#Ripley doesn't really mind this though because like

[weenis-on-your-elboe]

I PROMISE things are being worked on T-T

-

Vulture thinks Ripley is cool! Ripley does not think Ripley is cool

[joannasteez]

starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity 

size 

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?... 

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'. 

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree. 

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'". 

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice. 

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction. 

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me". 

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would". 

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you". 

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go". 

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm. 

"did i wake you?", you ask. 

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning". 

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention". 

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips. 

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion. 

"how does it feel?" 

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine. 

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it". 

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare. 

"thank you for being here". 

"of course". 

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other". 

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it. 

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore. 

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin. 

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin. 

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth. 

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires. 

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still. 

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early". 

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business". 

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then". 

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later". 

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order. 

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe". 

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear. 

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could". 

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well". 

"you really did". 

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks. 

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm. 

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless. 

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious". 

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever". 

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way". 

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time. 

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird. 

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden". 

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe. 

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am". 

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug. 

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact. 

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand. 

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same. 

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay. 

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze. 

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again". 

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them". 

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious". 

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me". 

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you". 

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits". 

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs. 

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two". 

"oh fuck you punk". 

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all". 

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think". 

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment. 

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him. 

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision". 

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body. 

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day". 

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea. 

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy. 

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination. 

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire. 

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you. 

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him. 

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory.  his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily. 

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words. 

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star. 

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from. 

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call. 

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare. 

"have breakfast with me", he starts. 

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body. 

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate". 

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?" 

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine". 

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do. 

"can you not?" 

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space. 

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop". 

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right". 

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat". 

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it". 

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about". 

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him. 

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart". 

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment". 

"then give me a time and place". 

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings". 

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin. 

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things. 

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still. 

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd. 

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek. 

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves". 

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back. 

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens. 

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd. 

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze. 

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe. 

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking. 

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone? 

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me. 

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television. 

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you? 

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here. 

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling. 

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection. 

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news. 

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually". 

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough. 

"what'd he say to you?" 

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv". 

"well it feels pretty damn personal". 

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?" 

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so. 

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks. 

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win". 

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own. 

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match. 

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match. 

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too. 

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival. 

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy. 

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego. 

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason. 

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition. 

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel. 

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?" 

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody". 

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning. 

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body. 

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him. 

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me. 

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment. 

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars. 

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory. 

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach. 

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.  

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be". 

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land. 

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all. 

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection. 

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear. 

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get. 

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world. 

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe. 

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself. 

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment. 

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while". 

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it. 

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them. 

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable. 

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes. 

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought. 

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls. 

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance. 

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine. 

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth. 

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half. 

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit". 

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife. 

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days". 

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself. 

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips. 

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it. 

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same. 

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'. 

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth. 

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest. 

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again. 

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over. 

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ". 

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs. 

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again". 

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over. 

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too". 

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you. 

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly. 

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit. 

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering. 

"how do you want me?" 

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress. 

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful. 

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead. 

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips. 

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion. 

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole. 

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly. 

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.  

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums. 

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal. 

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy. 

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume. 

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar 

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones. 

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process. 

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart. 

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk? 

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy. 

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed". 

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable. 

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing". 

"unfortunately?" 

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence. 

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?" 

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure". 

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it". 

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?" 

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".  

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over". 

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways". 

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are". 

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table. 

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves. 

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere. 

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same. 

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help. 

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in". 

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good". 

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus". 

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing. 

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true. 

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that". 

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it". 

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace. 

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly. 

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..." 

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear. 

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up". 

"will do". 

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time. 

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area. 

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?" 

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling. 

"time and place sweetheart". 

[victoriadallonfan]

Let's Talk About the Alien vs Predator Films

Talk about wasted potential, am I right?

I'm struggling to format this in an interesting way, since so much has been covered over the past 20 years since the first film was released. You can read my thoughts on Aliens Franchise and the Predator Franchise as well.

Note that it doesn't include Alien: Romulus, but suffice to say it was a good movie!

I think the best place to start is with covering the themes of Alien and Predator, and the history before these films were created (and the failure of Fox).

My fellow AvP enjoyer @agendergorgon has already posted some thoughts on the topic, giving me a lot to think about, so check out their blog too!

For the purposes of this review, I am not going to include Alien 3, Alien: Resurrection, Prometheus, nor Alien: Covenant.... mostly. The AvP films really don't take much of anything beyond the first two films, though I will touch on Prometheus when it comes to religion.

Ditto for the Predator films, but that's because Predator wouldn't get a third film until 2010, 3 years after the AvP duo.

The themes of Alien Franchise:

I'm sure the first thing to come to mind is that the Alien series is about sexual assault, and you'd be correct. The xenomorph is designed to be extremely phallic, the facehuggers quite literally rape their victims, Burke locks his victims (including a child) in a room to be raped, Ash tries to murder Ripley by thrusting a rolled up porn magazine down her throat etc etc.

Some of you might also remember how Aliens was noted by James Cameron to be a criticism of the Vietnam War, Corporate Greed, and the callous arrogance of the US Military. The xenomorphs represented the innumerable "faceless" soldiers that could overwhelm more advanced enemies with ambush tactics and numbers, Burke thinks only in "goddamn percentages" and how this could benefit himself and the company, and the Colonial Marines are not only woefully mismanaged a newly brought on commander but also completely delusional with their own sense of invulnerability, only to break and panic under pressure once they meet a foe who is determined to fight to the death.

(I will NOT be tackling the fucked-upness of comparing people fighting for their independence vs a fucking Xenomorph, because holy fucking shit, it is literally the opposite AND worse counterpart to having the Predators be colonizers)

But, in the broader scope of the series, Alien - and the xenomorph - represent the uncontrollable, unfathomable, unknown. What are they? Why were they there? What are their motives? How did they end up in that ship? Were they built? How do they 'see'? Why did the xenomorph spare Jonesy the Cat? Are they intelligent life? How on earth do they function with their bizarre biology?

We don't get any real answers to these questions in the original films. The whole point of these movies is that there are things that mankind does not understand, and the horrors of space are vast. And equally terrifying is the arrogance of man (and synth kind) to think they can harness this horror for profit at the expense of human lives.

The themes of the Predator Franchise:

There's been tons of articles on how Predator is either a reconstruction or deconstruction (depending on who you ask) of the 80's action hero flick. A team of muscle laden, big gun toting, sweaty men spouting off one-liners as they mow down their enemies in a secret CIA led operation during the Cold War, interrupted by the presence of an intergalactic hunter than treats these badasses like mere toys. The massive Arnold Schwarzenegger is smacked out like a mouse facing off against a particularly cruel cat, needing to rely on tricks - not his brawns or guns - to stay alive and eventually defeat the Predator.

Others might point to its related take down of machismo. The opening scene is rife with characters testing each other's physical strength against each other such as with Dillon and Dutch, Ventura and Dutch have a small face-off in the helicopter as they try to make a pecking order, Ventura makes a whole speech about being a "sexual tyrannosaurus" and then mocked about sticking a gun up his "sore-ass", Hawkins repeatedly tries to make pussy and sex jokes, and they end up with a single woman in the group who is treated more like an object and baggage than a person for much of the movie. All of these men are emasculated by the Predator, some of them not even lasting a single second to its predations (both in tech and physicality), all of them losing any sense of quips and confidence, and the sole woman of the group survives because she didn't fit the movie's (and Predator's) mold of "tough as nails". When Arnold/Dutch is rescued by helicopter, it's not a cheerful one; he's haunted by what he endured and remains silent as the film pans into his thousand-yard stare.

All of this applies to Predator 2 as well, amping up the violence, dick measuring, and rules of the Predator targeting anyone who thinks they are tough shit for carrying a gun or knife. Even Danny Glover's victory is bittersweet, because he is now left in the middle of dozens of officer deaths, and entire subway car filled with corpses, and an antique flintlock pistol that promises the return of the Predators to Earth.

In a much broader sense, the Predator films are about the oversaturation of violence and lack of care for human life. Predator 1's main plot before he arrives is the CIA using Green Berets and then Dutch's special ops team to clean up their dirty work, giving them false information and not even reporting the Berets being MIA in furtherance of their Cold War goals (slaughtering guerrillas who were working with Soviet Russia). In Predator 2, the police are seen as being ineffective because they trample on each other's jurisdiction, with the Federal task force being willing to kill their own cops to keep the Predator existence a secret and letting it hunt people down for a better chance at capture and experimentation.

The Predator creatures are the epitome of such greed and arrogance. They are the General Zaroffs of The Most Dangerous Game, taken to a new height by showing that human lives literally mean nothing to them beyond a trophy hunt. They care nothing about our social lives, our politics, our loved ones, because for them this is nothing more than the equivalent of posh British Elite going on a Fox Hunt: cruel and sadistic, just to placate their egos. They will violate the corpses of the dead and taunt those in mourning, for the thrill of the game. And in that sense, the Predators are very human antagonists: they are not unfathomable nor are their goals beyond our understanding. The horror of the Predators is that they are creatures we can understand, communicate with, and even see similarities in their culture to ours... and that culture is putting us on a trophy rack alongside other skulls of creatures they felt a thrill to hunt.

So, did the Alien vs Predator films cover even half of these topics?

Well... kinda? Just... not well.

Not well at all.

The Build Up

Alien and Predator have a connected history dating back to the creation of the Predator itself. Stan Winston was on a flight with James Cameron some time after the famous director had finished with Aliens, and the director made a comment about wanting to see a monster with mandibles, which eventually led to the creature we know and love today.

Predator's debut on screen was also often compared to Aliens due to the superficially similar premise of a team of commandos going on a mission and fighting an unknown alien threat.

Despite what some people think, the AvP series wasn't started by the films.

Yes, there was a particularly memorable scene in Predator 2, where the City Hunter is admiring his trophy room and a xenomorph skull can be seen mounted on the wall (though, fun fact, it's actually an inaccurate depiction as xenomorph skulls look more humanoid facing), but that wasn't the first time the duo met in media.

And I'm not referring to the 1993 Arcade Game either (since that only came out a year after Predator 2).

The Alien vs Predator comic first appeared in 1989. And there were publications continuing ever since.

Think about that going forward. There was 25 years of content to choose from, storylines they could adapt, interesting forays into the cosmology and interactions between Yaujta, Xenomorphs, and Humanity.

The movies used exactly none of it (barring 1 thing: the Predalien).

Alien vs Predator (2004)

The plot of this movie is that Weyland-Yutani corporation detects a heat bloom under the ice in Antartica that reveals an underground pyramid, and in a race against his competitors, Weyland rounds up a team of elite experts led by Lex Woods to investigate the ruins (and find that the Predators have left them a convenient tunnel to enter the deep ice). Only to find out that this was a trap, as the pyramid comes to life activates a Xenomorph Queen, unleashing a brood of facehuggers on the helpless crew, all the while the Predators hunt them down. After a spectacular shitshow and release of the Xenomorph Queen, Lex and the last Predator (Scar) have to reluctantly team up to escape the pyramid and blow up the xenomorphs, ending in a final battle with the Xenomorph Queen. Scar perishes in the fight, but Lex manages to send the Queen into the depth of the artic ocean, and is rewarded by the watching Eldar Predator with a spear for her troubles. A post-credit scene reveals that Scar had a chest-burster inside of him, birthing the Predalien!

Rewatching this movie, I'm surprised at how good it looks. The opening scene of the satellite in space, several shots of the ship (and spaceship), the frozen tundra, the set pieces like the Xenomorph Queen Prison, and the CGI!

The CGI! Of 2004! I was shocked that they looked so good for something that is 20 years old now, but they did really well for themselves.

But it was the practical effects that blew me away the most. The shifting Pyramid is absolutely iconic and the abandoned whaling station is suitably creepy. The face-huggers look amazing and the xenomorphs are just *chefs kiss*. It's so funny seeing these Xenomorph effects compared to that of Alien:Covenant, and seeing how much work bodysuit and puppetry can do to make a monster look so much more terrifying than a CGI creature.

I know a lot of people didn't like the Predator's bulky appearance in this movie, but honestly... I dig it? It makes sense that not all Predators are literally built the same, and that the ones who would choose to go hunting in the artic would be the bigger ones who could hold more body heat. And the movie does a really great fucking job of making these Predators look badass and distinct from each other, with Celtic having the coolest mask of the whole group.

And the way the movie is shot is really fantastic! There are a lot of wide and tracking shots where the movie lets the atmosphere do the work instead of badgering us with words, taking its time to build up tension and soak up the visuals. One of my favorites shots they did was slow roam through the Predator ship as the systems come to life and we get to see holograms come on-line, feeding information directly into their masks. Equally good was when the Xenomorph Queen is awakened to cackling electricity and ominous lighting, showing us how vast this chamber is and how huge this Queen is in comparison to the one Ripley faces.

The same goes for most of the actions scenes, with a decent amount of cool slow-mo shots for things like Face-huggles launching themselves, Predators leaping across chasms, and showing Scar's impressive athleticism when he leaps 10 meters into the air and stabs a spear through the Queens skull.

And I can always rewatch the first time Alien Meets Predator Fight. God, that score! The music is just so damn good!!! You really feel like you are watching two massive horrors from space finally finding themselves sharing a space together.

Honestly, the Predators using the Xenomorphs as some kind of fucked up exotic pet for hunting trials and training fits the lore PERFECTLY. It’s actually a literal fox hunt not just metaphorical (and of course, in typical Alien fashion, it all went to shit).

Aliens vs Predator: Requiem (2007)

"Wait, Ridtom/VictoriaDallonFan, are you about to say something nice about AvP:R?!"

Well, after turning up the brightness and hanging blankets over my windows and then watching the movie underneath more blankets... yes!

For one thing, the Alien and Predator effects are spectacular! Some of the best work I've seen in the franchises! The fight scenes are creative and use really cool set-pieces like the sewer and power plant, where we get to see Wolf (the name of the Predator of this movie) absolutely kick ass and slaughter his way through hordes of Xenomorphs. Not that the xenos are left in the dust, as they get plenty of murders on screen and even outsmart Wolf on occasion.

I actually like the Predalien design and the idea that it’s more intelligent than the average Xeno, including holding personal grudges and understanding Predator behavior.

And the Predator tech is really cool too! We got laser grids, land mines, power fists, converting the plasma caster into a plasma pistol And I love the moment where Wolf kidnaps one of the human protags to use as live bait. Such a dick thing to do but so in-character.

Even the bits we get of Wolf mourning his fellow dead hunters was a neat addition.

And to be honest, I didn’t mind the idea of seeing an actual xenomorph infestation in real time, in a small town. I think that sort of setting would be really fun for a one-shot story.

And… that’s it. That’s all the good stuff.

What Went Wrong?

I compiled a list of sources where I got a lot of information on the AvP production: Source 1, Source 2, Source 3, Source 4

Note that a lot of these are 20 years old so I apologize for the outdated and honestly abhorrent word use that some articles and videos may use. And another apology for using the Xenopedia wiki, it was just a good shorthand for other information.

In short: Fox fucking sucks. They will absolutely self-sabotage themselves in order to make a (perceived) profit. Tom Rothman is the most well known (and he’s gone to Sony as of now), but Fox has had a looong history of being stingy and terrified of any risks for their films.

The sheer amount of drama involving Alien 3 and Alien Resurrection is an insane rollercoaster.

AvP removed pretty much any sense of horror and purposely had the design of the Predators to be more “human” and “heroic” (hence the weird human eyes and bulky physique), with a PG-13 rating for more audience numbers. While the human characters aren’t bad, they are not unique or even memorable (barring the fandom romantic tension between Lexi and the final Predator). Also, it was very weird that the Predators couldn’t kill a single Xenomorph, meanwhile the Colonial Marines couldn’t trip without blasting apart swarms of them. It felt like they really wanted to save money on the film in that regard.

AvP:R was even worse, with it being filmed with such a lack of lighting that people could not actually see any of the movie, and even modern advancements in color grading make it a strain. The human characters are awful, just absolutely boring and unremarkable beyond being veiled callbacks to characters from Alien, and we get a bunch of stupid Dawson’s Creek drama involving teenagers who look like they are 30 years old fighting over a girl who has no personality because she was written to just be “hot girl”.

If the story had focused entirely on the wife coming home from the war and dealing with the fact that her own daughter doesn’t feel close or comfortable with her after years of being gone, there could have been focus and themes and yadda yadda yadda.

Also, while this movie at least has horror aspects, did we REALLY need to see the Xenomorphs eating the fetuses and belly bursting out of still screaming mothers? Like, there is horror and then there is just being gross.

Final Thoughts

I often wonder if AvP took the wind out of the sails of Prometheus. Both play with the idea of humans worshiping aliens as gods, because Ancient Aliens is fucking everywhere, but it’s really hard to take Prometheus seriously when you remember AvP did basically the same setup (with arguably smarter characters).

And these movies have really soiled the idea of the AvP franchise barring the video games and comics. There’s apparently an AvP anime locked up in Disney Vaults and so far, both franchises have kept their respectful distances from each other.

However, with the recent successes of Alien: Romulus and Prey, there’s been a bit of a stir with some comments hinting at a potential AvP future.

Who knows. It’s been 17 years, perhaps 3rd time is the charm.

[cowboywritersworld]

A Rhea Ripley x Reader, where Reader gets a new neighbour, she doesn't see her at first because of both their working hours and when Reader sees Rhea is finally home, she prepares her a cake as a welcome gift?

Welcome home

General Masterlist | WWE Masterlist | Rhea Ripley Masterlist

Characters: Rhea Ripley, Reader

Prompt: A Rhea Ripley x Reader, where Reader gets a new neighbour, she doesn't see her at first because of both their working hours and when Reader sees Rhea is finally home, she prepares her a cake as a welcome gift?

If someone would have told you, years ago, that at some point you would be neighbour with a famous wrestler, you would have laughed.

For sure you don't live in a small city, but it's still kinda in the suburbs, so you are delighted when you discover that the well kept house has been sold.

Since you work full time as a physiotherapist, you get home in the evening to a truck unloading a couch. Someone in the house is giving direction on where to put it, but you can't really recall where you heard it from. You sigh and leave your things in your hallway, before walking to their door.

"Hi, I'm Y/N. Your neighbor. Welcome here." Your eyes widen as your gaze falls on none other than Rhea Ripley.

"Oh, hi! I'm Demi Bennett, if you follow wrestling you know me from there." She smiles at you and damn, if that was a dream, no one should wake you up.

"Yeah... I am a huge fan. Would you like to come in and drink something?" You ask her: you are not sure what you can actually offer, but you'll find something.

"I would love to, but. I have to follow this and then be as quick as possible on the road. I'll be back in three weeks though."

~ 3 weeks later ~

You notice that Rhea has come back on a Saturday evening, deciding to prepare a cake. The next day you ring her bell, a huge smile on your lips and the cake in one hand.

"Hi Y/N!. Come in, sorry about the mess. Do you want something to drink?" Rhea is gentle with you and you actually don't mind having her as a neighbor, taking care of her house when she is not there.

"I can care less about the mess, don't worry. I baked a cake for you, as a welcome in this neighborhood. I know you moved here some weeks ago, but between your traveling and my work as a physiotherapist, it has been difficult." You chuckle, scratching the back of your head. "Some juice would be great, whichever you might have, of course."

"Oh you are a physiotherapist? I could surely take you into consideration, if I get injured."

She tells more to herself, but she actually doesn't understand how much those words mean to you. You eat the cake together on her patio, spending the next few days she is in town together, to get to know each other better.

[phenixy-dunnhart]

WARNING ! SPOILERS for TLOVM season 3 and Campaign 1

I'm a bit sad with all the negativity in the tlovm tags following this new batch of episodes. Because all the usual appreciation and fun details pointing is drown in it. So I'll do my part and draw some light and appreciation for the following things:

"Allura can't teleport us 'cause we mind wind up in the ocean" Nice nod

The beauty of Glintshore sand? crystals ? I mean, I know the entire island isn't covered in it, but it's there and it's gorgeous

Vax and Grog banter, Pike and Vax friendship when she stole his badass line. Who says that the friendships in tlovm are not showed ? It's smaller because they're running out of time but if you keep both eyes open, you can catch the small moments.

How good was the delirium gas ?

Percy having bad Ripley PTSD ?Check.

Orthax forcing the (gas) mask on Percy's face ? Oh f*ck me that was so good.

Elaina's first appearence and Vex's heart torment ? Check

Vex fighting the gas messing with her mind and seeing Percy getting kidnapped ? Great

Her seeing Percy devoured by some hellish pain ? Awesome foreshadowing for Orthax feeding on Percy's soul

I won't dwell too much on ep 7 because I'm Perc'ahlia trash and this was pure gold but ALL their scenes.

And these two shots:

They're the last thing they think about before passing out. And look at them, they're looking at each other. Great parallels, great cinematography

You want more parallels ? You're not in enough pain ? I've got more ! How about this ?:

Percy cradling Vex because he doesn't want to lose her.

Vex cradling Percy because she lost him

MY HEART !!!!!!

Anyways back to our regular program: The color scheme in the factory is on point. Predominance of green during all Ripley's discussion with percy, some blasts of orange for Orthax.

This shot when they want to make us think Percy will go dark but also because he sincerly understand. He sees with her (green) eyes

Culminating in theses shots:

In the end, the true Percy is good (he's blue which is both his color and Vex's)

Then we got some nice Pike and Kiki character development with the delirium gas

Percy's fight with Ripley is pure display of his capacities and wits, not unlike Vex's fight against Saundor or Grog's fight against Kevdak. The fights with nemesis are always awesome, well choreographed and both characters and animators flexing.

And I like Grog's delirium both beacause it brings a bit of comic relief in this big painful episode but that's not all there is. Because when he gets out of it, he asks Pike if he hurt her again and you can't convince me that he didn't saw Craven Edge and the pain he inflicted Pike in his PTSD (not showed but we know)

Onto episode 8, love the Stilben flashback and the dead mystic cult leader being Taliesin.

The funeral was powerful and beautiful. The highlights being Cassandra crying her last family member and Vex'ahlia not saying the prayer despite being one of the Dawnfather.

Scanlan putting Kaylie's song music sheet on the altar for Percy breaks my heart. For him, he lost both of them and also he traded the life of his friend for moments with Kaylie (which he didn't even had, that's so sad)

Vox Machina assembling all of their allies with the beautiful OST was awesome while conserving this... heaviness. We're still grieving (at least I'm still am)

Vex and Syldor whole convesrsation. Laura Bailey, the talented woman you are and Troy Baker did a great job at humanizing him. though he's still a prick.

Vaxleth and Pikelan scenes were cute

We've got LARKIN mentioned and by Vax nonetheless !

Earthbreaker Groon and Grog doing the slapping hands/muscles flexing meme !

How brutal Thordak's attacks are in ep 8 and 9, all the people dying to rise up the stakes worked really well in my opinion.

Travis smarts piercing through Grog's 6 INT just like in the campaign

Earthbreaker Groon being a BAMF with that suplex

The teamwork going strong during all the fight

Zahra and Kash coming in to save the day. I love them your honor

My jaw dropped at Kashaw's badass magical attack. THAT WAS AWESOME and dropped further at his death. I couldn't believe it at first and as bold as a choice it was, I really liked it. Because it's a thing to kill NPC nameless army guys but killing a beloved character: that take some balls . And because of the unpredictability, the shock hit. I'm always here for the drama and it was beautifully done (the visuals for the Raven Queen and her powers are always as gorgeous as ominous).

Mary Elizabeth McGlynn also showing off her VA talent

In the end, every VM members getting his moment of glory :

Vex with getting the Syngorn army while being at her lowest/rock bottom ("The truth is the only bargaining chip at rock bottom", really nice parallels with the Stillben flashback + her using Percy's philosophy)

Grog destroying the lair

Scanlan getting them out of there at the peril at his life and ending up in a coma (nice subversion so there are not two dead party members followed up by two ressurections)

Keyleth being her badass elemental self (with her two gorgeous muscial leitmotives "blinded by the light" + "passing through the fire")

Pike being able to absorb Thordak -not red but- blue fire/laser which we saw went through Emon like butter. That's one MONSTAH move with beautiful beautiful colors (red yellow and blue mixing) look at this shot:

And Vax having the last kill, thinking of his mother doing this for Emon sure but most important for his mom, Vex and himself and what a beautiful shot and power move with the twisting golden and black torpedo that he is.

A great powerful death for a great powerful foe

And then some sorrow and sweetness. The Vaxleth back hug was adorable.

And that last shot of Keyleth after the confrontation with Raishan makes me long for more and to already be next week.

And that's some positivity and appreciation of CR work because they pour their heart and soul into these series and these characters and it's beautiful and I see it. I hope I could put some light on it at my small scale.

Have a great day and let's wait impatiently for next week and end of season 3

[rjschoicesstuff]

Mourning her humanity and what could've been her future

More thoughts/headcanon stuff + ramble + more older doodles under the cut

Ok I always imagine that they definitely would've had convo's about if Ripley's interested in ever becoming a vampire. And her answer's always been a firm 'No.' Like she loves gaining powers by drinking vampire blood and is perhaps even a bit addicted? to that? But in the end she sees that as the perfect mid way and in the end she'd want to live a human life. And yet they turned her anyway because she clearly wasn't ready to go yet either when they parted before Ripley faced the creator.

Like once she wakes up at first she's relieved, but then when she realises she's been turned she feels like they broke her trust I guess? But when asked if she thinks they should've let her die she gets real quiet too..

And she doesn't want to be mad at them but sometimes she'll have a moment. For a few days in the beginning she just wants to be sad in her room but I think eventually Cas would get tired of all that and drag her out of her room to just go do something exciting in the forest and it does help lol.

Especially in the beginning she thinks a lot about like, what this means for her life. I think she had a lot of vague future plans and things she saw as options. She really wanted to have kids one day, like she's so close with her mom I think she longs/longed to have that with her own future kids too, but that's off the table now obviously. She really hates the idea of being stuck in Crimson Beech forever too. She liked the idea of moving out for college and really getting a taste of independency, but that's scrapped too (maybe? Idk this one could still happen maybe I guess, an university on a leyline? Idk). It's weird to her that she'll forever be 19 and never get to see herself age.

She also really hates the bloodlust and how it makes her act, how she gets thoughts that don't seem like her own because she cares about people, of course she doesn't wanna hurt them!! And yet right now she notices that something in her mind is kind of dehumanizing humans, making it seem okay to chase after them and feed on them. Making her feel like that's just the way things are supposed to be.

I'm still figuring some stuff out with like my own version past book 2, cause I already started brainstorming before book 2 was announced and it's just too fun to scrap it all lol. I always felt more drawn to the idea of her mom's memory not being erased and her just being an alley to the vampires (tho I think they leave out the whole human hunting-thing (tho I have headcanons about all that too, but I won't get into that right now)). And Ripley moving into the Nexus for the time being, until she has herself under control, because it quickly becomes clear that it's dangerous for her to be around her mom or humans in general. I also imagine there's a lot less hostility from the other vampires especially because she saved everyone's asses like hello..!? And I imagine a lot of them really try to help her integrate and stuff. The trio would definitely still find themselves in trouble with (especially) Lewyn and Astoria though lol, like I wanted to keep the part with the silver brand for example.

She kinda goes through all 5 stages of grief regarding her vampirism and comes out of it accepting it. I think there'll always be some angst about some things but she won't be forever miserable about it at least.

[nieidic]

We are still waiting... my grandpa isn't doing well, he is still alive though. I love hearing small news from him every day, even though most of it is heartbreaking and sad.

I decided to stay a week longer and thankfully, it all worked out with the shifts that were originally planned for me at work. I also decided to start revising for my Diagnostics exam... my heart's not really in it and I'm not sure if I will take the exam, because who knows what will happen today, much less in mid-September, but for now it's something productive I can do when I feel like it. My concentration doesn't last as long as it usually does. But that's fine and I'm not forcing it.

Other than that, I started reading "Ripley Under Ground" by Patricia Highsmith last week and I think I love it more than the first Ripley book, actually, or maybe it's just the perfect book to take my mind off things right now.

[13eyond13]

Who are your top 5 fav characters from all media (can be manga, anime, movies, books, games, etc)?

omg another good question, but also one I find very difficult to answer!

Uh. Would it be incredibly lame of me to have several top 5 favourites all from Death Note 😆 I feel as though it's maybe just because I've spent an ungodly amount of time discussing and enthusing over them with other people in the fandom, and this is really the only fandom I've ever been involved in, but...

L Lawliet - my #1 fave since forever!!!

Light Yagami - it's like he's also my #1 fave due to the fact that I think he's so well-written, entertaining, layered, and fascinating to analyze. I can never quite stop trying to figure him out. But he took me a lot longer to fully warm up to and appreciate than L did

Tom Ripley (in The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith) - particularly/only in the first novel that he stars in. He's got such a soft-spoken and gently polite, keenly observant POV that I find really comforting and enjoyable to hang out with in spite of how much creepy and sinister shit is actually going on underneath the surface and behind the scenes with him 😅 Clearly I have a bit of a type in fictional faves??

Beyond Birthday (in the Another Note novel by Nisio Isin)- I just felt too bad at the thought of not including B here, I simply can't betray my stupid son like that. He's the only fictional character that has ever really inspired me to hop right into his head and attempt to take the reins through writing fanfics, after all. I definitely urge anyone in the fandom who hasn't read the LABB novel yet to read it if you want to know what a colourful character B is... fanon B often just doesn't quite reach the true heights of absurdity and awkwardness that the original B does

Those MIGHT be the only ones I ACTUALLY consider my top faves right now at the moment? I have had other ones in the past, but currently that's the only list that actually sprang to mind.

HOWEVER I'll give you a bonus fictional character that I found incredibly interesting to get to know recently:

5. Mary Katherine Blackwood (from We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson) - Merricat is the epitome of a unique and odd first person POV to inhabit. Her unreliable narrating and her childish worldview and her dark little habits and obsessive rituals makes for a pretty fascinating and disturbing read!

[hamliet]

Hello! @isammy7936 I'm not sure why this ask never showed up in my inbox despite appearing in my email? Tumblr what is u doing. I know I didn't delete it, also...

Anyways. Both, honestly. Sometimes--like in Harry Potter, TGCF, A Song of Ice and Fire, and RWBY--are very, very obviously heavily researched in terms of alchemy. Not only are the basic patterns of dissolve-coagulate stuck to, but there are specific references to historical alchemical works and art pieces. RWBY is going practically by the letter of Ripley's Scrolls and also incorporates a lot from Splendor Solis, for example. Shakespeare's use is also deliberate in a lot of his plays, but no surprise, because alchemy was like, very much still a thing rather than only a metaphor in his day.

Others, like say, My Hero Academia, definitely incorporate some influence but might be more loose with it? Like, the heart-mind-body trio of characters is originally from alchemy, yes, but it's been so commonly used within storytelling that it doesn't have to be deliberately set out to be an alchemical story to incorporate it--though some factors may be deliberate.

And even among the definitely-based-on-alchemy ones, there are differences in depth. Meaning, Trollhunters uses a lot of alchemy and it's deliberate. However, its allusion is more based on Jungian aspects than the hardcore, highly detailed medieval stuff that, say, RWBY and ASOIAF are using.

Speaking of Jung, a lot of Jungian ideas are based on identifying patterns that have always existed within stories across the world. He does in fact apply the patterns he noticed to alchemy, and incorporates more Freudian aspects like id, ego, and superego into his understanding of alchemy as well. So stories that touch on Jungian and/or Freudian tropes, or that use them even if not deliberately, can reference alchemy without intending too.

Plus, fairy tales use alchemy... a lot of the time. Some of it's deliberate. Some of it may well not be, but may in corporate it. Fairy tales and ancient stories really do influence modern stories, too, so alchemy's influence persists through this.

Finally, I think there are aspects of alchemy that culture recognizes at large even if not in these terms. The fire and ice motif, after all, shows up in many stories across the world, and it's chicken/egg in terms of which came first--the opposite association or alchemy.

[joleneghoul]

explaining references in my art pieces for fun part 1 (idk if i will do part 2 since this is just for fun.) under cut.

I want to start with a disclaimer that a lot of my art is based on the crazy shit in my own mind but a lot of that is grounded in stuff that has actually happened in canon because i actually do enjoy older canon at times lol. also this is just relation to canon stuff mostly I wont explain my whole flower language shit here.

I have a personal event document for canon events that only really diverges once it gets to Judgement Day etc etc.

Going to start with my piece that I call "Ripley and The 52" in my folder which is I guess the piece where I finally just said fuck it and went crazy.

There are a couple references to general comics but also booster and rip's arc in 52 ofc because that's what this piece is about. No Ted doesn't die, but their arc still happens (but a bit different).

First I'll address my constant use of nature in these works because the reason I do this (other than my own love for floral and insects) is mentioned within this arc. We have Mr mind who is this bug who is eating the multiverse essentially which is explained like a pest in a garden- only the garden is all of time and space and the flowers are everyone and everything whose ever existed and all their knowledge.

Since Ted is alive for this arc (I have other reasons to explain why Booster is acting the way he is) he plays his own part, this is mostly tech backup for Rip and Booster (as he is RECENTLY retired) and less physical stuff.

Basically threes a lot of Ted vs hating magic stuff as well. Time is a balance of both science and magic, and the magic side pisses him off a lot especially since this is one of his first experiences trying to handle that balance in awhile (especially not when dealing with Waverider). these bits are in reference to Ted. anyways while he's alive I did feel like paying homage to one of my favorite bits of that canon arc. They still use the scarab to fix Skeets and save time as I always loved the explanation that when things go randomly missing without explanation in the DC universe (as the scarab did) it's time travels fault.

I also thought "hey what if this is when we retrofit The Bug to do time travel" bc im silly like that.

Also since this arc has a lot of Mr mind you know I had to include the menace, this piece probably is what made me fall in love with him as a character. It is so funny to have cosmic beef with a worm.

The falling apart clock is actually a reference to Waveriders (diff Waverider- BUT i think it's funny he dies in issue 27 when that's how old my Waverider was when he BECAME Waverider.) death in 52 which while fucked up I always found so fun that it took place in a clock store. also check out that tiny bite taken out of the decoration of the Time Sphere lol.

We also have Hyperfly and the trail of planets he is eating that The Bug is flying through. sorry i made Hyperfly cute. There is also skeets in this piece who isn't actually Skeets but Mr Mind inside of Skeets. This is later the creation of Macromia.

Also What would this arc be without the iconic Booster faking his own public death and making himself pissed off as the Serious Super-Nova. (placed two stars next to them because they're both booster)

I also just threw in some other references to their adventures and antagonists in this piece with Starro, Waverider (though they have a minor part in this story itself), and in the paisley on the time sphere we have references to Chronos.

Which finally brings me to the hints at Rip's connections to Ted which start in this piece where he has a augmented clone of the BB-Gun Ted always uses. This is also shown in the "Jeff/Rip broken time" piece i did where Both the gun AND papers are strewn around labeled KORD industries. Unfortunately the writing on the papers in the final piece are impossible to see. Then the "back to the future" Parody piece with Ted and Rip is a reference to the name of the arc that introduces Rip to bg vol 1 lol.

I also want to note that my Rip wields both this gun and his Sword. I will get more into the sword later probably with future art but the Sword is magic and the gun is science based, another fun reference to the balance of time.

Anyways the whole point of this piece is that time gets broken and its in part Rip and Jeff's fault because you can't make a time machine without breaking a few timelines. Also a broken clock rip was gifted by his grandfather is a reoccurring visual metaphor in the actual Time Masters 1990 comic.

Also I will point out the clock is broken in this piece and rip has a wound on his head in the same spot the clocks broken. something something hinting at something.

Speaking of Jeff and Rip there are also a few comic easter eggs in the "Breakfast at the end of time" piece too. Not too many, just a mug that says 86 (when bg vol 1 and teds solo came out), and a tabloid that talks about Superman being missing and Mr Mind.

In the big Jeff/Rip peice i recently did that shows snapshots of their life together there is a reference to Time-1, which is Rip's Car in Time Masters 1990 as well as them in cowboy gear together because the issue that's Jeff centric in that series is based in the wild west (though that happens a lot different in my shit).

I also threw in a reference to Rip losing his eye when he's older because why not.

Finally my most recent piece "Cosmic Gardens" I'll explain the references because its yet another jumble piece lol. First we have all of the main time masters at least the ones that have roles in cosmic gardens (which is what i call the time masters story I'm working on for fun). Jeff, Jack, Tony, and Bonnie (Corky not included sorry Corky). Skeets is also there just because.

There is also a callback to the 52 piece with the wing of Mr Mind's hyperfly form which calls to the creation of Macromia during that event. 52 takes place in this Rip's future but his fathers pasts.

It's more difficult to explain this piece without mentioning non-canon stuff since most of these characters (including older Ted and Booster) are post divergence of the canon, even if these events actually take PLACE during that canon (time travel is a bitch).

I'm not sure yet how much I'd like to share regarding Macromia and the time gardens (all knowledge of time and space) or how her, waverider, and beetles are all connected in a way but i guess the easiest way to put it is that they're all essential to the ecosystem of this unthinkable place that exists in between the riverbanks of time.

Ted's part in the Vanishing Point VS Macromia's part in the gardens, Waverider's desires VS Macromia's oath, The existence of Rip as a paradox since birth, etc etc.

And while all these characters would think they're completely different they aren't and where does the next generation fall when all of this is happening and affecting them.

Circling back to Ted before I end this post I do want to also bring attention to these tiny details across my pieces like how in the "Back to the future" Ted and Rip piece, the stream of time connects to Vanishing Point which relates directly to Ted (and Rip, but Ted has a large part on how the Vanishing Point functions tech wise after Brainiacs help etc etc). You'll also notice the house on there looks a little familiar if you have a keen eye for unimportant details.

anyways this was fun to do lol!

[danwhobrowses]

My Highlights from WWE Survivor Series 2023

So it's time to move over to WWE for War Games, in an event set in a city that totally doesn't warrant someone to show up.

I have thoughts, but they're not positive thoughts, so we'll keep them to myself as much as I can, let's see what the wrestling has to offer.

Spoilers for the PPV

Belair working pink camo and double braids (seems to be a pink theme to the babyface team)

Becky however doesn't come in pink visualizing the fact that she's not on the same page as her teammates

Damage CTRL all in masks

Like that we have a camera atop of the cage for a bird's eye angle

Nice stuff from Bianca with the moonsault landing to a double DDT

Pop-up elbow drop onto a chair riddled Shotzi was a good spot

Clever to use the chain to give Iyo a trash can for the dive spot

Asuka finally introduces the table

Bayley making big saves

Oh hey R-Truth

Like Dragon Lee's name plate graphic

Santos trying to go Halloween Havoc by ripping Lee's mask

Awesome superkick from Santos though

Ripley with the good hair

Nice twisting senton from Stark

Starting the men's war games with a dive to set the tone

Do you think Michael Cole was told to keep referring to Priest's old name Punishment Martinez?

'El Generico somewhere...'

The big drop RKO was great

Conclusion This will be a show more remembered for its ending than its action.

The wrestling wasn't bad, for the most part though it hardly left second gear, some matches just couldn't grip the whole way through and Santos vs Dragon Lee needed much more time. I've spoken before about how it often feels that the bar of success is lower in WWE than others, and a show like this doesn't really change my mind especially in comparison to Full Gear. But we'll see where it takes them

And Phil, try not to self destruct again.

Match of the Night: Gonna go with the Women's War Games. Best Entrance: Damage CTRL Best Attire: Bianca Belair's camo, because we all know she makes it herself Best Performance: Bayley Spot of the Night: Orton's RKO on McDonagh when dropped from the cage

[essayofthoughts]

Which version (i.e the comics, cartoon, original campaign art, other fanart, etc.) of Percy and Vex do you typically visualize when you write your stories? Is that version of them your favorite?

This is probably gonna sound kind of arrogant but for the most part, none of them? Like, certain things have influences on how I tend to envision the characters but I'm not a terribly visual thinker or writer; if you look at my fics you'll note I tend to dwell much more in emotion and tactile senses than I do visual. It's kind of why I envy people like my dear friend @cosmonauthill or the excellent @exhaustedwerewolf - both have this fantastic knack for creating a single striking visual that helps you build out a scene or a character in your mind from that.

Like. At the end of the day there's only one art piece that I tend to really look to as a visual guide for any of the characters and that would be This Fantastic Piece of Percy and Orthax from the lovely @agarthanguide, and that's more to do with the artistic style of the piece (which. I just love) and the fact Hannah is a dear friend who's art I've enjoyed for a long time, meaning I'm biased towards her art anyway.

As it is, I don't particularly care for the animated series - I find the designs too simplified to the point that they're boring to me, and I'm someone who likes the animated shows I watch to have a clear style; to me the animated series looks altogether too much like many other shows.

The comics are fine, I guess, but they don't really stick out much to me, and I have nitpicks about a few things in the fanart of others - namely that a lot of people draw half-elves' ears like they're full elves. If they're half elves, then elven ears would be like those of the World of "we have an ear fetish" Warcraft elves and I find those kinds of ears just to just... beggar belief. I need a bit of verisimilitude and the ear size/prominence is a nitpick for me.

I certainly take cues from some art. I used a mixture of the comics art and the group picture done by AnenomeTea to judge the height differences of Vox Machina, which, yes, I did sit down and do, I'm like that, and I love @crithaus' golden freckles idea for Vex, I like the sheer ludicrousness of Vex's hair in @alienfirst's art, and I like how long and awkward Percy's face is in the comics, but I also like the art of @2impostors which always makes him look like his nose has been broken at least once (a headcanon I share) and I also like just how young he looks in the original stream portraits with that round face. It really brings home that he was only a teen when he went through so much. That's another reason I really like alienfirst's art as well, because they similarly give Percy a rounded, young looking face - though I personally tend more towards how Hannah - agarthanguide - draws Percy's hair than anyone else.

And that's before we get to specific AUs of mine - Percy's differently weathered and worn in Delia AU and Ripley's Assistant because he wasn't physically tortured; in Ghost Cass he's much better rested and doesn't look so sleepless, and of course for Tiefling AU, I lean very much towards the lovely art @blorbologist did.

So... yeah. What visuals I do have are very much a mishmash of personal opinion and specific AU, and while I might take cues from this and that it doesn't really create a single coherent image so much as a few specific details I can then write in for people to apply to their own image of Percy. Hope this answers your question!

[sharoscylla]

1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 13, 14, 17, 19 for whoever comes to mind and seems most interesting/you want to talk about most with each question (feel free to do multiple also if you want!

Oooh, I'll run through a few OCs with this one. Under a cut because of the subject matter (abuse, child abuse, child neglect, child sexual abuse, incest, transphobia, uh... certainly other things, my OCs are going through it)

What memory would the OC rather forget: you know I realized I give a LOT of my OCs memory problems now that I look at this... let's do Ripley here, even though the act of becoming Ripley by default means that at 18 she forgets 80% of her life in one fell swoop and pretends that she forgets the other 20%. Like yeah, she wishes she could forget having been abused and abandoned by the one person she thought she could count on. She doesn't remember his name but she wishes she could forget that she just wasn't good enough for him, or their parents, or anyone else. She wishes she could forget that her mom treated her body like something she owned and could reshape and dress and undress and move. She wishes she could forget having spent most of her childhood desperately trying to please that woman and never understanding what she was doing wrong.

something about my OC people wouldn't expect from looking at them: for aleksei/oeddie, no matter what the setting, people don't expect him to be conversationally fluent in multiple languages. (part of that is because he usually looks like a big, rough biker-gang criminal/space pirate criminal, part of that is because the people who know him know he's illiterate and visibly treat him like he doesn't understand what's going on. in Humility it's just that he's a big out-of-fashion country boy shyly clinging to the person he came with... for like 3 centuries lmao)

my OC's fatal flaw+do they know about the flaw: I think a common flaw my OCs tend to have is a complete lack of faith in other people, to a certain extent. they're generally people who have been so badly hurt and used in their lives that they don't believe other people are even really capable of caring about or helping them when they need it, so they often just try to stick it out on their own when times are rough, even to the exclusion and hurt of the friends and family they do end up with. some versions of Kip, Ripley, and Grim end up with the inverse, where they're convinced that no matter how good or caring other people are, they're uniquely viscerally off-putting/spiritually sick in a way that makes people loathe, dislike, or ignore them. this tends to overlap with some pretty debilitating and intense mental illnesses though, so I'm not sure if it counts as a flaw in some cases.

5. how far is my OC willing to go to get what they want: it's really an interesting question because i think it kind of... illuminates that a lot of my OCs tend to be inserted into situations where they've been stuck in survival/reaction mode for so long they have a hard time conceptualizing wanting something beyond that. Cricket, Nal, and Ripley all want similar things for different reasons, and all end up questing to (and eventually, succeeding in) kill a god or gods, but they're in situations where the price for doing so - your own humanity and peace of mind - are worthless to them because of their damaged pasts. Aleksei very clearly wants Jonah M (not an OC lol) to love him, but isn't willing to accept that the price of Jonah M's love is either changing himself or changing Jonah M. Kip wants to be wanted by her parents, but in her refusal to accept the reality of who they are has adopted intense delusions about what would be necessary to gain their love and willingly destroys her own life, even to the point of trying to destroy her own personality and identity and disappearing off the face of the earth, just to do what she thinks is necessary to get the attention she needs to be valuable to them, despite the pretty clear evidence that nothing she will ever do will get them to care about her.

7. one way my OC has changed since I came up with them: this is a fun one actually. Ripley and Oeddie/Aleksei came from the same OC, Oedipus "Oeddie" Lastname (the last name changed for different settings,) which was a character that my 17 year old self did NOT know was a trans dude because my 17 year old self did not know, in 2003-2004, that this was an option for people. So a huge part of that character was "person who'd grown up extremely isolated with a pack of shitty brothers and no one else, who didn't know Girl was an option until escaping this family and who over-performed Girl as a way of denying childhood/past family roles despite loathing and resenting Girl." (not to get too deep into it, but the character was first developed for forum-based and IRC-based RP, so some settings I did get to play Oeddie 95% as "Boy who is going to get a big surprise the first time anybody actually sees him without a suit of power armor" and others I was told I did not have the option of playing an AFAB boy/man, so take it as you will lol.) Anyway, I made some significant changes to the Proto-Oeddie to create Gabriel Leonhardt, a big strong post-apocalyptic woman who was somewhat adopted by a gunslinger-type guy named John Leonhardt in a gladiator ring and eventually rescued by some of his fellow gunslingers just after she was forced to kill him. (You can see where Ripley came from, here, haha.) I adapted Gabe into Ripley because I watched Gravity Falls for the first time right after watching the kill bill movies for the 20th time, and i was seized with a vision. Ripley still really clearly has her roots in Proto-Oeddie, though. Oeddie/Aleksei now is just the exact same character with the exact same backstory except I, the writer, know trans people exist. Other than actually getting to be a man, there aren't very many changes to him at all, except like 6 or 7 years ago I decided he was a supertaster who would make a master chef with a little bit of training and encouragement. (And frankly, Nal is an expansion of Ripley - a fantasy/horror setting paladin that's a fusion of Ripley and Bea.)

13. if i met my OC, would the two of us get along: MOST OF MY OCs, YES, WE WOULD GET ALONG. Like, a lot of satellite OCs no, we would hate each other - people's parents and siblings, in most cases. The OCs that are kids typically wouldn't but only because by the nature of their wretched childhoods they don't tend to trust or like strange adults, but most of them would, in adulthood, get along fine with me.

14. how does my OC want to be seen by other characters: I think the overwhelming consensus is that my OCs want to be seen as worthy of love, or at least useful. Kam (visually impaired deer alien) wants to be seen as a vicious badass that's too tough to fuck with, partly because people have taken advantage of her in the past and partly because she's scared of what she does and who she is when pushed past the threshold of violence. Kam (grey jedi/sith/archaeologist) wants to be seen purely as an expert in her field, because an enormous amount of the grief in her life comes from people having punished or overlooked her for failing to meet their standards in areas she was not skilled or talented in. Something I'm having fun exploring with my florida turtle tmnt iteration is that Raph and Mikey specifically want to be seen as Normal Boys to the point that it's all they want.

17. what's the worst thing I have put my OC through, story-wise: oh my gosh. was it Natashoggoth sinking her tongue into Ripley's brain and showing her that Ford doesn't need her the way she needs him? Was it Kip and Jo screaming on the pavement, Jo holding Kip back because there's no way their three best friends/bandmates/the loves of their lives survived that fiery bus crash? was it space!Oeddie pinned to the ground as his brother destroyed his right hand and bit a chunk out of his left ear as he screamed that nobody was going to take Oeddie away again?

19. how does my OC behave when enraged: it's hard to say! like. the vast majority of my OCs have backgrounds as abused, neglected children whose emotional responses were brutally policed and who were often at the whim of people whose anger was a capricious, terrifying thing. A lot of these characters bottle up or stifle their anger, beating it down as a form of self harm, until they explode or lash out. Ripley is probably one of the healthier ones here, in that she's been trained to use her anger as a sort of stubborn survivalist motivator in most situations. Though sometimes her anger tips over into single-minded destruction, self-harm, and often arson, it was specifically her human rage at seeing Bill inhabit Ford for even a few seconds that drove her to bodyslam Bill/Ford into a literally infinite pit of magical fire.

[whisperingintoavoid]

Blog 3-19-2024

I have started a new blog. Again.

The main purpose of this blog will be to actually blog. Like, how people used to blog back when the Internet was still a baby. I'm just going to write about my life. What's going on with me and stuff.

And the thing is, I know no one cares and I don't expect this blog to see any action. I just kind of miss when people used to do stuff like this. Just talking about what's happening to them. In a real, genuine way. I hope that doesn't sound preachy.

But really, everything is so... fake now? Whenever people vlog on YouTube or TikTok or anything, it feels so manufactured. Like it was created with an audience in mind. It's trying to capture your attention and entertain you. It wants you to like and subscribe and follow and comment and give them money. And it's not that I don't like money. In fact, I wish I had a lot more of it. But I wanted to create something real, I think.

I'm tired of the over the top personalities and over-editing and people making their lives look perfect on a screen. It feels so unrealistic and the weirdest part is that we tend to fall for it.

So here's a blog specifically for blogging.

I blogged a little bit on my main blog, but I reblog a shit ton of stuff about my interests on there to the point where I couldn't even find the last blog/diary entry I posted. And that's the other half of the reason why I started this one.

ANYWAY, I think I should just jump to where I start talking about myself.

So first of all! My previous partner and I broke up in early November last year. Which was kind of crazy because we were together for 3 and a half years. We were engaged. Shit was bananas.

It was kind of a quiet break up, though. Like, no fighting really. Leading up to it, I mean. It was mutual, too. Neither of us were really happy anymore. In fact, I don't think either of us were happy for a pretty long time.

And looking back on our relationship, I feel like it should've been more clear to me that we shouldn't have been together. Not romantically, at least. And it's insane to think about how much I pined over this person, how much I cried over them, how I wanted them so badly it burned like a nebula through my chest. But by the end of our relationship, I had to convince myself I still loved them in a romantic way. And I think that says a lot about who I used to be and maybe even who I still am.

When I met my previous partner, (I think I will refer to them as Ripley), it was online through a dating app. And they had a partner at the time. They and their partner were supposed to be poly, but... well, you've heard the stereotypes, I'm sure. Their partner was allowed to date other people and sleep with other people and basically do whatever they wanted. But Ripley kind of just had to do whatever their then-partner wanted. They were barely ever allowed to see me and their partner was extremely jealous.

In fact, they accused me of copying them because we both have a tattoo of a tooth? I gave myself my tooth tattoo years before I even knew this person existed, let alone that they also had a tooth tattoo. Shit was bonkers.

Anyway, things escalated and eventually Ripley wasn't allowed to be my friend or even talk to me anymore. And at this point I thought I was in love with them. Which, looking back was actually kind of crazy because I had barely spent all that much time with them or even really gotten to know them on a personal level very well. But I was so smitten with them and wanted to be with them so badly.

For the sake of brevity, I'll cut out how we ended up together, but maybe I'll write a different post explaining it at some point. Just to add context and extend the lore. Even though I'm probably going to be the only person who interacts with this blog. So I guess I'm just cataloging my whole life? I don't know.

ANYWAY, in retrospect, I really didn't know shit about Ripley when we started dating. I didn't know how bad of a temper they had. I didn't know how much they didn't like cuddling. I didn't realize that they were a bad kisser. I didn't know how averse they were to touch and that apparently it's one of my main love languages. I didn't realize how much they didn't listen, how much we didn't have in common, how much we barely had any real conversations.

And by the end of our relationship, I honestly still didn't realize some of those things. I didn't realize that I just genuinely wasn't attracted to them anymore. If anything, I was turned off by them. Their temper, their reluctance to touch, the way they always assumed everything was about them.

I wasn't happy being with them anymore. I wasn't UNhappy necessarily. We didn't fight all that often. We almost never shouted at one another in all our years together. We never put our hands on each other in a violent way.

But it was so unfulfilling. It felt more like we were roommates than anything else. I'd go as far as to say that we didn't even feel that much like friends. It was like we were both just going along with the motions because that was what we were meant to do. I didn't kiss them before they left for work because I loved them and hated to see them go and needed to see them off because I'd miss them while they were gone. I kissed them before they left for work because that's what we did every morning. I didn't hold their hand when we were at the store together because I wanted everyone to see that we were together and in love and because I wanted to be touching them. I held their hand at the store because that's what we always did.

We never cuddled at night. In fact, we both had our own blankets. They hated when I touched their face because my hands are usually a little sweaty. They hated me touching their hair because I'd mess it up. They'd get annoyed if I asked them to get me something from the kitchen. They had such bad road rage that I now have anxiety whenever I'm in the car with someone and we get a red light.

And yet I stayed for so long. It felt like... "Well, we've been together for so long... may as well stay together". It felt like breaking up would be failing. Like losing. I wanted to be that person that finds their soulmate at a young age. I wanted it to be impressive how long we'd been together. I wanted to feel official. Grown-up maybe. I'm still only 23, it's not like I'm old. Being with someone since you were 23 is still impressive if you make it to like, 40-50. But I guess I wanted to say that I found my husband when I was 19. There's just something about that. High school sweethearts. Something romantic. I don't even really know what it is. Maybe just knowing so young. Not having had anyone else. Not that Ripley was my first partner. But still...

There was also some sort of pressure. I think just about all your friends knowing you've been together for so long. Like, that your names go next to each other in sentences and you've been a package deal for so long, like it's just a canonical fact of the universe that you two are written together. Into every scene.

And then one day... you're just not. It feels like shattering an illusion. Like telling a kid that Santa isn't real or explaining a magic trick to someone. It's not real, at least not anymore. It's changed. It's not what it was. It's like hearing peanut butter and jelly broke up. Or milk and cookies. Or the moon and the stars. "But those things just go together."

"Not anymore."

Looking back now, it's weird seeing my face next to theirs. It feels like I'm looking at a mouse and a snake who are best friends. Or seeing a bird underwater. Seeing a dog lick itself like a cat. Seeing a cat playing fetch.

But then there are other times where I look at those pictures of us and it feels like seeing a picture of yourself and your childhood best friend before you moved away and never spoke to each other again. Or a home video of your child-self playing with a relative you can only vaguely remember, if at all. But they're good half-memories and you wish you could recall more about them. Their smile, what made them laugh, how they walked, how their arms felt around you.

I don't know, man, my gummy just kicked in.

I don't really know where I was going with all that. What is bro yapping about?

I think the main thing is that my fiance and I broke up after 3 and a half years together last November. And sometimes it still feels a little weird. Lesser and lesser, though.

I'm not sad. I don't want that to go unsaid. I don't miss our relationship. Not one bit. In fact, I don't think you could pay me to date them again. I'm glad we broke up. I think we should've done it sooner, actually.

When I talk about it feeling weird, I'm more so talking about how strange it feels to not have a person there who used to be there all the time. Like when you move something off an old shelf and there's a circle of dust around where it used to be. And everything else on the shelf is perfectly in place and untouched except for that one empty, perfect circle. Like your brain can feel the empty spot where they used to be.

There are a lot of other things about breaking up, though. Like having to tell your parents. Your parents, who you know don't really like your partner in the first place. And having to tell your friends who you know are going to roll your eyes because this is the fourth fucking time you're breaking up and you have to be like "No, for real this time." Having to decide who gets what.

But really, I think the thing that scared me the most about breaking up was the fear of being alone.

As much as I hate to admit it, I was really dependent on Ripley. I didn't work much, I didn't drive, I didn't have a car, I'd never had to pay my own bills. In a lot of ways, I relied on them. And I was scared of not having that. I was scared of being alone, even outside of my needs. I was scared of having an empty space next to me. I felt like one half of a pair, like a Barbie doll whose Ken was taken out of the package.

I have a boyfriend now. Actually, I started seeing him, like, a week after my ex and I broke up. And I know how that sounds, especially after that last paragraph. But when I say I hadn't intended on dating anyone for a long while, I mean it.

In fact, I was kind of excited to be single again. I was ready to have my single era and just flirt with whomever I wanted and maybe sleep around a bit. I didn't want to be locked down so quickly again.

But meeting my boyfriend, I didn't want that anymore. I didn't care about being locked down because I didn't care to go anywhere else anyway.

I think my next blog post will be about him and how we met and ended up dating. This specific post honestly was supposed to be a general life update, but I guess I had more I wanted to get off my chest about breaking up than I realized. I feel, even now, like there's more I want to say but can't think of how to verbalize it. I'm now good and properly high.

TL;DR, breaking up with someone after 3 1/2 years together feels weird and can be a little scary. Also I'm high.

~*Theo*~

[nyantry]

"Raincheck me then," he said with what anyone else might have interpreted as an innocent smile, but was really some form of hidden chaos, like the way Lisbeth got extra peaceful and sweet when there was something she was preparing to knock off a table and smash, or like a dog unwilling to reveal what it ate that it shouldn't have.

But then, just like that, "No popped lungs! Hurts to breathe but that's the ribs. Lungs feels fine," he quickly assessed. "On second thought... That would mean broken wouldn't it? Fuck." Nico was right, he really was in no shape. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Laughing hurt. Whatever. He'd be fine, he was absolutely without a doubt certain about it. He didn't even really care. No, his mind was elsewhere already. This would be a long raincheck if those ribs were broken, and that... That sucked. He was contemplating whether it woulda been worth it to push through anyway, later, at home, when Nico interrupted the thought with whatever it was he had just said.

He missed the comment about being dead on arrival and didn't even bother trying to piece it together, nor did he bother asking about it. Instead, he kissed Nico. "You so love me, you'd wear croc martens for me. That's love! You love me, I love that."

Jeff took Nico's order and brought it along with Dmitry's. Later, he also brought the food. He'd brought a burger patty for Lisbeth, and for Dmitry and Nico some mozarella sticks. The plate of mozarella sticks was an especially large one and it contained twice the amount that the appetizer normally consisted of. He was fully aware Dmitry wouldn't eat all that, but he'd after some trial and error figured out that if he served it that way, it influenced Dmitry's perception some, and he'd eat more. He only ever charged them for the regular appetizer, though, never double.

Dmitry heard the tune change to whatever Nico had picked on the jukebox, and as soon as he recognized it, he grinned. "You pick all the best songs. You got another dime? I wanna queue more stuff, for fun y'know." He was fiddling with the straw wrapper from Nico's drink, and trying hard not to shift in his seat too much, though he occasionally did anyway and clearly regret it instantly. He couldn't quite help it, though; he was getting antsy.

But right.

Focus.

"Ellen Ripley and Vázquez, no contest," he answered about the Mean Girls table before continuing.

"Love me some tough friends at my table. Now, here's the thing, so— I've been tailing this guy for a few weeks now, he keeps disappearing on me, it's bizarre. And he's a certified asshole, okay. A whole asshole, garbage person. So today, I don't know, I couldn't sleep and I left the house cause I thought there was a pattern here with the places I've seen him at, and whaddaya know, I found him. Damn near walked into him, not my sneakiest. Not my best. Lisbeth must be disappointed, I'm sorry Lis," he apologized with a smile to the cat, who was busy eating.

He seemed to suddenly realize there was food for him and Nico too on the table, and quickly set aside a few mozarella sticks for himself in a calculated move. Jeff was right, it skewed his perception, but not by much. He grabbed one and took a bite, which he was half-chewing as he continued explaining.

"So I'm face to face with the guy," he swallowed the bite, "and he's all watch where you're going and I step aside but then I let him walk a few steps so I'm not tailing him too hard, and I follow him to that corner which by then had no one around, so I take a chance and confront the guy. I pin him against the wall and say a few choice words, he's so confused because he has no clue who I am, and then I mention a place and it clicks, he knows I know. He knows. So now he's trying to convince me I didn't see that, that it wasn't what it looked like, yadda yadda, I don't give a shit, and I pushed him aside so I could... Look, a gun woulda been too kind. He doesn't deserve gunshot. That's too quick."

He sipped some of Nico's drink, having forgotten entirely that he meant to order his own, and shrugged with one shoulder. "I don't know, he landed one on my face," he pointed to the bloody lip, "and I got him right here," he reached to poke Nico softly at the soft spot right under the ribs, "which he didn't like. He was talking to me, I can't remember half of what he was blabbering about, but then I don't know. He shoved me against the wall and he told me something I—" He shook his head with a small frown, keeping the words to himself this time. "I guess it caught me off-guard, that's when he got me in the ribs." He cleared his throat. "With his foot. Knocked the air outta me for a bit there so he got away. I suppose it woulda happened eventually, they say the darndest things and they all sound like they're a hivebrain."

"Woah-ho-ho-ho." Nico chuckled under his breath at the way Dmitry made his point.

"Don't get me going, boy. You're in no shape." He kept laughing softly as he made subtle adjustment before moving along.

"They do." He agreed. Broken ribs suck. Nico had had his fair share. "As long as you didn't puncture a lung. We should be good." They rarely did anything but wrapped you up from cracked ribs. It had to be really bad before they took real action and punctured lungs made a person look sick pretty fast.

"I don't know. I think you were also dead on arrival, so touché." Nico forever contemplated the fact Dmitry was basically a walking Lazarus to begin with.

The cozy corner was also Nico's favorite becaus it was over sized for them. It kept people that much farther away from them. It was a pretend barrier. Their space. No outsiders. VIP's only if they felt like inviting guests to come over and talk with them. Nico was like his own version of Mean Girls only his group would never be composed of plastics. His group would be more like the Goth Version Meme found on shirts now. The meme never made much sense to him considering all the women on the meme were either LGBTQI icons or known for their inclusivity. But, he still found humor in it. Thoughts of the meme had a way of drifting into his head whenever they sat at their table.

Okay, running scrub patterns by Dmitry was one thing, but what the fuck did he just say? "Croc what? Please tell those aren't real? No fucking way? Shoot me now. Just shoot me. But as a nurse, as a goth, I'd wear them. Shoot me anyway."

Then there was that stach. The mustache that fired up all things jealous inside Nico. It was mother fucking magnificent. He was sitting there and if a mind reader was in the room they'd hear him locked on thinking, "If I put Miracle Grow on my face I'd never get a stach as thick and stunning as that man's. Dear God why hath thou forsaken me?" The few times he uses God's name and this is what he thinks it for.

All this was going on in Nico's brain while the other two were having their exchange Nico didn't know to be clever or smartly faux offended, but he liked watching Dmitry be. He also found it nice being called part Dmitry in any way. He wouldn't have been offended even if he used the term Mrs. His brain didn't work that way when people joked. He just smiled, tipped his head.

"I got him covered." He assured making it known Dmitry would be taken care of. No need to interfere. Then he ordered a standard Jack n Coke. Nothing fancy to the palate. Then he decided, "Make that two." He wanted to make sure he'd have them stacked back to back. He knew how fast the first would go down and then he'd sip slower at the next.

"Hold up." Something about Dmitry saying Jefferson Starship made Nico need to find the Juke Box and put on the Mannequin song by Starship. Everything went back to a music reference in his head. He couldn't help it. "Sorry, I love that old movie. Had to do it."

He was jamming his head back and forth to the old tune as he sat down with his drink. He was seriously jamming too. Nico has a distractable mind. It was practically a serenade in his head to who was sitting across from him he was so smitten he was still the one Dmitry came to in moments like this.

Then oh. Right questions. What did he want to know?

"Uh, you mean besides who would be in your Mean Girl group if you could pick any four people besides yourself in the world, fictional or not?"

He waved his hands. He knew Dmitry meant about what happened tonight. It was just something like this couldn't get Nico down because damn, Dmitry came to him. That's all that mattered here. They'd get through it. "Well, before we start just let me say, I know at least one of mine would be Daria. Daria hands down, all the way. I'd want Daria and Jane Lane at my table. They can sit with us."

But okay really.

Focus.

What did he want to know? His smile started to fade because he usually let Dmitry be in charge of what he wanted to share about this subject of his life. It was sort of the unwritten rule of their boundaries they always abided by. Actually, once a long ago in the past Dmitry even said it was something he had to do alone and Nico left it at that. He just had that respect ever since then. But, it seemed Dmitry wanted to share now, but for some reason needed him to ask to get it to come out. So, even though what normally felt invasive for Nico to pry into he said, "Well, actually I'd like to hear what happened basically. Just the story of how it went down tonight. I wouldn't mind a play by play."

"How'd it happen?"

He always wanted to hear more. After all this time maybe this was the day? His chest was a little fluttery at the anticipation, like when a crush says your name. Maybe, just maybe after all this time he was trusting him with more?

[morgana-ren]

Come Down to the Black Sea III

Summary: The sea seems to call to you, but it’s not the tumultuous clash of the waves you should fear. Something lurks deep beneath the black waters, something sinister with a piqued interest and ill intent.

Rating: Explicit 

Warnings: Siren!Shigaraki, graphic depictions of violence, heavy sexual innuendo, implied noncon, foul language, sexual tension you can cut with a knife, and just general sexual grossness. Joking daddy kink also, if you count that. 

PART I, PART II

Here you go! The third installment. Your seafaring friend finds your hot button and decides to plant some lovely ideas in your brain. Listening to them probably is not the smartest idea in regards to keeping your heart beating, but it certainly gets your thighs clenching. 

Taglist: @lemonzoey​, @babayaga67​

You know, it's really rough to explain to your superiors at work why you're so distracted when it happens to be because a mythical being is giving you the cold shoulder. 

You’re not entirely certain why it bothers you so much that your last encounter with him ended rather sour. He had made it perfectly plain from the get-go that his intent with you was far from pure. Murderous, in fact. He had almost drowned you on your first meeting and insulted you incessantly during your second. Not exactly a friendly track record. 

Regardless, he’s made a permanent home crawling beneath your human skin, like some itch you can’t scratch away. You can try to justify it however you’d like, but you can’t ignore the truth. In a word full of mundane existence, you’ve found an oddity and as much as you’d like to pretend you aren’t, you’re drawn to it. It’s part of why you returned to the beach despite the clear and present danger. You’d found a living, breathing mermaid. Even more impressive, you’d managed to piss him off.

Mermaid? Is that accurate? He’s so sensitive to being classified wrongly, but still never told you what he was. Considering the circumstances, maybe you should be a little bit more concerned about other things rather than offending him, but it still bothers you. 

Your ignorance isn’t due to lack of trying. You’ve done extensive research in the spare moments you have during the day, but nothing quite matches his description no matter how deeply you delve into the weirder parts of the internet, even going so far as to browse around on conspiracy sites on the darknet. Mermaid? Merman? Siren? Fish-guy? Some distantly related offspring to that Ripley’s Believe it or Not monkey fish? Relentless searching proved fruitless. Plenty of old sun-crazed fishermen claim to have seen merfolk in the waters or sirens on the rocks, but more often than not, it was a walrus or stage 4 sea madness. No one had a legitimate account of meeting with a real, intelligent creature of the deep. Nothing that came remotely close to him, anyway.

Despite being unable to focus at your job, getting home only doubles the anxiety. Restlessly sitting and twitching on the sofa, repeatedly trying and failing to read or watch some vapid TV show. You’re unable to keep your mind from returning to the ocean, to him no matter how hard you try. 

Over the course of time, you become acutely aware that staying home clearly isn't an option, but you're not really sure what to say to him if you see him again. Why do you even care? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring him? You can excuse your obsessive thoughts about him since most people would have the same reaction to seeing something supernatural not once, but twice in front of their very eyes, but a lot of people wouldn’t continuously return to see it especially if it was malevolent. 

You love that preemptively planning what to say to a sentient supernatural sea dweller is a part of your day. That's awesome. Can't look that one up on google. 

You’ll compromise with your compulsiveness instead. Go a little early and watch the sun set down over the horizon instead of watching the moon rise. Most parents won't allow their children near your rock because it’s slippery and dangerous, and frankly, you don't think he'll show up when others can see him. He’s deadly, but a mob of terrified parents and curious beach goers has few rivals. 

Maybe you can get your fill before he appears. It's better to keep away from him anyway. He wants you dead. 

He wants you dead, you remind yourself.

And so you do. Tread the sandy trail down to your favorite little hideyhole and plop down on the hard surface. You kick your feet absentmindedly on the rock beneath you, watching the small particles of sand splay and regather with every motion of your foot. The crash of the waves, still tumultuous and ornery, slap the side of your makeshift perch and splash you with speckles of water every few moments. You don't mind. You needed to shower anyway.

You can't help but feel a bit more lonely than normal, even surrounded by so many more people than you usually are. Flustered moms urge their children in from the shore to wipe them down with towels and flighty young twentysomethings hoot and holler, laughing loudly as they pile into their cars to find their next big spot for the night. The moon rises and the beach empties, leaving you alone again. The ocean settles, and even though it feels better, you feel alone.

You close your eyes, resting your head sideways on your knees with your arms buckled around your legs. You're close to the edge, precariously so. You just want to be close to the water. You should move back.

In. out. in. out. in. out. in. out.

The waves seem to move in line with the beating of your own heart, a tranquil feeling that dulls your restless thoughts and engulfs you in quiet solace. The hum of the ocean resonating deep within you with each breath you take of the briny air.

You're aware enough to recognize that the sound of the sea is luring you into a false sense of comfort. The darkness seeping over the horizon doesn't make it easier, and soon your slowly wandering mind is on the brink of unconsciousness. You're dangerously close to falling asleep, and given the circumstances, that probably isn't the best idea, especially since you're precariously close to the water. 

You can't help it, it's been one hell of a week. You haven’t slept. Haven’t relaxed. Haven’t felt at home in so long...

Listen, there's no guide online to look at that can help you through what to do when a malevolent fish-man hybrid has decided he wants to drown you. You can imagine it would say something along the lines of 'Stop going near the water then, dumbass' but that's like asking a religious person to stay away from church. It's the one place where you feel any semblance of peace, and you'll be damned if you're going to let the moonlight water marauder take that from you. 

Still, it makes things in your life exponentially more difficult when you can't explain to anyone what's on your mind. 

'Yeah, I met a mer...thing, and he's decided that he hates me and he wants to drown me, and that makes me sad. The one supernatural creature I get to meet and he doesn't like me. Bummer.'

They'd probably have you committed. That’s a bit much even for your eccentric proclivities. 

Your body occasionally jerks you awake, probably its way of saying 'You cannot sleep when there are enemies nearby', but it feels like it's been weeks since you've had a decent night's sleep. The endless procession of days marked by existential crisis with the tacked on bonus of being aware of the existence of a nefarious fairy tale creature makes everything feel awfully surreal. It feels as if you've been running on pure adrenaline and are about to crash. Hard.

If you were smart, you'd go home and try to bank on the feeling of sleepiness currently plaguing you, but you just can't bring yourself to move. Even barring the flaxen haired fish dude just chomping at the bit to drag you under, napping this close to the sea is a bad idea in general. Tides change rapidly and all it would take is a few minutes of you being unaware for the waves to snag you and haul you off to a watery grave. They'd probably never find you, just like the others who disappear here at night. 

But that's probably his doing, isn't it?

What does he do with the bodies exactly?

You really wish he wasn't trying to kill you, cause you have an endless list of questions you'd like to ask. What does he eat? Where does he live? Does he sleep at all?

Musing on all the things you'd like to know about him and his life leads you into fantasizing about being a talk show host interviewing him, and one thing leads to another and before you know it, you're conked out cold. You've managed to find an extremely awkward position to slump into, but even the horrid crick in your neck isn't enough to shake you from the dreamless slumber. Your body doesn't even have the energy needed to produce a dream, so instead, you just float through an endless void.

It could have been minutes, or even hours, really. You're not sure. The only thing strong enough to jar you awake is a sudden and intense feeling of dread that blooms in your stomach and gives you a form and sentience again. Your eyes snap open instinctively, and you're greeted with a pair of spiteful red eyes far too close to you for comfort.

"Jumping jesus-!" 

Surprised is a nice word for what you feel, an ugly screech emanating from your throat as you kick out your feet, knocking yourself over and almost falling in the water in the process. You hit your head nice and hard on a particularly jagged portion of the rocks, and by the time your vision undoubles, the danger is just barely settling in. 

Except danger is too busy cackling to be a threat.

You try to grapple with the panic in your chest and get a grasp on reality again after your literal rude awakening, but it's a bit rough when the sadistic jackass who perpetuated it in the first place won't stop laughing. Apparently he's too amused to take the opportunity to seize you, so you take the moment to scoot much further back and out of his reach, resisting the urge to plant your foot right on his stupid face.

Eventually he quiets down, but the grin never leaves his face. Much like everything about him, it's hostile somehow, mocking and disingenuous. 

"Humans really are so stupid."

"Joke is on you, tunabreath. You wasted the perfect opportunity to actually grab me." 

He shakes his head, tutting you. "I couldn’t resist. We like to play with our food too, sometimes. Scared ones taste better."

Is he implying he eats people? Okay, you know what? You don't wanna know. You doubt he'd be honest about it anyway, and would probably say whatever unnerves you the most. He seems a prick like that.

"I thought the entire point was to drown me and get it over with. You’re borderline obsessed with it."

He scoffs, little head fins twitching as he waves you off. "If I’m going to waste my time, don't make it so easy. It's less fun."

Okay cool, this is all a game to him; your life is a game to him. Nice. Fun. Great. 

Something on your face must have given away your ire, because he simpers at you and another raspy laugh bubbles in his chest. 

"It's not my fault you're stupid. You're the idiot sleeping next to the ocean when you know what's waiting for you when you get too close. It’s like you want me to devour you." 

"I thought after your little tantrum last night, you were gone for good. You really can throw a fantastic hissy fit."

That wipes the smile from his face.

“Little brat.” He taps a claw on the rock, narrowing his eyes at you. “Tough talk from someone afraid of getting a little wet.” He drags out the final word with a mocking tone, clicking his tongue against his fangs with the final syllable.

“For the last time, I’m not afraid of getting wet-” It takes it a second to sink in but wow this all sounds so wrong. Your face darkens and a familiar tingle worms itself in your gut. Are you really that lonely? “And don’t say it like that!”

His brows furrow and he studies you with a slightly quizzical expression. “Like what?” 

How do you explain to a dude who presumably has no cock and no human sexual experience about the sexual insinuations of human expressions? Wow. This is not a talk you thought you’d be having. The entire situation is weird, but this really sets the bar. 

“I know you’re probably not familiar with it, but that sounds... weird. It just sounds weird, okay?” 

“I don’t understand.” His lips curl downward in annoyance, arching a pale brow in your direction. 

“Look, when a human and another human... do stuff, things happen to their bodies and-“ a twisted sense of shame curdles your stomach and you go to scratch the back of your head, avoiding his eyes. Your words trail off somewhere mid sentence. If you were looking, you could practically see the gears turning in his head, but a few seconds later, his face pops in realization. 

“I’m fully aware of your human mating habits.”

“Don’t say it like that either! Jesus, you’re so awkward.”

A slow smile spreads over his face and he leans closer to you, tail swishing in a steady rhythm beneath the water. “Why? You’re over the ‘age of consent’, as it’s put, right? A sexually mature human female? Does it make you uncomfortable when I say things like that? Or does it make you something else?” 

He trails his claws in a walking motion towards your out of reach leg, and embarrassment isn’t a strong enough word for the emotion that colors your face as you recoil from his wandering fingers. “Knock it off!”

“Has it been a while since someone touched you, little human?”

“None of your business! You’re such a creep! And what do you know about it anyway? Don’t you fuckin’ lay eggs or something?”

He ignores your pointed jab, licking at his chapped lips as he runs his piercing eyes over you a bit too invasively for your liking. “You wanna know, huh? I can show you.” He reaches towards you again and you wiggle back a few more inches, caught between his words and the friction igniting feelings you’re desperately trying to ignore between your thighs.

“I’m getting mixed signals here. Are you trying to drown me or fuck me?” 

“Who says I can’t do both?” He tilts his head, gaze lingering on your lips before drifting down to your chest without shame. His attention still feels utterly predatory, but for a different form of predator entirely. “Your death doesn’t have to be entirely painful, you know.” 

“S-stop it.” 

He’s giving you whiplash with his intense mood swings, but you can’t deny the less than appropriate places his words drag your mind to. Heat ignites inside you, warmth spreading through your navel as your cheeks burn deeper than they did before. You will it away, trying to shake loose the thoughts from your mind. No fucking way are you even considering this.

“Look, even if our bodies were compatible, which they aren’t, it’s not like you wanting to kill me is a turn on.” 

He gives you another lilting grin, flicking his tongue and hissing in a foreign laugh. “Are you sure? I know that some of your kind are into that sort of thing. Hard. Rough. Dangerous. And judging by your face-“ 

Another bout of blood colors your cheeks so intensely that you can literally feel it. Oh God, make it stop. 

“-You might be.” 

“Shut it, shark bait!” 

“And who’s to say we’re not compatible? I know plenty. Something about the beach is an aphrodisiac to you humans. Not to mention~” Another grin, but this one gives off the undeniable air of ‘I know something you don’t know.’ “You have no idea what I can do.”

You can’t help but look back at him as he says it and you can tell he means every word. The unnatural scarlet glow of his eyes seems far too welcoming, calling to you like some sort of beacon in the darkness. The soft gleam of his silvery hair in the moonlight far too inviting. You want to touch it, wonder what it would feel like entwined between your fingers, what it smells like and how those claws would feel like scratching against the sensitive skin of your ass as he holds you steady against his hips.

You bet those fangs aren’t just for show, and judging by his attitude, he’s probably not afraid to use them. You bet they’d feel all sorts of nice scraping and digging into your flesh, biting you and licking that thick tongue up and over your neck, maybe even a bit lower if you asked him nicely. He’s so lithe, so strong, he’d have no problem fucking you against the rock even with the water resistance. His slick skin rubbing against yours, webbed hands squeezing your waist, kneading your tits, pressing the rounds of your neck until you gave yourself over to him completely and the taste of him is the last thing you ever knew.

Okay, you admit it. You are really curious to see just what it is he can do. You’d probably be the first human in history to find out, the first girl to be fucked to literal death by a siren. Would it really be such a terrible way to die? Being dragged under metaphorically and physically and spending your last moments in pleasure wholly unknown to the moral realm?

He smiles softly, watching you toss it around in your mind as he cradles his head in his palm. He’s beautiful, and you loathe it. You hate that you’re even considering this, even toying with the thought as if it’s really an option. What the hell are you doing? This is complete madness!

“You aren’t serious, are you?” 

He gestures you forward seductively, nibbling gently on his scarred bottom lip, keeping your eyes squarely trained on his mouth. “Come a little closer and find out. I promise I bite. Extra hard if you beg.”

Another clench between your legs. Shake it loose, shake it loose! “Look, even if I believed for a split second you wanted to seduce me, you really think I’m going to literally die for the chance?”

“What else are you going to die for?” 

Oddly deep. Not a thought you wanted to ponder right now. Expertly deflect it with sarcasm and ignore the fact that he has a very good point.

“Of old age, in my bed, surrounded by loved ones and piles of money I didn’t get the chance to spend yet.” 

He scoffs, blowing air through his nose. “Sure.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs, shucking aside your irritation. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” 

“Prick.” 

He giggles, finding your crass human mouth oddly endearing. “Well, the offer stands. I told you I’m not going anywhere until you're under the water with me.” He pauses, considering you for a moment before grinning darkly. “I might just do it anyway, but it’s better if you’re willing. Not that I’ve ever been averse to a little struggle.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to say no when you can’t speak. I could easily bypass this little game of playing hard to get, but I want to see you squirm.” He eyes between your legs and you pray to the Gods that he thinks the dampness residing there is because of the watery environment. “I want to see you beg before the light goes out in those pretty eyes.”

“You’re a fucking perv!”

“I told you I’m going to watch you drown, you really put it past me to not take other forms of satisfaction from you while I’m at it?”

He presents a good point. You resent the fact that you don’t entirely feel repulsed by the thought. You should. You should be mortified and terrified and other words that end in ‘fied’. You should run and never come back. You know you should. 

You lean forward. 

“I’d like to see you try, fish boy.” 

A strangely genuine smile spreads across his lips and his face seems to light up at your words. It's still menacing, but oddly cute; like a child getting ready and excited to play their favorite game. 

"You really think you can win this, huh?" He muses, looking up at you through those pale lashes. "You sure are something, little girl." 

"What do I have to lose? If you win, you kill me, and whatever else, but I won't care, because I'll be dead. If I win, I get to see that arrogant smarminess wiped off your face when you don't get what you want. You'll have wasted all this time for nothing, and I guess that's a small consolation prize alongside my life."

“Time means nothing to me, but if it makes you feel better about the situation.”

From the way he says it, you don't deny it. It dawns on you that you really know nothing about his people. Do they age like you? Do they age at all? 

“How old are you?” 

"Older than you by far, I promise. What a rude question. How old are you?" 

“Old enough. But that doesn’t answer my question. Don’t deflect.”

"No manners, you humans." He ponders it for a minute. "You count the passing of time in revolutions around the sun, right? I'd bet I had been an adult for a very long time while you were still learning to walk on wobbly little legs." 

It's your turn to laugh now, and he doesn't seem amused. "You're an old man! Ew! You're an interspecies cradle robber!"

"I'm not old! We live exponentially longer than you! I'll still be in my prime when you're an elder!" His pallid face is dusted slightly red in frustration, and it's almost funnier than his reaction. 

"Whatever you say, grandpa! Do you have an undersea walker? Drink sea prune juice? Is that why your hair is silver? Cause you're old?"

Self consciously, he strokes the front of his long bangs between his fingers. "No! You're an immature little brat!" 

"Back in my day~" You barely dodge a swipe from one of his claws as he jumps as far forward as he can and swings at you. "Careful gramps, you don't wanna hurt yourself. You’ll break a hip or whatever it is you have."

He sneers at you and you bask in the minor victory.

You sit in silence; him with a scowl tightly pulled across his thin lips, and you with a smug little grin. So it’s not impossible to get under his scales. 

He’s a world class pouter, you’ll give him that. He doesn’t strike you as vain, but this is probably uncharted territory for him; actually talking to a human and subsequently being made fun of for his age. He’s probably not used to being mocked in any sense of the word, seeing as he’s a ‘non existent’ mythical creature. Maybe his kind are prideful, if a little childish. He claims to have existed for ages, but he still has the mannerisms you’d attribute to a male around your age. Maybe a tad immature and explosive himself. You guess some things don’t change with the species. Aggression, domination, and sex. And murder, in his case. 

Some things are universal, it seems. 

He’s making a show of ignoring you now, clicking his claws together in a subconscious attempt to threaten you. They are awfully sharp. You swear looking at them makes the gashes on your arm start to ache all over again. Occasionally the fins on the side of his head twitch in an almost catlike manner, turning toward whatever source of sound can be heard. It’s so strange to you, you can’t help but stare. He looks ethereal, even as impudent as he’s acting. With the backdrop of the ocean and the moon behind him, he looks like a painting that belongs in a gallery. You can’t stop yourself from leering at him.

You’re trying to ignore the fact that he definitely takes notice. 

He's angry at you, displeasure still slightly evident in his face, but a small smile crooks his lips. You've clearly offended him but your leering goes a little way towards soothing the hairs you've rubbed the wrong way. For whatever reason, knowing you find him attractive puffs his feathers- er, scales- with pride. Body language relaxes between the two of you and a few minutes of quiet follows. 

Yet, it's difficult to keep a pleasant silence when the company you keep is far from familiar. This isn't two friends relaxing on a beach; at least unless most friends are malevolent ocean dwelling creatures with an end goal of filling the other's lung with sea water. 

The lack of noise makes you antsy, almost like you're anticipating something but you're unsure of what. It feels false somehow, like you're trying to turn this isn't something it isn't; comfortable. No matter how his casual demeanor tries to lull you into a false sense of security, you have to remain vigilant. One little slip and he'll drag you into a watery grave- among other things if he was serious. 

“So… What do you eat?”

He slow blinks at you a few times before grinning, light glinting off his all-too-sharp fangs. “You mean besides you?”

There’s multiple implications to that, neither one of which you want to ponder for various reasons. Your panties are already uncomfortably damp.

“Yes. Besides us.”

Shrugging, he flicks at a small pebble on the rocks edge and plunks it into the water. "Same thing you would if you were one of us. There's plenty of fish down here, only difference is I can eat them raw." 

Your nose crumples and you stick your tongue out slightly, imagining him taking a bite out of a still-twitching fish. "Ew."

He rolls his eyes, brushing your obvious disgust aside. "If I recall, don't you humans have multiple dishes you eat raw?"

"Well, I mean, yeah, but it's different. We actually prepare it."

"Sounds like a whole lot of fuss over nothing. Your weak stomach just can't handle it and mine can, and you seem to find that to be some sort of bragging point. Also, don't you humans have a tendency to put things in your mouth that don't belong there?" 

“Didn’t I already tell you to shut up about that?” 

"I don't know, I'd say the occasional raw fish is a lot less dirty than a human male c-"

“Oh my god! I am so sorry I fucking asked!”

He cackles loudly and you realize that he's officially found your hot button. Even worse is he knows it. "I mean that's not to say we don't have our own filthy habits, but you guys are inspiring-"

"Dude! Make like a tunafish and can it! I don't want to hear any of this!"

"Oh? Is that so? Because around 10 minutes ago, you were half ready to rip your clothes off and jump in here and let me try you even if it meant your death."

"Momentary lapse in judgement. Don't get too excited, grandpa." 

He frowns again but seems less offended now that the initial moment had passed. "If you insist upon calling me a nickname pertaining to my age, I'd prefer daddy."

All humor drops from your face. How the fuck does he even know about that? 

As if he can read your mind, he responds. "A lot of you humans like to reproduce here. I've seen quite a bit and heard even more. Like I said, you’re absolutely filthy creatures.” 

“Ah. Yeah. That makes sense.”

“My offer stands. Come a little closer and I’ll show you just what I learned.”

“Creep.”

“That makes two of us, now doesn’t it?”

"I'm not the one bringing up sex every 3 seconds."

Hey, do you know how awkward it is to be having this conversation? With him? Right now? Do you know how utterly surreal this is?

“No, but you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn and you know it doesn't matter what you say. Your face is a dead giveaway. He knows it too, crossing his arm and arching a cocky brow at you. 

“And I’m the pervert, huh?”

You wrap your arms around your legs again in a subconscious show of defense. "Yes, you are. This is a natural response to embarrassing topics. Topics you keep coming back to." 

He shrugs again, his head fins twitching a few times. "I don't deny my nature. If I feel lustful, I act on it. Another reason you humans are inferior. You deny what comes naturally in the name of some form of... shame, is it? I have no bonds holding me back, while yours are pointless and dictated by some invisible and shallow form of ‘morality’ and ‘purity." 

He’s… technically right. Still.

"You realize you're saying this to the person you're trying to kill, right?" 

"I'm aware. Consider it a parting gift. You can feel what it's like to be untethered before I end you."

You roll your eyes so deeply that you’re almost certain you’ve detached the retina. “Oh, how very kind of you. So thoughtful.” 

"It’s not entirely altruistic, but it's better than I was originally planning. I was just going to rip you apart the second I pulled you in. Of course, that was before I got a good look at you. It'd be a shame to waste such a pretty thing without getting a taste first.”

It's a twisted compliment, but you appreciate it, at least as much as the circumstances allow. 

“Thanks…  I think?” 

"It's a good thing, I promise. I won't just touch anyone, you know. Most of your kind repulses me. I'm not an easy please." 

"Oh." Another awkward silence. "What makes me so special, anyways?"

His face blanks over, eyes hardening and mouth pursing in a tight line. He opens his lips a few times to speak, but seemingly stops himself. His expression flashes confusion, then rage, then apathy in quick succession. "I don't know. It won't matter for long anyways, soon you'll be dead and I can move on." 

“Not if I win.”

"You won't. I don't lose. Besides, I've already almost gotten you twice. It's only a matter of time before you slip up again, and I'll be there to catch you when you do."

"Put it like that and it almost sounds sweet." A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. 

His face flushes and he looks away from you, expression contorting. “It’s not. Don’t twist my words.” 

“Spoilsport. Go eat a mackerel or something. You’re not yourself when you’re hungry. Or maybe you are. Either way, you’re cranky.”

"It's hard not to be cranky when there's a meal right in front of me and I can't indulge."

"Quit threatening to eat me. I get the point, it's just weird.”

His thick tongue flicks out and runs across those glimmering teeth and he just smiles. "Who said anything about eating?" 

“Give it a rest.”

He swipes a small amount of water at you with his thumb and forefinger. "Deny it all you'd like, you enjoy the attention." 

"Definitely. I love being the first human to be hit on by the world's first mermaid fuckboy."

A hybrid mix of a groan and a growl rumbles from his chest. "I'm not a fucking mermaid!" 

"Oh, sorry!" The sarcasm is palpable, and he scowls at you again. You love the fact he doesn't deny the secondary insult. "I meant merman." 

"Don't insult me. As if your petty, unimaginative fairytales could even come close." 

"You have a tail, you live underwater, and you're half human. Sounds pretty damn close to me." 

The look on his face is as if you just forced him to swallow something extraordinarily disgusting. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. And I'm not half human. You're half us."

Now that takes you off guard. 

“What did you say? What do you mean?”

"It doesn't matter." He pushes himself away from the rocks, his tail slightly flapping above the surface. "Besides, you were right. I am hungry. I should probably find something to eat for tonight, unless you’ve changed your mind." He doesn’t bother waiting for you to retort before skillfully diving down back beneath the waves.

You want to stop him, but he’s gone before you can think of a creative way to say ‘hell no’. The slight dash of silver hair makes out towards the horizon and before long, he's gone. As always, he leaves you feeling more frustrated than anything. 

You want to stay, to enjoy the ocean like you used to before he barged his way into your life, but it all just feels too strange now. He won't return tonight, you know that much. 

Heaving yourself off your asleep butt, you begin your bowlegged walk back to civilization, left with nothing but the ache of a cramp in your hips and a strangely heavy feeling in your gut.