptions, was a little surprised to hear of Zig's unintentional loyalty to her. She'd figured he was running around with a stockpile of other girls in town, never giving it much thought, but now hearing the very opposite confirmed, she wondered why he didn't use his charm to his advantage. "Oh." she responded, feeling a touch of awkwardness that she couldn't say the same. His offer of retreat would normally be something she accepted straight away, had she not sent him away at the doorstep, but she couldn't bring herself to want the departure. Maybe she just didn't want to leave things with such a looming air of tension since she already had so many other important people not on her side. But was Zig important too? She stayed quiet, effectively allowing him to stay, and the silence continued through the small lecture. She set down her phone, knowing that in some sense he was right, as awful as it was to admit it. "She had no right to tell you about that stuff," she defended softly, seating herself at the island. Her eyes moved up to meet his, glowering for a moment at his insult. "I don't do it that often, and I'm sure you do your share of stupid things too, so I don't know if you're the right person to be telling me this. I'm fine, you said it yourself," she repeated, gesturing down at her body, now very aware she was still in her gown.
Zig took a seat next to her, sighing audibly as he did so. He nodded his head in agreement at her statement, also understanding that Esme had every right to her own privacy. Realizing this also made him realize that his visit may have seemed far too invasive. Granted, he never would have come if he knew she just got home from spending the night with Declan, but even so he felt somewhat bad for barging in unannounced. "You're right... I don't know if this helps, but I don't really plan on telling anyone, so..." If the information Frankie provided was meant to be kept a secret, then Zig would do his best to keep it that way. "I do a handful of dumb things everyday," He agreed. "But nothing that'll kill me... for the most part." Zig has made plenty of bad decisions in his lifetime, but none that he would ever consider life threatening— illegal, maybe, but not deadly. "And why do you have to look so good in that damn dress thing?" Even when she made no attempt to do so, she still managed to look captivating in anything she wore. He hated how attracted he could be to her, even in moments like this.
Esme could feel the rising unsettle in her stomach, a number of sources responsible. Most could be explained away easily enough, but Zig wasn't one of them. The sudden nerves as his tone softened, how she chose to believe his assurance. It was unlike her to put as much thought into relationships of any sort, but she wanted to be able to trust him, a far cry from the bare bones unions she'd forged with most anyone else. She shrugged at his promise, drumming her hand on the discarded and melting ice cream to appear casual. "I'm fine, Zig," she repeated, abashed. It took a moment to register that his next question was a statement, and not the aggravating line of inquiries, peering back over to him with a growing smile. "Low standards probably," she joked, struggling to accept the compliment in a lighter setting. Anxiously -for no good reason-, she combed her hands through her hair, messy from the impromptu couch nap, trying to pull it back into place, but it was a lost cause draped around her shoulders.
Zig watched as her fingers became tangled in a mess of raven waves, suddenly noticing that this was the first time he had ever seen her with her hair down. No matter how dirty they got in the past, her hair always managed to stay in its signature braid. "Why don't you wear it like that more?" He gestured to her head. "It looks pretty— not that you don't look pretty with your usual thing, but..." He turned away, suddenly feeling a bit awkward over how drawn to her he was. "Oh, hey, looks like your ice cream's a puddle now. Sorry, I guess I kinda distracted you from it."
Esme tried to brush the hair away before Zig noticed it was out of its usual state, but he was always one step ahead. "It's a long story," she cringed, letting the hair fall where it may. "Old habits die hard I guess. Clearly," she chuckled tensely, a nod to her others. Her hair had become a defensive mechanism over the years, something she didn't plan on becoming so strict about, but by now there was no going back. She'd forgotten about the ice cream she'd abandoned, only glancing over when Zig mentioned the state of it, Esme moving away to wipe the counter clean. "It's like, three in the morning," she announced, trying to center herself and pull away from the frighteningly sincere moment she wasn't prepared to handle. "Do you-" she paused, confirming in her head that she was okay with what she was about to offer. "You can stay here if you want. My dad went to see my mom, so he won't be back until tomorrow."
Zig nodded his head in understanding, aware that he would not be hearing that 'long story' anytime soon. Baby steps, he supposed. After Esme mentioned the time, he instinctively went to glance at his phone to confirm the numbers on his home screen. "Your dad's going to see your mom? So she doesn't live with you guys... but he still visits her?— y'know what never mind. Yeah, I'll stay." To him, it sounded like an oddly messy divorce, but he had done enough prying for the night, and decided it was best to drop the subject altogether. A sudden wave of exhaustion had overcome him anyways after realizing how late it was, and he was no longer in the mood to talk. "I've always kinda wanted to see how your bedroom looks," he noted, rising from his seat and waiting for Esme to lead the way.
Esme was kicking herself once again; it was a with terrible ease that she kept dangling breadcrumbs of her past into Zig's lap lately when it was something she damn well prided herself in keeping to herself with anyone else. Her only solace was that he didn't press the matter of her parents' situation, one she wasn't willing to unload. From the time Zig arrived, her state was different, and she was having a hard time getting a grasp on things. This wasn't in her repertoire, and it definitely wasn't part of the arrangement she and Zig had going, but there was no denying that it was a relief that he agreed to stay with her. "Okay," she accepted, flicking off the light behind her. She didn't plan on explaining her aversion to being alone, and it was a convenient excuse to use the time as a reason why it was beneficial to him, and nothing more. Ushering up the stairs and into her bedroom, she held her arms out for sarcastic fanfare. "Hope it's everything you wished for," she teased, turning her back to him with an "unzip me?"
Zig followed along up the stairs and to her bedroom, one that he found to be quite normal looking. A very anticlimactic reveal, indeed. Though, he supposed the excitement was about to begin now that Esme was literally asking him to undress her. He nodded obediently, moving closer so he could get a grip on the tiny slider and unzip her outfit. He watched as the dress fell to the ground, revealing Esme's bare skin that he had now been so accustomed to feeling. "So... are you gonna put your pj's on now or...?" For the first time, Zig felt a bit awkward initiating anything amorous towards her— like it wasn't the right moment despite Esme being stripped down to the bare essentials.
Esme hadn't meant her undressing to be anything more than a bedtime task, but that didn't mean she couldn't run with it. "You don't like seeing me naked anymore?" She purred, turning to face him and as a result, fully expose her bare skin. Initially it was nothing but a joke at his expense but now that she was able to see his face, she couldn't find the same lust in his eyes that her nudity always unearthed, and that made her much more nervous then being so physically vulnerable in the first place. It was suddenly very necessary to Esme to remind them both of who they were to each other, whether she really wanted to or not. "Should we..." she trailed, walking her fingers down his chest and down to his waistline.
Zig couldn't help but smile at her question. They both knew very well how heavily attracted they were to each other, but he wondered if there was anything beyond lust. "Uh... do you wanna just... sleep?" He almost felt dirtier asking for that as opposed to sex. Him and Esme never slept together in the literal sense— the act may have been too intimate for the both of them. "I mean, I'm down for anything!— But you're probably tired, and so am..." There was also the fact that she had just spent a night with Declan Coyne too, and knowing Esme, their plans went far beyond drugs and friendly conversation. Choosing to push that aside and not get worked up over it again, he offered a slightly uncomfortable smile.
Esme wasn't sure if it was offense that she was feeling; truthfully she wasn't sure how to feel at all about his dismissal, as uncomfortably polite as he presented it. She wasn't used to rejection, especially never from Zig but she knew by the way he backpedaled that it was a rejection nonetheless and even though she wasn't offering her services for her own benefit, it was a strange sting for him to want something so passive instead. The gut feeling was back that lines were being blurred, and prior to this night she never would have seen herself sharing a bed in such an innocent matter with the boy in question but she could acknowledge the relief she felt all the same. "Yeah... I'm pretty tired," she confirmed, swallowing the embarrassment of asking in the first place. Taking a step back from him, she stepped into her bathroom to wash off the evenings makeup, retrieving and ingesting a couple of routine medications before pulling a robe from the back of the door to sheathe herself, now feeling far too naked in more senses than one.
Zig made an attempt to clear up any misunderstandings, but by then it was most likely too late. "Not that I don't want to... but we don't have to have sex every time we see each other... do we?" The question was almost asked in earnest, as he pondered where exactly their relationship stood at the moment— or if they even had one, for that matter. When Esme agreed, he took a seat on the bed and waited patiently to complete her nightly rituals. Upon seeing her emerge from the bathroom, he groaned. "Shit, you look good in a robe too," He commented with false irritation before laying down and patting the spot next to him. "Ready?"
Esme wouldn't say that it was upsetting to hear Zig press the matter of their connection necessarily, but it did leave her feeling unsettled. "Isn't that our whole thing?" Her words held no ill will, really asking herself for clarification more than anything, but it was a double edged sword she walked along to hear what his answer might be. Pulling away from the too real moment, she couldn't help but smile at his admiration, one that had been growing on her. "I try," she teased, smoothing the plush fabric over her thighs. Standing at the edge of the bed she asked herself the same question... was she ready? Even though she'd been the one to offer, would she make it through the night beside him with her sanity in tact? It was noticeably more awkward to just linger at the side of the bed, so she put her qualms aside, peeling back her side of the bedding and slipping in beside him. "Yep," she chimed, too eager as she reached for the remote at her end table to turn off the lights above them.
Zig nodded slowly at her question, "Well, yeah... I guess so. Maybe it doesn't have to be though." The two had an unspoken agreement on what they both wanted out of their fling, but now Zig questioned where his true desires laid. He thought sex was the only thing he really got from Esme. Looking back though, he realized that maybe, just maybe he wanted more. It couldn't have been a coincidence that she was the only girl he hooked up with now, originally blaming it on his own laziness, but perhaps a part of him knew that wasn't the whole truth. In all honesty, Esme was the only girl who could capture his interest outside of the bedroom. Was this... a crush? Was Zig Novak actually developing a schoolboy crush on someone? The thought alone made him shift uneasily on the bed, but he began to relax at Esme's confirmation. As the two got into bed, he moved closer to wrap an arm around her figure. He assumed the whole ordeal would be awkward, but after settling into a comfortable position, everything felt... right. "Well... goodnight, I guess," He murmured, nestling his head closer to hers and taking in the scent of her flowery shampoo.
Esme figured the worst would be over just with the words exchanged, but the physical nature was the most dire. It was a sick irony, considering the basis of her relationship with the boy who now looked far too comfy in her bed, but she'd never quite mastered the intimacy aspect that was being thrown her way presently. She wasn't good with feelings -not that she was allowing herself to catch any-, nor did she ever see the point in making meaningful connections. She knew herself, and they wouldn't be built to last. Turning on her side as if facing away from him would calm her nerves, she tensed at the arm splayed around her, accepting it after a moment to save face. "Goodnight," she returned quietly, counting down the minutes until her sedatives would rescue her from the web she'd woven herself into.
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stayingunderground · 6 years ago
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Collaborator 059: Yani Mo w/ Mistah Rapsey on the B-side
Staying Underground favourite Yani Mo is this weeks guest selector in the Collaborator Series series with Mistah Rapsey. I've been a listener and supporter of her music since coming across her Compound​/​Words EP in February of 2013. In a couple weeks she's doing her first Canadian show at the Halifax Pop Explosion festival so I very happy to be releasing this mix leading up to that moment.
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a-side: Yani Mo 1. Jamee Cornelia - New Ringtone 2. Ace Apollo - R.I.P 3. Ziggy2Playa - IDC [Prod. by DunDealOntheTrACK] 4. Cooley Savant - Climate Change [Prod. by quickly, quickly] 5. Yani Mo - Anointed 6. SAJÉ - Mrs. Right 7. Tempest - WHY SO SERIOUS? 8. TLC - Girl Talk 9. Masego - Old Age (feat. SiR) 10. Ako Slice - I Still Eat At Zaxby's (feat. Allen Thomas & Ms. Raspy) 11. Cassie Chantel - Where I'm from [Prod. by Slick Kooley] 12. Mac Miller - Dang! (feat. Anderson .Paak) 13. Hadiya George - HOT FLAVOR 14. Niah Lyrical - Follow Me 15. Tyler Victoria - Ain’t I
b-side: Mistah Rapsey 1. Bby Laana - Lies ft. SOB x RBE (Lul G) 2. Bïa - YAKWTFGO (feat. Kali Uchis) 3. Tyler, The Creator - Who Dat Boy? (feat. A$ap Rocky) 4. Flwr Chyld & Yani Mo - Love Me, Leave Me  5. Aminé - REEL IT IN 6. Ebhoni - Opps 7. Mick Jenkins - What Am I To Do? [Prod. by Kaytranada] 8. Masego & The TrapHouseJazz Band - Brown Suga (Shut Up And Vibe) 9. Yani Mo x Ako Slice   - Summa Patnah [Prod. by ProRow] 10. Cilon. - AP Wasn’t Wrong 11. Buddy - A Lite 12. Gabriel Garzon-Montano - Long Ears (Remix) (feat. Ill Camille, Odd Mojo) 13. Yani Mo - Spell On Me [Prod. by ProRow] 14. Hadiya George & Honey Simone  - Happiness 15. Noname - Don’t Forget About Me
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guncelkal · 3 years ago
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Kinesis Savant Elite2 Programmable Triple Foot Pedal (FP30AJ- with Extra 4th Jack)
Kinesis Savant Elite2 Programmable Triple Foot Pedal (FP30AJ- with Extra 4th Jack)
https://m.media-amazon.com/images/S/vse-vms-transcoding-artifact-us-east-1-prod/v2/8d5ab70c-4c0e-56e9-bb46-6108df45e41e/ShortForm-Generic-480p-16-9-1409173089793-rpcbe5.mp4 Product Description A Savant Elite2 (SE2) foot pedal is an excellent ergonomic enhancer which can eliminate unnecessary hand and arm strain by reducing mouse clicks and awkward key combinations. SE2 pedals are also great for…
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