#a lot of my thoughts are throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks

[thatwitchrevan]

also you can't split hairs about what form the thought takes bc sometimes intrusive thoughts are vivid flashes that the mind is morbidly drawn to rather than an anxiety spiral, but those are still intrusive and the moral rational part of your brain reacts with anxiety and disgust, which can often make the thought just harder to shake.

you don't need to draw a moral difference between 'I had a vague/abstract obsessive fear about hurting someone while I was holding a knife' and 'I vividly imagined/fantasized stabbing someone while I was holding a knife' because intrusive thoughts do take that form and thought crime isn't real and the individual's thoughts and reaction to them are their own.

This isn't to say there aren't violent fantasies that aren't intrusive thoughts OR that it's somehow a crime to have violent fantasies if they're not a symptom of anxiety or ocd or similar, frankly whatever goes on in anyone's head is only the business of them and who they share it with, and the privacy and privilege of thought belongs to everyone.

But in discussion about intrusive thoughts specifically I think it's always worth being aware that they can be quite intense, specific, strong, etc and this does not make them less intrusive, in fact it often makes them worse to deal with.

Bottom line I think is if someone is vulnerable enough to share their thoughts with you you have very little business judging them unless they are turning those thoughts into beliefs, action, treatment of others, something material. And especially be compassionate to people who are distressed by their own thoughts in any way.

[inkskinned]

one of the things that's so frustrating is how often the arguments against us are actually happening to us. we said - you need to watch out, this will evolve into allowing fascism into legal statute. and we were told: you're a sensitive snowflake. you're annoying and stupid and have no concept of reality. nobody really believes that stuff.

but it's indoctrination for kids to even see queer people. it's grooming for kids to even be around queer people. it's disgusting to even put rainbows on kids clothes. it's inappropriate, shameful, still-an-argument. like any of this is new - we know already. for you, even seeing someone unashamed is the same thing as "forcing" it onto you. because god-forbid you confront any internal thought you have. because god-forbid you practice empathy. rage is better, i guess. it keeps you pretty.

this has always been the way of some people - a while ago, it would have been "sinful" for my white mom to marry my hispanic dad. once, in the year of our lord 2015, someone told me that "mutts" deserve a woodchipper. that one particular insult stayed with me - not because it was the first or last, but because there was something so unbelievably violent about it that i couldn't figure out how to hold it. the idea that someone is so assured of their bigotry and rage that they would paint this kind of a picture. even jokingly, even with the anonymity of the internet, it kind of centered things for me. a sense that, for some people, their rage burned so unimaginably large that it blocked even the basic fact of my humanity.

at one point, while i still had enough fire in me to get into long arguments, one of the bigots i was "debating" (being harassed by) said: to be honest, it's about the sex, not the love. between you, me, and the four walls of this blue hellsite, i actually didn't really care for "love is love" as the slogan of our community. it seemed so placid, so gentle, so ally-focused. where was the vitriol? where was the hours i spent agonizing over myself? where was the quiet moments of my life, filled with the sound of other people's hatred? this static that settles over everything; even for the action of holding her hand.

the world is unfair. i am an adult, and without the veneer and small-pond syndrome of my teenage years, the slogan has started sounding more desperate. the more places i went, the more people i met. love is love. love is defending him on a rooftop bar. the drink she throws at me goes down into my shoes while i stand there, wishing i had a better retort than what the fuck. love is both of us, keeping our heads down, the black SUV full of frat boys (?) pulled up next to us, howling, for five whole blocks, until we both gave up and had to stick our bare legs into the thicket by the side of the road, giving over into tick country rather than let it go on any longer. love is a lazy spring afternoon, my hand on her belly, the fan spinning overhead. did you hear the whole thing about target?

did you hear about being the target? that's a fun little parallel, isn't it. it almost feels like the game that-is-about-me is being played without-my-participation. someone wants to set fire to my life, and i have to wait for a response from a capitalist institution. i am watching a tiktok where a white woman under white lights complains about adult swimsuits, even though i think a lot of people would benefit from having swimming options that are not "instagram-inspired bikini" or "impossible to move in but otherwise pretty".

sometimes it just seems so fucking stupid. like, just to check, the rage you feel and the hatred - you could really just avoid all of that by minding your fucking business. sometimes (and this is true): it's not about you, and people don't need your permission. like, i don't understand any obsession with sports, but it seems to make other people happy. american football literally results in grievous bodily injury - and yet there are onesies for babies that say future quarterback. i personally don't love it, so i just don't buy that stuff. i walk by it, and don't let it bother me. there have been so, so, so many times that i was told - "so what if he's a little bit homophobic, if you don't like him, don't watch his movies." "so what if they fired her. don't buy their product." "so what if they wouldn't make a rainbow cake. just don't support them."

sometimes i feel the meaning of it scud against my body, an orca whale inside of me, threatening the boat. it is too large to see from my place; this shadow of a thing that dwarfs my petty other-concerns. i need to find a dress for an event, and florida is passing more anti-gay legislation. i need to text my friend back and confirm our plans, and someone is throwing beer bottles to the floor in a walmart because a different case had rainbows on them. it is a long fall, if i look down into it; this sense like the bottom doesn't exist. like i have only ever dipped my toes in.

sometimes i am unbelievably tired of talking about it. it feels like it has become too trite in my own poetry - queer writer complains about the state of the world! how original! - and then something else happens, and i am here again. i remember that it isn't a moment. i remember it isn't a scattered population of cartoon evil-doers, intent on world domination from behind handlebar mustaches. it is a concerted effort of real people with real power who really-do want to see my end. it is a lifetime of dodging the beercan as it sails out of the back of the van. it is a lifetime of not-kissing once we leave the apartment. it is a lifetime of watching someone protest our existence and then, very slowly, giving them the finger. it is a lifetime of holding my friends' hands and hearing the same agony in their life that i lived through. it is us, together, our faces turned upwards, the night sky so vast, milky way overhead like a lacework zipper.

it is a lifetime of staring down woodchippers.

[houseofanticipation]

You're at the club. Your friend has abandoned you to drink alone. You saw her grinding on some guy earlier, and you guess (correctly) that she's off in some corner somewhere getting railed. You sigh, wishing you could be so lucky.

I watch you take a long sip of your drink. Good. The stuff I put in there is strong, but I still need you to take a few good swallows, or you'll just be sloppy, blackout drunk. Still fun for me, but not what I'm looking for tonight. You set the drink on the bar and turn out to the dance floor. Maybe my little cocktail has given you the confidence to shake your ass a bit, or maybe you're looking for some fresh air. It doesn't really matter, because as soon as you try to take a step you stumble and begin to fall. I'm there in an instant, steadying you, holding you upright as your knees buckle, getting your arm over my shoulder. "Hey now," I say, "looks like someone had too much to drink. Let me get you to somewhere you can sit down."

I give your breast a squeeze as I lead you. it's nice and soft, just like I thought it'd be, and you don't say a word in protest. That means it's working. I take you to the back of the club, where the men's bathroom is. By now I'm basically dragging you, your toes sliding along the floor, your head hanging limp in front of you. I have to put you down for a moment to prop open the door, and the sticky, sour-smelling grime of the club floor leaves a residue on your legs and the ass of your dress. That's fine. You'll be a lot messier by the time the night is through.

This particular bathroom is the reason I chose this club. There's an area where two counters of sinks face each other, each with a huge wall mirror above it. I lift you up to sit on one of the counters, propping you up in the corner so you stay upright. I check your eyes—a little sluggish, but responsive. Perfect. I turn your head to face the other mirror. I want you to see everything. I hike up your dress, and I'm surprised to see you aren't wearing panties. Even more surprising, your pussy is already soaking wet. I look into your eyes again, and I can almost imagine there's something in them. Something hungry.

You're more of a slut than I expected.

Not one to pass up an invitation, I take out my cock and begin to fuck you. You're exactly what I needed: tight, warm, wet. You sit limply as I I pound away at you for a while, watching in the mirror as I use you, Unable to look away. I wonder whether you would if you could.

Then the door opens, and a big guy with a protruding belly comes in. He starts when he sees us, looks like he's deciding if he needs to call someone. I wave him over. "Here, I was pretty much done anyway. Why don't you take a turn?" He's all too happy to oblige, and while he's unzipping his pants I take the permanent marker out of my pocket and take a moment to write on your inner thighs. On one side, the word FREE. On the other: CUNT.

The big guy is eager, I'll give him that much. He starts going to town on you like you're his favorite fleshlight, and he hasn't gotten to cum in months. A few more guys come in while he's doing his business, and after a moment's conference they come over to wait their turn. I watch in satisfaction as the big guy throws his head back, moaning and shooting cum into your pink little pussy. He thanks me, and while he's washing his hands the next guy starts in on you.

The word gets around pretty quick. Before long the bathroom is full of guys waiting to fuck you. The demand is so great, I agree to let them lay you on your side so they can fuck your mouth and ass too. All I demand is that they don't block your view of the mirror. That's the most important part, to me. I want to show you what a whore you are. You're no more than an an object, a collection of warm holes to stick our cocks in. The biggest difference between you and a fleshlight is we don't have to clean you up when we're done with you.

I stay there and enjoy the show for a good few hours, but eventually it's time for me to cum. The hard part is deciding where. Your mouth looks inviting, and I'm sure your asshole is nice and tight, but in the end I decide I didn't get enough of your pussy before. And besides, it's not free mouth or ass. It's free cunt. I wait for the guy currently on you to drop his load—I'm nothing if not courteous—and then I step in and take up where he left off. I try to fuck the cum of all these guys deeper into you, imagining it taking root in your womb. And then I feel something. Your pussy twitches, contracts ever-so-slightly around my cock. I look down at your face, and see you closing your eyes, almost as if in pleasure. Looks like it's time to go; my little cocktail is wearing off. I unload my balls into you, the pent-up cum of hours spent touching myself while I watched these strangers rape you. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I'd swear I hear a soft, desperate moan escape you. Hard to be sure, of course; the cock in your throat mostly drowns it out.

I turn for one last look before I leave. The rush has died down by now, but there's still a good number of guys standing around you. I smile. I doubt they'll be going anywhere any time soon. I turn and walk out the door.

As the drugs wear off, you begin to regain some control of your faculties. You wiggle your toes, twitch your fingers. The dull pounding in your lower regions sharpens into a pair of cocks, draining simultaneously into your pussy and your asshole. Your hips gyrate at the sensation, almost outside of your control. You try to lift your head, but the guy fucking your face pushes you back into the counter, your nose in a puddle of cum. He pulls out and ejaculates on your face—not the first guy tonight to finish in this way, by the feel of it.

He lets go and you attempt to sit up again, this time successfully. The party has gotten the hint that you're coming to, and the last of the rapists are filing out now. You sit your bare ass on the counter and look at your self in the mirror. Your face has received so many loads that it's impossible to distinguish them: they run together into a thick coating of cum. Your dress has been torn open to get at your breasts, which are bruised and sore from all the gripping and squeezing they've taken. Your pussy is swollen and red, and more cum drips out of it each time you move. The marker has bled a bit, but the words FREE CUNT are still very legible, and you doubt they'll wash off any time soon.

Cum runs down your leg as you stand. Your dress is ruined. There's no way you'll be getting your tits back into this thing. Best to wait until everyone's gone home, then make a break for it, hope not too many people see you. That gives you a little time.

You wipe a drop of cum that's run down your cheek and now threatens to fall off your chin. You lick it off your finger, almost curiously. Then you lower your hand between your legs and begin to masturbate.

[headkiss]

single thread

part 1, part 2, part 3

pairing: spider-man!steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve has a big secret and convinces himself he needs to stay away from you to keep you safe. that’s tough to do when you’re his neighbour.

word count: 8.2k

warnings: spider-man!steve au, some violence (r is attacked and a pocket knife is mentioned but nothing major happens), blood/injuries, strangers/sort of friends to lovers (ish?)

a/n: i really liked writing this one and i hope u guys like it too!!! spidey!steve is something i’ve wanted to try for a while and here it is!!!! he’s my baby <3

/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\

When Steve moved to Indianapolis, not once did he think he’d get bit by some radioactive spider and gain super powers. Yet, here he is, swinging through the city like something out of some comic book. Sometimes he doesn’t even believe it’s real, and it’s his life.

On his way home, he spots his building easily, the route embedded in his head. The corners to turn, the spots to shoot his webs.

Stuck to the wall beside his window, he tries to open it and realizes he left it locked. “Idiot,” he grumbles to himself.

With a groan he jumps down, landing in the alley. He throws his clothes over his suit and makes sure nobody’s around before slipping the mask off and into his bag. For once, he uses the actual door to enter the building.

He opts for the stairs and when he makes it to his floor he sees you in the hallway. He resists the urge to go back down and wait a couple of minutes.

His door is across from yours, and when he walks over, you’re quick to send him a smile and a ‘hello.’ He nods at you and faces his door, unlocking it quickly and going inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t like you, it’s that he doesn’t want to involve people in his life when it’s gotten so complicated. He has Robin in the city and that’s about it. And he already worries enough about her. If he’d met you pre-bite, things would be much different.

He’d return your kind smiles and greetings, he’d tell you when he likes your outfit or thinks your hair looks really nice (which is pretty much every time he sees you, even when you think it’s awful).

He’d rather not put you in any danger, though, so he doesn’t. He just thinks you’re pretty and keeps it to himself.

You don’t know any of that, however, so you’re convinced that Steve doesn’t like you and you have no idea why. Every time his only response is a nod or a limp wave, you wait until he’s out of sight to frown, to scrunch your eyebrows.

You try to think about what you might’ve done.

You first met Steve when you moved into the building, your hair held away from your face with a clip, baby hairs sticking to your damp forehead, and your sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder. Not your best look.

He must’ve heard the thump of boxes hitting the ground, the mumbled curses you kept uttering. Knuckling at his tired eyes, he opened his door and peeked his head into the hallway.

“What the-”

He shut right up when you turned around, smiling (almost wincing) at him.

“Hi,” you introduced yourself, and he repeated your name so quietly you didn’t even hear it. “Sorry about the noise. I have a lot of stuff.”

He nodded, looking at the few boxes in the hall, “you’re moving in?”

“Yeah.”

“You need some help?”

“Seriously?” He half nodded, half shrugged. “That would be great. Thank you so much.”

“Sure. ‘M Steve, by the way.”

Steve. He’s pretty, you thought. Brown, fluffy hair and soft eyes, a mouth you think must look even better when he smiles.

He carried the heavier boxes without complaint or breaking a sweat. His arms flexed with the actions, but his face was completely unaffected. You were amazed. And probably stared at him too much.

When every box was inside your apartment, you’d thanked him, and he’d brushed it off saying it was no problem and went back inside his own place.

No problem, like he didn’t carry box after box for you because you couldn’t afford movers.

Now, with your back against the inside of your door after seeing him in the hallway, you replay that meeting once again. You can’t figure out what you did. Worse, you think, maybe you didn’t do anything at all and you’re just someone who’s easy to dislike.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t so good looking. If he didn’t make you nervous whenever his eyes glanced over you, if you had actual friends to occupy your time, if you didn’t want him to like you so bad.

If, if, if.

You try to stop thinking about it and pick up the book you’d left on your coffee table. You have to reread passages, distracted and unfocused.

-

The bookstore’s been slow today.

You’ve been keeping yourself as busy as possible, even with an empty store. Dusting shelves, re-organizing sections that looked fine before, switching displays around. Eventually you gave in and sat behind the counter with a book, watching people pass by the front windows.

The sun set at some point, sinking behind buildings and leaving the city lit by streetlights and warm glows seeping through windows.

As boring as it can be, you wouldn’t be doing much different if you were at home. Finding things to do to pass time, sitting around aimlessly. At least here, you get paid for doing it.

When it’s time to close up you’re not sure if your sigh is from relief or disappointment. You’re lonely often, but it’s harder to ignore it when you’re all alone at home, no people around at all, even if they’re mostly just passing by on the sidewalk.

You go through the list, sweeping, setting the alarm, shutting off the lights, and locking the door.

The night air is cool, light wind blowing at your cheeks, ruffling your hair. The usual sounds surround you. Honking horns and tires rolling against pavement, indistinguishable voices and the click of the bookstore door locking.

You keep your keys in your hand while you walk home, one of them sticking up between your knuckles. Just in case.

One foot in front of the other, again and again, you walk along the sidewalk. Your footsteps a steady rhythm, hands tucked in your pockets to keep them warm, head bent to avoid making eye contact with any other pedestrians.

Only a couple of minutes from your place, you can hear someone walking along behind you. You shake your head, telling yourself they’re probably just headed in the same direction.

That reassurance disappears when the stranger whistles at you.

You don’t look up, you don’t turn around, you just keep your head down and walk faster, your heartbeat speeding in your chest. You’ve seen stories of what can happen to someone walking home alone. You never thought you’d have one of your own.

“Hey, cupcake! Where you going?” His voice is scratchy and scary. You pick up your pace even more.

At your ignorance, the man speaks again, “I’m talking to you.” His hand grabs your sleeve when he says it.

More afraid than you’ve ever been, you jerk your arm from his grasp and stupidly turn down an alleyway as a shortcut. It’s a horrible decision, but when you’re scared like that, it’s really hard to think straight.

You feel bad for being annoyed with people in horror movies. You get it now.

You’re almost jogging now, but it doesn’t deter the man. No, he catches up and grabs your wrist, twisting you around and pushing your back roughly into the brick wall of the building behind you.

Your wrist is slammed against it where he grabbed you, no doubt scratching your skin and making you flinch, your keys falling from your grasp.

This is it, you think. I’m gonna die here. Alone.

Your eyes water, a tear drips down your cheek and the man laughs in your face. You try to break away from his hold but he doesn’t let up. The only thing you manage is to knee him in the thigh, but it doesn’t do much.

“Nice try, cupcake. I’ve got you now.” he says. That’s when you notice the glint of a pocket knife in his hand.

“Please. Don’t,” is all you can say, trying and trying to get your arms out of the man’s tight hold. Tight enough to bruise.

Steve’s hair stands at the back of his neck, on his arms. Until now, his patrolling had been quiet. Easy fixes like an elderly woman not crossing the street quick enough or a man who’d locked his keys in his car.

Now, his instincts tell him this thing isn’t so small.

Without a second thought, he jumps from where he’d been perched at the ledge of a building and swings in the direction his senses take him. In your direction.

One second, you’re squeezing your eyes shut, thinking it’s the end, and the next, there’s the sound of someone landing in the alley and the thwip of a web.

The man is pulled off of you so fast you can barely keep up. There’s a flash of blue and red, hints of webbing being shot, and just like that, your attacker is knocked out and stuck to the opposite wall.

Your chest heaves and your back slides down the wall, landing on your bum on the pavement.

Steve turns around now that the man’s been dealt with and he thinks his heart stops for a second. He hadn’t realized it’d been you. You and your sweet smile, now turned to tears streaking your cheeks.

He thought, without him, you’d be better off. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should’ve been keeping an eye on you. For now, he’s sort of glad he hasn’t spoken to you much, only because there’s a better chance you won’t recognize his voice.

Steve moves to crouch in front of you, “are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His hands hover by the sides of your face, like he’s holding himself back from touching you. Restraining himself.

Spider-man is in front of you. Spider-man with his suit and white-eyed mask who just saved your life is right there in front of you. So much for a slow day.

You shake your head and wipe your cheeks with your palms, “no. No, just- um, just my wrist, I think.”

“Can I look?”

You hold out your arm for him to see, and he moves his hands down, one tugging back your sleeve and the other holding your wrist gently. The fabric of his gloves brushes against your skin lightly, careful not to touch you where you’re hurt.

“Doesn’t look sprained. Just scraped,” he says. He looks up from your arm to your face, the eyes on his mask narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re sure you aren’t hurt anywhere else?”

He sounds genuinely worried. Like, you can hear it in his voice. It makes you want to cry all over again. You’d always thought that when Spider-man dealt with the bad guys, he’d just move on. Now, you can see that he cares a lot more than that.

You shake your head, “I’m fine.”

As fine as you can be after what just happened.

He nods and stands, offering you his hands to help you up. You pick up your keys and accept, slipping your hands into his. He pulls you up and squeezes your fingers before letting go.

“Will you let me take you home?” He asks.

You’re sort of in shock, and you’d rather not walk anymore. So, you agree.

He opens his arms for you, picking you up easily with a single arm wrapped around your waist. Your own arms go around his neck, legs tentatively wrapping around his waist.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” you almost whisper.

He hears you loud and clear, your mouth close to his ear, his senses seemingly even more heightened than usual with you around.

“Hold on,” he says.

Then, you hear the whip of his webs and you’re in the air. Your limbs tighten around him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

The wind rushes all around you. In your ears, your hair, your jacket. The city does, too, lights flickering by and buildings growing distant over his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You okay?” He asks over the wind.

“Maybe!”

You can feel his chest rumble with a chuckle. You wish you could’ve heard it, too.

He swings you towards your building when he remembers he’s not supposed to know where you live, “where to?”

You tell him, yelling over the noise not realizing he can hear you just fine normally. You don’t know about those superpowers, focused on the ones that have him transporting you home.

He gets you there quickly, landing just outside the front entrance. You stay wrapped around him for a second before you realize you’ve stopped moving. You remove yourself from him so quickly he has to steady you with hands on your upper arms so you don’t fall.

“You okay from here?” He checks, his head lowering to catch your gaze.

“Yeah. Thank you for…” Saving my life, making sure I’m okay, taking me home. Everything since you landed in the alley.

“Just doing my job.”

“Right. Thanks again,” you turn to head inside.

“Goodnight. And take care of your wrist!”

“Goodnight, Spider-man.”

-

Steve sees you more often after that night. He thinks the universe might be punishing him. Making him see you more, making him work harder to keep his distance.

He tossed and turned the entire night after bringing you home. He wondered if you were actually okay, trying to listen in case you were crying or having a nightmare. He worried so much more than he would have if it had been any other person and he hated it.

He saw you the next morning. You were checking your mail at the same time as him. Your sleeve had ridden up, exposing the scratches on your wrist from the brick wall, the faint bruises of fingerprints, your eyes tired.

“Are you okay?” He couldn’t help but ask, gesturing limply at your hand. Maybe if you give him a convincing yes, he can finally stop thinking about you so much.

You look down at your arm when he asks, quickly tugging your sleeve back down to cover it up. “Oh. It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. He knows it isn’t because he was there and he saw at least a part of what happened to you. He can’t let you know that, so he just nods and turns to his mailbox, listening to your footsteps as you walk out of the mailroom and back up to your apartment. His fingers twitch by his side.

Steve’s used to feeling protective over people, that’s not new, but to feel so protective over someone he barely knows hasn’t happened before. That night haunts him. Your tear-streaked face, the blooming bruises on your arm. He never wants to see you hurting again.

Maybe that’s why he starts returning your greetings in the halls, actually pausing to ask how you are, to smile back at you (they’re tight-lipped smiles, but it’s something).

He’s trying to be kind without getting any closer. No matter how much he wants to know you.

One day, as Steve’s heading out for the late shift, you’re just getting home from your own job, it seems. The clip in your hair has loosened since you put it in, strands falling freely around your face. For a second, Steve has the urge to tuck them behind your ears.

He pushes that down.

“Hi,” he says, his door shut behind him.

“Hi, Steve.”

“How are you?”

“Okay, thanks. Tired,” you fiddle with the frayed hem of your knitted sweater. “Had the opening shift today.”

“Ah. Any plans?”

“Probably just gonna take a nap.”

He nods. For a second you think he might’ve asked because he wanted to do something with you. It’s a stupid thought and you push it away.

“Have a good nap, then,” he gives you the close-mouthed smile that’s become more common between you, and heads towards the stairs.

The shift in his behavior towards you hasn’t been huge, but it’s been enough for you to notice it. He talks to you sometimes—always briefly, but still—he doesn’t turn away from you as soon as he gets the chance like he used to.

It’s confusing, but you’re happy about it anyway. Maybe he just needed some time to warm up to you a bit. Maybe he doesn’t hate you after all.

Inside your apartment, you change into sweats and practically collapse onto your couch, playing something mindless on the TV and pulling a blanket over yourself.

You really are tired, but it’s not only from working early. Lately, your dreams have been haunted by rough hands, dark alleys, and flashes of blue and red. You constantly feel like there are eyes on you, and when you walk home from closing shifts, you always search for a certain superhero at the tops of buildings.

You fall asleep at some point, and by the time you wake up, it’s dark outside.

-

Days seem to blur together. Repetitive and tiring all the same. The only thing you have to look forward to lately is your short conversations with Steve in the halls.

You’re not sure how many days later it is when you fall asleep on your couch again. This time, you’re woken up by noises coming from the hallway, right by your door. You get up slowly, feet hitting the cool floors as you walk over to your door.

You don’t know what time it is, but from the darkness of your apartment and the random game show that plays on your TV, you know it’s late.

Peeking through your peephole, you see Steve, fumbling with his keys and almost limping. You open the door.

“Steve?”

He shuts his eyes when he hears your voice, all sleepy and worried.

Like an idiot, he’d left his window locked again and had to use the door after a night of patrolling. A worse night than usual.

You gasp when he spins to face you, one of his eyes swollen shut, a cut on his eyebrow, his nose bleeding, and another cut on his lip.

“Oh my god,” you step forward a little, leaving your door open. “What happened?”

“I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”

“You’re bleeding,” you say. “Come on. Let me help you.”

You grasp his arm lightly in both of your hands, and when he doesn’t protest, lead him into your apartment.

Steve’s suit feels tighter now, scratching his skin where it sits because he worries you’ll see it despite his layers on top of it. Still, he could use some help. And he can’t bring himself to be upset that you’re the one helping him.

“You don’t have to,” his voice is scratchy.

“I want to help you, okay?”

You bring him into your bathroom, making him sit on the toilet lid. You leave him there for a bit, coming back with some ice in a dish cloth.

“Here, for your eye.” He takes it from you and sucks in a breath when he presses it against his swollen skin.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“‘Course.”

You pull out your first-aid kit from under your sink, setting it on the counter and taking out what you need. You grab another cloth, wetting it in the sink.

“Here,” you stand between his legs, using a bent finger to tilt his chin up towards you. You wipe the dried blood from his skin in silence, Steve’s eyes shut, yours running all over his face.

You’re surprised he trusts you enough to let you do this. You wonder if this is why he’s so closed-off. If maybe he’s involved in something that gets him hurt. Often.

An underground boxing ring, debt with bad people, so many possibilities cross your mind, not a single one being the truth.

Once his face is as clean as it can be, you move on to disinfecting the cuts by his eyebrow and lip. “This might sting a little.”

“S’okay.”

His face pinches a little bit when you dab away at his cuts, but he doesn’t make any noise. All you can hear is his deep breaths and the small sound of his leg bouncing.

His nose hasn’t bled anymore since you cleaned it, and he keeps the ice over his eye the entire time. The cut by his lip looks much smaller when there’s no blood surrounding it.

Only his eyebrow needs a small bandage, which you grab and unwrap. “Last step.”

He feels you press the bandage on, your fingers lightly pushing the sides onto his skin to make sure it’s stuck. The process, he finds, hurts much less when you do it.

He misses your warmth when you step away from him. “Thank you.”

“Are you in trouble, or something? What happened to you?”

“It’s not a big deal. I swear.”

He hates lying to you, but he convinces himself it’s better this way. For your own good.

You don’t look convinced but you drop it. “Okay.”

“I should go,” he stands from where he’d been sitting and waivers a little, leaning on the counter.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m fine, just got dizzy.”

“You can take the couch, if you want. It’s not a problem, really.”

“I live across the hall, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He steps towards the doorway and has to pause again. “Or maybe I’ll stay. If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t.”

You walk him to the couch, letting him lean on you whenever he needs to along the way. He sits down, and you go to get him a pillow and blankets.

This is the longest amount of time you’ve ever spent with Steve, and it pinches at your heart that he’s hurt during it. That he only needed help, not company. Even so, you fight a smile when you come back to the living room and find him laying down, already half asleep.

You spread the blankets over him. You take the pillow you’d brought him and guide him to lift his head. You’re convinced he’s asleep, so you let yourself push the hair off his forehead just once.

When you turn to go to your room, he catches your hand in his.

“Thank you, honey.”

Honey. That’s new.

-

Steve was already gone when you got up the next day. The only evidence of his visit the blankets he’d left folded up on your couch and the washcloth stained with his blood you used to clean him up.

Every time you pass his door you think about knocking and checking on him. About making sure he’s okay.

You’ve been worrying a lot more ever since the night you were attacked and saved by Spider-man, and that goes for more than just yourself. You worry about every person you see walking alone, about Steve being hurt again, about noises you might be imagining at night.

You probably look over your shoulder fifty times on your way home from the grocery store, your hands too full with your bags to be able to defend yourself if anything happens.

You breathe out when you make it in front of your door. You’re safe, you’re fine, you have to tell yourself.

In your rush to get your keys from your pocket, you drop two of your bags. “Shit.” Boxes and cans thump against the floor.

Steve hears everything, all of the time. He hears you curse and the sound of your stuff hitting the ground. He blames the fact that he heads to the door on boredom and nothing more.

“Need some help?” His voice startles you.

“Oh! Hey, Steve. It’s fine, just dropped some stuff.”

You set the rest of your bags down, kneeling to pick up things that fell out of the ones you dropped. Embarrassed, you keep your head ducked.

Steve can sense it, the way your pulse jumps a little around him. He doesn’t know whether to be glad or worried that he makes you nervous. Either way, he bends down beside you, helping you pick things up.

A bag of apples, a can of soup.

You both reach for the bags at the same time, fingers brushing before pulling away. Like there was a shock, a little spark where your skin met for the briefest second.

Before you can, Steve picks up the bags. “I got ‘em. You get the door.”

“I- Okay.”

You turn around and fumble with the lock, opening your door and walking inside. Steve follows you and puts your bags on your kitchen counter.

“Good?” He checks.

“Yeah. Thank you, Steve.”

“No problem, honey. Think of it as payback for you patching me up.”

Honey. Last time he said it, you chalked it up to his tired state. That excuse can’t be used this time, and the term warms you.

“Right,” you look him over. His injuries are almost gone and it’s only been a couple of days. At least, you think it has. “You’re feeling better?”

“You did a good job,” he says.

“I’m glad.”

He nods, rocks back onto his heels once, “so, um, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He nods again and heads out, shutting your door behind him. With every conversation you have, Steve seems to warm up around you just a bit more. You don’t want to hope too much, so you push your hair from your face and turn to put your groceries away.

That evening, when you’re getting ready to cook dinner—a simple spaghetti and meatballs—you realize you’ve never seen Steve bring groceries into his apartment. Not once.

He must eat, you know that, but you wonder if he eats well, or enough. You cook for two without realizing until it’s finished. There’s extra of everything.

It’s probably stupid, maybe weird, but you make a bowl and head out into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door, three little taps of your knuckles against the wood.

He hears the knocks right away, listens closer to hear your voice mumbling to yourself. He knows your voice well. Sometimes, he can hear you humming to yourself in your apartment. He doesn’t try to listen in on you, but it’s like his ears subconsciously seek you out.

Steve opens the door and sees you in the same clothes as earlier, a shy smile on your face, and a bowl of spaghetti in your hands.

“Hey. What are you…?”

“I accidentally made too much food, and I thought maybe you’d want some?”

Actually, you made too much food for him, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh,” his heart does a stupid jump in his chest. You’re so kind and you don’t even seem to be trying. If anything, you seem to be embarrassed about it, like it’s a fault. “That’s really nice.”

“It’s just pasta. You want it?”

“Sure,” he takes the bowl from you. “Thank you.”

“You���re welcome. And I promise it’s not, like, poisoned or anything.” You wince at yourself, “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s not poisoned.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Okay. Um, enjoy.”

He stands in his doorway while you go back inside, his smile spreading as soon as your back is turned to him. He heads inside after you do, kicking his door shut.

He’s never smiled at a fucking bowl of pasta the way he does. It’s getting harder and harder to make himself avoid you, avoid that light in his chest that seems to brighten when he sees you.

He’s in trouble.

-

You bring him dinner often. At least twice a week, on days you don’t work or when you’re pretty sure he’s home.

He thanks you every time with a close-mouthed smile and brings back your dishes the next day, perfectly clean.

It feels like, over time, with every dish you bring him, a chip falls away from the walls he’s built up around himself. You can tell there’s a lot of them, and that they’re tall, but you don’t mind waiting for them to lower piece by piece. He’s worth that wait, you think.

You’re happy to cook for him—you’re cooking for yourself already anyway—and you’ve grown closer because of it. Something like friends, almost. The conversations seem to grow longer each time you see him.

Sometimes, on good days, he even invites you inside to eat with him.

You aren’t very close, but right now, he’s the only friend you have (besides your coworkers, who really only hang out with you because they have to). You’d think the way you get excited to see him would be sad if it weren’t for how nice he is, for how he makes you feel.

He listens to you when you speak, his eyes don’t stray, either. He always tells you he likes your cooking when you know it isn’t all that great. He even hugged you before you left his place once, his arms around your waist, hands running over your skin delicately before he pulled away.

“Thank you for dinner,” he’d said. “Again.”

“I like making it for you. Makes me feel useful.”

“Still. Thank you, honey,” he’d surprised you with it, moving close before you could really process it.

“Oh,” you’d stupidly let your arms hang limp for a second before wrapping them shyly around his neck. “I don’t think my cooking is this good.”

“It’s not just your cooking,” he’d told you.

He pulled away after that, leaving your body warm and your smile difficult to suppress.

You’re well aware you have a crush on him, but you don’t want to let it ruin the beginnings of the friendship you’ve built.

Steve’s not sure what the pull he feels towards you is, like one of his webs is tethered to you even though he can’t see it. It’s something his senses can’t tell him, no matter how much he focuses on them.

He thinks you’re the sweetest person and you don’t even try, all shy smiles and soft gestures. He likes how when you talk, he can really hear how you feel about something in your voice. He trusts you, despite not knowing you too well.

He also thinks you’re really pretty, but that’s not important.

Steve had another rough night patrolling. Some guy decided to play Wolverine—he’d made gloves with blades and everything—and scratched Steve pretty good on his upper arm. It hurts like a bitch, even though it’ll heal quickly. And he’ll have to sew up his suit.

He got the guy, which is something, at least.

Luckily, he actually remembered to unlock the window this time, so he’s able to sneak into his place with ease. He stripped out of his suit and took a shower before anything. Maybe not the smartest decision while actively bleeding, but he felt gross.

Afterwards, clad in plaid pajama pants and a plain cotton t-shirt, he searches his bathroom for his first-aid kit while keeping a towel pressed to his arm. A dark stain blooms on the fabric the longer he keeps it against his wound.

“Yes,” he cheers to himself when he finds the small white box.

He sits on the tile floors, back against his sink cabinets, and the kit in his lap. He opens it with one hand, the other too busy trying to slow the bleeding. When he gets it open, he’s disappointed with what he finds.

“Fuck,” he says. There’s barely anything left. A roll of gauze, a box of bandaids, and one tiny alcohol wipe. That’s it. He really needs to remember to refill this stuff.

He pushes himself to stand, winces when he has to use his injured arm.

There’s only one person close by that he knows for sure has a first-aid kit that has what he needs, because he’s seen it pretty recently. That person is you.

He hates that he’s dragging you into this again, that he’s gonna ask a favor of you that he really shouldn’t. One he doesn’t even think he deserves. He needs the help, though, so he walks to his door, into the hallway, and a few steps to your place across from his.

He knocks, his towel more red than its original color by now.

The sound doesn’t exactly wake you up. It’s late, and you’d been in bed, but you’d been having a hard time falling asleep. You were tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling.

You sit up, push your hair out of your face, and head to the door. You should, but you don’t even look to see who it is before opening it, keeping your body behind the door and peeking your head around. You certainly weren’t expecting this.

Steve stands in front of you, his hair damp and a mess, falling over his forehead. His face is pale and, when your eyes flicker down, you find that his arm is bleeding. A lot.

“Holy shit. What happened to you?”

He ignores your question. “Can you help me?”

You move away from the door. The cold air from the hallway combined with the way Steve’s eyes look down before quickly looking back at your face remind you of your attire. A sleep shirt and underwear.

“Fuck! Sorry,” you go to shut the door but remember that he’s literally bleeding. “Come in, you know where the bathroom is. I’ll just- um. Let me put some pants on.”

He’d laugh at the way you pretty much sprint into your room if he wasn’t so focused on the pain of his arm. He’d also be thinking a lot about the way your legs looked just then.

You meet him in the bathroom, legs now covered in a baggy pair of sweatpants. Steve’s sitting on the shut toilet just like he did the first time you helped him. You haven’t touched your first-aid kit since then, finding it exactly where you left it then.

“Sorry about that,” you tuck your hair behind your ears quickly before opening up the box, turning to him afterward. “Can I see?”

“Yeah.”

You take the towel from Steve’s hand, slowly moving it away from his wound to see how bad it is. Steve’s hands twitch where they sit atop his thighs. He’s holding himself back from touching you.

Three gashes break his skin. The outside of his arm, just below his shoulder.

“Do these need stitches?” You ask, the concern is clear in your voice, in how it shakes a bit. “Maybe you should go to the hospital-”

“No. Please. No hospital.”

“I don’t know how to do stitches, Steve. I don’t know if I can help you.”

“I don’t need stitches, I swear,” the look on your face makes him feel awful. The sadness in your eyes, the small frown you try to hide. “I ran out of bandages. That’s all I need.”

“Are you sure?”

He can’t tell you that his skin will mend on its own, that he’ll be fine in just a couple of days. “Positive.”

You nod and grab a different towel than the one he’d been using, pressing it against his arm to make sure the bleeding stops. He groans quietly when you do. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“I’m alright.”

When you’re almost 100% sure that the bleeding is done, you pull the towel away. You hold it under the sink, wetting a part of it that didn’t soak up his blood. You use it to clean away the dried blood on his arm, apologizing every time he sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing at the pull on his cuts.

One of your hands holds his arm up, the other occupied with the towel. You’re bent close, stood between his legs, your loose hair tickling his skin.

“Steve?” You whisper, still focused on his gashed arm.

“Mm?” He hums, watching you help him with the most careful touch he’s ever felt.

“Who’s hurting you?”

“It’s nothing.” He says it in a way that tells you it really isn’t nothing. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Maybe you don’t need to worry about him, but you do. You worry constantly. Anytime there’s a bandaid or scrape on his skin you wonder if it’s the same people that gave him that black eye and split lip weeks ago.

You worry because he’s so good. He’s a soft person under the invisible armor he protects himself with and he doesn’t deserve to be hurt. His skin is too delicate for it, his face too pretty.

You pull away and grab the roll of bandages you have in your kit. When you look at him again, his eyes are set on you, scanning your face.

“Please don’t worry about me,” his voice is quiet, and you hate the way it breaks on the first word.

He hates it, too.

“I’ll try my best,” you force a small smile at him, trying to lighten things as much as you can given the situation. You look back at his arm, wrapping it slowly. “Is that good?”

He looks at his arm, his wounds now covered with white wrappings. He looks back at you, “thank you, honey.”

“It’s not too tight?”

He shakes his head, standing when you step back to give him the space. You stand toe-to-toe, his head bent down to look at you, yours titled up.

“It’s perfect.”

Your breaths mingle in the air between you, growing thicker. Before you let yourself hope for something you shouldn’t, you move to the counter and grab the rest of the bandages you have.

“Here,” you hold them out to him, “for when you need to switch it.”

“You won’t need it?” He asks instead of telling you that by the time it needs switching, it won't be an open wound anymore.

“The most I use from that kit is the regular bandaids. I’ll survive without it.”

He takes the bandages from you, his hand brushing yours.

“I’m sorry for showing up the way I did.”

“I’d rather that than have you bleeding out in your apartment,” your eyes flick over to the bloody towels on your floor, your heart pinching in your chest. “If you need to talk to someone, or anything, I’m here.”

He leans closer, pushes a gentle peck into your cheek, and speaks with his lips still brushing your skin. “I don’t deserve your sweetness.”

He drops his head into your shoulder, just for a second, before moving away from you.

“Wha-”

“Bye, honey. Thank you,” he says, walking out of your bathroom.

You stand there, a hand lifting to press against your cheek in the spot his lips did. You pull it away and look at your fingertips, like you’d been expecting to see a physical residue of the kiss. Flecks of glitter, or the soft pink of the sky at sunrise.

You just see your skin, painfully normal.

-

After thinking and thinking and thinking, you determine that maybe Steve likes you more than you thought he did.

The way he calls you ‘honey’ in that voice of his, the softness of his eyes that he can’t hide no matter how cold he tries to keep his exterior, the way he kissed your cheek and let his lips linger when he spoke.

All of those things make you hope that maybe he likes you at least a little bit in the way that you like him, but if not, at the very least, he likes you more than you thought.

You think he tries to hold himself back from getting close to you at all, and you really don’t know why. All you know is that his shoulders were slightly slumped when he forced himself to leave after you'd bandaged his arm, after he told you he doesn’t deserve you.

There’s something in his life that makes him think that way and as much as you wanna know what it is, you hope that the best you can do is prove him wrong.

That’s one of the reasons you’re cooking dinner for two once again tonight. You also feel like, since this is sort of what brought you closer, the dinners are a tradition for you and Steve. Something completely yours.

It’s nice to have something like that with another person. You knew you were lonely, but you never noticed how much until you started talking to him more. With each meeting, the string between you both shortens.

You’ve never cooked this meal before. You’re extra attentive with it, tasting it to make sure it’s right, keeping your eyes on things closely to avoid burning it at all.

When everything’s done, Steve’s meal packed up nicely and your ponytail now a loose mess, you head to the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror. The most you do is fix your hair before feeling silly for caring so much about your appearance.

He’s seen you tired-eyed and pantless. This is better than that, at least.

You haven’t brought Steve a meal since you patched him up and he thanked you with a kiss on the cheek and possibly, maybe, loaded words. You’ve seen him, yes, but this is different than a two minute conversation in a hallway or the mailroom.

It’s your way of checking on him.

Your door shuts with a click behind you, his meal in your hand as you step into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door in quick, small taps. You’re not sure why you’re nervous to be doing it this time.

The doorknob twists and you’re met with Steve’s smiling face. Like actually, fully smiling. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that from him before. Not like this. It’s like a beaming ray of sunshine, warm and beautiful.

You’d like to be the one to make him smile like that.

“Hi, honey,” he says. It’s then you notice his cheeks are slightly flushed, little pink blooms on his skin.

“Hey. I made you dinner again,” you hold the container up awkwardly to show him.

“You don’t have to keep making me dinner.”

“I like doing it.”

He nods. Steve knows that you do it as an excuse to see him, and if he were braver, or less concerned about involving you in his impossible life, he’d tell you that you don’t need to have food to knock on his door.

He’d tell you that you could knock whenever you wanted, that he’d happily open the door for you.

“Steve!” A voice—a female voice—calls from inside the apartment. “Who’s at the door?”

Fuck. Okay, he has a girlfriend. You probably interrupted something, you think, looking at his flushed cheeks, thinking about the smile he wore that most definitely was not for you.

You’re embarrassed for even thinking that he could like you, embarrassed for having read everything wrong, for hoping too much.

“Oh. You have company. I’ll just-” you pivot on your heel to leave and realize you’re still holding his dinner. You turn back around and hand it to him, awkwardly turning towards your door again and heading inside.

Steve stares at your door for a couple of seconds before going back inside. He sets his food on the counter and sits back on the couch.

“So, who was that?” Robin asks.

Robin, his best friend and the only person in the world who knows pretty much everything about him. Spider-man and all.

“My neighbor. She was bringing me dinner.”

“It was her? And you didn’t let me say hi!”

Yeah, Robin knows all about you. She knows that you make Steve dinner, that you’ve taken care of him without digging too deep for answers, that Steve thinks you’re the ‘prettiest girl ever.’ His words.

“She left pretty fast after you yelled.”

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“Nooo. I scared her off!” Steve is clearly very confused, so Robin huffs and continues, “she heard a girl’s voice in your apartment.”

“And?”

“God, you’re such a boy sometimes, it’s insane. She thought I was your girlfriend!”

“Why would that scare her off?”

“I know you don’t get out much, dingus, but seriously?” She literally facepalms. “She likes you! Why else would she be making you dinner and shit? She likes you and thinks you’re dating someone.”

“Oh. Oh. No, she doesn’t like me. Not like that.”

“You’re an actual dingus.”

Steve doesn’t want to think about that possibility because it’ll make it much, much harder to keep you at arms length. Though, even now, that arm is mostly bent, losing resistance.

“So what if she does like me? I can’t do anything with her.”

“Why not.”

“Because I’m Spider-”

“Spider-man, yes, I know. Who cares? You can't live your whole life ignoring every single romantic feeling you have because of that.”

“I don’t wanna drag her into this.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe she would want to be dragged into this?”

“I guess not.”

He goes quiet after that, and Robin, knowing him so well, drops the subject.

-

Steve thinks about what Robin said even after she leaves.

It’s hard for him to believe that you’d like him enough to worry that Robin was his girlfriend. You, a dream girl, liking him, with his unexplained injuries and past grumpiness towards you. There was no way.

But, on the slightest chance that it did matter to you, Steve decided he wanted to explain.

His crush on you isn’t something he should explore, isn’t something he wants to let grow because, despite what Robin says, his life is dangerous and you already worry about him enough without knowing that.

Still, the thought of you being upset because you think he isn’t single is enough to make him head across the hall.

While Steve wondered what he’d say, you stewed in your embarrassment. You’d sat on your couch in your sweats and tried to forget the girl's voice or the smile on Steve’s face. You were unsuccessful.

The knocks on your door have become a familiar sound—there’s only one person who actually comes to your apartment.

You walk over and muster up a smile that you hope looks genuine, “Steve, hey.”

He scratches the back of his neck and looks at you, “can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

You move aside as he walks in, shutting the door behind him. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, you think. His presence takes up space for you, it draws your focus.

“Thanks again for dinner,” he says.

“You’re welcome-”

“That wasn’t my girlfriend, by the way. The voice you heard,” he cuts you off because he worries that if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. “I mean, she’s my friend, and a girl, but we’re not dating. Her name’s Robin, she’s my best friend, that’s it. Promise.”

You’re not sure whether to be even more embarrassed at how obvious you were with your concern, or to be relieved that he’s not taken like you thought. You settle for a bit of both.

“You don’t have to- I know I was weird earlier but you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you tell him, tugging at the ends of your sleeves with your fingers.

“I wanted to make sure you knew.”

There could be a lot of weight in that sentence, if you let yourself look hard enough.

Rather than reply you confess, “you know, I used to think you hated me. Or, didn’t like me. Before we talked and stuff.”

Steve’s standing really close to you. Has he always been this close? You can smell his soap and feel the light puffs of air leaving his lips. It’s almost dizzying—like, if someone poked your shoulder, you might fall over.

You notice a lot about him from this close, especially when there’s no blood on his face. He has the lightest dusting of freckles over his nose, his eyelashes are dark, framing his brown eyes.

Steve reaches out with a hand to link his fingers with yours, loosely and slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you. They fit together easily. His other hand brushes his knuckles against your cheek before cupping it gently in his palm.

His touch is so gentle, so much less guarded than his usual actions. You blink up at him and without even thinking, you push yourself into his touch, just a little.

“I never hated you,” he says. A murmur between your mouths.

“Oh,” is all you can say.

Steve’s strong, inhumanely so, but he isn’t strong enough to stop himself from kissing you.

The first brush of his lips on yours is so light that you think you might be dreaming. When you don’t pull away, he kisses you more firmly, his lips a little bit chapped but still soft as they land on yours.

You haven’t kissed a lot of people but you’ve never felt one like this. One that you’ve been dancing around for longer than you ever realized.

Steve’s hand squeezes yours, his thumb running back and forth against your cheek, his mouth moving with yours like a dance. He probably shouldn’t have let himself kiss you, because there’s no way he can fight whatever this is after feeling your lips on his.

He pecks you once, and twice, before pulling away. If he kept kissing you, the single thread left holding him back from you would’ve snapped. A clean break.

He leans his forehead against yours, and whispers so quietly you would’ve missed it had he not been so close to you. You could almost feel the words being spoken, lips still a breath apart.

“Never hated you.”

/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\

if you enjoyed, please reblog and/or let me know what you thought!!! it would mean a whole bunch <3

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Okay, I've Read Worm: A Retrospective Part 4: Let's Give Wildbow Some Fucking Well-Earned Praise

So, I've had a decent number of harsh words for Wildbow over the course of my liveblog, and also over on my main blog. Overall, most of them are about his WoGs or Ward, rather than Worm itself. I've also commented I don't think I'd enjoy talking to him (not that he's likely to ever reach out, but you know). But I've had some complaints about Worm too.

But the thing is, I did read Worm. I read the whole thing. A desire to write fanfic would not have kept me going through all 30 chapters if I hated it. Or even if I just thought it was like, mediocre. It's 1.6 Million words. I am not that kind of masochist.

Life is short, Worm is long, if I wasn't enjoying it, I'd have left a long time ago. So I did enjoy it.

And the thing is, even if I never pick up his other works (and I do intend to try some), I am no doubt going to have more harsh words for Wildbow in the future. And I have no doubt that even if I love say, Pact or Pale or Claw or Seek or... I dunno, his next Web Serial after Seek called *throws a dart at a wall* Iota, I'm sure I'll have harsh words. I can't think of a single creator of anything that I don't have at least some issues with something they put out.

And to be fair, even most people who fully like Worm and Ward tend to have some harsh words for him now and then, or at least negative ones.

BUT, I liked Worm. And so, I think it's fair to really sit down and give him some unalloyed, unambiguous praise.

The Pace of Output: This is probably low-hanging fruit, but it is genuinely impressive that Wildbow wrote Worm as quickly as he did, sticking to a schedule as consistently as he did. I am in awe. I think even if I didn't have to work at all, and was able to write all the time, I wouldn't even be able to match half of what he did in the same amount of time, in terms of output. Wildbow accomplished something that is genuinely amazing here.

The Shards, Entities and Powers: Shard mechanics are not my favorite thing about Worm. But the whole thing really does come together well. It's a pretty cohesive, pretty well directed power system to tell the story he wanted to tell. I don't consume much cape fiction, so I don't know what stuff beyond Marvel and DC are really like in terms of how powers work and how they all fit and service the story, but for Worm, the Shards work to tell the story he wants to tell, really well. I read and write mostly fantasy and sci-fi, and spend a lot of time in worldbuilding spaces dedicated to both, or have at least, and a lot of would be writers fall into the trap of trying to overdevelop the magic system or the rules for whatever crazy supertech their story has without really stopping to figure out how it fits for the story they want. That's generally not a great approach if the intent is to have a story, and not just a cool setting or a fun magic concept. Wildbow created a pretty cool system, and then managed to avoid the common trap of getting so attached to the power system and it's rules that it interfered with telling the story he wanted to tell. Instead, he built and bent the system with his story as the driving purpose, and kept it all cohesively working within that framework.

The Interludes: The Interludes are without a doubt some of the best shit in Worm, overall. The way he is able to convey so much about these characters in these cutaway scenes and expand the world and advance the story and develop ongoing themes and narratives? Nearly every Interlude is doing like, 4 things at once, I swear to got, and the way he juggles that all together is awesome, and the end result is great. I will never go back and reread all of Worm from start to finish. But I will sure as shit go back and read some of the interludes just for the sheer fun of it. The way these cutaways manage to get you inside the head of these people, see their perspective is really good, takes real skill to make you go 'I really kinda see Saint's POV here' for his Interlude, for instance. Really good.

Amy Dallon: So like, I think it's clear I love Amy. She's fascinating. I have big feelings about her, and she's a divisive as fuck character. But Amy Dallon is the most fascinating character in Worm for me personally and she's genuinely one of the most fascinating characters in anything I've read. I'll have more to say about Amy if I manage to get a version of that Amy retrospective I'm happy with written, but unironically? Wildbow, thank you for writing Amy Dallon. I bitch about how much she's taken over my brain, but Amy is such a fascinating, interesting, enjoyable and engrossing character that she has been a net positive for me. Reading Worm and reading about her has enriched my life. Thank you. You did a damn good job with her in Worm, Wildbow.

Taylor Hebert: As I said back in Part 1 of this retrospective, I was worried I'd find Taylor insufferable. Her capacity for self-rationalization should be an issue for me. It often can be in other characters. But Wildbow managed to write Taylor amazingly. He created a character who is multifaceted, multilayered, complex, nuanced and yet, pretty simple. She's intensely relatable, and yet, she is also deeply, deeply alien and abnormal. She does absolutely insane shit, and yet, when you're reading along with her POV, so much of what she does and thinks makes her seem like the only sane woman in the room. Even when you take a step back and realize what she does, she's very hard to not like. Even if you want to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, you like her. She's great. She's an everywoman, she's no woman. She's clever and stupid and brilliant and unimaginative all at once. She is... She's Taylor Hebert. She's an antihero, a villain protagonist, a hero hero and... she's just some fucking girl.

Heroes/Villains: What I mean by this bulletpoint is - villain protagonists, making villainous characters sympathetic - that's easy enough to do. And making the 'official heroes' of a setting not really as great as they might seem is also fairly easy to do. But it is hard to pair the two together as well as Wildbow did. The Undersiders do a lot of bad things (I would disagree with people who say they're all *fundamentally* bad people - even Regent... ish, kinda sorta. He's so fucked up due to his background that calling him fundamentally bad is probably not really accurate. Though some people draw red lines around some of what he did, so that's more subjective. But like, the key thing is that he did that while *also* still making them pretty sympathetic without like... running protag-centered morality and still making them have done quite a bit of good (and a ton of bad) AND the handling of the heroes. Because it really does look a lot like he's doing a bit where the 'official heroes' are the real bad guys of the story between things like Armsmaster's shit and Interlude 2, but he also doesn't actually do that. And he executes it in a way that is really well done, without doing the thing where the narrative acts like someone is evil but like... the person isn't.

This isn't really an exhaustive list of 'everything Worm did well' or even 'Everything I liked about Worm', but it is stuff that Wildbow did really fucking well, that I really liked or am impressed with, and that he deserves unalloyed praise for.

There are reasons why I kept reading Worm, and those are some of the reasons.

(There could also be a point on how he manages the readers' information diet, but it's really hard to say for sure if it's something that I really liked because I came in so thoroughly spoiled. From what I can see, I think I would have liked it and given it the unalloyed praise normally, but it's impossible to say because I knew what 75% of these clues were ahead of time).

Mr. Bow - you did a lot of shit I don't like. But holy motherfucking shit, you did some goddamn amazing stuff too.

[velvet-games]

ficlet inspired by this post @theautotrophic made. it ended spiraling into something very different lol but it's still kind of the same idea? I just needed to explain why vox joins the hotel in my universe.

“Ugh! How is this still happening?” Charlie moaned, turning off the TV. “I don’t think we can make any progress if we don’t start creating our own news coverage.”

“What was that?” Alastor stepped closer to the couch she and Vaggie were slumped on, suddenly curious. 

“It’s Vox. He’s making almost every channel about how much of a failure the hotel is – even though we just proved redemption is possible – and I think it’s actually gaining a lot of traction.” Charlie sighed. “It’s just … I thought everything would get better after we saved the day and my dad could help out, you know? But we’re still fighting just to get people to give us a chance.”

Vaggie put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re the ones with actual proof. I’m sure if we make our own announcement–”

“Wait! Alastor, you made that commercial last time, right?”

“Oh, uh, about that, Charlie–”

“You can make more to counter Vox’s stuff. Hey, and you were friends with him at some point too, right? So you know how to deal with him–”

“Charlie.” Vaggie spun Charlie around to face her. “Sorry. It’s just …”

“Vaggie made a deal with me so that I would never have to work with those picture boxes again,” Alastor finished cheerfully. 

Vaggie visibly deflated in shame. “Uh, yeah, something like that,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry.” Her expression became even more miserable as Charlie seemed to deflate too.

“Oh,” Charlie said. “Well, maybe you could–”

“But!” Alastor interjected, holding up a finger. He was far above drawing any attention to the Vees unprovoked, but this was about as good of an excuse as any. “The purpose of the deal was to prevent me from having any obligation to use the medium for producing entertainment. I would be happy to … take care of the interference from Vox.”

“Great!” Charlie’s eyes shone for one perfectly naive second before her face twisted in suspicion. “Wait … what are you gonna do?”

“Oh, just mess with his wires a little; nothing extreme, dear.”

—

A loud BOOM shook the building as Vaggie failed for the third time to get the TV to turn on. She sighed. “Goddammit.” None of the TVs were working, the Vees’ website had crashed, and Alastor had been gone for the last 24 hours. Vaggie could almost see the expression of horror on Charlie’s face when she found out Alastor had absolutely done more than “mess with his wires a little.” Vaggie rushed to the window, and yep. There it was: a giant red deer demon with shadow tentacles shooting out of it as a much smaller blue smudge darted around with trails of electricity following it. She sighed again. “Charlie? Come down; Alastor’s being an asshole again.”

—

“And I had a great idea for a new show that was gonna air today too!” Vox narrowly dodged another hit from Alastor’s shadows. 

“Another new show? My dear, you really are proving just how much you’re throwing rocks at the wall in the hopes that they’ll miraculously stick.” Alastor turned as Vox appeared behind him in a shower of sparks. “And was it really your idea? Or did you just have your little unpaid underlings come up with it for you?” 

“Fuck you!”

“Oh, I think we’re far past that possibility, darling.” Alastor chuckled, finally managing to grab Vox before he could jump into another streetlamp. “What was the idea? Another reality dating show with manufactured drama? Really, is anything you produce even remotely original nowadays?” The shadow tendril threw Vox into a nearby building. What remained of the terrified pedestrians scattered like ants as Vox fell, several bricks going with him. “What a pity. You used to at least come up with half-decent stories, even if the endings were always laughable.”

Vox groaned, trying to hold several shards of his broken screen in place. “N-No one cares. No one fucking cares what you think; I’m the one who built the empire. You have like, three listeners on that ancient radio show.”

“And each one of them has told me how much they like it, that it’s their favorite, even!” Alastor leaned down. “Would anyone watch you without the hypnosis, without other people’s hard work masquerading as your own?” He smirked. “Would anyone love you without manipulation?”

That last part caused Vox to look up, teeth bared. Several wires shot out of the building behind him and attached themselves to his head, lifting him up to be at eye level with Alastor. “Would anyone love you without manipulation?” Alastor kept smiling despite the surge of electricity that hit him; he quickly batted Vox out of the air, cutting off the attack. 

“I’ll have you know that nearly everyone who meets me adores me, whether they admit it or not,” Alastor replied smoothly. “Including you.”

Vox was on his knees, wires falling as he coughed up what became a puddle of blood. It was always startling how red it was, despite the mechanical nature of most of his body. “Yeah, have a fucking laugh.” His voice became quiet, muffled by static. “Have a fucking laugh about the fact that I loved you and you threw me away like a box of scraps.” He sniffed, standing up shakily and wiping a trail of red from his mouth. “Well, I’m the one with all the influence now, aren’t I? I’m the one with an actual team. You were fading even before you left; I bet you really did ask an angel for help, just to stay fucking relevant. Most of the other overlords aren’t scared of you anymore, and they’ll fucking kill you when none of them are.” 

Alastor narrowed his eyes. “You loved me? Is that why you ran away with that moth to make ‘entertainment’ even you won’t watch?” He started shrinking to his usual size, stepping forward. 

Vox scrambled back, one hand generating a few weak sparks. “Val loves me.”

“Valentino knows you’ll gnaw on any affection you get like a starving dog with a soup bone.” Alastor pushed Vox to the ground again, reaching down to wrap his fingers around Vox’s throat. The sparks in his hand died. “He knows you’re too selfish to make a real connection with anyone.”

Tears welled in Vox’s eyes, round and filling up nearly all of what was left of his screen. “I-I still love you,” he managed to choke out quietly. 

Alastor tightened his grip. “You love money. And I was stupid enough to care for you before I realized that.” Vox’s eyes managed to get even bigger as he started to really choke. “But you’re just dirt underneath my feet, and I’ll kill you every day that I have left here so you remember that.” Alastor just watched Vox’s face for a moment, then pulled out a small knife with his other hand. “Actually, you know what? I have angelic steel with me. I think I’ll just finish you here.” He drove the blade into Vox's side before he could respond, prompting a pained, strangled sound. It wouldn’t kill him quickly. He’d feel it for hours as he bled out if no one helped him. 

“Alastor!” a shrill voice called. He turned to see Charlie’s panicked face, her chest jumping with labored breaths as she stumbled to a stop. “Stop! Stop; I’m sure he’s had enough.”

Alastor stood up, giving one last petty kick to Vox’s leg. He put on an upbeat tune. “Hm, alright. I was just about getting bored with him anyway. How about we go get lunch at that new place around the corner? I’m absolutely starved!”

“I–” Charlie blinked. “No, Alastor, he–” She looked around his shoulder, flinching when she saw the state Vox was in. “Shouldn’t we help him?” she whispered. 

“And whyever would we do that?” 

“Well, I mean …” Charlie started, then appeared to brighten a little. “Actually. I have an idea.” She straightened her shoulders, putting on her “aggressively-kindly” face and voice. “As princess of Hell, I command you to leave the Vees and come help with the hotel. And make up with Alastor.” She glanced at Alastor apologetically before mumbling quickly, “onlyifyouwanttothoughyoudon’thavetodoanythingyou’renotcomfortablewith.” 

Vox blinked, managing to look unimpressed despite bleeding profusely and only having a quarter of his original face visible between all the cracks and glitching. “I would literally rather kill myself.”

Charlie blushed all the way to her ears. “O-Oh.” 

Alastor just burst out laughing, making a show of spinning his cane as he stepped closer to Vox. “Well, old friend,” he said, lifting a heeled boot above Vox’s chest and pressing down. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary if you refuse our help.” Vox sputtered a little as Alastor continued to push. “How about this: Lucifer can heal your wound, and you take a temporary break from working with the Vees, just long enough to help us create a presentation for the angels.” He let his gums show with a smirk that probably contained enough smugness to kill a horse. “And I would love to have you for dinner the night you leave. Is that a deal?”

Vox immediately blushed despite clearly being too lightheaded from blood loss to fully understand what Alastor was saying. “You bastard” – Alastor pressed harder – “Fine! Fine, yes. It’s a deal justliftyourfootholyshitfuck–”

“Wonderful!” Alastor lifted his boot, leaving Vox coughing and bending over on his side. “Now. you two have fun; I’m afraid I need another visit to the tailor,” he said. He brushed off his lapels and straightened his cuffs. “Oh, and Vox? It wasn’t angelic steel; I just think desperation suits you.”

Alastor was gone before the cries of indignant surprise assaulted his ears.

[e-nonsense]

HI!! This is my first time requesting something specific in a long time, so forgive me if it's all over the place😭

Basicallyyyy almost the same as the reader being Selina's protoge- But minus the badass and crank up their weirdness and patheticness to a thousand

A childhood frenemies to lovers scenario 😝

Reader as a kid pretty much settled at the fact that they were "different" from other kids— and they didn't wanna conform to what society considered normal bc uhhh that's not them!!!! Maybe they even had a good chat about the Joker with it

Reader was more of a trouble maker than a villain, really. Throwing eggs at politicians, managing to stick gum on Dick's hair or Bruce's cape, stealing Jim G. glasses for the millionth time, scaring random civilians at night with shadow puppet/illusions/inventions they plant on the yard or walls..... nun too crazy! And with this, formed an odd friendship with Jason during his glory days as Robin

Though Jason was just doing his job as a vigilante, reader felt like he was the only one who understood them sometimes. And because of that, reader would sometimes do good deeds for him to see but still do their silly chaotic things😋

Until Jason died, that is

Because of this, reader didn't consider stirring up trouble when Jason isn't the one stopping them anymore and eventually uses that big brain of theirs to do random tech stuff for good use

Reader by this time is gonna be the "Smart but weird sleep deprived loser" type... chat do you see my vision...

when Jason comes back and pays them a visit, reader is so lost at first

"It's me, [name]"

"Oh whar.... ok ok uhm....."

Mf thought they were going crazy and was gonna laugh but when they realize it was real they immediately broke down— kneeling and hugging his knees as they poured pent up love confessions OUTTTTT there... y/n you crazy bitch!!!!!

(And for nsfw if you want, maybe this happens months later. Reader would be SO eager to be good for Jason, but maybe too good that Jason slowly starts to bottom as reader showers him with love through keen whispers and needy touches.

Asking, "Can I touch here?" "Can I remove this?" "Does this feel good?" Bc consent is hot asl yall missing out🙏

Reader would hold him so close, as if afraid he would slip away again and would babble their sad I love you's, his name and other praises and Jason is praying not to cum immediately because holy fuck?? You want him HOW BAD????)

Sorry if this was a lot to read😭 The voices in my head are odd like that

—☁️/ w the help of my friend♟️the og idea is from him❗️❗️ he just let my ass skedadle with this to your blog 😭

here you go anon i hope your and your friend enjoy!

[dei2dei]

Look at all the stuff in that mansion. It's full, in that carefully-organized-by-a-designer way, and it's fantastic--and it's also utterly, horribly terrifying and makes me sad on behalf of MK1 Johnny Cage, what little I can see. Because as much money has been splashed around, as glorious and gorgeous as that Cage’s Mansion stage is… that's a showpiece, not a home.

Johnny has Sento, a true Japanese katana with a history--and it's famous enough, presumably, he'd know its name. It's on display in a really nice setup with all its elements neatly aligned and included so you can see every bit of it.  

He has a very fancy glass chandelier, and what looks like a bust of Nefertiti. Open windows and he keeps the temp at 72F. Lots of white furniture, the random vases full of sticks (aromatherapy diffusers?), a variety of bar carts. Abstract art and sculpture, and what may be a bra abandoned by the one chair and ottoman by the fireplace. One chair and ottoman. Not two, where you'd expect to cuddle up with family if you had one, or a partner. Just one.

This place can seat dozens. There are at least four discrete seating areas (maybe five?) on the bottom floor, plus the infinity pool, and an outdoor porch/patio. Then there's the second floor and all its seating that we can glimpse. It’s made for filling with people, and not in a lived-in dinner parties and kids running around kind of way.  This is a place you fill with people for parties. It's a place you expect to need dozens of chairs and bottles and bottles of liquor for your get-together. But there's very little Johnny on display. 

It's all about external appearances- the bust of Nefertiti is a well-known piece of art, and historically she was considered an icon of feminine beauty. He's got one of the world's most beautiful women to look at, a fancy Japanese katana, and yet all of it smacks to me of a man who is desperate to find pleasure, to chase the high in acquisitions and throwing big parties and having lots of people, to drown and forget the emptiness inside.

We don't see pictures of people here. No photos of family, of a girlfriend, or even of himself (no posters or award photos on the wall). Johnny is a man on his own, and anyone who comes to his place is an ephemeral guest, leaving very little of themselves behind. What there is of him is hidden away from public view, where perhaps only a few guests would get to see--and if we're stripping down to bras in the main space and then heading to skinny dipping in the pool, it'll be a wonder if they make it to a bedroom. There's no dining room here, or kitchen (that we see)--all those private areas are hidden. All public-facing here, all carefully cultivated and maintained for appearances.

I think this new Johnny, the little bit we've seen, is hungry for something. He wants something and he doesn't know what it is. Acting lets him chase that; maybe he'll find what he's missing in a role, in a mindset, in a co-star. Maybe he's tried to buy things and see if one of them will fill the hole in him, but nothing takes. Maybe if he surrounds himself with enough people, he'll meet The One (or two, if it's a poly situation). But right now... he's flying solo. This isn’t a place you raise a kid in, curl up with your significant other on a couch in front of the fire and laugh or watch TV (is there even one?).

It's an ostentatious display of wealth and a desire to be a party animal, to be the one people come to hang out with, the social butterfly that has alcohol and plenty of space. I think Tony Stark would absolutely be comfortable in a place like this (in fact, that's what my first thought was - MK/MCU mashup when?), but what we're missing is the equivalent to Tony's lab and bedroom. There's no passion here on display, nothing that makes this an individual, unique home that says "Johnny Cage" on it. He's presenting a face to the world, and hiding the rest away where he has to be a real person who eats and sleeps. There’s a scene in the MKX comics where Sonya is gearing up for an op in their kitchen, and the incongruity is great, Johnny stumbling out in fuzzy slippers and bathrobe and her checking her gun with the fruit bowl on the counter. That wouldn’t happen here; that’s too human, too vulnerable, for this Johnny.

Until - I hope - he meets The One, and realizes that he can stop chasing after external happiness because he’s got somebody who makes all those paintings and awards pale in comparison. Someone who's worth putting another chair next to the fireplace for, maybe making that pristine mansion a little messy for. Someone who's going to shake him down to his well-heeled shoes and upend his world. And if MK1 isn't going to give him someone, well. That's what fanfic is for.

[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (5/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. 43,000 words total.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 5: Mistaken.

Crosshair searches for a place in the community, while Omega struggles with memories of Tantiss. Wrecker does his best to help them both. 5900 words, Crosshair and Omega POV.

---

“So what are you working on today?” Crosshair asked, taking a seat on the pier beside Wrecker.  He swung his legs over the side of the dock, letting them dangle in the warm water.  Sunlight sparkled on the surface.  Around them, villagers worked on their boats or prepared their catches for the market.  Wrecker had picked a dock slightly out of the way of the main hustle and bustle, and now he bent over the ropes in his lap, focusing hard with his tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’m getting better at nets,” said Wrecker.  “It’s fun.  Kinda reminds me of timer munitions.  Wires and ropes, same thing, right?  It’s all about the pattern.”  His strong fingers gripped a complicated-looking needle, using it to twist patterns in the thin twine-like rope, strands hanging off a hoop.  Crosshair watched him for a few minutes, and even though he could easily see the steps, they didn’t make any sense.  The twine had no shape, but then suddenly, there was half a meter of net in Wrecker’s hands.

“You and your wires,” Crosshair said.  “They never made sense to me.  I’d rather take a good clean shot.”  

“Yeah, I know,” Wrecker said.  He kicked his feet, making splashes in the water below as he made another three loops in his net.  “I like this, though.  They don’t really need a lot of bombs here, so it’s nice to have somethin’ else to do.”  His face fell a little in disappointment, and Crosshair smiled faintly, thinking of Wrecker’s massive grins when an explosion went just right.

“I thought you could just wrestle the fish into submission,” Crosshair cracked.  “Do you really need a net?”

Wrecker laughed.  “Nah, not really.  But they do.”  He jerked a thumb behind him at some of the villagers, a couple working on repairing their small fishing boat.  “Empire did a lot of damage that night.  People are still working on fixing things.  Hell, there’s still some damage from the sea surge that needs fixing, and that was almost a year ago.  I might get to throw out a few booms for that if I’m lucky, but people need to eat more than they need stuff blasted out.”

Crosshair leaned back, gazing up at the sky.  Birds with long, spear-like bills and wide wingspans flew by in a slow stately line, and he watched them proceed, wondering what they were.  He could see startling details on them, even at this distance; a patch of skin on their throats flushing blue and violet, red-rimmed azure eyes, a sandy blonde ruff of feathers at the base of their necks.  

He thought back to what Wrecker had said.  “You and Hunter fit here.  It’s good for you.”

Wrecker gave him a curious look.  “You fit too, Cross.”  

Crosshair remembered the moving day party two weeks ago, Wrecker and Hunter easily mingling with the villagers while he skulked out on the patio.  “Not like you do.”

“You could.  All it is is talkin’ to people,” Wrecker said.  “Sometimes I can’t remember everyone’s names, but I’m good at faces!  And you could always ask Omega if you need to cheat.  She’s got everyone down.”  He held up his half-finished net, watching as the loose weave fluttered in the breeze, nodding in satisfaction.  “Looking for something to do?”

“Yes,” said Crosshair.  “We haven’t exactly ever had extra time.  I don’t know what to do with it.”  He scowled.   At first he’d spent his time cleaning up their small house or going on long walks, but it never took long to get the place tidy, and the walks were less appealing as he found himself trodding the same trails.  He was glad to spend time with his family when they were free, but Omega was now taking classes with the other children on the island, Hunter was deciding they should have a garden and was constantly working on that when he wasn’t picking up odd jobs, and Wrecker spent most of his time here down at the docks.

Everyone had found somewhere to be, besides him.

“Well, this is a good place to spend it,” said Wrecker.  “Another reason I like making nets?  It’s peaceful.  Kinda like Omega’s meditation, but not boring.”  He laughed.  “I tried with her once or twice, it just makes me fall asleep.”  He paused, giving Crosshair a knowing look.  “You still doing that?”

Crosshair looked away.  What would be the point now?  No hand, no tremor, no need.  Even though part of him missed those times he’d meditated with Omega, her calm breath mixing in his ears with the ocean waves, her encouragement meaning the world.  She’d asked him a few times since they came back, and he always turned her down, the question making him uneasy.  

He’d lost the battle he was trying to fight there.  No sense returning to the battlefield now.  He shook his head.

“Huh,” Wrecker said, almost looking disappointed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wrecker shrugged.  “I dunno.  Just -- seemed like it helped you, before.”

“And you’re saying I need help now?” Crosshair asked icily.

“Don’t get bent out of shape,” Wrecker said, resting his net in his lap.  “But….  Maybe.  You sleep like crap.  I know, because your bunk’s across from me.  And I know you like being on your own, but it kinda seems like you’re on your own the wrong way.  Not because you like it, but ‘cause it’s easier than being around other people.”  He shrugged again.  

“How very astute of you,” Crosshair said, anger shivering just beneath his words.  His eyes narrowed.  He knew Wrecker was trying to be helpful.  Maybe that was part of what made it so enraging.  I don’t need help!  And somewhere deep, deep inside, a faint thought: I don’t deserve help.  He slammed his fist down on the wooden dock, letting out a sharp huff of breath.

Wrecker held up his vast hands in supplication.  “Hey, told you not to get bent out of shape.”

“Just leave it alone, Wrecker.”

“All right, all right.”  Wrecker gave him a sly look, then suddenly swung his leg sharply through the water, creating a massive wave.  It splashed Crosshair up to his waist.  

“Wrecker!” he snarled, scrambling to his feet, water pouring off of his linen pants.  His toes squelched on the wet dock.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What?” Wrecker asked innocently.  He burst out laughing, shaking his head.  “Ahhh Crosshair, you shoulda seen your face.”

“If you keep this up it’ll be the last face you ever see,” Crosshair spat.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”  He got to his feet, setting down his half-finished net.  “C’mon.  If you want something to do, lemme introduce you to Beryx.  She’s always got stuff she could use a hand with.”

“She had better only need one,” said Crosshair, raising his eyebrow.

Wrecker snorted out a laugh, then stopped himself, looking guilty.

“No, no, I was being funny,” Crosshair admitted.  “Go on and laugh.”

“Oh, okay!” Wrecker said, relieved.  “But uh… I don’t know when it’s okay to laugh about it, and when it isn’t.”

“Neither do I.  I’m making it up as I go,” Crosshair said honestly.  “Come on.  Let’s see this Beryx.  It’s better than standing around here waiting for my pants to dry.”  He briefly considered trying to shove Wrecker into the sea while he was thinking about whether or not it was okay to laugh at hand jokes yet, but decided against it.  This time.

Beryx was a stern, no-nonsense Kiffar woman in her senior years, with a striking purple facial tattoo and long white hair.  “Wrecker!  This your brother Crosshair?” she said in a voice that was clearly used to giving orders.

“Ha, what gave it away, Beryx?” Wrecker said.

“Between the clone resemblance and the crosshair tattoo, it was an easy guess,” she said drily.  “Good to meet you.  Now, you lookin’ for some work?”

Crosshair shrugged.  “Sure, if you’ve got something I can do.”  He held up his stump.

Beryx wasn’t phased.  “You look strong enough.  I mean, not like Wrecker here --”  She reached far up overhead, stretching to her tiptoes to cuff Wrecker on the shoulder.  He blushed.  “But I got a pile of fish for deliveries for the older folk, and those long legs look like they’d do just fine with the stairs.”

“They don’t get their fish at the market?” Crosshair asked, slightly relieved she hadn’t been thrown by his missing hand.  Deliveries should be easy enough.

“Ain’t always easy for them to leave the house, so we send the food to them.  Plus, they get a chance to visit with the delivery crew.  So I expect you to make a little chitchat with ‘em when you drop their orders off,” she said, lifting several cooling bags on straps.  “C’mere, bend down.”

He leaned down before he’d fully processed the rest of what she said.  “Chitchat?  That’s not --”

“He’ll be great!” Wrecker said cheerfully as Beryx slung several bags over his neck and shoulders.  He grunted slightly.  The old woman was much stronger than she looked, and the bags weren’t light.  He glanced down at them, spotting small readers on each one that said names and addresses.  

Crosshair sighed.  Well, he was the one who had come down here.  “I guess I’ll be back to drop these containers off after the delivery.”

“Just bring ‘em by before I head out for the day,” Beryx said.  “Much appreciate it.”

“Meet you up at the market for lunch after?” Wrecker said.  “Omega’ll be done with school by 1400.”  

“Sure,” Crosshair said, and much to his surprise, he found himself looking forward to it.  He straightened up, the bags rustling at his sides, and headed up to town.

---

“Chitchatting” with the elderly hadn’t been the way he’d planned to spend his day, but it was going much better than he had expected.

This time of day the sun was still pleasant instead of punishingly hot.  It was early enough in the morning that the wildlife of the island scampered around freely.  With Batcher hanging out with Hunter today, Crosshair’s keen eyes picked up small jeweled birds hovering in the glossy green shrubs, small rabbits ducking in and out of the shadows, a fish-hawk wheeling high overhead.  The fish-hawk was white and black with striking markings and a piercing golden eye, and he watched it for a moment at a rise on the stairs before remembering where he was heading next.

His first stop was to a tiny Twi’lek woman bent with age, her soft accented speech difficult to understand.  Marhee Narjin took her delivery with a wide smile, asking him inside to help her put away the food.  Her little home, which seemed to be the same general structure as their own, was full of art on every surface, paintings, decorations on the walls, small canvases stacked in every corner, art supplies overflowing.  A curious painted wooden sculpture of many small pieces, shaped somewhat like an upside down trill in Aurebesh, stood in pride of place in the alcove in her wall.  The same place Omega had laid down Tech’s goggles.  He wondered what it was, why it was important, but did not ask.

She chattered brightly to him as he helped her put away the fish.  Asked his name.  Asked his age, then looked astounded when he gave it to her.  Asked if he had fought in the war, seeing his wrist.  When he told her haltingly that he had, she shook her head, sighing.  “Ah, Ryloth, how I miss it!  It was a beautiful world before the war.”

Crosshair frowned, ashamed.  He’d been to Ryloth twice… once on the right side, once with the Empire.  He gritted his teeth, tried to say something reassuring.  “It’s still a beautiful world.  I… I saw an eclipse there, once.”  He and Tech had been the only ones to see it, and it still gave him goosebumps to remember the shadowed sun, Tech’s look of awe.  “It was incredible.”

She gave him a sweet, tremulous grin.  “The last eclipse on Ryloth I saw was well before you were born.  It was a holy thing.  I am glad you were able to see it, Crosshair.”  She sighed happily.  “Thank you for helping me.”

“Can I ask you something?” Crosshair asked suddenly.

“Of course.”

“Why do you paint?”  He tried to find the right words for the question.  “What is it for?”

Marhee looked at him, thunderstruck.  “Why, I paint because I must.  It is who I am.”  She gestured to the colorful paintings in the kitchen of flowers around the island, seascapes, a silver fish with sparkling scales.  “It is how I see the world.”  She looked at him curiously.  “Sometime, when you do not have many bags of fish to deliver, come by.  I would like to paint you.  You might understand then.”  

“Paint… me?  Why?” he asked, taken aback.

“Because you are a clone, one of many, and yet different, one and alone.  A curious dichotomy for an artist to explore!” she said in delight.  “But I mustn’t keep you.  Go on, until we meet again.”

“I -- all right --” he sputtered.  She ushered him back out and he shook his head, trying to understand what that had been about.  

But she’d been kind and her paintings had been beautiful.  He’d been able to see every brushstroke in the paintings, every varied hue, the way the layered paint formed a luminous shimmer on some pieces.  He thought Wrecker would have particularly liked the fish.  

He remembered Hunter’s gardening attempts.  He’d never tried drawing -- Hunter had done all the motifs on their armor, aside from Wrecker’s helmet -- but they did have time to try new things now.  Huh.  

His other deliveries went smoothly.  An elderly pair of humans invited him in for a cup of caf and to meet their lothcat, Mr. Tibbins, a creature they proudly told him only went out on a leash so as to not harass the local wildlife.  Mr. Tibbins looked as if he might have other ideas, but he tolerated the elderly couple pinning his leash on him for a stroll after they’d put away the fish.  Crosshair ignored the creature, but the lothcat promptly waltzed over to him and clambered into his lap, purring furiously and shedding all over him.

An old Abednego gave him a pair of cookies for his trouble and mused at him about the latest jizz album.  He played a few songs for Crosshair, and he had to admit they were pretty catchy, though he wasn’t exactly going to go as far as the Abednego, who listened for half a song and then got up and started dancing with the aid of his cane.

Two human sisters insisted he join them for a morning pick-me-up, which turned out to be a fiery amber liqueur.  He took one sip and nearly spat it out, his head swimming almost instantly.  What the hell they were drinking, he had no idea, and wanted no part of it.  He hid his tiny glass behind their seasoning shaker and made an excuse to go to the next delivery, managing to evade detection until he got outside.  His head felt floaty for a good half an hour after that stop.

His last stop was coming up, and the midday sun was beginning to swing high.  After climbing up and down the stairs -- probably making a few wrong turns, as he was still getting the hang out of how the island was organized into neighborhoods -- his stomach was growling.  The two cookies and the caf had long since burned off.  It’d be good to meet Wrecker and Omega for lunch and tell them of the morning. 

Maybe they already knew the artist and her work.  He kept thinking of the vivid colors in her home, lush fuschias, greens in a dozen shades, phantasmagoric midnight blues.  

Maybe there was a market stall with some beginner art supplies he could investigate.

He climbed up to the last corner home on this stretch of lower Pabu, stretching his neck as he went.  He glanced at the order, an assortment of fish for Eenta Bogin.  The old man was sitting on his patio, looking half-asleep.  Crosshair approached cautiously with a clearing of his throat, and the old man sat up straight and looked around, squinting through clouded eyes.

“Oh!  Oh, are you bringing the fish?” he asked, shading his eyes with one hand.  “Why, that’s mighty kind of you.”  He got to his feet, shuffling slowly from the patio to the front door.  Crosshair reached out instinctively, offering his left arm, and the old man held onto it with surprising strength.  

“Thank you, young man.”  Eenta glanced up at him as they entered his home, looking puzzled, then shook his head.  “The kitchen is this way.  What did Beryx send?”

“Looks like… a few bar jack, a pair of reefcrawlers and a mora,” Crosshair said, riffling through the last of the fish.  “Good variety.”

“What’s your favorite?  I’m partial to mora, myself.”

“Same here.  It’s got the best flavor.”  He pulled out the packages of cold fish, helping the old man get them into his conservator, rearranging some of the other food until they found the right order.

“Well!  Very good,” Eenta said, smiling.  “You know, it took me a moment to remember you, young man.”  He narrowed his hazy eyes at Crosshair, focusing.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” said Crosshair uncertainly.  Maybe he had come to the moving day party?  Many villagers had stopped through during the day.  Though he suspected Eenta didn’t exactly have the mobility to stop by for a quick visit to a party.

“No, no, I remember now,” said Eenta in a warm voice.  “The sea surge!  Your big brother Wrecker scooped me up like a sack of tubers and hauled me on out of here.  Good thing he did, too!  And you and Miss Phee were so handy with those ladders.”

“I don’t --”

“But you look a little different than I remember.  Changed your hair, I think.”  He frowned, kind concern in every line of his aged face, his rheumy eyes squinted in concentration.  “Are you getting enough to eat, Tech?”

Crosshair froze.

His heart felt like it stuttered, then stopped.

“Tech?” the old man asked, his voice faltering.

“That’s -- I’m not --”  He struggled to get the words out.  “Enjoy the fish,” he choked out, and he fled through the front door.

There was a buzzing in his ears, a roaring, prickling thing that he faintly realized was his own pulse.  It thrummed.  It thrummed.  He stood there blinking slowly in the blinding sun, trying to remember how to breathe.

---

Omega waited near the weeping maya, looking around for Wrecker.  She’d had a busy day at the island school, her mind spinning with galactic history today.  Her brothers had taught her so much since she’d left Kamino, but it was almost always practical, survival-based.  She’d needed every scrap of what they’d given her, but now she was hearing about other things, too; old stories, historic events, learning about different peoples and languages.  She let out a long breath.  Tech would have liked these lessons, she knew; maybe he would have compared them to what they had learned on Serenno.

But Hunter and Wrecker and Crosshair made surprisingly good listeners.  She’d talked their ears off every day for the past week with the stories she’d heard about Jedi in the High Republic and the great hyperspace disaster.  She and Lyana made up their own stories, wondering what it would have been like to use the Force, Omega picturing Asajj’s powers mixed with heroic adventures around the galaxy.  The disappointment she’d felt after Asajj had left had long since faded, but she still liked to imagine if things had been different.

She missed the Tantiss children a lot on days like this.  Senator Chuchi, Echo, and Emerie had been hard at work, and Sami, Jax and Eva had all been reunited with their families and relocated.  Only giggly Bayrn remained with his foster family, still working on trying to learn his first word.  Omega wondered what they would have thought of the stories.  Between what Omega knew of Tantiss and Emerie’s information, she had a pretty good idea of why the children had been held there, and it made her gut twist to think of how long they’d stayed there before she came to them.

She took a deep breath.  

It was a good day.  She didn’t want to think about Tantiss right now.  Didn’t want to think about it ever again.

She sat down on one of the weeping maya’s roots, picking at the bark with her fingernails.  

Crosshair and Hunter limping beside her, both of them panting, injured, exhausted -- the shuttle waiting, all of them making one final run for it -- Hunter and Crosshair collapsing into the seats beside Wrecker, their faces pale and grimacing -- Crosshair’s bandage soaked with blood --

She shuddered, trying not to think about that moment -- or the moment she first realized Crosshair had lost his hand -- or the moment she saw the wound on Wrecker’s chest -- or how Hunter’s hand in hers had shook with pain, all the way to the shuttle --

Omega took a deep breath.  Tried to focus on the fact that they were all home and safe again.  

Her eyes welled with unexpected tears.  Not all of them.  Echo had barely stopped to rest before leaving them again… and Tech would never come home.

Her previous good mood suddenly sank like a stone.

This kept happening, since they’d come back.  She didn’t know why.  Everything should be better now!  She balled up her fist in frustration and took another deep breath.  

In, and out.

In, and out.

She crossed her arms over her chest as Wrecker spotted her from across the way, waving with one hand.  He closed the distance to meet her, bringing with him a large tray of fish and rice.  

“Hey, kid.  Ready for lunch?”  He glanced around.  “No Crosshair yet?”

“No.  Crosshair’s coming?”  She smiled a little, her mood lifting slightly.  He’d been eating on his own a lot lately, skipping dinner or breakfast.  It’d be good to see him, especially up here out and about.  

“I told him to meet us here,” said Wrecker uncertainly.  “Since when am I on time?”

“Hey, anyone can change, right?” Omega asked with a grin.

He chuckled.  “Good point, kid.  Well, I vote we dig in.  We can always get more when he shows up.”

They ate together beneath the soft green foliage of the tree above, the sweet scent of its flowers a gentle perfume carried on the breeze.  Omega told Wrecker some more of her Jedi stories, and he shared a few of his own -- a general called Skywalker, one named Kenobi.  They talked for a good while, and Omega wondered how Gungi was doing, if he was able to keep up with his training on Kashyyyk.

She must have been hungrier than she’d thought, or Wrecker had snuck extra portions when she wasn’t looking, but when she reached down for another scoop of rice and fish she realized they’d nearly eaten through the whole tray.

“Wrecker?  I thought you said Crosshair was coming?” she asked.

He frowned, glancing up toward the sun, judging the time.  “He shoulda been here by now.  He’s never this late.”

“When did you see him?”

“Down by the docks.  He was taking up a load of deliveries for Beryx.  He shoulda been done… shoot, at least an hour ago,” Wrecker guessed.  He sighed.  “Must’ve changed his mind again.”

“He keeps doing that,” said Omega sadly.  “I asked him to meditate again with me yesterday, but he turned me down.”  She rested her chin in her hands, thinking hard.  She remembered how it felt on the bridge, Crosshair’s wounded arm resting on her shoulders.  “Is he going to be okay, Wrecker?  With his hand?”

Wrecker opened his mouth.  “‘Course he is.  At least… that’s what I wanna think.”  He looked down at his hands.  “But I don’t know, Omega.  Guess none of us do.”  

“I hate not knowing,” she admitted. 

Wrecker looked like he was deep in thought, trying to figure out what to say to her.  At last he said,  “He’s tough, our Crosshair.  But -- don’t tell him I said this, got it?  He’s, uh, he’s tender, too.  You know?”

“Secret’s safe with me,” she said, smiling.  “I think I know what you mean.”  That sounded right -- like the brother she knew from Tantiss, coldly trying to convince her to leave without him; and the brother she knew from Pabu, desperately trying to keep her safe.  She swallowed her bite, then halfheartedly put together another one.  It seemed to take forever to chew.  

“I think more ‘n anything, he just needs some time, I guess,” said Wrecker.  “AZI keeps trying to give him options.  Prosthetics and stuff.  Maybe it would help?  I don’t know.  Echo always seemed okay with just his scomp, though…”

“I was talking with Mrs. Mikkels yesterday,” Omega mused.  “You know, the tailor?  She lost her hand a long time ago.  She said she likes using her mechanical hand for work, but at home when she wants to relax, she takes it off, because it never quite felt like her real one.  I never thought about it like that.  I guess there’s lots of options.  I hope Crosshair can find something that works for him.  Or maybe he won’t want one, and that’s okay too.”  

She fell silent, and they held the quiet for a beat until the words snuck out of her.  “I’m worried about him.”  She knew what Crosshair would say if she told him so.  I’m fine, maybe with a toothpick flicked her way for good measure.  But he’d always been a bad liar.

“Yeaaaah, me too.”

“He seems like he’s closing up again somehow,” said Omega.  “It’s not just his hand, is it?”

Wrecker put his arm around her.  “No,” he admitted.  “Seeing Tantiss again… he was in a bad way, even before he got hurt.”  He shook his head, swallowing.  “Never seen him like that.  Maybe he’s still carryin’ that around.”

Like what? she almost asked, but decided she didn’t need to know.  Didn’t want to know, unless Crosshair wanted to tell her.  Omega wiped at her eyes.  “He went back there for me.  It must have been so hard for him.  You don’t know what it was like there.  He was so… empty.  He thought he deserved to be there.”

“But he came back and he faced it.  Like I said -- tough,” Wrecker said, his voice tinged with pride.  He smiled down at her.  “Like his sister.”

Omega laughed, even though things felt so heavy.  “That’s true.  All of us are.”  She leaned against her brother, grateful beyond words to rest against his broad, safe shoulder.  “I’m so glad we won, Wrecker.  That we got the clones and the kids out.  That we really, really hurt the Empire, and they won’t be able to find me, ever again.  But -- but I feel so sad, too.  I don’t understand.”

“What kind of sad, kid?” Wrecker asked gently.

“I dunno.  Lots of kinds.”  She stared down at her lap.  A cool afternoon breeze fluttered by, carrying with it the sweet smell of flowers.  “I knew you’d all come for me, I wasn’t scared about that.  Crosshair and I had a plan, and it worked, right?  But -- being back there again --”  She shivered, trying to forget the empty walls of her little cell in the Vault, Hemlock’s cold soft voice, the feel of the cuff on her wrist.  The bruises had faded weeks ago, but she rubbed her wrist, feeling their echo.

Wrecker was giving her a sad, almost guilty look.  She scrunched up her face in confusion.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said hastily.  He patted her on the shoulder.  “I’m just sorry you had to go back there.  I know we were out of options.”  He let out a long breath.  

“Yes,” she said, though she wondered why he’d gotten that guilty look.  She sighed.  “I just feel some days like it’s still there.  Tantiss.  Even when we’re here, and everything’s so much better…”  She closed her eyes, snuggling against his side, and he rested his large strong arm around her, protective and gentle both.  She breathed in; breathed out.  Tried not to think about looking out at the jungle, night after night, wondering if she would ever see her brothers again.  It didn’t seem fair that she still had to think about it when they’d won, when they’d torn it stone from stone.

She tried to remind herself that everything was different now.  Not just different from how it had been on Tantiss, but before, too, when she had been alone on Kamino.  

Once, she’d been lonely every day, Nala Se mostly consumed in her work, no one else around for company except, briefly, her baby brothers.  For a little while they’d been scarcely smaller than her. Yet before they were old enough to remember her they were gone, whisked off with the other cadets; and she was alone again, a freak, an oddity, a bad batch of one.  

But here, now, she had brothers.  Brothers who hugged her and made her dinner and stayed up late with her if she had trouble sleeping; brothers who’d risked their lives for her, Tech who’d given his life for all of them, brothers she was so lucky to have.  She had the cadets Wrecker and Hunter had found, the other clones she’d met through Rex and Echo and in Tantiss, brothers and friends in a different way; she had Lyana, Shep, Phee.  And when she didn’t want to talk to anyone else, when she needed to be alone but not alone, there were Batcher and Gonky.  They had so much here.  She had so much.

She blinked back tears again, looking up at her brother, annoyed at her watery eyes.  “Sorry,” she said.  “It’s just -- everything.”

“I hear ya, kid.”  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and she giggled.  

“Want to go back home?  Maybe Crosshair’s already there.”

“Sure.”

---

Batcher found him as the sun was setting.  Crosshair slid off his perch on a large rock near the water’s edge, feet landing in the sand.  “If you’re looking for dinner, you won’t find it here,” he told her.  She just panted, wagging her tiny tail, and nudged him in the leg with her great head.  

“You were looking for me.  Huh.”  A thread of guilt uncurled within him.  He’d promised to meet Wrecker and Omega for lunch, which had been and gone hours back.  But instead he’d made his way back to the docks in a blur, dumped off the delivery containers, and made his way here to the hidden cave.

He knew he’d been here for hours.  The last brilliance of the orange-red sun lining the horizon was more than enough of a cue, let alone the thirst on his tongue and his growling stomach.  But he hadn’t been able to move more than enough to stand up now and then and skip stones into the flowing water, watching them sink.  Inevitably he had tired of that and had gone back to sitting, until he got so restless he had to stand and pace and throw again.  His aim with his left was getting better, but still nothing like his right had been.

Batcher rumbled one of her little noises that meant she wanted to go.  He sighed, following her obediently as the dusk deepened and the sky shifted from blues and violets to space-deep blacks.  

“Did one of them send you after me?” he asked, fully aware of the absurdity of asking the question.  She trotted along the rocky shore and into the sandy reaches, panting as he came along behind her.

He let out a long, shaky breath.  The old man’s face swam back into his mind, confused and kind and yet so certain his name was --

He picked up the pace, jogging along the hound, welcoming the exertion and the way his heart rate rose.  The breeze sheared past him, cold at first, then pleasantly cool as he ran.  He could try to think about his breath.  Try to think about his footsteps in the sand.  Try to think of his arms pumping, the right arm moving more swiftly with the lighter weight.  Try to think about anything but --

He shook his head, growling, furious at being back there again.  He couldn’t shake it.  Couldn’t shake the sound of Tech’s name in the old man’s voice.  Couldn’t stop thinking about Kamino, how sometimes their trainers would mix up him and Tech before his hair turned silver, before Tech needed the goggles.  He thought about Tech’s face, once a mirror to his own, and he burst forward, the breath tearing itself from his lungs as he reached the beachside stairs.

He slammed to a stop, folding himself in half, left hand gripping his knee, right arm tight against his thigh.  He panted in the night air, his chest searing like a wound.  He couldn’t catch his breath.  He choked, trying to find it, trying to stop the panic clawing out of him, but all he could do was stand there gasping.

Batcher turned, leaning her heavy head against his leg, and he reached out to cling to her as if she was the last bit of dry land in a churning sea.  Gradually his breathing slowed to a ragged rhythm, Omega’s meditation distant and impossible, lost to him now.  He pressed the hound closer to him, taking in gulps of cool air, blinking back the water in his eyes.

“Come on,” he managed.  “Time to go home.”

They took the stairs slowly, following the strings of solar lamps strung along the path, and eventually the lights of their little home appeared around the bend.  He swallowed, looking at their little home, seeing glimpses of Hunter, Wrecker and Omega through the windows.  It looked like they were having dinner.  Probably talking about their days.  Normal things for a normal life.  He wondered what that was like.

The door slid open for him.  He nodded slightly to his siblings, sitting at the dinner table.

“Crosshair!” Omega said.  She took a look at him, face scrunching into a frown.  “You didn’t come up for lunch.  Are you okay?”

“Yeah, you had us worried, Cross,” said Wrecker.  Hunter looked at him curiously, waiting for his response.

“The deliveries went long,” he lied.  “It’s easy to get turned around.  I’ll make it for lunch next time.”

Wrecker and Omega glanced at each other, clearly not convinced.  His stomach clenched, readying for a confrontation --

“Well, join us for dinner at least,” Hunter said before the others could ask more questions.  He gestured to a serving bowl of greens and vegetables.  “Give this a try.  I think I’m going to plant some in the garden.”

“Oh.  Uh, all right,” Crosshair said, the tension draining out of him.  He was safe from another round of questioning.  He clung to the rescue gratefully, grabbing a plate with his left hand.  

“Come on, try some.  It’s better than it looks,” Wrecker said.

“Yeah,” Omega said, giving him a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “Pull up a chair.”

“Let’s see just how edible this is,” he said.  He took his seat beside them to try some dinner, and Tech’s face receded into the background, at least for a little while.

[self-loathing-angel-of-thursday2]

Beautiful Spouse’s Thoughts S01x01 The Case Of Crystal Palace

“How is Netflix going to fuck this up?” “There’s only 8 episodes? Goddammit. How am I supposed to consume one year of time with this?” “What is this British thing? Are they trying to pull some Harry Potter shit or what?” “He’s really gotta a fist in that bag” “hello” “What’s with the fkn gas mask anyway?” It’s like WW1 dude

“That transition was fkn awesome” “ghosts huh?” “Oh yeah for sure” “That just fucked that lady’s whole year up” “So all ghosts can travel like that?” “That had to be fun to take” “Is he going to explode?” “So they’re kinda in the real world? Because ghost things? I guess so” “Please let it be Bille. Dammit” “So they all can travel through mirrors, but the characters we’ve met so far are from the same region” “What’s in her pocket?” idk dude

“What a fkn intro. It’s such a jokey intro for what seems to be a serious topic and go right back to the heavy drama” “Detective agency” “how do you advertise to ghosts?” “unhinged, eh?” “huh” “what the fuck are we watching?” “If nobody can see them fighting….” She’s the psychic lady

“Yeah that’s not going to draw attention immediately. I suppose regular people can’t see them normally” “American demon” “What are those called? A demon trap?” “are they going to smoke out?” “oh” “what the fuck” “that’s cool. I like it” “that was supposed to be funny?” “I’m going to have a really hard time with the sarcasm in this” “so she can see him? Is he visible to everyone else right now?” “I see…they do answer my questions” “she should walk around with a selfie stick. It would be a good masking trick” “they really messed with the audio a lot with this scene” “how many copies of Clue do you need?” “They can travel through mirrors! Why the fuck did they do this? I suppose the psychic lady can’t” “They really go hard on the bloom effects” “So they’re manifesting, and the other people can see them?” “Isn’t that the same thing?” “this is my kind of music” “what? I gotta watch that twice” “depends on the witch I guess” “is it the universe’s most powerful witch, Rowena?” “Mmm. Rowena doesn’t steal kids” “Is he going to pop his head through the fkn mirror or what?” “nice” “This show is pretty wild” “huh” “Is this some weird part of hell?” “selfie stick time” “I mean you gotta protect your own, right?” “We gotta go all the way back to 1916 to go to a 4:3 aspect ratio?” “You’re just another brick in the wall” “At this point, don’t bother with the mask” “I don’t quite understand the humor” It’s British

“I mean I like it, but it would be just as good without it” “you couldn’t just give him a fish and ask him the real way?” “There’s a surprising amount of VoiceOver in this” “The way they mix jokey topics with serious stuff is kinda weird” “so we’re deep-throating demons in this show too?” “you’d never leave the meat sign on at night. That light has got to take more power than the rest of the lights combined” “I want to talk to cats” “don’t bother waiting for her to explain” “really? Wtith the fkn jacket in the door and everything?” “It would be a Miata” “It’s not a car I would have expected” “what a fkn asshole” “so Crows can see ghosts then?” “uh sure let’s go with it” “were we supposed to laugh at the gulp?” “I’m still not sure on the humor” “except he’s already dead so what’s it matter?” “just throw a mirror down? Oh no she can’t” “this is how you fuck it all up” “that’s a lot of effort to not move the pots and pans around” “move your legs dude” “that was a neat trick” “I didn’t know the psychic lady could do tricks or whatever” “Where did she go?” “oh we’re all inside her mind now” laughter

“What the fuck dude” “just let them away that easy” “hit by a bus” “no bus” “oh shit” “it’s like the most wanted list or what? Ghosts they can’t find?” “that was pretty good”

[lunchtimebedamned1997]

Club Hell 666 Advertisement

(With my Hazbin OC, Jasper, More versions & timelapse under the cut!)

Maybe I'll make one of Angel to go with it? Lmk if you guys would like to see that! I might do it anyways, but I'd be a lot more motivated if I knew that ppl wanted that haha.

So, yeah! My Hazbin OC used to be a dancer at Val's club back in the day, and even danced alongside Angel when things were 'Still Good' between Val and Angel (pre-contract Angel, peak of Val's manipulation, you get it)

I was obvi heavily inspired by the posters we see of Val in 1x02, and thought it would be fun to make one of Jazz.

I'm also still trying to finish up the drawing from my birthday, it turned into a Whole Thing ™, but have a sneaky peak! (My drawing tablet is kind of dying rn and it's making cleaner work very frustrating. I think I'll have to replace it soon)

I really love how it's coming out, but it's a lot more structured, and I'm usually a LOT fussier with my 'cleaner' work, but it's really coming along! :D

Now here's the other versions of this poster:

(No effects & one that's a little less eye-straining than the main pic above the cut XD)

I'm really loving developing Jazz's story. I think it's a fun one >:3 especially because they end up working at the Hazbin Hotel as the art therapy instructor post-s1 in my AU!

Still trying to experiment a lot and figure out how I like to do things. So far it seems like the only consistent process for me with stuff like this is "throw it at the wall and see what sticks" XD

I feel like my anatomy and perspective skills are getting a lot better though! So that's really dope!!!

Anywho, here's the timelapse!

[sburbian-sage]

Please help, my alchimiter is fucked up. Everything I alchemize fucking REEKS. Alcohol, skunk spray, weed, mint (which sounds pleasant, but I assure you, is NOT at *this* intensity), sulfur, ammonia, etc.

I don't have anything plugged in to the jumper block, and it even happens if I use someone else's alchimiter, and dowels that other players have used with no problem. No idea what's causing it.

Dude, I'm sorry to hear. That totally stinks.

Okay but actually this time. You said "MY alchemiter is fucked up", but then said that the issue persists even if you use an Alchemiter that isn't yours. So all other variables considered (does the issue persist if someone else uses your Alchemiter?), the issue isn't the equipment, it's the user. IE, you. you are the one stinking up the joint.

I'd first ask you what your Title is. It's entirely possible that all of your items stink because you're unintentionally Aspect-charging your stuff. Not enough to give them cool extraordinary powers, I imagine, but enough to cause a noticeable stench. My guess would be Doom, because a lot of these scents are pretty unpleasant and poison-y, thought it could also be Mist, which is for some reason recreating and amplifying random stenches.

If it's not your Aspect going haywire, it could be a prank. Like someone's doing the Alchemy equivalent of "let's put spoons in our mouths and hit each other on the head, but I have a guy behind you using his arm to just go to town on your skull", but with Bad Odors. Maybe not even a player necessarily, but it could be an Imp or a Carapacian. My money is on CD, this sounds like some low-stakes antics he would pull, only for your next item to smell normal, and you're like "wow finally something that doesn't literally smell like shit" and then you hug it, but it was a bomb and he kills you and your entire house. I'm not saying "set up tripwires and infrared cameras around your Alchemiter while waterboarding your coplayers for the truth", but it is a distinct possibility.

The last possibility is the most terrible one. You might just be cursed. As in, "you are experiencing a bug that is causing your items to smell bad and I do not know how to fix it". Either leave all the alchemy to someone else, or at least get a coplayer to make you a gas mask, so you can create your bad-smelling items and not be affected by them in peace. This is also a good idea to enact while trying to figure out if there is in fact a way to stop this problem from coming up.

Also, this might sound stupid, but have you tried washing the items? Like run a hot bath and start scrubbing them? Or maybe getting some air freshener? I'm throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks.

[lilsilly1]

Daily Luigi!

(With a story time to it)

okay first of- I HATE THE WAY IT LOOKS-

Now have a context of the drawing... One day I had to join a classmate for some messy school project (photography stuffs), and as usual I bring my beloved Weegie plush with me, he was chillin' in my backpack with his head sticking out while me n' classmate were doing the photos (in a park), then for some reason I walked somewhere and I saw a plastic bag getting blown away by the wind and as good as I am I ran after it to pick it up and throw it in a trashcan, but what I haven't realised is that from running, little Luigi fell off my bag...

so I join my mate back, tryna finish the excercise given, then we went in a store to take some other photos and then we finished and were on our way back.. but when we were about to cross the road, I look beside me too see if Luigi was sticking out my bag as usual- BUT HE WASNT! so I start panicking, looking at my bag better but he was gone poof- I panic more. Classmate proposed me to check back if he fell in the store while he goes back to our other spot in the park, so I rush back looking around everywhere I walked, Not here.

I rush back to join my classmate, in complete panic still, trying to keep my breathing steady because I was genuinely freaking out (lots of sentimental value). Then I tell him in panic that he wasn't there so we kept looking around and since it was at a park I thought, maybe one of the kids around found it and picked it up, but none of them had it. and then I see a small thingy from afar, on the edge of a small bridge- IT WAS HIM! IT WAS WEEGIE! I start swearing as I run to little fellah, picking him up and feeling very dumb/sorry/etc.. I apologized for being all panicky to my classmate and as mentally stable as I am, I felt very sorry to scare my poor Luigi into thinking he got lost and that I wouldn't find him, so on my way home I gave him all the affection and apology deserved, I gave him a strawberry milk, eggs, coffee, hugs etcc... (that's why it's on the drawing)

VOILA. (look he's okay now)

(now context of the drawing itself🖊) I tried to accept this drawing I hate by sticking it on my wall- But that's not all! because it was a second attempt! the first one was all good and when I started using watercolors- the ink of the black pen went messy as shit because of the water that's when I realised, the pen I used wasn't waterproof, I was so mad. but I would have felt bad just giving up and go to sleep, SO I REMADE IT. and here it is.

[snickerdoodlles]

say hello to my current wip, making assumptions, aka the fic about chay's truly impressive collection of monsterfucker sex toys. i'm banging my head against my desk as i work on one of the emotional scenes, so here's a ~1k preview of the first chapter because i like validation 😂

The thing about fucking up a lot is that you get really good at identifying the little voice in your head yelling hey moron amongst all the alarm bells. It’s just that, if you’re Kim, the little voice can scream as loud as it likes, but it won’t change the fact that the stupid decision is so often the only decision available.

I, Kim thinks as he picks the lock on Chay’s door, am very bad at lying to myself.

It’s just, Kim is nosy. He doesn’t know how not to be, not with a childhood of secrets that kill and a father who lies more than he cares. So, when Kim had snooped through the family’s finance accounts and happened upon Chay’s bank statements, which showed no activity beyond Papa adding an allowance for months and then abruptly incurred multiple pages of mysterious payments totalling to several thousand baht in less than two weeks, which transactions could only be less obvious if they were plastered in neon DRUGS HERE! signs, well. What was Kim supposed to do?

…Not break into Chay’s room and scour the place for secret drug stashes is the correct answer, but Kim is so far past that now. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do when he finds the stashes of drugs--probably throw them out, except then he’d have to tell Chay, because people rearranging your rooms and throwing out your stuff behind your back is the worst, and he won’t do that to Chay. But he’s also been trying to respect Chay’s fuck off boundary line, no matter how much it hurts, so Chay’s going to hate him twice as much for this, fuck, he’s really thrown himself into a right pickle this time--

He should turn back now. Before he makes this worse.

Then Kim thinks of Chay collapsed in his own pile of vomit, or passed out with blood dripping from his nose, or pale with a needle still sticking out of his arm, because Kim knows the shit dealers cut their products with, because Papa had wanted him to take over the gritty side of the business, and then Kim’s inside Chay’s rooms without a second’s hesitation.

Chay’s room is a mess. Not the type of mess Kim had liked to drop in on, back when he’d surprise Chay at home and get treated to Chay frantically tidying the place while making half a dozen excuses for why Kim couldn’t come over, despite knowing Kim was watching him clean through the front window, and then finally invite Kim in and pout at him until he did something nice to make up for his bullying. This mess isn’t small piles of debris and laundry and dirty dishes--it’s several unpacked boxes growing dust in a corner, a small hamper of clean clothes infront of an empty closet, a collection of dirty glasses atop a stack of textbooks before the nightstand. If Kim hadn’t known this is Chay’s room, hadn’t secretly triple checked the security of this wing and Chay’s position to it obsessively when Chay had first moved in, he might’ve thought this the room for one of Papa’s infrequent guests. It’s…unsettling, to see a space Chay spends so much time in be so empty of his presence.

…He’s wasting time.

The rooms in this wing are all outfitted with the same basic setup: bed in the middle, oversized nightstand between it and the corner, lamp and chair in another, entrance to a full bath and toilet in the last. Usually, long term guests customize their rooms into anything besides a soulless box, but Chay hasn’t even tacked up so much as a postcard on the wall. The only thing unique is the large wooden chest with a well-loved blanket tossed over it, so that’s where Kim starts. It’s too obvious as a hiding place, and Kim almost wants to scold Chay or give him lessons on how to hide shit he wants to stay hidden, but…it’s the one piece Chay’s chosen in this room. Chay could just grab a backpack and this chest and disappear--anything he wants safe will be in it.

…The chest isn’t even locked, and Kim returns to the urge to go find and grab Chay by his shoulders and shake him until he remembers something about situational awareness, or keeping secrets, or distrusting people, or a lot of other basic caution measures, except Kim’s one of the things Chay’s currently keeping himself safe from, so that definitely won’t do him any favors. Kim settles for closing his eyes and sighing deeply through his nose.

Then he opens the chest to reveal…tentacles. Literally dozens of plastic tentacles.

What?

Kim stares down at the chest full of…plastic octopus legs? Or, at least, the tips of several of them, in all varieties of colors, from coral pink to a deep, shimmery blue. Kim even grabs one that glistens like oil slick when he moves it in the dim sunlight. They all vary in shape too, some are more sleek with just tiny bumps and ridges in different patterns, some with thick bases and thin tips and others with thin bodies and flared heads, others with strangely realistic suckers that yield under his finger tips, and then even more underneath those that look far too strange to be called proper tentacles. Kim pulls out a deep green one with a cute flower at the base and a body that curls aggressively, another that’s mostly straight but has the look of chewed bubble gum, and yet another that’s shorter than the rest but twice as thick and covered in bulging bumps.

It’s not until Kim finally pulls out a toy covered in flared ridges, scales, and other alarming geometry, but also distinctly phallic, does his brain finally accept that all of these are dildos.

Chay…Chay has a chest of sex toys in his room.

Chay has a chest of sex toys in his room.

Chay has a chest of sex toys in his room.

Kim’s brain gives up. His face is too hot for him to think, his ears are ringing with what he’s quite sure is literal steam coming directly off his brain. He keeps pulling out more new toys, unable to stop. There’s one that looks like a tongue, with twice as many veins and a bumpy texture that is much too real for the scraps of his sanity. An alarmingly long and bendy tube with a pretty rainbow gradient and a disturbing number of knobs. A dark blue dildo that seems strangely plain until it lights up with half a dozen glittery rings when he accidentally squeezes the base too hard.

Pretty, Kim thinks, then is so startled by the sound of his own thoughts he misses the sound of the door clicking open behind him.

“Kim?”

Kim actually startles, whacking his knee on the chest of sex toys, and comes face-to-face with Chay.

…While sitting in a half-circle of monster dicks.

Chay’s eyes dart from him, to the toys on the floor, to the chest, and blushes all the way to his ears. “Kim?”

[starchildrenofdustand-ashes]

Cabaret at TheKit Kat Club Experience !!

So, I saw Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club at the Playhouse theatre on November 15 (11/15/2023) with Nic Myers as Sally and Jake Shears as Emcee.

Below the cut is where spoilers start lol: honestly the whole thing is super secretive- from the stage to the venue itself. So if you ever plan on seeing it live or have the opportunity to do so, you have been warned!

When you walk into the theatre there’s this awesome:

You will see before you descend the stairs; at the bottom of the stairs, they put a sticker on your phone :)

You’ll continue walking down the hall where the walls are white and covered with pictures all over of the actors past and present.

You probably pass some of the actors who are milling about, chatting, flirting, dancing playing instruments.

I was in the first row of the upper dress circle and god it’s tight up there. Definitely wish I’d payed a bit extra to be on the floor and to at least have room 😖

Also note; I don’t talk about Herr Schultz and Frauline Schneiderall that much in these notes, but that’s because their scenes are so sweet and straight forward. These two give you the Schneider and Schultz you’ve seen and you know you love; there’s nothing outlandish or left field that happens with these two like some of the choices with Sally and Emcee. The same can be said for Ernst and Cliff. Nothing wild has been changed with their characters. In fact, most of this will probably be me trying to decode the strange new take on the Emcee and The Kit Kat Club. Anyway! Here are my thoughts and stuff that stuck out to me!

(Also if you’ve seen this production with Eddie Redmayne or have listened to it and have a hypothesis— he makes this strange sound like he’s spitting? In a lot of the songs- I thought it maybe part of the orchestration, but I didn’t notice it with Jake Shears and chalked it up to Eddies character choices. So if you know what the sound is or can give me staging It would soothe my brain)

Willkomenn:

🍷 in Willkomenn, when the Emcee does his whole “comment ca va?, do you feel good” speil he paused after every time, as if to test what language the audience would respond to

🍷 He kept the “do you feel good- yeah I bet you do 😏” line even tho it wasn’t on the revival album🥹

🍷The way to tell Victor and Bobby apart is to lift their arm and stick your face in their armpits and take a big wiff. Bobby did not want his armpits sniffed and Emcee had to beg him

🍷 Bro I love Hermann; he was so stoic and dead inside- he just stood there and did the most basic version of what everyone was doing. He was also fully clothed lol

🍷When they sing the whisper verse, they were all posing in various positions and the Emcee crawled between their legs

Don’t Tell Mama:

🎀 When sally screams at the beginning, she was lying on her back throwing a tantrum

🎀 The Emcee is on stage for the final verse and he acts as Sally’s brother: when sally says the line, “if he squeals on me i squeal on him” they squeezed each others nipples

Perfectly Marvelous

💚When Cliff and Ernst are talking and Sally barges in, she’s wearing her coat, a beige and orange scarf, funky sunglasses and carrying a ton of luggage

💚at the end of Perfectly Marvelous, when Cliff says “besides I’ve only got one narrow bed,” the Emcee rises out of the circle in the center of the platform wearing the exact same thing as Sally: the coat the scarf and the glasses. Two Kit Kat Girls come up the same platform in a suitcase that looks just like the one Sally was carrying

💚 Nic Myers didn’t do an American accent

Two Ladies

👯‍♀️ The KitKatGirl who “makes thebed” puts on a hardware belt and does explicit things with a hammer while the other has a spatula. Or a whisk ,, The One That “Does The Cooking” goes behind Emcee and uses the whisk to “thrust” into him and when he says daily bread, she pulls out a baguette, she also fills out a whip lmao

👯‍♀️ During the instrumental break all the other Kit Kat Members come up through the stage wearing explicit things and doing explicit things to each other. The one that stood out the most to me was Helga jacking off to a copy of Mein Kampf— it was super chaotic and I don’t remember details

It Couldnt Please Me More:

🍍More often than not the sailor Kost was fucking was either Bobby or Hans- even referring to the former as such. Also, they refer to her as Fritzie explicitly so it’s cannon that Kost=Fritzie and not just an actress double casted.

🍍Before Kost runs into Schneider after letting Bobby out, Schultz is leaving Schneiders room and accidentally is trying to out her robe on instead of his jacket

Tomorrow Belongs to Me

* So Emcee comes on stage holding a box and is dressed in a robe and only a wig cap

* One by one, the member of the Kit Kat Klub put these dolls that are wearing brown suits with Blonde hair on the stage. They are standing militanty. very much providing Nazi imagery

* During the song, the figures go around the turn table while emcee is singing

* At the end of the song when he says the last line, he pulls out a blond wig and holds it in the spotlight

Money:

💸Money was the song I was most excited for because of the images I’d seen of the skeleton costume. I had a hard time figuring out why the skeleton, but it was cool nonetheless.

💸 the Emcee rises out of the middle of the floor, his clawed hands reaching out first.

💸 I watched Emcee legit drool on the stage (Groffsauce in Hamilton vibes) he was spitting those lines out so hard

💸 I don’t know how to interpret the staging of the song, the real star of the scene is the costumes, but I took it as the Emcee represented money? Everywhere he went the KitKat Girls followed, wailing and begging him and the surrounding audience for money.

TBTM (reprise )

* I mean. I feel like the staging for this song is always consistent and similar throughout all shows; the individuals singing with Cliff, Sally, Schultz and Sneider standing somberly. The emcee is usually eerily looking on and depending on the show is seemingly jubilant or looking wistful.

* In this, the Emcee rises out of the middle of the turn table wearing his outfit from money. He has a conductors stick and begins conducting them with a smile on his face.

* My sister said the Emcee is “If Art The Clown could talk” and Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. He goes form being the raunchy Emcee we’ve all come to love- I think the Emcee, no matter who plays him is kinda creepy, so the creepiness didn’t seem unusual- to an evil nazi

* But when we see him in money and onwards, he’s definitely giving Killer Clown- she was right, Art the Clown from Terrifier.

* The Art The Clown juxtaposition to when he appears bare faced during some songs was super interesting. It really feels like the idea of “The Nazi’s weren’t demons, they were people who did things we thought demons were only capable of,” and that’s what makes it terrifying. The clowning character is seen praising nazis and cheerfully conducting their songs- he really does seem like a force of evil that’s simply from hell. But then he talks off his makeup in the coming scenes and you’re reminding- he’s just a human who behaves like a demon and that’s terrifying-. Idk if I’m doing the best at explaining my analysis of this, but that’s what I was getting

Kickline

💃🏾The kickline is lively and the members of the Club are trying to hype up the audience before getting into formation

💃🏾They were all wearing red party hats so when the emcee comes on in his red Pierrot clown get up, he has the longest, pointed and most menacing looking hat.

💃🏾he also has a gun? Thing? He shoots a Nazi flag out of it

💃🏾 The Members of the club form a hakenkreuz shape around Emcee and he hand the flag to Bobby and they march off.

Married (reprise)

🧱 the scene before Married Sneider and Schultz are talking about the engagement. Emcee is slinking around the stage and he has something in his hands wrapped in a napkin. His movements remind me of a mime, or as Chelsea says, Art The Clown, the facial expressions with overdramatized emotion and fluidity

🧱 he slinks between Schultz’s and Sneider with a smile on his face and suddenly there’s a loud ass crash that makes- I shit you not- the entire theatre jump. The lights black out. When they rise back on, there is white confetti floating downward, to represent the broken glass

If You Could See Her

🦍Usually, the gorilla in this is dressed up and it looks more cartoonish, but to, this was just a straight up gorilla- (A really good costume) with absolutely no elements of humanity. No clothes, no slightly upturned mouth, no walking on two legs and absolutely no understand what was going on.

🦍The Emcee would address the Gorilla as if she was human, but she would only respond in an animalistic way like scratching her ass, sniffing Emcees ass or flat out ignoring him and doing her own thing.

🦍 The Emcee seemed to be back at his usually self- joking and less like a demonic force - he’s clowning and making the audience laugh and there’s the Jewish line at the end of the song (which?? I was kind of disappointed by. It didn’t give me shivers and I felt it was a bit rushed.) also people laughed, but it could’ve been a “I laugh at funerals bc it’s awkward,” and not because they actually found the situation funny. My sister hypothesized simple confusion for people who had no idea what was going on. I will agree that some of the Emcees choices are strange if you don’t know the plot/ haven’t read up on this revival before hand.

I Don’t Care Much:

🎙️ Next time Emcee is on stage he is wearing a brown suit and a blonde wig, no makeup on his face- he very much resembles the dolls that were placed on stage during TBTM

🎙️I don’t care much occurs after Sally and Cliff have an argument as usual. But after Cliff leaves Sally is getting dressed. She is putting on the same jacket and pants the Emcee is wearing

🎙️during the song the emcee is doing some weird puppet thing behind her and she’s mirroring the moves she’s doing. it was an interesting choice during this song, but I think it’s been my least favorite change. It was like she was on strings and he was controlling her. I guess it provided a good visual for the notion that the Emcee isn’t a person, rather a representation of the deteriorating culture of the the city as a whole.

🎙️ This song is good at humanizing the Emcee, especially in Alan Cummings revival; smeared makeup, track marks, slurred worlds and stilted motions. It really paints a picture of a human at the end of their rope. In this version it just solidifies that the emcee is the city of Berlin and the evils that are taking over (Which, goes in direct opposition to my previous theory on his costumes providing human- demon Nazi images but whatever I dont have the brain power to think harder about it)

🎙️ After this song Cliff gets beat up by Ernst. After the tussle, the nazi thugs are actually the members of the Kit Kat club, they are wearing the same coat as Sally and the Emcee. They finish Cliff off and take his coat away

Cabaret

🍷I mean. Damn. There’s not much to say here. Outstanding performance. Like there are performances from different actors on YouTube so you could watch those to see the blocking because it’s pretty much the same.

🍷 Nic Myers did an amazing job, I got full body chills

🍷 one critique I’ve heard is that it’s over directed and this song is the perfect example of it. As an actor and a director, I understand both sides,; I don’t see much individuality between the actors on YouTube vs Nic Myers because the staging is so specific. I will say, through my opera glasses, the emotion painted in her face couldn’t be replicated and I think that’s really where the nuances will lie- in their faces.

Finale

📸 The Emcee is back on the stage, in the same position as Willkomenn- it’s like this weird pose with his arms and legs bent (you can watch the Willkomenn performance in gram nortons show,, that’s the pose I’m talking about ((I’ve heard people say it’s supposed to look like a hakenkreuz ))the only difference is now he’s in his brown outfit with his blonde hair. Super eerie.

📸 All the characters are standing on the turn table and the Kit Kat Members are on the outer circle of the turn table wearing the same beige suit the emcee has on. The other characters are all wearing brown and there’s an eerie sense of uniformity.

📸 Then there’s the long ass drum roll as they continue to turn before the lights blackout.

[freakshowtwopointoh]

A Gathering Storm - All I've Ever Known Part 10

The wind is changing

There's a storm coming on

< prev | next >

And that’s when Sam stepped out of the shadows. I was frozen in place, staring at my brother, unable to process what I was seeing. At first, I thought it must have been a hallucination. Some strange combination of lack of sleep and stress had caused me to imagine my younger brother standing in this dingy room. But he didn’t look exactly as he did in my memory - he looked thinner, warier. And his clothes... entirely unfamiliar. I just looked at him for a minute - trying to comprehend the truth I had always felt but not always believed.

“Sam?” I said, my voice cracking as I stared. And then I was sprinting across the room, throwing my arms around his neck, hugging him as tight as I could. “Oh my god, Sam, you’re alive.” My heart was thudding against my ribcage, tears streaming down my face without interruption. “I fucking knew it.” 

“Heya, Mags.” Sam muttered, and I swear hearing his voice just made me cry harder. I was vaguely aware of Jordan muttering something to Hughie but it didn’t matter to me. I pulled back, taking in his face. We’d both been through hell in the past year, but here we were.

“How long have you been here? Why didn’t you find me? They said you were dead, Sam. You have a grave. There was a funeral. How-” I hugged him tight again, being pulled back and forth between anger and relief. “What happened?” I asked finally.

“They were experimenting on me. I was only there for a few days before The Boys broke in, looking for information. They got me out, and I’ve been working with them and hiding out here since then.” He sounded tired, his voice worn and gruff. “But it wasn’t safe. For any of us. I’m sorry, Mags. It had to be this way.” My jaw clenched involuntarily. 

“I know.” He sounded exhausted and strained - like he was holding back a lot of emotions, or like he was feeling too many things at once. 

“It hasn’t been safe either way, Sam. I...” What could I even tell him? Dad’s friends gave me a bad vibe at a fancy party? Bad things happened months ago and I still don’t really understand them? I sighed.

“What do you mean, you know? What do you know?” My heart rattled in my chest as I tried to process the situation. Now that the shock of seeing Sam has dissipated somewhat, I was reminded of the reason I was so desperate to find anyone else outside of Vought. I pulled back to look him in the eye. The walls were closing in around me and I was slowly realizing how trapped I truly was. I used to say I’d never want to change the past - even the bad stuff. But I wish I could go back to the day Grace found me and scream at my past self, tell her not to listen to anything that comes out of any of their mouths. “Do you know something about the gala? Or...” I searched his face for answers I was almost positive he didn’t have.

“We don’t know much. Once I saw that phony-ass interview with you and Luke, I knew something happened.” My heart constricted painfully, understanding the unspoken message: you broke our promise. Late nights spent crying together when his head got too loud, when my fears got to be too much - we pinky promised to stick together, and to make our own way.

The third worst night of my life was a night when we were in high school together. Sam, barely 14, sobbing in my arms as I tried desperately to convince him not to leave me. I had found his note - a heart-wrenching apology for the troubles he believed he caused us. I promised to stick by him, swore that we would make our own way. 

“This is our life, Sammy. We can do whatever we want. We’ll build our own future, and Dad can suck it.” I said firmly, forcing my voice not to crack as I ran my fingers through his curls.

“But -” 

“No buts, Sam. Let’s make a promise: we make our own way.” I said, offering him my pinky.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered. 

“What happened? I checked on you, you know. After I got free. And everything was normal. Then a few months later, everything changed, and you’re back to playing along with all their games.” He was trying to keep his voice neutral but I could tell he was bitter. And he has every right to be. I looked away guiltily. 

“It’s complicated.” I said vaguely, still not able to meet his eyes. And before he could push it further, Jordan came over and cleared their throat awkwardly. “Oh, Sam, this is Jordan. They’re a friend of mine, and they’ve been helping me. We live off-campus with Luke, Cate, and Luke’s friend Andre. Jordan, Sam.” This was definitely not how I’d imagined the two meeting - the circumstances were not great for making friends. They eyed each other warily. Sam in particular looked apprehensive, trying to get a read on Jordan in the dim light. 

“We’re going to stay here tonight - it’s already kind of late. We can head back to the townhouse tomorrow, yeah?” They said to me, before smiling at Sam again. “It’s nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“From who?” He asked, eyeing them nervously. I gave him a pointed look.

“Take a wild guess.” I said, smiling wryly. “Anyways, if we’re spending the night here, do you guys have any food? I’m starved.”

After a few frozen pizzas and a bit of whiskey, it seemed like the whole room let out a breath of relief. Hughie’s eyes were darting around the room about half as much, and I think I noticed Frenchie and Jordan sharing a cigarette. It felt... nice. I’d imagined it so many times but actually being in a comfortable space with both Sam and Jordan just felt right. And I felt more like myself than I ever had in a group this large. I was smiling and laughing and I didn’t care that I wasn’t sitting up straight or I was talking too much. At first, I thought it was just being with Sam again, but it was deeper than that. Even the people I just met felt safe. Like they could see me at my worst, and I wouldn’t run and hide.

I was leaning back, listening to the conversation without really listening, when Jordan reached over to fix my collar. My breath hitched, a shiver running up my spine. I just hoped they didn’t notice the way my cheeks were tinged pink the rest of the night. 

And as I lay on the ratty old couch, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket and half asleep, I found myself thanking whoever or whatever was watching over me. Because I got my brother back. I still don’t feel like it feels real, and yet it feels more real than anything else I’ve been through in the past year.

Breakfast was a quiet but enjoyable affair, coffee poured and food made as if it was any normal morning. I left my number with Sam, making him promise to text me when he could. 

“You know, it’s not like I’ve got an iPhone out here, Maggie.” I rolled my eyes at him.

“You can call me too, idiot.” He sent me a playful glare but he was smiling. I could still see the questions in his eyes - questions I did not want to answer. “Keep me in the loop, yeah?” He nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll let you know if we find anything. Stay safe. Love ya.”

“Love you too, Sammy. Stay sharp.” He gave me a final nod.

“Now get outta here! I’m sure you have homework to do or whatever.” I rolled my eyes. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to focus on anything when I get home.

“Thank you guys!” I called out. Jordan had stayed quiet as usual, waving casually at the ragtag group of vigilantes. We walked a few blocks away before calling an Uber, a heavy silence falling between us.

“Well, we didn’t get killed.” I said. “But other than that, I have absolutely no idea how to feel right now. One big question answered, but now I have about a hundred new questions.”

“Tell me about it.” Their voice was nonchalant, but they were looking at me intently.

“Just trying to figure out if you’ll be able to act normal in about... 15 minutes?” I rolled my eyes, flipping them off.

“I can feel you psycho-analyzing me with your eyes.” I said, sending them an exasperated look.

“I’ve been lying to Luke for most of my life. I’ll be fine.” I said. Jordan quirked an eyebrow but said nothing as we clambered into the backseat of the Uber. 

But it would turn out that he would not be asking us any questions at all. Because as we entered the townhouse, Luke was inconsolable on the ground, and Cate was convulsing next to Andre. Jordan and I rushed to Cate’s side, trying to see what caused the seizure. And then, the house disappeared.

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