#and the awkward unrefined nature of it all just makes it seem all the more spontaneous and raw

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

What did Zhongli think of the pretty like rocks compliment? His reaction was adorable

he thought it was really sweet but also hilarious because yknow geo and all

[itstobias149]

Character Dynamics

🐂Bald Bull🐂

Hello everyone! I bring you another one of my many character dynamic posts. I know Kaiser got voted to be next, (I’m working on it) but I had this one read! This contains oc and oc x canon! So if you aren’t a fan just keep scrolling!

This post doesn’t just explain the dynamic but has some head canons as well! I hope you all enjoy this one will be a lot longer than the others because I have put way more focus on his character in general, what can I say, I’m biased.

✨The Dynamic as a whole ✨

Marie and Bald Bull share a unique dynamic, one defined by tension, comedy, and the unusual situation they find themselves in together. At first glance, the two couldn’t seem more different—Marie is a calm, level-headed cutman with a knack for handling chaos, while Bald Bull is a fiery, intense fighter who wears his emotions on his sleeve. But this contrast sets the stage for a sort of playful antagonism that borders on flirtation, though often clouded by the very real, if unspoken, attraction they share.

Bald Bull’s feelings for Marie are loud and unabashed, much like his fighting style. He’s not shy about expressing his interest, often going out of his way to charm her with exaggerated acts of strength or ridiculous stunts, like flexing or trying to impress her with his feats of physical prowess. For someone as emotionally reserved as Marie, these displays can feel overwhelming at times, but they also make her laugh, which catches her off guard.

Marie, for her part, is surprisingly patient with Bald Bull, despite his overbearing nature. She tolerates his advances, but it’s clear that she’s not exactly interested in taking things further—at least not yet. She finds him charming in a clumsy, almost childlike way, but the energy he exudes can be a bit much. That said, there’s a part of her that finds his attention flattering. Still, her focus is mostly on her job, and she doesn’t quite know how to navigate his persistent flirtations without upsetting the delicate balance they’ve established.

In many ways, their relationship is defined by playful teasing and awkward moments. Bald Bull’s attempts to win her favor can feel like a comedy of errors—he might, for example, try to impress her by demonstrating how strong he is, only to accidentally break something, or he’ll get overly competitive when it comes to sparring. But despite these blunders, there’s an undeniable affection in his actions. He’s not just doing it for show; there’s genuine care beneath his tough exterior, though his methods are, shall we say, unrefined.

Marie, in contrast, tends to offer a more subtle form of affection. She isn’t overt in her feelings but shows she cares through small gestures—like offering him a glass of water after a grueling workout or giving him some advice on how to improve his training. Even when his behavior borders on annoying, she doesn’t snap at him; instead, she endures it with a wry smile, sometimes even offering him a soft chuckle when he does something ridiculous.

While there’s a lot of humor in their interactions, there’s also a sense of unspoken tension. Marie isn’t completely immune to Bald Bull’s advances. There are moments where she’ll catch herself thinking about what could be, but then she remembers the more frustrating aspects of their dynamic—the way he dominates her space or how his bluntness makes her uncomfortable. She knows he’s a fighter who’s used to being in control, but she’s not going to let that control extend to her personal life. Still, there’s a warmth she feels toward him that she can’t entirely shake, even if it’s wrapped up in a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation.

For Bald Bull, it’s not just about the chase—he genuinely seems to care for Marie, even if his way of showing it can sometimes come off as overbearing. His desire to win her over is rooted in more than just his pride; he’s been alone for a while and perhaps longs for someone to share his life with, someone who sees him beyond the ring. Yet, at the same time, his pride and his brash nature often stand in the way of truly connecting with her on a deeper level.

In the end, their dynamic is a complicated blend of humor, attraction, and unspoken affection. Both characters are locked in a dance of sorts, unsure of how to move forward. Marie isn’t ready to embrace what Bald Bull offers, but she’s also not completely shutting him out. For now, their relationship remains a little chaotic and a little funny, but with the possibility of something more simmering beneath the surface—whether either of them will act on it remains to be seen.

🐂Greeting the Bull🐂

The first time Marie met Bald Bull was, to put it mildly, a whirlwind. She had been sent to the event to assist as a cutman, and the moment she stepped into the chaotic world of the boxing ring, she knew it wouldn’t be an ordinary night. Bald Bull had just finished a brutal match, and he wasn’t in the best of moods. His frustration was palpable as he stormed out of the ring, his fists clenched, his face flushed with anger.

Marie had been standing off to the side, quietly going about her business, when he spotted her. With his usual intensity, he approached her, his frustration not even bothering to hide itself behind the typical bravado. “What do you think of that match?” he barked, voice sharp as he looked her up and down, seemingly sizing her up. His eyes were wild with irritation, his normally bombastic demeanor laced with a thin thread of annoyance.

Marie, not one to easily be intimidated by over-the-top personalities, glanced up from what she was doing. She simply replied, keeping her tone calm but firm, “It’s not my place to comment on the match itself. I’m here to do my job.”

This response only seemed to irk him more. “Your job?” he scoffed, stepping closer, looming over her as he crossed his arms. “You’re just a cutman. What do you know about the heart of a fighter? You don’t understand what it’s like in the ring.” He was practically sneering at her, but his words were laced with more frustration than malice. The sting of his loss was still fresh, and he needed someone—anyone—to take it out on.

Marie stood her ground, unflinching as he continued to rail on. “If you’re mad about the match, maybe you should’ve trained harder,” she quipped back, not one to let him intimidate her. Her voice remained steady, though the hint of sarcasm was hard to miss. It wasn’t an insult, but it certainly wasn’t a consolation.

That’s when it happened. In an unexpected and reckless move, Bald Bull, still fired up, reached down and, without any warning, picked her up in a sweeping motion, lifting her off her feet with surprising force. It wasn’t a gentle gesture, not by any means—more like a display of strength, a way of asserting control over the situation.

Marie, momentarily caught off guard, let out a small yelp. “Hey!” she snapped, struggling slightly in his grip. She didn’t appreciate being handled like that, especially not when she was just doing her job. Her initial shock quickly turned into annoyance as she squirmed a bit. “Put me down!”

Bald Bull, though, only seemed to find it amusing, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he held her, clearly not fully aware of the boundaries he was crossing. “You think you know how it feels to lose, huh?” he taunted, his grip tightening ever so slightly, as though testing her reaction. “You think your words matter?”

Marie’s heart was pounding now—not from fear, but from irritation. She had a strong, independent streak, and no one, especially not some angry fighter, was going to toss her around like she was some trophy to be won over by brute force. “I don’t think you know anything about respect,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing.

The tension was thick between them. For a split second, Bald Bull seemed to realize how far he’d gone. His expression softened, and with a sigh, he reluctantly put her down, though it was clear he wasn’t entirely done venting.

“I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trailed off, his face still flushed with anger but now showing a hint of something else—embarrassment, perhaps, mixed with the recognition that he had crossed a line. His posture shifted slightly, no longer as aggressive, though he still looked a bit uncertain about how to handle the situation.

Marie straightened herself out, brushing off her clothes, her glare still fierce but her voice much calmer. “Next time, don’t try to pick me up. I’m not a punching bag, and I’m definitely not your emotional outlet.” She turned to walk away, shaking her head as she muttered under her breath, “Idiot.”

Bald Bull stood there for a moment, watching her walk off, his anger simmering down, replaced with a strange mix of admiration and confusion. He hadn’t expected her to stand up to him so boldly—most people just backed down when he got like this. But Marie? She didn’t flinch, and that intrigued him. In his mind, the tough cutman had earned a modicum of respect, though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it just yet. He hadn’t meant to go that far, but now, there was an undeniable seed planted in his mind—a strange, nagging feeling that this woman wasn’t like the others. And that, for better or worse, meant he’d probably have to find a way to win her over.

✨The Moment it Set In✨

As time passed, Bald Bull found himself becoming less irritated by Marie’s presence, and more drawn to it. After their first awkward encounter, something about her steady composure and no-nonsense attitude began to settle him, even when the weight of his frustrations grew unbearable. He started to notice how she carried herself in the chaos of the boxing world—how she wasn’t fazed by the madness and noise, how she handled each situation with quiet resolve. It was almost like she had this force field around her, one that allowed her to stay grounded while the rest of the world spun out of control.

One of the things Bald Bull hated most about the world of boxing was the paparazzi. The flashing cameras, the constant questions, the invasive attention—they always managed to get under his skin. It wasn’t just the fame he despised; it was the pressure, the way they made him feel like a spectacle rather than a fighter. He had always prided himself on being in control, but every time he stepped into the limelight, he felt like he was losing a part of himself to the public’s insatiable hunger.

It was after a particularly grueling match, one he lost by a razor-thin margin, that the paparazzi came swarming in, as they always did. The usual cameras flashed in his face, and the barrage of questions felt like nails scraping against his brain. “What went wrong, Bull? Do you think your age is catching up to you? Are you ready for retirement?” The questions never seemed to stop, and Bald Bull could feel his blood pressure rise with each intrusive query.

Marie had been standing at the sidelines, as always, prepared to do her job, but she noticed the way his jaw clenched and his fists tightened with each word the reporters threw at him. He was visibly uncomfortable, his frustration building with every flash and every uninvited comment. It wasn’t the loss itself that was tearing him apart—it was the constant scrutiny, the way they treated him like a punching bag just because he was in the spotlight.

Without a second thought, Marie stepped forward, moving between Bald Bull and the paparazzi, positioning herself like a shield. She didn’t speak at first, but her presence was enough to stop the press from advancing. They paused, confused for a moment, before one of them tried to push through.

“Excuse me, miss, we need a statement from the fighter,” one of the reporters tried to demand, his camera still aimed at Bald Bull.

Marie turned to face them, her expression unwavering. “Back off,” she said firmly, her tone brokering no argument. “He needs a minute. You’ll get your statement when he’s ready.” Her words weren’t harsh, but there was something in her voice that made it clear she wasn’t about to let them pester him any further.

Bald Bull watched, surprised by how easily she took control of the situation. Usually, he would’ve snapped at them, told them to get lost in his typical brash way. But with Marie standing there, blocking the cameras, he felt a surprising sense of relief. She wasn’t intimidated by them. In fact, she seemed to take more offense to their presence than he did.

As the paparazzi hesitated, murmuring among themselves, Marie turned back to Bald Bull. “Come on, let’s get you out of here,” she said, her voice soft but authoritative. She gently placed a hand on his arm, guiding him through the crowd, her calm demeanor helping to steady him. He wasn’t sure what it was about her touch, but it worked. The tension in his shoulders started to ease, and the world felt a little less suffocating.

As they made their way through the exit, the flashbulbs continued to pop behind them, but Marie kept him focused. She kept her body between him and the reporters, never faltering, never letting the chaos break her stride. She was his buffer, his calm in the storm of flashing lights and invasive questions.

Once they were out of the immediate press zone, Marie led him to a quieter corner of the venue. Bald Bull was breathing heavily, his frustration still bubbling beneath the surface, but the anger had dulled. He leaned against the wall, running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.

“Thanks,” he muttered, still not quite used to the fact that someone had actually stood up for him like that. “You really know how to handle them.”

Marie shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I just don’t take well to people treating others like circus animals. You don’t owe them anything.”

He laughed, a deep chuckle that felt almost foreign to him. “Most people would’ve crumbled under all that. You just… walked right in and took control.”

Her smile softened, though there was a certain seriousness in her eyes. “Someone has to keep you in check, right? You’re way too worked up about things that don’t matter.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I get it, though. You don’t like being in the spotlight. But you don’t have to fight that battle alone. You’ve got people who’ve got your back. Even if you don’t always want them there.”

Bald Bull didn’t know what to say at first. There was something about the way she said it that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to fight every battle with his fists. He could rely on someone—someone who understood the struggle without asking for anything in return.

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Maybe I don’t.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thanks, Marie.”

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t completely alone in this world of blood, sweat, and flashbulbs. And it was a feeling he didn’t want to let go of anytime soon.

✨Grow Up✨

The locker room was quiet, save for the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional shuffle of Marie’s boots against the floor. Bald Bull had just come from a brutal fight, and his body was aching in places he didn’t want to acknowledge. Blood trickled from a cut on his brow, and the exhaustion from the fight weighed heavily on him. But it wasn’t just his body that hurt—it was the sting of his pride, the gnawing frustration of losing yet again. He had expected to win, of course, but it didn’t happen, and now he was left to nurse his wounds both physically and emotionally.

Marie had been doing this for years—cleaning up after fights, taking care of boxers who were too proud to admit when they were hurt. But this time, it felt different. This time, she could see the tension in Bald Bull’s shoulders, the way he clenched his jaw, the way his fists twitched like he was ready to strike at something—anything. It wasn’t just the pain; it was the anger, the frustration that boiled inside of him.

As she moved to clean a gash on his forehead, she could feel him flinch before she even touched it. “Hold still, Bull,” she said firmly, already knowing what was coming. “This’ll sting.”

“Shut up, I know,” he muttered, already bracing himself for the pain. But as the antiseptic touched the wound, he hissed sharply, his body jerking away from her hands.

“That hurts!” he snapped, his voice laced with irritation.

Marie’s eyes narrowed, and she didn’t flinch. She was used to this. “No shit,” she said dryly, not even looking up from her work. “It’s a wound. What, you think it’s gonna feel like a breeze?”

Bald Bull scowled, his patience quickly running thin. “I don’t need you to talk to me like that.”

Marie didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I think you do,” she shot back, her voice steady but tinged with a no-nonsense edge. “You’re acting like a child right now.”

His brow furrowed, and he snapped, his anger bubbling over. “I don’t need this right now, Marie. I just fucking lost, alright? Can’t you just keep quiet for once and do your job?”

Marie’s hands paused for a second, but she didn’t back down. She met his gaze head-on, unflinching. “And what, you think throwing a tantrum is gonna make it any better? Get over yourself, Bull. You lost. It happens.”

The words hit harder than the antiseptic ever could, and for a moment, Bald Bull stared at her, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and disbelief. He wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like this—not when he was vulnerable, not when he was hurting. But Marie wasn’t like the others. She didn’t care about his title, or his pride, or his reputation. She saw him for what he was in that moment—a man who was upset, frustrated, and in pain—and she wasn’t about to coddle him through it.

“Yeah, I lost,” he muttered under his breath, feeling the sting of her words and the weight of his defeat. “But it’s not easy. I’m not some damn robot who just gets up after every hit.”

Marie didn’t let his words derail her. She kept cleaning the wound, working with the same efficiency as always. “No, you’re not. But you’re acting like an idiot if you think that means you get to whine about it. You can’t just keep getting angry every time you lose. You think you’re the only one who’s ever been knocked down?”

He clenched his fists, but Marie’s unwavering tone kept him rooted in place. “You’re not the first fighter to lose, Bull. And you won’t be the last. But it’s how you handle it that counts. Don’t let this loss define you.”

Bald Bull felt his anger start to simmer down as her words sunk in. She was right. He knew she was right, but admitting it felt like swallowing glass. He didn’t want to be told how to feel, especially not by someone who wasn’t even a fighter. But somehow, hearing it from her felt different. She wasn’t patronizing him; she wasn’t pitying him. She was just… telling it like it was.

Marie finished tending to his wounds, and for the first time in a while, Bald Bull didn’t protest. She hadn’t been gentle with him, but in that moment, he didn’t need gentleness. He needed someone to call him out, to make him face his emotions head-on instead of hiding behind the anger and pride.

“There,” she said, stepping back and wiping her hands on a towel. “Now, stop being a baby. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re finished, and this temper of yours isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

Bald Bull took a deep breath, still feeling the remnants of his anger but not quite as intense. “You really don’t take any shit, do you?”

She gave him a small smirk. “Nope. And I’m not about to start with you. Now get it together, Bull. You’ve got more fights ahead of you.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, but there was something in it that sounded more like acceptance than defeat. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it together.”

As he stood up, still grumbling under his breath but with a touch of humility in his posture, Marie didn’t say another word. She had done her part. It was up to him to decide whether or not he wanted to listen. And as he walked toward the door, still limping a bit but standing taller than he had when he entered, he realized something. She had given him more than just medical care. She had given him a reminder that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. Even when he was being a jerk, she wouldn’t let him stay in that place. And that—more than anything—felt like the real healing.

��Cameras and Fumes✨

Bald Bull’s anger issues are rooted in a combination of deep personal frustration and external pressures, with one of the biggest sources being the constant barrage of media attention and the invasion of his privacy. As a top-tier fighter, he’s in the public eye, and that comes with the expectation of perfection—something that wears on him, especially when the media treats him more like a spectacle than a person.

The cameras, the flashing lights, the reporters constantly following him—it’s a relentless cycle that never seems to stop. After a fight, he’s hounded with questions, sometimes trivial, sometimes cruel, always invasive. They dissect his every move, his every word, turning him into a character for their headlines rather than acknowledging the complexity of who he really is. He feels like there’s no escape from the pressure to maintain this image of invincibility, especially when they dissect his failures and blow them out of proportion.

There’s a particular type of anger that builds when you have no control over your own life. His every movement is under a microscope, and no matter how hard he tries to retreat into privacy, the media is there, poking and prodding at his wounds, both physical and emotional. When the cameras are constantly on him, he can’t help but feel like he’s being suffocated, unable to breathe without it becoming fodder for public consumption. Even after a loss, the reporters come at him with questions, offering no grace, only demands for answers. For someone like Bald Bull, whose identity is already intertwined with his physicality and public persona, it’s a constant reminder that he’s not just a fighter—he’s an object of consumption.

His anger is his way of fighting back, a protective shield around his vulnerability. It’s not just about being tough in the ring—it’s a defense mechanism that extends to how he handles personal interactions, how he deals with emotions. He channels his frustrations through this anger because, in his mind, it’s the only thing that keeps the chaos at bay. But in reality, it only isolates him further. The anger is almost a reflex now, a knee-jerk reaction to feeling cornered, exposed, and misunderstood by the very world that’s supposed to celebrate him.

The lack of privacy makes it hard for Bald Bull to find a sense of peace. He can’t unwind without someone sneaking a picture or asking him about his last match. There’s no place to retreat to, no place where he can let his guard down and just be. He’s constantly being watched, analyzed, and criticized—every defeat, every flaw magnified until it feels like his whole existence is reduced to his failures. The world expects him to be this larger-than-life figure, and it drives him to hold onto his anger as the one thing that can’t be taken away from him.

It’s a destructive cycle. The more he lashes out, the more the media feeds off it, spinning it into another headline that only fuels the fire. He’s trapped in this image of the angry, untouchable fighter, and while that might have served him well in the ring, it’s suffocating him in the real world.

✨Nosey Media✨

The media’s obsession with Bald Bull and Marie grows as they become more intertwined, even though neither of them are willing participants in the narrative the press wants to spin. As the press notices the undeniable connection between the two—a cutman who sticks by the fighter who’s often volatile, a woman who manages to stay unshaken despite his outbursts—they begin to manufacture their own stories, all while ignoring the truth.

The first story the media latches onto is the possibility of a romance between Bald Bull and Marie. They see the way she watches over him, how she’s the only one who can calm his fiery temper after a loss, and they start weaving a narrative that the two are secretly in love. Every glance they share, every moment of genuine care is exaggerated and twisted into something more than it is. The press takes the smallest moments—her holding his arm after a fight, the way she’s always there to patch him up—and paints it as evidence of a clandestine affair. They know that sex sells, and they see an opportunity in the tension that exists between the stoic cutman and the brash fighter.

They stalk their every move, taking photos when Marie walks into the locker room or when Bald Bull is caught whispering something to her after a match. The captions in the tabloids run wild: “The Fighter’s Secret Romance: Behind Closed Doors with His Cutman” or “Is Bald Bull’s Heart Already Spoken For? Inside His Relationship with Marie.” The headlines suggest something more than just a professional bond, pushing a narrative that is far from reality.

Marie, of course, doesn’t take kindly to this. She’s not a public figure and certainly not someone to be defined by gossip. Every time the story hits, she feels like the press is taking something pure—her professionalism, her role as a cutman—and twisting it for their own benefit. She resents it, but she’s used to it. She knows it’s part of the job, and she’s not one to be caught off guard. But the more these rumors persist, the more she feels trapped in a story that isn’t hers to tell. And while she doesn’t react to the press directly, her frustration builds, and she becomes more protective of Bald Bull, not only from the cameras but from the lies they tell.

The media also picks up on the moments when Bald Bull’s temper flares, using it as evidence of their supposed “toxic relationship.” They seize on every argument or heated exchange between the two, painting Marie as a long-suffering woman who has to deal with the “angry fighter.” The way Bald Bull snaps at her after a tough loss is treated like a blow-up, and the press uses it as fodder for more sensational headlines: “Is Marie Strong Enough to Handle Bald Bull’s Fury?” or “Fighter’s Rage: Cutman Stands Her Ground in Volatile Relationship.”

This only adds fuel to Bald Bull’s anger. Not only does he have to deal with his own frustrations over his losses and the constant pressure of the public eye, but now the media is trying to paint him as a monster. He feels like he’s being misunderstood at every turn, and the more the press amplifies his anger, the more defensive and isolated he becomes. The narrative of him as the “bad boy” boxer who needs saving from the sweet, patient Marie only pushes him further into his shell. It’s frustrating to him because he’s never asked for pity or sympathy. He doesn’t want to be a character in someone else’s story.

Marie sees the headlines and hears the whispers in the press room. At first, she tries to ignore it, focusing on her work, but as the stories grow more absurd, she can’t help but be drawn into them. It’s one thing to be seen as the tough cutman, the one who fixes the fighters’ problems, but it’s another to be misrepresented in such a personal way. She isn’t in love with Bald Bull. She’s not his therapist or his emotional savior, and yet, every article makes it seem like she’s a damsel in distress, just waiting for him to “come around” or for the “anger to subside.”

She hates it. Hates how the media strips away her autonomy and reduces her to nothing more than a side character in Bald Bull’s life. She’s not anyone’s arm candy, and she’s certainly not someone who needs saving. But the media doesn’t care. They want a story, and they’ll create one whether it’s true or not.

As the rumors grow and the press intensifies their focus on Marie, Bald Bull becomes more and more protective of her, despite his own anger. He sees how the media is targeting her, how they’re twisting their dynamic into something it’s not, and he doesn’t like it. Even though he’s constantly frustrated and filled with rage, his instinct to shield Marie from the nonsense becomes stronger. But his protective side is a bit rough around the edges. His anger often manifests in overbearing ways—he tries to shield her from the reporters or tells her to ignore them, even though he knows it’s not fair to her.

When a particularly nasty headline comes out, Bald Bull storms out of the locker room, furious, ready to confront the press. But Marie, with her own brand of calm defiance, steps in front of him. “Not today, Bull,” she says firmly, standing between him and the cameras. “If you want to get through this, we’ll do it on our terms, not theirs.”

It’s in these moments that the cracks in their relationship with the media begin to show. Bald Bull’s protective instincts clash with Marie’s desire to keep her privacy intact. He wants to fight back, but she’s more than capable of handling things in her own way. Still, the tension between the two is palpable as they both try to navigate this world that is constantly trying to invade their lives. And while they both handle the media differently, they’ve developed an unspoken bond of mutual respect, with each of them becoming the other’s shield in their own way.

The media may continue to build stories off them, but Bald Bull and Marie have learned to endure the chaos together, navigating the turbulent waters of fame with a shared understanding of each other’s boundaries and frustrations. Despite the press’s relentless attempts to craft a narrative, they’re not giving in to the story the world wants to tell.

✨Feelings Growing✨

As the tension between Bald Bull and the media grew, so did the quiet moments between him and Marie. It started subtly, in the quiet spaces where the cameras couldn’t reach—away from the bright lights of the gym, away from the press hounds. There, in the moments when the world wasn’t watching, the relationship between the two began to shift, evolving from something professional into something more personal.

At first, it wasn’t anything major. A casual conversation after a fight. Bald Bull, still buzzing from his anger and frustration, would walk over to Marie, seeking some kind of solace, even if he couldn’t admit it. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else, certainly not the press, and certainly not the trainers or other fighters. He wanted someone who wouldn’t judge him for his emotions, someone who would just listen. Marie was that person.

Over time, those moments became more frequent. After particularly grueling fights or stressful days, Bald Bull would find himself lingering around the gym, watching Marie pack up her things, his mind swirling with all the things he couldn’t say out loud. When the gym emptied out, when the noise of the world quieted down, he’d start staying a little longer, helping her clean up or just standing nearby in silence. She would give him little tasks to do, like carrying a water cooler or grabbing her coat, things that didn’t mean much but made him feel needed.

There were nights when the gym felt like the only place he could breathe, and when Marie noticed this, she made it clear she didn’t mind him sticking around, offering him a bit of peace in the chaos of his own life. Slowly, his visits became more about the moments after the fights and less about his career. It was the beginning of their growing connection, something neither of them quite understood but couldn’t ignore.

✨The Quiet Escape✨

It wasn’t long before Bald Bull found himself sneaking out at night, craving the peace Marie seemed to offer him. His visits were never planned—just spontaneous, driven by the need to escape the clamor of the media and the constant attention that followed him everywhere. He didn’t want anyone else to see him, especially not the paparazzi. They knew his schedule, they knew his every move, and every time they caught him in a private moment, they twisted it. He had no desire to be photographed outside a restaurant or leaving a club, and the last thing he wanted was for the press to catch him seeking solace in someone like Marie, who was already caught up in the media frenzy herself.

So, he would sneak away late at night, when the streets were empty, and drive to her place. No press, no cameras, just him and the silence of the world. Sometimes he’d just knock lightly on her door, and sometimes he’d stand there for a moment, unsure if he should really show up. But each time, she’d open the door with a smile, her expression warm but without any judgment. She’d invite him in, and they’d sit together, the weight of the world seeming to lift off his shoulders.

At first, these visits were awkward. Bald Bull, used to his own isolation and the walls he built around himself, had trouble opening up. But there was something about the quiet of the night, the lack of eyes on them, that made him feel safe. As they sat on her couch or at her kitchen table, sipping something warm, he started talking. Slowly, the barriers came down. He’d tell her about the pressure he faced in the ring, about the frustrations of being judged by the media, about his fears that he’d never be good enough, that he’d always be seen as the angry fighter.

Marie, for her part, would listen. She didn’t offer sympathy, but she gave him understanding, something he’d never really gotten from anyone else. She didn’t try to fix him, didn’t try to give him advice he hadn’t asked for. She just listened, and in that silence, they began to understand each other in ways neither could have expected. She knew he was angry—knew it wasn’t just about boxing, that it was about something deeper, something he was still trying to figure out.

The more these late-night visits continued, the more the walls between them crumbled. He would stay for hours, sometimes until the sun started to rise, talking, laughing, or just existing in each other’s company. The media painted him as a monster, as a villain, but Marie saw him differently. She saw the exhaustion, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and she wanted to be the one thing in his life that wasn’t a fight.

✨The Unspoken Shift✨

Neither of them would have called it “dating”. It wasn’t about romance—it was about the quiet, intimate moments they shared when no one else was around. But as time passed, things started to shift. There were little touches—his hand brushing hers as they passed each other a cup of coffee or the way he’d look at her after a joke, a softness in his eyes that he’d never shown to anyone before. For Marie, it was a gradual thing. She wasn’t looking for romance either, especially with someone like him, who had so much baggage. But as she saw the vulnerability in him, the side that he didn’t show to the world, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him.

One night, as the night drew to a close, Bald Bull stood up to leave, his jacket draped over his arm. He hesitated at the door, looking back at Marie, unsure of what he was feeling but knowing he didn’t want to go back to the loneliness of his own apartment. He wanted to stay, but he didn’t know how to say it.

Marie noticed the change in him, the way he lingered, the way he seemed almost reluctant to walk out into the cold night. She smiled softly, a quiet understanding between them. “You can stay,” she said, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

And in that moment, Bald Bull realized something he hadn’t expected: maybe he didn’t have to be alone. Maybe he could have this—these late-night visits, this quiet bond with Marie, without the world judging or the press turning it into a headline. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but he knew he didn’t want it to stop.

So, he stayed. And from that night on, their relationship began to grow, not because of the headlines or the whispers from the media, but because of the connection they had built in those quiet hours, hidden away from the world.

🔔Rivalry Begins🔔

The atmosphere was tense in the arena that night. Bald Bull and Soda Popinski were set to face off in a grudge match, their animosity only amplified by the fact that Marie—his cutman, his calm in the storm—would be working for both of them. It was an odd pairing; while they had both worked with her in the past, neither had ever had to share her attention in the ring. Tonight, however, the circumstances were different, and the heat between the two men was palpable.

The bell rang to start the match, and Marie quickly got to work on both fighters. As she worked her magic, ensuring the fighters’ wounds were treated, there was an air of competition that neither of them could ignore. Neither of them could quite stop themselves from eyeing the other, each man keenly aware of the other’s interest in Marie.

As Marie moved between rounds, working quickly, the subtle tension between Bull and Soda became more overt. After a particularly harsh exchange of punches, Soda flashed a smirk as she tended to his nose, which had started to bleed. “You know, Marie,” Soda said with his trademark grin, “you’re the only reason I’m even holding on right now. A man could get used to this kind of attention.”

Marie didn’t even glance at him, focusing on the work at hand. “You’re in a fight, Soda, not a date,” she muttered as she wiped away the blood. But despite her indifferent tone, Soda noticed the way her fingers lingered on his face for just a moment too long, and he decided to press further.

Across the ring, Bull’s eyes narrowed as he heard the exchange. He didn’t like it. At all. As Marie came over to him, applying some ice to his swelling cheek, Bull couldn’t help himself. He leaned in close, just enough to make her feel the heat of his breath. “Don’t listen to him, Marie. He’s just trying to use you to distract me,” he growled lowly, his words simmering with anger.

Marie’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t let his comment distract her. “Focus on the fight, Bull,” she snapped. “This isn’t about either of you trying to score points with me.”

But her words had little effect. The tension between the men had been building for months, and now it was spilling over in a way neither of them could control.

As the rounds wore on, the taunts between the two fighters grew more biting. Soda continued to throw playful jabs at Bull, calling out his lack of finesse, while Bull countered with barbed comments about Soda’s lack of strength. Every time Marie worked on one of them, the other would seethe, their glances sharp and filled with a mixture of jealousy and frustration.

At one point, after a particularly brutal exchange, Bull’s temper finally snapped. “You think you can just walk up to me and get Marie’s attention like that?” he spat, throwing a punch that barely missed Soda’s jaw. “You’re pathetic.”

Soda smirked, a fire in his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bull. You really think you’re the only one who can get under her skin? I’m just better at it. She doesn’t need you to be her knight in shining armor.”

Before the fight could escalate further, the referee stepped in, stepping between the two men. “Enough!” he yelled. “This is turning into a brawl. If you two don’t cool it, I’m calling it a draw!”

Both men, bruised and battered, still simmered with anger. The mutual resentment was palpable, but with the referee’s warning, they both reluctantly took a step back—just enough to let the fight continue, but not enough to eliminate the fury that had been building.

Th e Breaking Point:

When the bell rang for the final round, both men were at their breaking point. Their punches were more reckless, fueled by frustration, and the insults between them hadn’t stopped. By the time the round ended, the fight had devolved into something more personal than professional. Both men were exhausted, their bodies bruised, but their pride burned hotter than ever.

The referee had seen enough. “That’s it,” he said, stepping forward. “The match is over. I’m calling it a draw before you two kill each other.”

Marie, who had been working tirelessly between rounds, glanced at both of them with exhaustion and frustration in her eyes. She had seen this kind of fight before—when the rivalry became too much, when the testosterone took over, and it was no longer about the sport. It was about proving something to each other.

As the referee called the match, Bull and Soda both glared at each other, seething with unspoken aggression. But as they turned to walk away, both of them shot one last look at Marie. Bull, still fuming, crossed the ring and approached her first, leaning in just enough to remind her of his presence. “You should stay away from him, Marie. He’s not good enough for you,” he muttered lowly, his tone intense.

Soda, watching this from across the ring, couldn’t resist a final shot of his own. “You know, Bull, I think she likes me more than she likes you. Too bad you’re just a big old bully.”

Marie, already fed up with the entire situation, stepped between them, crossing her arms. “Enough! Both of you! This is ridiculous!” she snapped. “You’re both acting like children. I don’t want any part of this petty rivalry. You’re both here to fight, not to fight over me.”

For a moment, both men seemed taken aback by her words. But it didn’t matter. The damage had already been done. The jealousy, the rivalry, the anger—it was all out in the open. Marie had been caught in the middle, and neither man could ignore the fact that their rivalry now had an extra layer: her.

But as the night wound down, and both men made their way out of the ring, their eyes lingered on Marie, not with hate, but with something more complicated. Neither of them could claim her yet, but both were far from giving up on the idea of winning her attention.

🗞️Can’t let a good thing Stand🗞️

As the rivalry between Bull and Soda grew more intense, it started to bleed into every aspect of Bull’s life. The media, always eager to capitalize on the drama surrounding athletes, fed into the spectacle. Every interview, every comment, every face-off between the two was painted as a personal battle. The headlines screamed about the “heated rivalry,” “unprecedented tension,” and, of course, “Marie caught in the middle.”

For Bull, the whole thing became a suffocating cycle. The cameras were always there—lurking, flashing, capturing every angry glance, every word of frustration, every awkward interaction. But it wasn’t just the media. It was the constant buzz of people trying to turn his life into a circus. And the worst part? They made him feel like he was the villain.

Bull wasn’t a fan of the limelight, not like some of the other fighters. He liked his privacy. He liked the moments when he could just be himself, without the constant pressure to entertain or to fit a certain image. But with every passing day, he felt his privacy slipping further and further away. The media had a way of spinning everything, turning his frustration into fuel for their stories. It wasn’t just about his matches anymore; it was about his relationship with Marie, his tension with Soda, and the growing image of him as the “bad boy” of boxing.

Each time he was forced to answer questions about Soda or Marie, he felt a flicker of rage spark in his chest. “Do you think you’ll ever make up with Soda Popinski?” was a typical question. It wasn’t just about his rivalry with Soda anymore; it was about how much drama the media could milk from it. And they weren’t subtle about their prodding. Every question felt like another attempt to force him into the narrative they had built.

He hated it.

🥀Marie Becomes the Target🥀

What burned him most was the way the media had latched onto his feelings for Marie. They’d started portraying it as some kind of love triangle. The speculation about who she would choose—him, the powerful and unpredictable fighter, or Soda, the charming and flashy rival—was fueling the media fire. And no matter how hard Bull tried to stay focused on his fights, every time he stepped in front of the cameras, he could see the reporters’ eyes gleaming with the same question: Who will she pick?

The whispers in the locker rooms started getting louder, too. It wasn’t just the media anymore. The whole boxing world seemed to be taking sides. Bull could feel the weight of the rumors, the glares from other fighters who were somehow caught in the crossfire. He didn’t just feel like a fighter anymore; he felt like a character in a soap opera.

🥤Soda’s Role in the Media Frenzy🥤

As if the pressure from the media wasn’t enough, there was Soda. Bull hated the way the media played up the “friendly rivalry” between them, portraying Soda as the charming, likable underdog. They had started calling him the “good guy,” framing him as the hero in this strange drama that Bull was now trapped in. It burned him. The more the media painted Soda as the victim, the more it fueled Bull’s resentment. He wasn’t just fighting for victory in the ring anymore—he was fighting for his reputation, for his pride. And the more Soda played up his role as the “good guy,” the more it made Bull look like the villain.

In interviews, Soda was always calm, always smiling, playing up the role of the playful rival. “It’s all in good fun,” he’d say with a laugh, his words always designed to make Bull look like the angry, aggressive one. And the media ate it up. It didn’t matter if Bull had legitimate grievances or if he was simply defending himself—they just wanted the drama. They wanted the rivalry, the tension, and most of all, they wanted to turn Bull into the bad guy.

And damn it, they were succeeding.

🗞️The Cost of the Media’s Narrative🗞️

The more the media spun their stories, the more the tension between Bull and Soda grew. The more they pushed the idea that Marie was the prize to be won, the more Bull became obsessed with protecting her from the chaos they were creating.

He started noticing how she seemed to be getting more cautious around him—more guarded when he was around, like she could sense how much the media was affecting him. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into his mess, but that didn’t stop the media from constantly dragging her into the spotlight.

Bull’s Breakdown:

It all came to a head one night in the locker room after a particularly grueling match. The cameras were all over him, trying to get a glimpse of his thoughts on the upcoming fight with Soda. The usual questions about his rivalry, his strategy, and of course, Marie—“How does Marie feel about the rivalry? Does she think you and Soda can ever be friends again?”—swarmed him like a swarm of flies.

Bull snapped.

“Enough!” he barked at the reporters, his anger bubbling over. “This is my life, not some fucking soap opera! You don’t get to twist everything I do into a story just so you can make a buck!”

The reporters fell silent, but the damage had been done. Bull stormed out, his fists clenched, his mind racing with frustration. It was becoming unbearable. The media wasn’t just reporting on his life—they were controlling it, making him a puppet in their drama.

The Final Straw:

That night, as he sat in his car, trying to escape the chaos, Bull couldn’t help but think of Marie. She had been nothing but kind to him, yet here she was, caught in the middle of a circus he couldn’t control. He hated the idea of her being dragged into this mess. And more than that, he hated how the media was using her, turning her into a pawn in their game.

The thought of losing her—or of her being hurt by this constant circus—was enough to make his blood boil. Bull had been through many battles in the ring, but this was a fight he didn’t know how to win. He wasn’t just fighting to protect his reputation anymore; he was fighting to protect the one person who had shown him genuine care in a world full of chaos.

But the media didn’t care about any of that. They just wanted the drama, the headlines, the story. And as much as Bull hated it, he knew that this war—against the media, against Soda, against the whole damn circus—was far from over.

As the rivalry between Bull and Soda intensified, the WVBA—a business-driven, media-obsessed organization—saw the drama as a golden opportunity to profit. They were always looking for ways to sell the sport, and nothing sold quite like a scandalous, personal feud. So, they jumped in with both feet, pushing the narrative of the “Battle for Marie” even further. They saw the buzz surrounding the two men’s tension and capitalized on it, turning their rivalry into a full-fledged spectacle.

But in doing so, the WVBA began to cross a line, one that not only further strained Bull and Soda’s already volatile relationship but also poisoned the one thing Bull had been holding onto: his genuine connection with Marie.

🗞️The WVBA’s Full-Court Press🗞️

The first time the organization really started pushing the narrative was in the form of a special event—an exclusive pre-fight “rivalry promotion.” They booked a joint interview with Bull and Soda, forcing them into the same space to discuss their feud, to stir up more drama, and most importantly, to fuel the media circus. The producers pushed the idea that Marie’s presence was the key to their rivalry—how she was torn between the two of them, and how the fight for her affection was somehow tied to their careers.

The constant questioning about Marie—the media asking if she would pick one over the other, pushing the idea that her attention was some sort of reward—drove a wedge even further between Bull and Soda. They weren’t just fighting in the ring anymore; they were fighting for something they both felt entitled to. The WVBA fueled this fire, convincing both men that the rivalry was about more than just pride—it was about winning, and more importantly, about controlling the narrative around Marie.

When Bull and Soda were forced to face off at press conferences, they couldn’t even look at each other without snarling. The stares were filled with resentment, jealousy, and a simmering rage that the media ate up. The producers had already started running teaser ads for the fight, showing clips of Bull glaring at Soda, then cutting to shots of Marie in between them, her face filled with unease. The suggestion was clear—this fight wasn’t just about titles or rankings anymore; it was about the battle for Marie’s heart.

✨The Impact on Bull and Marie’s Relationship✨

For Bull, the push from the WVBA began to break something inside of him. The way they framed Marie as a prize, something to be fought over, was degrading. It wasn’t just disrespectful to her; it made him feel like he was a puppet in their game. The more the media sensationalized everything—every look he shared with Marie, every word he exchanged with Soda—the less real it all seemed. His connection with Marie, which had started off so pure, was becoming tainted by the chaos and spectacle the WVBA was forcing on them.

Bull had always valued his privacy, and now, the most intimate parts of his life—his feelings for Marie, his growing frustrations—were on full display for the world. He could no longer just go to her for comfort. He could no longer share a quiet moment with her without wondering if the cameras were watching, whether the reporters were lurking outside, waiting for him to make a move.

Marie, too, felt the weight of the WVBA’s push. At first, she had found comfort in Bull’s company—his rawness, his honesty. But now, every time they spoke, there was this added pressure. Every time they crossed paths in the locker room, during training, or after a fight, she could feel the eyes of the media on them. It wasn’t just the men who were being affected; she was caught in the middle of it too. She could see the way Bull was pulling away, becoming more distant, more frustrated. And she knew why—he hated the way the WVBA was turning their connection into some kind of sideshow.

For a while, Marie tried to maintain the facade of playing along with the show, but as the interviews and press events kept coming, she found herself resenting the whole thing. Bull wasn’t the same. He was constantly on edge, his anger building with every new headline, every new suggestion that he and Soda were fighting for her affections.

🪦It’s Over 🪦:

One evening, the tipping point came. After a press event where both men had been asked repeatedly about their “feelings” for Marie, Bull snapped. He had just finished a workout session, his body still aching from the previous match. Marie had come in to check on him, and when she saw the tension in his face, she knew immediately something had snapped.

“Bull, we need to talk,” she said, stepping into the small room where he was cooling down.

But Bull wasn’t in the mood. He could feel the media’s whispers around him, even in the privacy of the gym. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched. “I’m done with this,” he muttered. “I’m done with all of this circus. The WVBA is turning us into something we’re not. And you… you’re being used as some kind of… prize. I can’t stand it.”

Marie flinched, the words stinging more than she expected. She had never thought of herself as a prize, but in that moment, she understood why Bull felt the way he did. She felt it too—the suffocating weight of the media, the prying eyes, the manipulation.

“Bull, I’m not part of this,” she said firmly. “I didn’t ask for any of this. The media can say whatever they want, but I’m not a game. I’m not your pawn in their story.”

Bull’s anger flared. “It doesn’t matter what they say. They’ve already made up their minds. You’re their story now. You’re just… part of the drama.”

He stormed out before she could say anything else. The words stung more than any punch he could’ve thrown. And for the first time, Marie realized the full extent of what the WVBA had done—not just to Bull, but to their relationship.

🥀The Fallout🥀

The next few days were filled with more of the same—media coverage, endless interviews, and forced interactions. The WVBA pushed the narrative even further, framing the rivalry as something even bigger than before.

But for Bull, it had gone too far. Every time he stepped in front of a camera, every time he heard another question about Marie, he felt like he was losing control. The more the media pushed, the more they turned the whole thing into a spectacle, the more Bull wanted out. He didn’t care about winning against Soda anymore. What he wanted was to escape the madness.

But the WVBA wasn’t going to let him go. They had turned him, and his relationship with Marie, into their cash cow. And now that they had a story, they weren’t about to let it die. The damage was done.

And just like that, what had been something real, something between him and Marie, had been overshadowed by the media’s need for drama and the WVBA’s thirst for profits. The relationship, once built on trust and understanding, was now tangled in a web of public opinion and business agendas. And no matter how hard Bull tried to fight it, he couldn’t escape the prison the WVBA had built around them.

ANYWAY!! I hope you guys enjoyed the lore drop here👉👈✨

-Tobias

[legacygirlingreen]

The Friend Date - Chapter 3

"Crossing the Line"

Summary: Crosshair crosses a line...

Word Count: 4,000 of 71,000

Warnings: I truly can't think of anything?

The Friend Date Masterlist | Masterlist | Previous | Next

Crosshair shot a glance at Rex, a fleeting flicker of amusement tugging at the corners of his otherwise impassive expression. “Well, that was… unpleasant,” he remarked dryly, the words laced with subtle sarcasm.

Rex exhaled heavily, shaking his head with a small, frustrated smile. “Yeah. That was... something, alright.”

For a moment, the air between them was thick with an awkward silence, neither man willing to speak. It was a tension that felt both familiar and uncomfortable, a strange gap between two soldiers who had seen too much together but never quite shared enough. Crosshair, always one to cut through tension by exemplifying it, finally broke the silence.

“You’re full of Bantha shit,” he muttered, voice low but pointed.

Rex’s brow furrowed, his attention snapping to Crosshair in an instant. “Pardon?”

Crosshair leaned casually against the stone wall, his posture relaxed but his gaze unwavering. “You said this was just a favor for a friend. That little display back there didn’t exactly scream ‘friendly’ to me,” he remarked, his voice carrying an edge. He didn’t need to specify, his meaning was clear — the way Rex had held her close, protective, almost possessive.

Rex’s words caught in his throat. His mind scrambled for a response, but for once, he found himself utterly speechless, caught off guard by the pointed accusation. Nothing clever came to him, and in that moment, he could only stare back at Crosshair, trying to mask the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. 

Rex couldn’t deny it — he hadn’t been able to help himself. The moment she opened the door, her eyes wide with shock and surprise at the sight of him standing there, he had known with unsettling certainty that all the internal arguments, the back-and-forth over whether his impulsive decision was the right one, had been in vain. It had been the right call, despite the peace he still struggled to make with it.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen her put together, truly presentable. More often than not, those wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, hiding tired eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. Dark circles beneath her eyes, a sign of the chaos in her life. Her hair was a wild mess of curls that never seemed to stay in place, and she rarely bothered with makeup — instead, she wore her endless sea of freckles with unapologetic pride, a map of her skin’s history.

But there was something about her — a raw, unrefined kind of beauty that spoke louder than anything else. The way she moved, the way she carried herself despite her exhaustion, drew him in every time. It was a beauty that didn’t rely on perfection or polish. It was simple, understated, and lived in. And Rex found it all the more compelling because of the genuine nature she displayed.

If anything, the events in the fresher not long ago had only deepened the attraction he’d always felt for her. He’d been so lost in the moment, touching himself in the throes of a fantasy he hadn’t even realized was about her, that the truth of it hit him like a punch to the gut. She was far more than just the woman he’d known — she was someone who set something deep inside him on fire.

But that was before today. Before he’d seen her like this — in a simple, yet impossibly flattering blue cotton dress that hugged her curves in a way that felt completely effortless. The fabric clung just enough to highlight her form without trying too hard. Her face was lightly dusted with makeup, just enough to accentuate her features, to bring out the best in her without hiding the girl underneath. And then, the lack of those familiar glasses? It left him momentarily stunned, caught off guard in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

She looked… different. Not just in a physical sense, but in a way that made Rex see her with fresh eyes. It was like he’d been given a glimpse of her hidden, more intimate side — a version of her that existed beyond the tired, messy woman he’d always known. A version that felt… softer. More vulnerable. And it left him feeling things he wasn’t sure he was prepared to process.

Rex's mind drifted back to that moment — the way her presence seemed to linger even after she’d moved past him. He hadn’t been able to escape the scent, a musky floral fragrance that clung to her skin like it was part of her, an invisible signature. It was subtle but intoxicating, the kind of scent that made him want to lean in just a little closer, to find the exact spot she’d dabbed it, to trace the delicate trail of perfume behind her ear or along the curve of her collarbone. It was something that felt both foreign and familiar, like it was meant just for her, marking her in a way that no one else could ever replicate.

Rex couldn’t help but notice the way Mae had changed the moment she slipped into those heels. Even with the extra height they gave her, he still towered over her, his frame casting a shadow that felt both natural and protective. He’d always known she was smaller than him, but today, it hit him just how much. The heels, while accentuating her legs, only made her appear even more delicate in comparison. And it wasn’t just her physical stature that stirred something deep within him—it was the overwhelming urge to shield her, to keep her safe even against something as trivial as falling over a loose cobblestone.

But beneath that protectiveness, there was something else. Something unexpected. He found himself more drawn to her than ever, the softer, smaller version of Mae making him feel a possessiveness that was both new and unsettling. He wanted to keep her close, not just to guard her, but to savor this version of her—the one who felt more vulnerable, delightfully more feminine. It was a side of her that he hadn't fully appreciated until now, and it sparked a fire in him that he didn’t know how to control.

Given Crosshair’s comment, Rex couldn’t fully dismiss the accusation. The truth lingered uncomfortably in the air—he had been holding Mae possessively, far too closely, in front of their friends. Even before Leena had stormed in he had already been clinging to her. Rex had pulled Mae into his chest, not casually to his side, but in a way that felt undeniably intimate. For Maker’s sake, he’d felt the wonderful curve of her backside pressed against his front the whole time, making it so he couldn’t move her away from shielding the evidence of how much he enjoyed it for fear of embarrassment. 

The embrace had been too close, too affectionate to be considered friendly, and he knew it. The worst part? Crosshair had seen it all. The sniper had caught him staring, more than once, when Mae had stepped away—his gaze lingering a moment too long, a silent admission that Rex wasn’t as unaffected as he’d tried to appear.

Rex opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. His mind raced, trying to formulate an explanation, a way to deflect the accusation, but he came up empty. He was trapped, the weight of Crosshair’s observation settling in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Every word Rex had ever used to justify his actions felt hollow now, and no excuse seemed plausible.

Before he could find the words, Crosshair’s voice cut through the tension, his tone unmistakably blunt. "You're a damn fool, Rex," he said, his words sharp as a blade. "You’re standing here pretending like you don’t know exactly what you're doing. You’ve been holding her like she’s yours—and don’t tell me it’s ‘nothing’ when you’ve been staring at her like she’s the only person in this vicinity." Crosshair’s gaze bored into him, unflinching. "You’re a fool if you can’t see it, and you’re even more of a fool for denying it."

The sting of Crosshair's words hit harder than Rex had expected. He wanted to argue, to deny, but the truth was right there, staring him in the face. Rex had been holding Mae in a way that contradicted the way he spoke. He countlessly tried to rationalize it to Echo by saying it was purely a friendship. Howser had caught him on more than one occasion on a late night call, not truly accepting the word friend when it came to the doctor he hadn’t met personally. The denial didn’t stop the way Rex’s heart had raced when she was near, and his thoughts had kept returning to her, to that softness, to the way she’d looked in that damn dress. He couldn’t escape the pull he felt. And Crosshair was right—he’d been trying to convince himself that it was nothing, that it was just another day, another moment between friends. But now, there was no denying it.

Rex ran a hand over his hair, frustrated, his throat tight as if he couldn’t quite find the words to articulate what he was feeling. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he muttered, his voice strained. “I never meant for it to be this way.”

Crosshair’s eyes narrowed, his expression as unyielding as ever. “It doesn’t matter whether you meant it, Rex. It’s happening. And you’re a klarking idiot if you can’t admit what’s right in front of you.” His voice softened, just slightly, as if to drive the point home. “Mae’s not some passing moment or fleeting thing.”

Rex stared at Crosshair, the weight of the sniper’s words sinking in. He could feel the truth coiling in his chest, sharp and heavy. Mae. Her. He’d been afraid to admit it, afraid to acknowledge the way he felt because doing so would mean changing everything. But as Crosshair said, it was already happening. The connection was there, undeniable and real, and Rex was the only one refusing to accept it.

He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but the words still wouldn’t come. Crosshair had exposed the truth, and Rex didn’t know how to process it, let alone say it aloud. The thought of admitting it out loud, of acknowledging that everything had changed, felt like a leap into something unknown—something terrifying.

“Why do you care?” Rex finally managed to deflect, his voice more defensive than he intended. Truthfully, he knew Crosshair didn’t exactly have the moral high ground to be making comments about his behavior. After all, the sniper had a unique dynamic with Kayden—one that could hardly be considered exemplary. Rex couldn’t help but feel that Crosshair was hardly in a position to pass judgment, especially when it came to relationships. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and that made the accusation feel even more absurd.

But even as the words escaped him, he knew Crosshair’s point wasn’t entirely off. The truth of the accusation hung in the air, undeniable despite the discomfort it brought. Still, Rex wasn’t about to let himself be cornered so easily. He crossed his arms, a defensive stance that came naturally when he was trying to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths. He knew Crosshair had little room to speak, but that didn’t make the moment any less awkward.

“Because,” Crosshair shrugged, his voice sharp, almost reluctant, as if he too was struggling to admit something. He flicked his toothpick to the ground. Then, without hesitation, Crosshair crossed his arms over his chest, standing tall, as if the physical gesture would reinforce his stance. Rex couldn’t help but notice how imposing his posture was, the way Crosshair towered over him, unwavering.

Rex had to admit, he forgot just how much taller Crosshair was than most of them until moments like this. He, Tech, and Wrecker had all inherited more height than their brothers. Wrecker’s stature was playful, almost boyish at times, always bringing an easy energy to any room. Tech’s gangly, awkward movements had always been endearing, but there were moments when his long limbs seemed a bit too much for him to handle. Then there was Crosshair, whose height was far from playful. It was intimidating—his frame carried an air of quiet menace that could make even the most seasoned of soldiers take a step back. His broad shoulders and the way he held himself made him seem almost untouchable, a stark contrast to his brothers.

Rex, while tall himself, couldn’t help but feel dwarfed in moments like this, when Crosshair stood in front of him with that characteristic unyielding stare. Rex had always been the one who stood firm, but now, caught in this conversation, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Crosshair’s presence alone was enough to make him question his every move.

Rex took a step back, his posture stiffening as he tried to process Crosshair’s words. “That’s not an answer,” he shot back, his tone sharp. He wasn’t about to let Crosshair skirt around the issue. "You can stand there all day, acting like you know exactly what’s going on, but you haven’t told me why you care. What’s your stake in all this?"

Crosshair didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, his arms still crossed, though there was a shift in his gaze, something that wasn’t as cold as usual. He looked… conflicted, almost as if wrestling with something inside himself. For a moment, Rex wondered if the sniper was going to deflect again, but instead, Crosshair’s voice came out a little softer, a little more grounded than before.

"Because Mae is a good person," Crosshair finally said, the words coming slower than Rex had expected. There was no sarcasm in his voice this time, no mocking edge. He was speaking with something close to sincerity. “She’s not like the rest of us. She just puts on a brave face and fixes everyone else’s messes without complaint. She’s… kind.” His eyes flickered toward Rex, a subtle but pointed look. “And that kind of person doesn’t deserve to be led on by someone who’s only halfway invested.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Rex blinked, thrown off by the uncharacteristic honesty from Crosshair. It was hard to imagine the man—who usually kept his emotions locked down tight—caring about someone else's well-being so openly. He had always been the one to distance himself, the one who believed in practicality over sentimentality. So to hear him admit that Mae deserved better, that he didn’t want to see her hurt, was a lot to take in.

Rex knew that Mae held an attachment to Tech—after all, she had just run after him without hesitation. It wasn’t lost on him that their bond had a depth to it, rooted in shared experiences and mutual respect. But Rex hardly considered the bookish, stoic man a real threat to his connection with Mae. Tech was married, and while his marriage wasn’t exactly a picture of perfect harmony, Rex knew the man was intelligent enough to avoid any temptation toward infidelity, even if things between him and his wife seemed strained at best. Besides, Tech and Mae shared a camaraderie forged through their work, both of them always at the heart of the island’s most demanding tasks. Their bond was rooted in the shared burden of responsibility, their late-night discussions, and the quiet understanding that came from being the most overworked members of the group.

Rex respected their friendship—he respected her—but he also understood that while their connection was strong, it was platonic, formed on mutual respect and the unique quirks they both shared. Tech was blunt, but his demeanor was clinical, almost detached, whereas Mae, while straightforward, had a warmth to her that Tech lacked. She could offer the sharp honesty when needed, but she could do it with an empathy that softened the blow. It was a balance Rex admired, especially given the intensity of the work they did. He’d never felt threatened by Tech, knowing that Mae valued their friendship for what it was—a deep connection born of shared hardship.

But then, there was Crosshair. Rex hadn’t considered that the sniper might hold his own protectiveness toward Mae. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until now. Crosshair had always been the outsider, the one who kept his distance from the rest of them, often with an aloofness that bordered on coldness. He had his own code, his own way of operating. He wasn’t the kind to easily let others in, especially not someone like Mae, who had a way of finding the good in people, no matter how rough their edges. But as Rex replayed the moments from earlier, something nagged at him. Crosshair’s tone, his reaction—it wasn’t just that he was being typical Crosshair. 

Yet, Rex recalled the day on the beach, when he nearly wrote her off before he took the time to get to know her. It had been Crosshair’s gruff nudge that pushed him to give her a chance to explain the connection to the crime family she’d been born into. A fact he’d forgotten until now.

Something about the conversation put Rex on edge, the words slipping out before he could fully control them. There was no stopping it once the thought crossed his mind. The tension in his chest, the confusion swirling in his mind—it all culminated in a simple, unguarded truth.

"I care about her," Rex said quietly, his voice almost a whisper, as though admitting it aloud made the weight of it more real.

Crosshair’s response came almost immediately, laced with his usual cynicism. “I know you do,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But in what capacity?”

Rex didn’t have an immediate answer. The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded, forcing him to confront the complexity of his feelings for Mae. He cared about her, that much was undeniable. But the exact nature of that care? That was far more complicated.

He admired her, of course. Her strength, her resilience, her ability to balance softness and steel with such ease. He respected her—her intelligence, her quick thinking, and how she managed to hold everything together even when it felt like the world was falling apart around them. Rex appreciated her presence in his life, how she had become a constant in the ever-changing, unpredictable chaos he couldn’t escape. The way she’d slipped into the cracks of his life and, over time, made herself an irreplaceable fixture.

And then, there was the fact that he found her undeniably attractive. Not just physically, though her beauty certainly didn’t escape him, but her soul. The way she carried herself, the warmth in her eyes, the quiet strength that radiated from her even in the most difficult moments. That was what had drawn him in deeper than he had intended. That was what had slowly blurred the line between simple admiration and something more.

But now, as he thought about it, all those feelings collided into a dangerous place—a place Rex wasn’t sure he was ready to explore. Wanting Mae, in any capacity, felt like a line he wasn’t sure he could cross without risking something that was far beyond him. He wasn’t sure he could give her the stability she deserved. He wasn’t sure he could offer her the kind of commitment she needed when his life was so unpredictable, so volatile. Every time he thought about it, that fear gnawed at him. The weight of what he might not be able to provide her.

"I don’t know," Rex finally admitted, his voice quieter now, the words heavy with uncertainty. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to piece together the tangled mess of thoughts swirling in his mind. "I can’t give her something solid, Crosshair. Not with the way things are. She deserves more than just... uncertainty. She deserves someone who can be there for her, without hesitation, without doubt. And right now, I’m not sure I can be that person."

There was a long, heavy silence between them as Crosshair took in Rex’s words. His eyes narrowed, but there was no judgment in them, just that piercing, unrelenting focus that made Rex feel like he was being sized up—not just physically, but emotionally as well. Finally, Crosshair spoke, his tone blunt, as usual, but there was something else in his voice now—a challenge, maybe, or perhaps a hint of something approaching understanding.

“Then I suppose you better figure that all out,” Crosshair said, his voice steady but still sharp. He didn’t flinch at Rex’s vulnerability. "You’ve been dancing around this long enough. If you do hurt her, there will be a long line of us ready to let you have it. Echo included."

Rex couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, though it was laced with tension. Echo, of all people. The idea of his typically calm, level-headed brother in arms coming at him with fists clenched was enough to momentarily ease the heavy mood. But the seriousness in Crosshair’s eyes quickly pulled him back to reality.

Crosshair scoffed, a rare, dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m not joking, Rex. We’re not gonna stand by and watch you screw this up. You hurt her, and you’ll have to deal with all of us."

Rex sat in silence for a moment, still mulling over Crosshair’s words, feeling a mixture of uncertainty and the heavy weight of realization beginning to settle on him. But just as quickly as that thought came, something else stirred inside him. He couldn’t keep wrestling with his own mess of emotions—he needed a distraction, something to focus on other than the storm brewing in his chest.

He shifted, trying to pull his mind away from the spiral. "So," Rex began, his voice lighter now, an attempt to change the subject. "What do you think is taking Mae so long checking on Tech?"

Crosshair’s expression remained neutral, but there was a slight narrowing of his eyes, his usual sharp focus honing in on Rex as he contemplated the situation. He let out a small, dismissive grunt before shrugging. "The whole situation with the date orchestrated by Leena was messy from the start. You know that," he said, his voice flat but carrying that familiar hint of disdain. "Tech isn’t exactly the most social guy to begin with, and having all that pressure put on him... well, it was bound to get complicated."

Rex frowned slightly, still trying to get a read on what was really going on with Tech. "Yeah, but Tech... He’s usually the one who keeps it together. I haven’t seen him this off in, well, ever."

Crosshair didn’t immediately respond, his gaze shifting to the distance, as if mulling over his thoughts. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, more reflective. "I think Tech’s always been a little... off," Crosshair began, though his words weren’t meant to sound cruel, just matter-of-fact. "He’s not as detached as people think. He processes everything so damn quickly in that mind of his, but sometimes, all that thinking catches up with him. He’s worn. He’s been carrying a lot more weight than he lets on."

"That's why they get along, isn't it?" Rex asked, his voice blunt, cutting through the lingering tension between them.

Crosshair didn’t hesitate, his eyes never straying from the horizon as he nodded. "Yes. It is." His tone was quiet but firm, the weight of his words making it clear that he understood the dynamics far better than Rex had initially realized. 

"I guess we should let them talk it over then," Rex said finally, the words feeling heavier than they should. Crosshair only nodded, following behind Rex as he carried over to Echo, giving both his date and his friend time to check on his brother and Leena.

[anonymous-astronaut]

How about the mercs on a date with someone they like? Like their behavior presentation (how they dress level of casual to FANCY *COUGH SPY COUGH* and behavior! Just for fun figured this could be absolutely hilarious or absolutely adorable

Scout

Honestly, I think he would really be relying on the other person to set the vibe. If his date is a very chill person, he will be a little relieved that he can just wear his normal clothes and act natural, but he will still be super nervous. If he thinks they might want something a little fancier, he’ll be absolutely terrified but by god he will TRY. He will put on nice(ish) slacks that stop short above his ankles and a dress shirt that’s too big for him and try like 10 times to tie his tie before asking Spy for help. He tries to be a gentleman the whole date and it’s just achingly awkward, but kinda in a cute way. He really does put a lot of effort into it, so even if he says stupid things and needs help reading the menu, it’s still a pretty decent date. The thought is really what counts with Scout.

Soldier

In his mind, it’s the perfect date. To anyone else, it’s absolutely deranged. Hopefully that’s what his date is looking for. He likes doing wild activities for dates, so fancy clothes are off the table (possible off entirely if he plans on getting covered in honey.) Most people wouldn’t even call it a date, maybe more of a near brush with death. That said, Soldier has very big feelings and has no qualms about being completely and blatantly honest about them, even in the midsts of chaos. I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s romantic, but he does have a certain charm in telling his crush exactly how he feels about them. Hopefully they like adrenaline, because there will be a lot of it.

Pyro

Pyro wants to make the occasion really special, and to them that means staying home and focusing on spending time together with their date. That doesn’t mean it isn’t fancy though! They put the whole thing on themselves, all out with candles and an amazing dinner. They wear their nicest gas mask. They love listening to their date talk, and find it very romantic to just be the two of them sharing a meal. The whole thing is very fancy and sweet while still being comfortable and homey.

Demo

Omg this blessing of a man puts so much effort into making this date go well. He doesn’t want to go over the top with the fanciness, cause to him that seems a little pretentious and takes away from the actual date. He wants it to be about him and the person he’s out with. But that doesn’t mean it can’t still be nice! He’s an absolute sap and loves the idea of a nice romantic date, so he tries his best to dress sharp, pick a nice place, and gets really nervous before hand. Once the date begins he relaxes and just has fun.

Heavy

The only person on the planet he trusts to orchestrate this date is himself, so he also puts it on at home. He makes the food, preps everything, and it’s not the Ritz but it’s pretty much the fanciest setup he knows how to do. He wears his nicest clothes, and very much acts as a gentleman. It’s a fucking superb date, while not being so fancy his date can’t make themselves comfortable:

Engie

He loves a good night in, but for this date he wants to go out. He wants it to be special, and really does his best to dress the part. He’s nervous and self conscious because some people have looked down on his accent as unrefined in the past, and he overcompensates by being a huge gentleman. He is absolutely besotted by the sight of his date dressed fancy and has a hard time keeping a blush off his face for most of the date.

Medic

It can’t be helped, Medic is… bad at dates. He’s way more of a spending-time-together-while-we-both-get-things-done kind of guy, dates just don’t really occur to him as something he should make happen. However, if it comes to his attention that the person he admires would like to go on a date, he will do his best. He isn’t opposed to doing something fancy, he thinks it’s fun every once in a while, but he’s just as happy to do something casual. He can dress up, but he acts the same as he ever does. To him, as long as they are spending the time together, it’s enough.

Sniper

He would absolutely love to do some kind of date outdoors. Hiking or camping, that’s the kind of thing he really wants to do with someone he likes. He is more comfortable and talkative when’s he’s outside, and something about being under the night sky makes everything feel more romantic to him. A fancy date would do the opposite, it’s like stuffing a possum in a suit jacket, he just freezes up. Even so, he’d be willing to suffer through it for a date with someone he fancies.

Spy

All out. Nothing is too much for this man, how often does he get to pull out all the stops on how over the top dramatic he can be? It’s like a scene from a movie, he doesn’t let a single napkin wrinkle be out of place. It’s as fancy as he can possibly make it, and he wants everything to be perfect for his date. In fact, he’d be way more uncomfortable doing a casual thing, because he doesn’t know how the hell to act. What?? No rules for decorum when you’re just at home? Whatever does one do?!

[narrators-journal]

Step two

Sorry for the vanishing! I was out with friends for a two days. Because of this, this particular part is a little less edited because I’m exhausted, but! I will post!

Previous part: here

First part: here

Good progress was made in a rather short time after that first night, Illumi felt, but he still had a pretty big issue when it came to more personal matters. Mainly, it was the fact that he struggled to adjust to the life of an impoverished man. He couldn't cook at all, he had no idea how to do laundry, and sleeping in his relatively cheap bed was awful for a conductive rest. That wasn't even touching the fact that being alone without a butler or maid truly revealed  how messy he was, his clothes scattered around or piled up to await washing he couldn't provide, snack wrappers here and there, the trash verging into overflowing territory before he bothered to take it out, which wouldn't have been so bad if his goal was not to consequentially get you into his bed, and according to his mother, women weren't keen on sleeping in a dirty bed no matter the charm of the man. However, that matter was for later, on a more cheerful note, he felt he was making relatively good progress with you. Such good progress, in fact, that he had landed a date to a restaurant with you already.

The restaurant was a bit cheap, small, with a very unrefined sort of aesthetic through out, but you had said you enjoyed it, and it was an opportunity to see you dressed up a bit for him. Maybe this is why Father takes Mother out on her demanded dates. he mused while he sat outside in the cool evening air of (f/r) waiting for you in the best 'poor' clothes he had in his closet. He continued to think about his situation until he heard you snort, making him whip his head towards you, eyes beginning to narrow,        "Illumi?" you said with a bit of amusement "um, you look very nice, but this isn't the type of place that deserves that type of outfit." you pointed out, gesturing to the dress pants and button up shirt with a tie. In contrast, you had on a rather nice dress, maybe with some leggings, appreciated by the assassin if so, that wasn't super flashy, making Illumi stand out among the other casually dressed customer.        "oh. This is the only sort of nice clothes I have." he explained, and he didn't know how to feel about your giggle in response just yet.        "Maybe after our...d-date," you turned an adorable shade of pink when you admitted what this outing was, "you can look into buying some less proper clothes." you suggested, and even he had to admit it came off a bit more suggestive or rude than you most likely meant. "S-sorry, that sounded weird." you muttered, your face staying a slightly darker pink this time as you turned your eyes to the sidewalk. Illumi simply smiled,        "It's fine, (y/n), let's just go eat." he suggested, and you were quick to agree, letting him lead you into the restaurant.   The date was going well in Illumi's mind, though he could about feel the tension rolling off of you in the silence. I guess on a date it's a bit weird to simply sit  there in silence. he mused, than remembered his intention with this date, so he began asking you questions about yourself. Admittedly, he was a bit stiff about it, but you seemed to relax little by little as the two of you spoke. It seemed that his slightly off and awkwardly blunt nature worked in his favor as well, since you were soon giggling and smiling at Illumi's 'obliviousness' when his words could come off as different and sometimes more inappropriate than he meant, and the ebony haired assassin decided he enjoyed your laugh, slipping in a few double entendre here and there on purpose to fluster you and make you giggle more. Your laugh was quite pleasing to hear, which was good because he needed a wife who wouldn't be super annoying, wouldn't be demanding of him, and wouldn't require going out of the Zoldyck estate a lot. From how you were so reclusive, he trusted that you'd not want to head into town a lot or down the mountain. She'll most likely hide herself away a lot too, making the biggest obstacle intercourse, but if push comes to shove I can tie her down. He thought while the two of you ate, but then he realized something, Wait, if she's so reclusive because of sexual trauma, tying her down and taking her by force could push her over the edge. I'll need to figure out if her habits are innocent , or trauma related. From there I can plan accordingly. He decided, looking at you with his dark eyes as you ate, attempting to read your body language for hints, but than you spoke out of the blue,          "Um, Illumi? Are...you alright?" Your voice was tinged with caution and...discomfort, maybe it was some sort of physical trauma that made you so shut off from the world? He'd have to think on that idea,          "Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. I was simply admiring your pretty face," he said, grinning at the wave of red that overtook your body in response. You were deliciously easy to fluster. Wooing her must be a simple task, he thought to himself while you cleared your throat,          "Um...could I ask you a question?" Your voice was meek, uncertain, making the assassin's heart squeeze with excitement while he nodded, "uh, sorry if this is rude, but why are your eyes like that?" The question was a bit out of the blue, and his silence seemed to convey that seeing how you instantly tried to backpedal,          "How are my eyes odd?" he asked, not letting you change the subject,                "I dunno, they just seem...kinda dead." you pointed out, and he nodded,            "Ah, I can see why that may seem weird, but I don't have a reason for why my eyes seem...dead, they've been like this my whole life," he explained, making sure to add a casual, not-offended lilt to his voice to hopefully quell your remorseful, anxious aura. You nodded,        "I-I still think they are very pretty eyes, uh, very hypnotic almost...kinda..." you fumbled before a short, tense silence seemed to fall between the two of you while Illumi slowly blinked and hummed, watching you with his dark, owlish eyes. Finally, you changed the subject awkwardly. Your social ineptitude was so alluring to him, and so fun to aggravate like some sort of wound. Once the food was gone, he picked back up on the conversation, continuing to learn about you and flirt until it was time to pay and take you home. As the two of you walked down the street though, he decided to ask,           "(y/n), would it be rude to ask why you don't seem to go outside a lot?" He did his best to phrase it gently, just in case it was a trauma response, listening to your explanation. If it was something to do with a dark part of your past, no matter for the assassin, he simply decided to end whoever hurt you or their loved ones, but if it was little more than you being an introverted, naturally skittish woman, he was ecstatic. If you were just not very social on your own, he had fewer things to avoid in terms of successfully wooing you, which was such a relief to him, plus, he could easily work on your social awkwardness, so that in itself wasn't even an issue. When the two of you reached your home, he kissed your cheek,           "I hope you enjoyed your night," he hummed, doing his best to ensure he had his charm lacing each word, which came off as slightly suggestive but he was fine with that.           "I did, so, um, maybe some other time...we could do this again?" you offered, attempting to match the flirtatious tone he had, making the assassin smile slightly despite the awkwardness of your attempt.           "I'd enjoy that. It gives me a reason not to try cooking for myself," he pointed out, making you laugh slightly,           "Glad I could be of help tonight than." With that, he took the chance and leaned down and kissed you pretty quickly, watching your (e/c) eyes widen for a moment before you became a flustered mess for the umpteenth time that night. You swiftly said good night and scurried into your home, leaving the tall man outside in the cool spring night. He stood there for a moment, debating whether or not he should sneak into your home again, but deciding not to. He instead headed back to his house and contemplated what to do for the next date.

[jaskiersvalley]

So I just discovered your maned wolf Jaskier and I thought I might add something I know about them. As the original person mentioned they are not foxes or wolves but more like a wild dog but not. They are their own thing. Also their pee smells like marijuana. I've seen some at the the national zoo in D.C. they do better in pairs or with company then on their own. The last one they had before the pair of brothers they had when I went didn't do good on their own. Their legs are sk long because they are made to see over tall grass. I love manned wolves they are so unique.

This is such a delightful bunch of facts about maned wolves! Thank you for sharing your knowledge, I adored finding out more about these fascinating creatures. As thanks, here’s a slightly different take on maned wolf!Jaskier for you.

True Colours

It was rare for graduates of Aretuza to get together. Mostly because their motives and goals were rather at odds with each other usually so it wasn't a good idea to get together. Things could get rather unpleasant. But, once in a while, they could set their ambitions aside and enjoy each other's company.

"I'm telling you, she was scum," Yennefer giggled, leaning into Fringilla's shoulder. "You can do miles better."

"I just wish I'd known what she was like before I wasted all that time on her." Nursing a freshly broken heart, Fringilla was eager for any kindness her peers would show her. "Humans are scum."

All too eager to agree, Yennefer nodded along. Humans were rather unfortunate creatures, she couldn't really help with that, ridding the Continent of them was quite unethical. But the thing about true colours, she could most definitely help with that.

"I've got the perfect spell! We can reveal the whole Continent's true colours." Laughter went up around them at the declaration and Yennefer sniffed as she straightened up. "You can all help. Or watch and learn."

It was quite amazing, how much power five drunken sorceresses could harness. The spell took a considerable amount of rather raw, unrefined Chaos and they all sprawled on the ground in a sweaty pile by the time it was done. Alas, in their drunken stupor, they noted that the spell had done nothing other than make the sky flash and rumble in an ever spreading wave until it moved out of sight.

The next morning they were all suitably hungover and more than ready to return to their usual duties. There was only so much time they could spend with each other before the truce ended and they were at each other's throats again.

Somewhere else on the Continent it was another beautiful day for Jaskier to follow Geralt around. He said follow because he'd once again managed to piss his boyfriend off and sent him stomping off ahead.

"Look, all I said was that you'd look better if you just glowered a little less," Jaskier grumbled. The lute case bounced against his back like it always did when he did a little jog to keep up with Geralt. "You do give the wrong impression sometimes. I swear you do this deliberately, hide the fact you're an absolutely cuddly sweetheart under all those onion-y layers of doom, gloom and...I have nothing that rhymes. Broom? Shroom? Groom? Fume! Because you're fuming!"

Funnily enough, it did nothing to ease Geralt's sulk but Jaskier was undeterred. This was nothing more than a blip in the journey of their love. A bit of bad weather, not even a storm.

They wandered in a manner Jaskier would call aimless while Geralt described as optimal in the hunt for a contract. At least it got them to a town in decent time, the soft summer light enough to get to an inn for food and a performance. Jaskier was ecstatic.

His set was going great, everyone was merry, having a blast as he belted out shanty after drinking song. Ale flowed, as did the coin. The sun was setting and he set his lute aside for a quick break. One moment he was staring out over the tavern and the next the world lurched. He was shorter, on all fours and everything looked and smelled different. Especially the patrons. A variety of animals stared back at him before pandemonium exploded. Most creatures reared back, staring in terror into the corner Geralt had been in, which was quite glaringly empty.

"What has that bastard done to us?" The cry went up and the dogs and foxes in the tavern rallied, ready to hunt Geralt down.

"I did nothing." A familiar voice rang through the room and everyone backed away as a harvest mouse climbed onto the table. Cute and defenceless, Geralt stared out at the tavern from the top of the table, nose twitching.

From his vantage point on the stage, with his long legs, Jaskier could see how the villagers weren't convinced. In fact, they saw an easy target and looked ready to exact revenge on an innocent party. Snarling, he raced to the other side of the room and hopped onto the table, towering over Geralt.

"He's innocent." Sharp teeth were bared fiercely at the crowd. When it didn't look like they would back down, Jaskier did the only thing he could. He picked Geralt up in his mouth and pretended to swallow while the tiny harvest mouse clambered out the side of his mouth and got lost in Jaskier's thick mane.

The villagers didn't look all that appeased but Jaskier didn't allow them to get out of control.

"Tasted like disappointment. Now. Shall we howl at the moon?" For some reason it seemed to do the trick and the shock of being turned into animals turned into a celebration.

In the morning, everyone was back to their regular human form, including Geralt. They had to make a hasty run from the village before the angry mob punished them for their existence.

"Whew! That was exciting. But also, what the fuck happened?"

There were no answers. Each night, as the sun set, they changed into animal form. Jaskier a maned wolf, Geralt a harvest mouse.

"I can't work like this," Geralt growled. "We're getting to the bottom of this."

Only, there seemed to be no help. Everywhere they went, the whole Continent seemed to turn into animals from dusk until dawn. Most villagers were wolves, bears, cats and other animals that could be tamed but the wild, aggressive undertones of predators were still there. A few were goats, cows and sheep, a few bulls. By contrast, courts were full of snakes and birds. Rarer, less straightforward to deal with. In Geralt's opinion, less pleasant to deal with. And no court's sorceress would give him a straight answer. They had to know something, Geralt knew when he was being lied to. But he didn't know what they were hiding.

With no other option, he headed home. Each night he climbed into Jaskier's mane, allowed his boyfriend to keep him safe from owls - some natural, others transformed humans who enjoyed the hunt. At the base of Kaer Morhen, he ran into something most unusual. A hyena gave Jaskier a flat stare from where it was curled in the overgrowth. By its stomach was a capybara and a hare, both looking a bit patchy and weathered. Even more interestingly, there was a cockatoo on the top of its head, eyes closed.

"Friends," Jaskier called, "we come in peace."

Never before had Jaskier felt more threatened than when a capybara and hare looked ready to tear his throat out.

"Eskel. Lambert," Geralt called and climbed to sit on the end of Jaskier's snout. "You made friends."

The hyena got to its feet, looming over the transformed Witchers protectively. "You know these two?"

"Geralt you fuck," the hare growled. "Is this your doing?"

"Would I be here if it was?" Jaskier didn't have to see the harvest mouse's face to know Geralt was rolling his eyes. Still, he tried.

It made the cockatoo screech out a laugh. "Crossed eyes do not become you, weird wolf thing."

Puffing up, Jaskier wanted to object but Geralt cut in. "Leave Jaskier out of this. Who are you travelling with?"

"I'm Aiden," the cockatoo replied, spreading his wings wide and bobbing down in a bird equivalent of a bow. "Cat Witcher by name, cockatoo by nature."

That, Geralt could have guessed, he was much more interested in the hyena who seemed keen to be forgotten. He stared at him until it got awkward.

"Cahir." The name said nothing but there was a broad, southern accent to it. Intrigued, Geralt wished he could take a better look at the man. He would be able to do so in the daylight.

Introductions out of the way, Geralt climbed down, only to scuttle across the gap and climb onto Eskel's back. The capybara grunted sleepily and settled back on the ground.

"Sleep. We've got quite the climb ahead of us tomorrow." At least it was warm, meaning the trek should only take a day without snow impeding them. They'd be home by evening.

They staggered through on four legs the following night. Mostly because Jaskier had insisted on stopping and admiring every angle of every view, sighing wistfully. Finally, they arrived at the door which had been left open a crack, only needing to be nudged open on silent, freshly oiled hinges.

"I was wondering when you'd get home," a voice greeted them. Vesemir did not look impressed as he looked over them. A gopher stared at them with a rather done expression. "Aretuza had a lot to answer for."

[sneezefiction]

hello! I've been going down your masterlist and I love your writing! most of them are so sweet 🥺 could I request a hc of reader dating daichi, but he lives with kuroo and bokuto so she spends a lot of time with them. maybe what your friendship is like with kuroo and bokuto separately, how daichi reacts to you being so close to those 2, and how you guys hang out as a group/what kinda trouble they get you into since you're the only girl in the group 😅

Daichi x fem!reader // Kuroo and Bokuto x reader - Headcanons

description: dating Daichi basically means dating his roommates, Kuroo and Bokuto too. here are some fluffy separate and group dynamics between you and these 3 babes. you’re def dating Daichi tho, hun. just to be clear~

a/n: ahh this was so fun to mess around with!! it was a nice break from regular headcanons. separating them into categories and elements was interesting. it got a bit long & wordy for a headcanon, sorry heh. it’s basically an everyone x reader at this point lmao apologies, Daichi thank you tons for the request and for the compliments <33

warnings: slight cursing

total wc: 1000

---

Let’s start with these star boy roommates and work our way from there~

Kuroo and Bokuto:

Okay, so they get that you’re taken and all that

But that doesn’t mean they’re gonna lay off of their teasing and flirty habits with you

You’ll walk into their apartment, searching for Daichi and immediately be bombarded with stuff like,

“Damn, y/n, you’re lookin good tonightttt. Where you headed?”

Just all kinds of flirty commends from Kuroo. It won’t end.

Bokuto definitely peeks around the hall after hearing all this, golden eyes glowing in the dark

You just laugh as Daichi pokes his own head out of the kitchen with a look that could kill a man

“Just out with Daichi, Kuroo, leave me aloneeee.” You’ll beg, still giggling

He’ll leave you be for awhile, but when you and Daichi get back from your date, he’ll jokingly ask you to take him out instead next time since, “I’m way more fun than that wet blanket of a boyfriend.”

Kuroo gets points for great pick up lines and scarily specific knowledge about romcoms

On the other hand, Bokuto is super confident with being physical around you

He definitely finds ways to play with your hair and will give you the best back massages

He’ll rope you into sitting with him by telling you that he has important news or a great story from his day

As he distracts you with his words, Bokuto’s hands will find their way to your hair or to your shoulders

You naturally lean into his touch and enjoy the soothing closeness with the spiky-haired boy

After a mild cuddling session with Bo, his energy becomes electric no matter what time it is

Like, it’ll be 1am and you’ll be laughing at something he said and place your hand on his chest to push him away playfully and he’ll just be all “AJldjsdlsjJKKD”

You’re definitely invited over for movie nights with just these two whenever Daichi is out late

You make them popcorn and they pile blankets on you and check every once in awhile to see if your okay or if you’ve fallen asleep

They joke that if Daichi ever leaves or does anything to hurt you, they’ll beat him up and take his place in a heartbeat

You know they would never interfere with your current relationship, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be there if it doesn’t work out ;) (Daichi is so ready to knock some sense into these kids)

Both boys will always have a slight crush on you, them’s the facts

Daichi:

So the other two babes are great, but the whole reason you even met those goobers is thanks to your hero of a boyfriend

Daichi made sure you knew the boys really well before suggesting you come over

You’ve made many great choices, but becoming friends with your boyfriend’s besties has been one of the most rewarding

Relationally and communally

You’re definitely grateful that you’re dating Daichi though

Kuroo and Bokuto are wonderful, but you fell for someone with a more chill persona for a reason

You’d been looking for someone who was wanted to make you feel safe and warm, who could sit in comfortable silence with you, and wanted you for more than just what you looked like

Yeah, Daichi was more your speed. He could joke, he can sass, but the man can also get serious… and you find that pretty sexy

If Bo or Kuroo start overstepping boundaries, Daichi turns into what you like to call “Jealous Dad-chi”

He’ll wrap his muscular arms around your waist, no matter where you are, and lift you away from their grasp and prying eyes

If you’re at home he’ll drag you back to his room, giving the boys a death glare, receiving snickers of victory in return

“Y/n… I know you don’t seem to realize this, but they’re all over you again.” He’ll explain, “I know we both love em, but stop letting them take advantage of you, okay?” He sighs

“You’re too cute for this world.” He covers his eyes with his hands in exasperation

“Somebody’s just jealous, that’s all.” You decide, but still reach toward his face, prying his hands off his eyes

“You’re the only one I have eyes for, Daichi.” You smile, tilting your head

This man will be so flustered and won’t let you go for the rest of the night

Group Dynamics:

Being the only girl in a group of 3 boys is never very easy

When you first met Bo and Kuroo, you just hoped you wouldn’t bore them and that your interactions would be smooth and not awkward

Sorry kiddo, but this arrangement was never meant to be smooth and is better suited for the words flirty, chaotic, and baffling.

But just because it isn’t smooth doesn’t mean it isn’t fun and invigorating

These boys have been your best friends, your counselors, and your protectors ever since you decided you join their funky lil crew

When Daichi, Kuroo, and Bokuto find you getting hit on by some creep, damn do they pounce

You’ll never see anything more intimidating than 3 tall, fit, intense guys approaching at once

Also can we talk about how obnoxious the boys humor gets when it’s just the 3 of them

They’ll be up late cackling like hyenas and snorting over inside jokes

Don’t even get me started on the level of testosterone in this apartment ugh

Whatever game they play, argument they get wrapped up in, or competition they come up with, it won’t end for hours… sometimes even days

And trust me, it’s not pretty

But that’s why you’re here. You refresh, excite, and intrigue them, taking their minds off of their usual boyish, unrefined lives 

Being around you brings them a sense of calm and care that they’d never have known if you hadn’t shown up

They adore and savor your presence and opinion, wanting you to be apart of their discussions and asking you to join them for all of their group outings

you’re the sweetest girlfriend and the most wonderful friend to each of these messy, adorable boys

[crashingmeteorz]

more jinjetsongko headcanons because i’m still quarantining so what the heck else am i gonna do.

shout out to @azenkii for coming up with this and supporting my nonsense. also considering calling them the ba sing se bimbos, please share your thoughts.

so like. it’s pretty clear song can handle herself, and even as they’re getting rid of the body, jet is telling her about their group and what they’re doing. song’s in shock, because murder’s not something she’s ever done (but something her mother has always prepared her to do), and so she just is kinda like “yeah, okay, i’ll join, whatever, but does the smell of death ever leave your nostrils or does it stay there forever?”

“it fades,” he tells her happily, slinging an arm around her shoulders, “but don’t worry - you’ll get used to it.”

zuko wants to punch jet in his stupid handsome face because they can’t have the girl he STOLE FROM in their stupid gang but he can’t TELL ANYONE so he’s just bitter about it until song reassures him that it’s okay, he’s forgiven.

despite her capacity for violence, song does not Vibe With It, so she ends up acting as a lookout most of the time. there are other drugs, ones that just put people to sleep for a while instead of killing them, and she tends to use those on any suspicious parties.

if she’s ever in a serious bind, though, she carries a set of needles hidden up her sleeve. just because she’s the least Down with Murder doesn’t mean she isn’t down with it at all. she’s not a freaking narc.

jin previously was Not Down with Murder but when you hide a dead body you have to very quickly Get Down with Murder or Get Gone, so she gets down with it. everything else about her friends (arsonist, terrorist, deadly apothecary) quickly becomes categorized as extremely normal because otherwise her brain would explode.

best asset is her knowledge of the city, and the fact that she can get information from anyone, anywhere. she’s got more street smarts than any of the “country bumpkins” as she affectionately calls her friends, and she puts this skill to good use.

she wants to be able to fight, too, and since both zuko and jet wield dual weapons, that’s how she learns.

(plus, the idea of all four of them being dual-weapons wielders is cool and fun so i’m running with it)

she steals away into the small trunk of family heirlooms that sits hidden beneath a floorboard in her building, and procures two sickles her father used during his time on the farm. interestingly, theyre about the same size and weight as the kyoshi warriors’ fans. if jin were to ever find herself amongst the kyoshi warriors, she’d probably fit in. just a thought.

jin, like jet, is unrefined and fights dirty, but it works and gets the job done. zuko fights with honor and fury. song is light on her feet, and her goal is mainly to get the fight over with. all in all, they make a good team.

obviously, iroh and song’s mother adopt them all. jin is the natural favorite, being genuinely likable and funny, and also the most normal. iroh is also still hoping she’ll marry zuko one day, and song’s mother basically sees any teen girls she meets as someone to be Cherished and Protected anyway.

jet is definitely the least favorite but is also Begrudgingly Beloved by the adults. both iroh and song’s mother are too smart to fall for his slick words, but they find his efforts to be charming endearing. plus, they both know boy soldiers when they see them, and it’s hard for them not to want to be a parent to a kid who’s been through so much.

song and her mother love teasing zuko and iroh for their past encounter. song’s usually the one teasing iroh, and he takes it in stride, always offering her free tea and treats and dramatically begging her forgiveness in a way that absolutely makes zuko sweat bullets. song’s mother is the one who teases zuko, but he’s so awkward and weird about it she just ends up feeling bad and giving him an extra serving of dinner, which jin and jet loudly protest.

all three teens have a different version of a backstory for zuko and iroh. they’ve all shared their lives with each other, except for zuko, and no matter how much they pester iroh he insists it’s not his story to tell.

jin works the circus angle for a loooong time, knowing full well he was full of shit when he said he was in the circus, but hoping to make zuko perform increasingly ridiculous stunts so as to vindicate himself. he draws the line at the tightrope, and gets weirdly quiet about it, so she drops it.

jet thinks zuko was in the war, which is how he got his scar. he assumes zuko and iroh are so poor because they didn’t get any sort of compensation for their part in defending the earth kingdom, which is just what he would expect from their “government”, or as jet calls it, The Man.

song assumes zuko got his scar the same way she did, when the fire nation invaded his and iroh’s village and probably took his father away, too. she also assumes this is what’s hardened him to the world, and is glad he seems to be loosening up a bit around his friends.

jin is the closest, believing zuko and iroh to be deserters of the fire nation, but she guesses they’re from the colonies. she also definitely thinks iroh’s earth kingdom (you can’t live in ba sing se and love it THAT MUCH without having a little earth kingdom blood in you. no way no how). she assumes that zuko got his scar for his treachery, that he left the fire nation because he believed it was Evil. secretly, she believes he’s incredibly brave.

after the war, zuko casually mentions that he got his scar from his father.

“your what now?” jin asks in disbelief. my father, zuko tells her. he recounts the war meeting, the agni kai, all of it.

“and your father, the ex-firelord, he did this?” song asks, deadly calm, messing with a few vials of something Very Dangerous and Very Painful.

“the ex-firelord as in the ex-firelord locked up in the capital prison, that guy did that to you?” jet asks, just as calm, sharpening his hooks. zuko says yes, not sure why they’re being so weird.

“we’ll be back later,” jin tells him. “we have to go do something totally unrelated.”

it takes zuko way too long for the penny to drop because by the time he catches up to them they’ve knocked out half the prison guards and are screaming about vengeance.

(secretly, he’s touched, but he wishes he’d learned his lesson because he goes through the same thing with sokka and katara about a month later).

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  masterpost

[enchanted--realm]

When Calls the Heart Live Ramples

S8 ep10 Old Love, New Love, Is this True Love💕💕💕

Ohhh this episode was a goodie. First of all, Ned and Florence were so cute throughout this entire episode. Florence looked beautiful in that dress! I liked it better on her than I did on Molly. Also that first kiss between Ned and Florence was one of the best kisses to come out of this show I must say. That was a good kiss😉 I also loved Katie and thought she played her character very well. Everything surrounding her felt very natural and I really like the way the conversations evolved about her feelings concerning the marriage. I thought that plotline was very well connected and flowed well.

When Elizabeth first went to talk with Rosemary I was SHOCKED that she didnt apologize. She acknowledged her actions, yes, but then she was just like 'let's put our differences aside' instead of asking forgiveness and making up. I was very surprised. I guess it's just a slow step towards Elizabeth going back to her old self. Her and Rosemary will probably make up fully in the next episode when Elizabeth really starts to come into her true feelings. That said, I do appreciate that this tension between E and Rose extended into this episode because sometimes the plotlines in WCTH just go by too quickly or kind of fade away and are forgotten for a while before cropping up much later.

I love how both Elizabeth and Henry Gowen give advice that ultimately applies to themselves and the things they have learned and now it has opened up their hearts more and they can now see things more clearly. In Henry's case, this episode makes me think that they are gonna bring back Abigail. I don't even know what to begin thinking about that and there's so much controversy I don't think I even want to comment on it. I will just say that I loved Abigail's character and I loved the plotline between her and Henry Gowen. Ok moving on.

I really liked how we saw the gears turning in Elizabeth's head everytime she would talk with someone and give advice in this episode. You could see it right away at Ned and Florence's wedding that she already regretted sitting with Lucas and she was having major second thoughts about her relationship with him. It was very quick, but if you paid close attention to her face, you could see she was having doubts. Also, small note about that wedding scene, why the heck was Nathan sitting like that in the back row with his elbows up on the pew??? Just--why would they have him sit like that? It looked so awful and made him seem lazy and unrefined. And I didnt get the feeling that he felt uncomfortable by seeing Elizabeth sitting with Lucas so...it didnt even make sense, it was just bad. And it was also weird the way Carson had his arm around Faith. That is way too much pda for that time period.

More on Carson and Faith...I dont like them together, I never have, and I don't even want to bother talking about them anymore than I already have.

Fiona and Mike. I'm starting to really like them. I'm also starting to really like Fiona as her own character. I didn't always like her but she's really growing on me this season. I like that her progressiveness makes sense for her character and I really like the way her personality comes through in the acting. She's very natural in her delivery and Fiona feels very real and like someone with depth and layers to her. I don't know the name of the actress that plays her, but she is doing a fantastic job. I'm really loving Fiona🙌

I really liked the scene between Florence and Molly, when they were speaking by themselves. I love a good heart to heart between best friends and it felt like a good moment to have it then. I just love female friendships. Sisterhood is the best❤

Moving on to the reception I suppose. First I'll say that I love that Robert has noticed Allie and he seems to like her now. I think they are so cute together. It was so adorable the way he complimented her hair, her reaction, and then their dance. They were so cute. Ha! And then the joke that Jesse made about them getting married before Mike and Fiona! That was so funny, it was good chuckle.

I was surprised that Lucas hadn't asked Elizabeth to dance at all, but then I thought maybe it's because she was making herself distant from him in the crowd bc she doesn't want to lead him on anymore. Or the writers just didnt want to have any awkwardness in him asking her and her saying no, or them ending up dancing even if she doesnt really want to. Oh and I was also completely disgusted when Lucas brought up Allie again to Nathan at the reception and trying to manipulate Nathan into leaving E alone by bringing up his child. Ugh I hate it so much when he does that. It's not the first time he's done it. I wanted to hit him with a kitchen towel!

When Elizabeth walked up to Nathan I straight up thought she was gonna ask him to dance I was losing my mind! but then that wasnt the case. Yo, I was so shocked though I was on the edge of my seat let me tell you. Then she asked him to talk outside and I--!! What!! I could feel the relief in both E and Nathan during that talk. Oh it was like a breath of fresh air. Finally!! Team Nathan is coming in! Now after all those talks and moments of E giving advice, Elizabeth is finally able to take her own advice and take control of her life again instead being lead around by her grief and her fears. She is becoming ready to really be in a relationship with Nathan and I am so relieved it's finally happening. I was concerned about the pacing of these last few episodes bc I didnt know how they were going to write how Elizabeth comes to realize she can't live in fear, but I thought it was written in pretty well. When they spoke outside I was surprised that Nathan reached out to hold her hands. I thought that was pretty bold, but oooh she didnt pull away from him! And oh how awkward they had Lucas see them through the window. At least he sees now that Elizabeth has strong feelings for Nathan. I mean, he knows that N confessed his love for her Twice and both times she couldnt even say anything in response and just left. And now he sees that she'll allow them to hold hands, so... Lucas may actually bow out of this love triangle before Elizabeth has a chance to break up with him. That's what I suspect will happen next episode, that Elizabeth will call everything off with Lucas, but yeah he may make it easy on her and not put up a fight. It's not like Lucas has ever used the word love with Elizabeth anyway. He definitely doesnt feel as strongly for her as Nathan does, as seen through his actions and words, but that's a whole other subject that I don't have the time or energy to go into right now.

I loved Elizabeth in that dress btw I thought she looked really pretty. That dress had such a lovely design.

The preview! Yessss! More Team Nathan for the win! Things are really turning around for us you guys. I feel so good. Finally Elizabeth will be going back to normal and Nathan's game will be coming in strong! Hahahaha! I'm so excited for these next last episodes!

[blarfkey]

director’s cut, director’s choice of ⭐️Dear Fen’Harel⭐️? (Though generally speaking, I’m intensely curious as to how you develop characters because everyone you write is so brilliantly layered)

So um, this exploded. And I apologize. I am very much a character-driven writer versus a plot-driver writer. Also, how I develop characters is not a process I think about, it just happens, so this is also me finding out for myself how my own brain works, haha. If you want the full fucking three page essay this turned into, there’s more under the cut.

If not, and I don’t blame you, TLDR: I break a canon character down to their parts based on what I see in-game, I look at how their personal quest affects them, and I try to find a modern day equivalent to that. Each character has an issue they need to get past and I create situations to challenge those issues. And Ellana was created to be a foil for Solas and I dumped all my negative traits into her because neither she nor I can afford therapy so this is our best bet.

First of all, developing characters in fanfic is different than OC characters because I have a pre-set personality to work with rather than making someone from scratch. So for this, Ellana’s development is different from the rest of the cast.

For fanfic characters, obviously I look at the source material and see how they’ve reacted to certain situations and what they have canonically expressed about themselves in both deed and word. Honestly, I pay more attention to what they have DONE versus what they have SAID because a lot of characters tend to fool themselves into thinking they’re one way when they’re not (here’s looking at you, Solas).

Because DF is a modern AU, I take what I have seen in Canon (which is a lot because Bioware is very good at giving so much material to work with having all those different dialogue trees) and I apply it to the Modern Day. Some characters fit very easily – Dorian was made for Academia. Krem seems a more modern character anyway with how he constantly roasts Iron Bull. Josephine’s prowess in DA:I translates very easily to political science. Varric kind of has a modern writer’s career anyway.

Some are not easy – Solas is actually super hard for me to write in DF than he is in Thick as Thieves because so much of his characterization, his world views, his prejudices, are rooted in the fact that he is an ancient being out of time – which is impossible to have in this AU. I have crafted a sort of back story for him that might explain some things later, but it’s flimsy at best, haha.

So I’ve had to really look at what Solas is like in Inquisition when he’s pretending to be a “normal” hedge mage hermit from nowhere and how he behaves in his romance and extract from that. Solas is a nerd, he’s socially awkward from self-imposed isolation, he constantly struggles with what he wants and what is the morally correct thing to do and the temptation to be loved usually wins out over his convictions until the last second when he gets his common sense back and ruins everything.

It helps that in both DA and DF Solas is keeping a massive, massive secret from the Inquisitor about his identity that will shift the power balance between the two, so I’ve used that to guide me when I’m unsure. He still feels off to me, but it’s whatever at this point, lol. I did my best.

Once I’ve boiled a character down to their usual traits, I figure out how I’m going to have them grow throughout the fic and use their growth to help Ellana’s growth. I try to pull from their personal quests as much as I can, when I can get it to fit.

Some people, like Iron Bull, are static because they’ve already gone through their journey and have reached acceptance. I didn’t really know how to work his Leaving the Qun story line in the modern day, since it is tied so closely with war and potentially killing the Chargers, so by the time Ellana meets him, he has already left the Qun and made his peace with it. I use his static nature to help guide Ellana when she’s conflicted about her identity.

Some people, like Josephine, have personal quests that don’t fit with a modern era but I want to show them grow anyway, so I create something else for them. Right now, Josephine is mired in family drama and trying to figure out how to balance shouldering the weight of her responsibilities to her family with being her own person. That I drew from my own personal experience with being the only sane person in my family with their shit together, haha.

Or Cassandra, who is definitely NOT going to be Divine here, lol. So instead she gets to struggle with her art and how she can express herself in a way that leaves her vulnerable to scrutiny and yet can be so freeing.

Some people, like Krem, get a character arc that I think should have been explored but never was. Krem being trans is something that’s mentioned and talked about a little and never explored. I mean, he’s not a main character, so I get it. And I liked that Being Trans wasn’t his entire character. But there was no way to put him in the modern AU without his trans identity impacting some of his story and growth, even if he had already made his peace with it.

Now, I will say this upfront: I am not trans, and I haven’t had the opportunity to be close friends with a trans person, but I have done a lot of research on what trans people have said about their own experiences, and combined this with other research I’ve done over the years with other minorities and tried to put together what could be lingering insecurities for him and how he could overcome them.

I’m  definitely not saying that I’ve done this perfectly and I’m always open to any trans reader who would give me correction, but being trans was not an aspect of Krem’s character that I wanted to ignore just because I wasn’t familiar with it.

I will say that his romance with Josephine was Not Planned. It just kinda happened and I happily ran with it, haha.

Varric’s arc with Bianca is just wishful thinking because I hate her so so much and Bioware just dropped that bomb in Varric’s lap and then just lets him keep holding on to it and it’s bullshit.

The other character journeys are just ways to explore vulnerability in them that I didn’t think got enough attention in the game or I think they could realistically have even if it wasn’t in canon. Like Dorian dealing with his father. Now, in the game, Halward doesn’t have a disease and he dies unexpectedly. But I wanted Dorian to have a realistic reason why he would reach other to his estranged father in this AU and a ticking countdown to an inevitable death seemed right.

Now we get to see Dorian really struggle with this new-found connection with his father that he always wanted to have and now it’s temporary and heartbreak is inevitable and is it still worth it to him? I think Dorian has similar feelings in Trespasser when he found out his father was murdered because he still invested himself to rebuild a lost connection, only to lose it so soon after.

Zevran’s past with the Crows is also something that I really wanted to explore because in the game he is sad for a hot second and then moves on with the Warden and his newfound goal of destroying the entire Crow organization. So I wanted to see Zevran struggle with his inner worth, the fact that he can’t hide forever and his past puts his loved ones in danger, the fact that he can even HAVE loved ones and how it scares the shit out of him.  I wanted to have a character who puts on such a good front about not giving a shit about anything to hide how very deeply afraid he is. We are going to see more of this also before the story is over, lol.

Now, Ellana. Like all original characters, Ellana has a lot my personal experiences tied in her. But I originally created Ellana to fill a need for a type of character that I wanted to see with Solas and don’t really get to. I mean, I have not scourged the corners of the internet to find it so I’m sure there are other characters like her, but I haven’t found very many.

I see a lot of very beautiful, very delicate and feminine, very kind and gentle Disney Princess kind of Lavellans. I see a LOT of them. And I don’t hate that necessarily. I mean, Josephine is all of those things and more and I adore her and I sort of crack ship her with Solas anyway, in the secret recesses of my heart. And I love seeing a female character who is the epitome of a “weak” female use those “weak” traits to succeed.

But I am also not very beautiful, I am NOT delicate at all, I’m not gentle. I am not anywhere close to a Disney Princess or a Josephine. And it was disheartening to see Solas romance all these Ocs that were nothing like me after a while because it kind of gave me the message that someone like Solas, a character that I admire and def have a fictional crush on, would never want someone who looks like me or acts like me. That even with unlimited freedom in creating a romantic counterpart for him, I saw so much of what society already reinforces as an ideal that I will never match up to. It doesn’t help that Bioware’s body diversity for elves ranges is nonexistent.

So I made Ellana for me. Not because I want to hate on other Ocs or prove that mine is superior, but so that I would have something that I connected to. And I wanted to explore a dynamic with Solas that I didn’t get to see very often.

So when I first imagined Ellana, I wanted her to be strong and tall and muscular and powerful in a way that makes a lot of unenlightened men uncomfortable. I wanted somebody used to manual labor and dirt and the outdoors and solving problems with their fists and just totally unrefined because I wanted her to be the complete opposite of Solas. (So like Cassandra but in elf form, haha).

I did not want her to be soft or conventionally attractive at all. Ellana doesn’t shun femininity, because I don’t think femininity is inherently wrong, but she is uncomfortable with it and she doesn’t indulge in it.

(Just FYI I am NOT built like Ellana at all either, haha. This is the wish fulfillment part of the OC. I greatly resemble the dwarves, which is why I love them so much.)

But I also needed her to have a reason to leave home, and to have some points of commonality with Solas, so I made her a nerd. A jocky nerd who is insatiably curious and stubbornly independent. And then because I wanted Ellana to feel like a real person instead just a wish fulfillment fantasy, I needed her to grow. So I gave her all my complicated anger issues, my bluntness, my struggles with homesickness, the way I compartmentalize negative events in my life so I don’t have to deal with them just so they can bite me in the ass later, my experiences of going from a lifestyle where all my needs were met and I was oblivious to how great I had it to living with serious poverty for the first time.

And then I devised situations with her life and the other characters where Ellana has to confront these issues and learn to accept them and either move past them or learn to control them. Sometime she gains wisdom and imparts it to people like Sera or Dorian when their struggles come up. And her biggest challenge has yet to arrive, so she’s still cooking, so to speak. Ellana still has a long way to go before she really reaches maturity.

As far as her relationship with Solas goes, I wanted her to challenge him and give him a total upheaval everything he thought he knew about his own culture and his own self. And I wanted him to do the same for her. And then when all the pieces are done falling, they have grown into two people who can handle being together.

So that’s basically it. If there is any character in particular you want to know more about or why I made certain decisions, always feel free to ask!

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted’s Decade Picks

Heron Oblivion, still the closest thing to a Dusted consensus pick

Just as, in spring, the young's fancy turns to thoughts of love, at the end of the decade the thoughts of critics and fans naturally tend towards reflection. Sure, time is an arbitrary human division of reality, but it seems to be working out okay for us so far. We're too humble a bunch to offer some sort of itemized list of The Best Of or anything like that, though; a decade is hard enough to wrap your head around when it's just your life, let alone all the music produced during said time. Instead these decade picks are our jumping off points to consider our decades, whether in personal terms, or aesthetic ones, or any other. The records we reflect on here are, to be sure, some of our picks for the best of the 2010s (for more, check back this afternoon), but think of what follows less as anything exhaustive and more as our hand-picked tour to what stuck with us over the course of these ten years, and why.

Brian Eno — The Ship (Warp, 2016)

You don’t need to dig deep to see that our rapidly evolving and hyper-consciously inclusive discourse is taking on the fluidity of its surroundings. In 2016, a year of what I’ll gently call transformation, Brian Eno had his finger on multiple pulses; The Ship resulted. It’s anchored in steady modality, and its melody, once introduced, doesn’t change, but everything else ebbs and flows with the Protean certainty of uncertainty. While the album moves from the watery ambiguities of the title track, through the emotional and textural extremes of “Fickle Sun” toward the gorgeously orchestrated version of “I’m Set Free,” implying some kind of final redemption, the moment-to-moment motion remains wonderfully non-binary. Images of war and of the instants producing its ravaging effects mirror and counterbalance the calmly and increasingly gender-fluid voice as it concludes the titular piece by depicting “wave after wave after wave.” Is it all Salman Rushdie’s numbers marching again? The lyrics embody the movement from “undescribed” through “undefined” and “unrefined’” connoting a journey toward aging, but size, place, chronology and the music encompassing them remain in constant flux, often nearly but never quite recognizable. Genre and sample float in and out of view with the elusive but devastating certainty of tides as the ship travels toward silence, toward that ultimate ambiguity that follows all disillusion, filling the time between cycles. The disconnect between stasis and motion is as disconcerting as these pieces’ relationship to the songform Eno inherited and exploded. The album encapsulates the modernist subtlety and Romantic grace propelling his art and the state of a civilization in the faintly but still glowing borderlands between change and decay.

Marc Medwin

Cate Le Bon — Cyrk (Control Group, 2012)

There's no artist whose work I anticipated more this decade than Cate Le Bon, and no artist who frustrated me more with each release, only to keep reeling me in for the long run. Le Bon's innate talent is for soothing yet oblique folk, soberly psychedelic, which she originally delivered in the Welsh language, and continued into English with rustic reserve.

Except something about her pastoralism seems to bore her, and the four-chord arpeggios are shot through with scorches of noise, or sent haywire with post-punk brittleness. In its present state, her music is built around chattering xylophones and croaking saxophone, even as the lyrics draw deeper into memory and introspection, with ever more haunting payoffs. It's as if Nick Drake shoved his way into the leadership of Pere Ubu. She's taken breaks from music to work on pottery and furniture-making, and retreats to locales like a British cottage and Texas art colony to plumb for new inspirations. She's clearly energized by collaboration and relocation, but there’s a force to her persona that, despite her introverted presence, dominates a session. Rare for our age, she's an artist who gets to follow her muse full time, bouncing between record labels and seeing her name spelled out in the medium typefaces on festival bills.

Cyrk, from 2012, is the record where I fell in, and it captures her at something close to joyous, a half smile. Landing between her earliest folk and later surrealism, it is open to comparison with the Velvet Underground. But not the VU that is archetypical to indie rock – Cyrk is more an echo of the solo work that followed. There’s the sharp compositional order and Welsh lilt of John Cale. Like Lou Reed, she makes a grand electric guitar hook out of the words “you’re making it worse.” The homebound twee of Mo Tucker and forbidding atmosphere of Nico are present in equal parts. Those comparisons are reductive, but they demonstrate how Cyrk feels instantly familiar if you’ve garnered certain listening habits. Songs surround you with woolly keyboard and guitar hooks, and one can forget a song ends with an awkward trumpet coda even after dozens of listens. The awkwardness is what keeps the album fresh.

She lulls, then dowses with cold water. So Cyrk isn't an entirely easy record, even if it is frequently a pretty one. The most epic song here, reaching high with those woolly hums and twang, is "Fold the Cloth.” It bobs along, coiling tight as she reaches into the strange register of female falsetto. Le Bon cranks out a fuzz solo – she's great at extending her sung melodies across instruments. Then the climax chants out, "fold the cloth or cut the cloth.” What is so important about this mundane action? Her mystery lyrics never feel haphazard, like LSD posey. They are out of step with pop grandiose. Maybe when her back is turned, there's a full smile.

Who are "Julia" and "Greta,” two mid-album sketches that avoid verse-chorus structure? Julia is represented by a limp waltz, Greta by pulses on keyboards. Shortly after the release, Le Bon followed up with the EP Cyrk II made up of tracks left off the album. To a piece, they’re easier numbers than "Julia" and "Greta.” The cryptic and the scribble are essential to how Cyrk flows, which is to say it flows haltingly.

This approach dampens her acclaim and her potential audience, but that's how she fashions decades-old tropes into fresh art. She’s also quite the band leader. Drummers have a different thud when they play on her stage. Musicians' fills disappear. She brings in a horn solo as often as she lays down a guitar lead. The closer tracks, "Plowing Out Pts 1 & 2," aren't inherently linked numbers. By the second part, the group has worked up to a carnival swirl, frothing like "Sister Ray" yet as sweet as a children's TV show theme. Does that sound sinister? The effect is more like heartbreak fuelling abandon, her forlorn presence informing everyone's playing.

Fuse this album with the excellent Cyrk II tracks, and you can image a deluxe double LP 10th anniversary reissue in a few years. Ha ha no. I expect nothing so garish will happen. It sure wouldn't suit the artist. In a decade where "fan service" became an everyday concept, Le Bon is immune. She's a songwriter who seems like she might walk away from at all without notice, if that’s where her craftsmanship leads. The odd and oddly comfortable chair that is Cyrk doesn't suit any particular decor, but my room would feel bare without it.

Ben Donnelly

Converge — All We Love We Leave Behind (Epitaph)

Here’s the scenario: Heavily tatted guy has some dogs. He really loves his dogs. Heavily tatted guy goes on tour with his band. While he’s on the road, one of his dogs dies. Heavily tatted guy gets really sad. He writes a song about it.  

That should be the set-up for an insufferably maudlin emo record. But instead what you get is Converge’s “All We Love We Leave Behind” and the searing LP that shares the title. The songs dive headlong into the emotional intensities of loss and reflect on the cost of artistic ambition. The enormously talented line-up that recorded All We Love We Leave Behind in 2012 had been playing together for just over a decade, and vocalist Jacob Bannon and guitarist Kurt Ballou had been collaborating for more than twenty years. It shows. The record pummels and roars with remarkable precision, and its songs maniacally twist, and somehow they soar.  

Any number of genre tags have been stuck on (or innovated by) Converge’s music: mathcore, metalcore, post-hardcore. It’s fun to split sonic hairs. But All We Love… is most notable for its exhilarating fury and naked heart, musical qualities that no subgenre can entirely claim. Few bands can couple such carefully crafted artifice with such raw intensity. And few records of the decade can match the compositional wit and palpable passion of All We Love…, which never lets itself slip into shallow romanticism. It hurts. And it ruthlessly rocks.  

Jonathan Shaw

EMA — The Future’s Void (City Slang, 2014)

When trying to narrow down to whatever my own most important records of the decade are, I tried to keep it to one per artist (as I do with individual years, although it’s a lot easier there). Out of everyone, though, EMA came by far the closest to having two records on that list, and this could have been 2017’s Exile in the Outer Ring, which along with The Future’s Void comes terrifyingly close to unpacking an awful lot of what’s going wrong, and has been going wrong, with the world we live in for a while now. The Future’s Void focuses more on the technological end of our particular dystopia, shuddering both emotionally and sonically through the dead end of the Cold War all the way to us refreshing our preferred social media site when somebody dies. EMA is right there with us, too; this isn’t judgment, it’s just reporting from the front line. And it must be said, very few things from this decade ripped like “Cthulu” rips.

Ian Mathers

The Field — Looping State of Mind (Kompakt, 2011)

Looping State of Mind by The Field

On Looping State of Mind, Swedish producer Axel Willner builds his music with seamlessly jointed loops of synths, beats, guitars and voice to create warm cushions of sound that envelop the ears, nod the head and move the body. Willner is a master of texture and atmosphere, in lesser hands this may have produced mere comfort food but there is spice in the details that elevates this record as he accretes iotas of elements, withholding release to heighten anticipation. Although this is essentially deep house built on almost exclusively motorik 4/4 beats, Willner also plays with ambient, post-punk and shoegaze dynamics. From the slow piano dub of “Then It’s White,” which wouldn’t be out of place on a Labradford or Pan American album, to the ecstatic shuffling lope of “Arpeggiated Love” and “Is This Power” with its hint of a truncated Gang of Four-like bass riff, Looping State of Mind is a deeply satisfying smorgasbord of delicacies and a highlight of The Field’s four album output during the 2010s.

Andrew Forell

Gang Gang Dance — “Glass Jar” (4AD, 2011)

Instead of telling you my favorite album of the decade — I made my case for it the first year we moved to Tumblr, help yourself — it feels more fitting to tell you a story from my friend Will about my favorite piece of music from the last 10 years, a song that arrived just before the rise of streaming, which flattened “the album experience” to oppressive uniformity and rendered it an increasingly joyless, rudderless routine of force-fed jams and AI/VC-directed mixes catering to a listener that exists in username only. The first four seconds of “Glass Jar” told you everything you needed to know about what lie ahead, but here’s the kind of thing that could happen before everything was all the time:

I took eight hours of coursework in five weeks in order to get caught up on classes and be in a friend's wedding at the end of June. Finishing a week earlier than the usual summer session meant I had to give my end-of-class presentations and turn in my end-of-class papers in a single day, which in turn meant that I was well into the 60-70 hour range without sleep by the time I got to the airport for an early-morning flight. (Partly my fault for insisting that I needed to stay up and make a “wedding night” mix for the couple — real virgin bride included — and even more my fault for insisting that it be a single, perfectly crossfaded track). I was fuelled only by lingering adrenaline fumes and whatever herbal gunpowder shit I had been mixing with my coffee — piracetam, rhodiola, bacopa or DMAE depending on the combination we had at the time. At any rate, eyes burning, skull heavy, joints stiff with dry rot, I still had my wits enough to refuse the backscatter machine at the TSA checkpoint; instead of the usual begrudging pat-down, I got pulled into a separate room. Anyway, it was a weird psychic setback at that particular time, but nothing came of it. Having arrived at my gate, I popped on the iPod with a brand new set of studio headphones and finally got around to listening to the Gang Gang Dance I had downloaded months before. "Glass Jar," at that moment, was the most religious experience I’d had in four years. I was literally weeping with joy.

Point being: It is worth it to stay up for a few days just to listen to ‘Glass Jar’ the way it was meant to be heard.

Patrick Masterson

Heron Oblivion — Heron Oblivion (Sub Pop, 2016)

Heron Oblivion by Heron Oblivion

Heron Oblivion’s self-titled first album fused unholy guitar racket with a limpid serenity. It was loud and cathartic but also pure beauty, floating drummer Meg Baird’s unearthly vocals over a sound that was as turbulent and majestic as nature itself, now roiled in storm, now glistening with dewy clarity. The band convened four storied guitarists—Baird from Espers, Ethan Miller and Noel Harmonson from Comets on Fire and Charlie Sauffley—then relegated two of them to other instruments (Baird on drums and Miller on bass). The sound drew on the full flared wail and scree of Hendrix and Acid Mothers Temple, the misty romance of Pentangle and Fairport Convention. It was a record out of time and could have happened in any year from about 1963 onward, or it could have not happened at all. We were so glad it did at Dusted; Heron Oblivion’s eponymous was closer to a consensus pick than any record before or since, and if you want to define a decade, how about the careening riffs of “Oriar” breaking for Baird’s dream-like chants?

Jennifer Kelly

The Jacka — What Happened to the World (The Artist, 2014)

Probably the most prophetic rap album of the 2010s. The Jacka was the king of Bay rap since he started MOB movement. He was always generous with his time, and clique albums were pouring out of The Jacka and his disciples every few months. Even some of his own albums resembled at times collective efforts. This generosity made some of the albums unfocused and disjointed, yet what it really shows is that even in the times when dreams of collective living were abandoned The Jacka still had hopes for Utopia and collective struggles. It was about the riches, but he saw the riches in people first and foremost.

This final album before he was gunned down in the early 2014 is full of predictions about what’s going to happen to him. Maybe this explains why it’s focused as never before and even Jacka’s leaned-out voice has doomed overtones. This music is the only possible answer to the question the album’s title poses: everything is wrong with the world where artists are murdered over music.

Ray Garraty

John Maus — We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves (Upset The Rhythm, 2011)

We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves by John Maus

Minnesota polymath John Maus’ quest for the perfect pop song found its apotheosis on his third album We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves in 2011. On the surface an homage to 1980s synth pop, Maus’ album reveals its depth with repeated listens. Over expertly constructed layers of vintage keyboards, Maus’ oft-stentorian baritone alternately intones and croons deceptively simple couplets that blur the line between sincerity and provocation. Lurking beneath the smooth surface Maus uses Baroque musical tropes that give the record a liturgical atmosphere that reinforces the Gregorian repetition of his lyrics. The tension between the radical ironic banality of the words and the deeply serious nature of the music and voice makes We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves an oddly compelling collection that interrogates the very notion of taste and serves an apt soundtrack to the post-truth age.

Andrew Forell

Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society — Mandatory Reality (Eremite, 2019)

Mandatory Reality by Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society

Any one of the albums that Joshua Abrams has made under the Natural Information Society banner could have made this list. While each has a particular character, they share common essences of sound and spirit. Abrams made his bones playing bass with Nicole Mitchell, Matana Roberts, Mike Reed, Fred Anderson, Chad Taylor, and many others, but in the Society his main instrument is the guimbri, a three-stringed bass lute from Morocco. He uses it to braid melody, groove, and tone into complex strands of sound that feel like they might never end. Mandatory Reality is the album where he delivers on the promise of that sound. Its centerpiece is “Finite,” a forty-minute long performance by an eight-person, all-acoustic version of Natural Information Society. It has become the main and often sole piece that the Society plays. Put the needle down and at first it sounds like you are hearing some ensemble that Don Cherry might have convened negotiating a lost Steve Reich composition. But as the music winds patiently onwards, strings, drums, horns, and harmonium rise in turn to the surface. These aren’t solos in the jazz sense so much as individual invitations for the audience to ease deeper into the sonic entirety. The music doesn’t end when the record does, but keeps manifesting with each performance. Mandatory Reality is a nodal point in an endless stream of sound that courses through the collective unconscious, periodically surfacing in order to engage new listeners and take them to the source.

Bill Meyer

Mansions — Doom Loop (Clifton Motel, 2013)

I knew nothing about Mansions when I first heard about this record; I can’t even remember how I heard about this record. But I liked the name of the album and the album art, so I listened to it. Sometimes the most important records in your decade have as much to do with you as with them. I’d been frantically looking for a job for nearly two years at that point, the severance and my access Ontario’s Employment Insurance program (basically, you pay in every paycheck, and then have ~8 months of support if you’re unemployed) had both ran out. I was living with a friend in Toronto sponsoring my American wife into the country (fun fact: they don’t care if you have an income when you do that), feeling the walls close in a little each day, sure I was going to wind up one of those kids who had to move back to the small town I’d left and a parent’s house. There were multiple days I’d send out 10+ applications and then walk around my neighbourhood blasting “Climbers” and “Out for Blood” through my earbuds, cueing up “La Dentista” again and dreaming of revenge… on what? Capitalism? There was no more proximate target in view. That’s not to say that Doom Loop is necessarily about being poor or about the shit hand my generation (I fit, just barely) got in the job market, or anything like that; but for me it is about the almost literal doom loop of that worst six months, and I still can’t listen to “The Economist” without my blood pressure spiking a little.

Ian Mathers

Protomartyr — Under Colour of Official Right (Hardly Art, 2014)

Under Color of Official Right by Protomartyr

By my count, Protomartyr made not one but four great albums in the 2010s, racking up a string of rhythmically unstoppable, intellectually challenging discs with absolute commitment and intent. I caught whiff of the band in 2012, while helping out with editing the old Dusted. Jon Treneff’s review of All Passion No Technique told a story of exhilarant discovery; I read it and immediately wanted in. The conversion event, though, came two years later, with the stupendous Under Color of Official Right, all Wire-y rampage and Fall-spittled-bile, a rattletrap construction of every sort of punk rock held together by the preening contempt of black-suited Joe Casey. Doug Mosurock reviewed it for us, concluding, “Poppier than expected, but still covered in burrs, and adeptly analyzing the pain and suffering of their city and this year’s edition of the society that judges it, Protomartyr has raised the bar high enough for any bands to follow, so high that most won’t even know it’s there.” Except here’s the thing: Protomartyr jumped that bar two more times this decade, and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do it again. The industry turned on the kind of bands with four working class dudes who can play a while ago, but this is the band of the 2010s anyway.

Jennifer Kelly

Tau Ceti IV — Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending (Cold Vomit, 2018)

Satan, You're The God of This Age But Your Reign is Ending by Tau Ceti IV

This decade was full of takes on American primitive guitar. Some were pretty good, a few were great, many were forgettable, and then there was this overlooked gem from Jordan Darby of Uranium Orchard. Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending is an antidote to bland genre exercises. Like John Fahey, Darby has a distinct voice and style, as well as a sense of humor. Also like Fahey, his playing incorporates diverse influences in subtle but pronounced ways. American primitive itself isn’t a staid template. Though there are also plenty of beautiful, dare I say pastoral moments, which still stand out for being genuinely evocative.

Darby’s background in aggressive electric guitar music partly explains his approach. (Not sure if he’s the only ex-hardcore guy to go in this direction, but there can’t be many.) His playing is heavier than one might expect, but it feels natural, not like he’s just playing metal riffs on an acoustic guitar. But heaviness isn’t the only difference. Like his other projects, Satan is wonderfully off-kilter. This album’s strangeness isn’t reducible to component parts, but here are two representative examples: “The Wind Cries Mary” gradually encroaches on the last track, and throughout, the microphone picks up more string noise than most would consider tasteful. It all works, or at least it’s never boring.

Ethan Milititisky

Z-Ro — The Crown (Rap-a-Lot, 2014)

When singing in rap was outsourced to pop singers and Auto Tune, Z-Ro remained true to his self, singing even more than he ever did. He did his hooks and his verses himself, and no singing could harm his image as a hustler moonlighting as a rapper. He can’t be copied exactly because of his gift, to combine singing soft and rapping hard. It’s a sort of common wisdom that he recorded his best material in the previous decade, yet quite apart from hundreds of artists that continued to capitalize on their fame he re-invented himself all the past decade, making songs that didn’t sound like each other out of the same raw material. The Crown is a tough pick because since his post-prison output he made solid discs one after each other.

Ray Garraty

[doe-clotureofyellow]

The Demonic Twin Blades; Scene 1

The Demonic Twin Blades short story

☼ Master Craftsman Langley ~In the Kingdom of Lucifenia, “Langley Smithy”~

.

The country had changed, and so change had also visited upon the scope of my work at the smithy.

When it came to the “Langley Smithy”, one could say that things had changed primarily in a good direction.

The settlement of the revolution certainly didn’t mean we would have peace. On the contrary, the chaos caused by the change in leadership had led to the birth of several new seeds of war.

Whether it was invasion from foreign countries, or further internal conflicts—that’s not for this mere blacksmith to know. But this prediction was something everyone could make. The fact that this smithy had been flourishing despite the fact that the war had ended was more proof of that than anything.

Frankly speaking, supplying weapons for the resistance had been an extremely dangerous gamble. If the revolution were to have failed, then it wouldn’t have been the princess beheaded in the town square, but rather the members of the resistance. Naturally, I was included among their number.

But it didn’t turn out that way, and high quality of the weapons that the resistance used had resulted in my becoming known to a great many people.

One such person was the great merchant, Keel Freezis. Thanks to his considerable financial assistance, the outlet for my smithy grew, and I gained in both equipment and workers.

…Though I’ll have to pay him back for all that over some long months and years, on the whole the benefits have been fairly large.

Now, there are three other smiths outside of myself in the smithy. Two of them are new hires, but both of them had originally worked for other blacksmiths before. They were fairly skilled for their youth. Our workload going up was no reason to let the quality of our goods go down, and as long as I had the two of them I didn’t think I had much to worry about there.

The other one—Nagisa Coulomb, the lone woman in the smithy, started working here around eleven years ago. I recall my Chartette loving the yet youthful girl Nagisa like a little sister when she first arrived.

Nagisa hardly swung her hammer like the other smiths. Her strong suite was the construction of weapons that used gunpowder. To an old man like me who could only make old-fashioned swords and shields, the weapons ideas that Nagisa came up with were extremely innovative and interesting, and in practice during management of the store Nagisa’s gunpowder rifles grew more heavily prioritized as the years went by.

…Only, she’d really dropped the ball when she’d come up with the plans for the “Gunpowder-filled iron glove”. It was something that allowed one to fire a glove like a weapon, and the prototype that she’d made for it was hardly practical.

Its power as a weapon certainly wasn’t bad. But thinking on it as a defensive garment, it was too dangerous to always have on you something that could potentially explode on impact. Its kickback when fired was so intense that only brawny men could really handle it well.

At some point that prototype had disappeared from the smithy. Nagisa had probably not wanted her failure to be exposed to the public, and so disposed of it without anyone knowing.

That was little more than a guess on my part.

She was always shy, and never said much.

--Not even who was the father of the baby that was inside her growing belly.

I realized that Nagisa was pregnant right after the revolution had ended. I hadn’t heard anything about her having a boyfriend, but I didn’t really have the right to judge her for being with child. At the time I had thought that if she’d found someone to marry, then that was good enough.

But according to the gossip of the other smiths...the child’s father was a man who was just passing through. And furthermore, he was the leader of a band of mercenaries, and died during the revolution.

In the end, the only thing I could do was ask Nagisa the truth, as the person running the smithy.

As expected she didn’t tell me anything concrete, but…she did plead to me, “I will raise the child by myself once they’re born. I have no doubts about this. So please, let me work here like I have until this point.”

I couldn’t do anything so heartless as to cast Nagisa out. Without much alternative I decided to pay heed to her request, but seeing how big her stomach has gotten she’d be on her last month soon. Naturally I’d have to give her time off before and after the birthing.

What should I do after the baby is born?—I consulted my wife on it, and she delightedly volunteered to help take care of the child.

“Our fool girl is all grown up and out of the country, so it’ll be perfect.”

And then after saying so, she laughed loudly.

Yes, our daughter—Chartette—had suddenly gone in a journey after the revolution, having been seized by some notion or another.

Personally I’d like for her to come home soon and start looking for a husband...but, well, maybe it’s always been a pipe dream to think that we could keep our wild girl cooped up in this tiny smithy.

Frankly speaking, I’m not that worried. I’ve heard tale of her efforts during the revolution, and she’s with Germaine besides, so she’ll be fine.

But....it was starting to look like it’d be a while before I’d be able to see any grandkids.

--Thinking on that, perhaps the situation with Nagisa’s child was perfect for his wife after all.

“Lucifenian women are all stubborn...Don’t you think so--Leonhart?” I murmured without thinking, facing the direction where the Lion Knight’s grave was.

My job of striking metal with my hammer had grown extremely rough lately.

It would probably be time to retire soon…While I swung my arm with such thoughts in my head, one of the other smiths across from me suddenly lifted their head and said, “…Looks like we’ve got a customer, boss.”

When I turned around, I saw a young man wearing garb that wasn’t often seen around here looking around at the smithy with great interest.

“~♪”

I didn’t know why, but he was cheerfully humming a little tune.

Even stranger, he was shouldering some kind of long thin case wrapped in cloth.

Though I had been in the middle of working, perhaps my ears have been getting worse from age that I didn’t notice all until I had it pointed out to me by someone else.

…The melody of the tune he was humming was familiar.

“Who’re you?”

I didn’t say that with any intention of intimidating him, but it seems the other man took it that way. He took a step back with an apologetic expression, and began to introduce himself.

“I beg your pardon. My name…is Mikhail Asayev. My profession is—”

“You a monk?”

“—Yes, exactly. That’s quite a good guess, considering I’m not wearing my robes.”

“You were humming a hymnal. So I figured that might be the case. –This is a smithy that specializes in weapons. If you want a rosary you’ll have to find some other shop.”

“Oh no no, that’s not it—I came here with a comission regarding weapons, nothing less. I was encouraged to come here by King Marlon.”

A referral from Kyle Marlon—that must mean that he was a fairly high-ranking monk.

In that case, I couldn’t very well dismiss him.

Mikhail laid the case he was carrying onto the floor, pulled off the cloth and opened the lid.

And there inside it—were two unrefined looking swords.

“These are ritual objects long held in Holy Levianta…the ‘Twin Swords of Levianta’,” Mikhail said, his left pupil abruptly rotating around once.

“These are ritual objects? –You’re putting me on. The Levin church making swords into ritual objects?”

“These are being held not by the church, but the country of Holy Levianta itself. Monks don’t carry swords. However, though this is a religious country, military might is necessary to protect the dignity of our country and religion. Think of this as a symbol of that.”

Spinning.

Mikhail’s left eye swiveled again.

--I couldn’t help but find the movement unnaturally awkward.

It probably wasn’t the eye he was born with. It looked fake, man-made.

“…So then, what is it with these swords?”

“Right. Among these twin swords, it is said that one represents ‘Creation’, and the other ‘Ending’. They originally belonged to the Li family in the distant past when Holy Levianta was called the Magic Kingdom, but they were taken outside the country shortly before the Leviantan Catastro—Ah, you don’t seem terribly interested in this sort of history. You have a very bored look on your face.”

“…”

“Well then let’s put a stop to that for now, and move on to the main topic of conversation. My commission—is for you to completely destroy these swords.”

“…Wha!?”

I didn’t understand what he was getting at.

Expressly going to the trouble to take swords to a smithy, not to hone them or hammer them back into shape…but to destroy them?

…No, hold on.

“I understand, I know what’s going on. You’re…trying to get the crime pinned on me. You want the swords destroyed for some reason. But if you destroyed ritual artifacts you would obviously be punished for it. So to keep that from happening you’re going to use another country’s blacksmith—”

“No no, it’s nothing with that kind of conspiracy to it,” Mikhail denied my assertion, waving his hands exaggeratedly. “I’ve obtained permission from the archbishop on this.”

So saying, he showed me a sheet of parchment.

--And sure enough, the gist of what was written on there was basically, “The perpetrator who carries out the destruction of the Twin Swords of Levianta will not be charged with any crime”. As soon as I saw the archbishop’s signature and the dragon symbol next to it, I could tell…it was not a false letter.

“So then…I really don’t get why.  Why on earth would the archbishop himself want the ritual artifacts passed down in his country to be destroyed—”

“Mister Langley. Do you…know of the ‘Vessels of Deadly Sin’?”

“…Only what rumor tells me. Just the legends spoken of among the other smiths here.”

--In this world there existed several weapons and tools wherein dwelled “Demons of Deadly Sin”, and no matter how skilled the craftsman, these could not be remade or destroyed.

Long before, a certain blacksmith was able to find a spoon that was one of the “Vessels of Deadly Sin”, and tried to reforge it into a fork. However, ultimately not only was he unable to carry that out, but he was possessed by the demon and driven to die in madness--that was the kind of thing they would talk about.

“You don’t mean…these twin swords are ‘Vessels of Deadly Sin’?”

“Indeed…Though perhaps it’s a bit hard to believe up front. Thanks to that, the archbishop is greatly aggrieved at the fact that he sanctified items with a demon inside as ritual artifacts.

“So then just throw them away somewhere.”

“I can’t do that. If I did, and someone else were to find them, then there’s a chance misfortune would befall this person. I’ve already made this same request to blacksmiths throughout Holy Levianta, but none of them were able to destroy it.”

Cursed swords that held a demon inside, and couldn’t be broken—

My interest as a blacksmith was overcoming my terror.

I took one of the swords in hand and knocked it against the floor at several angles to test it out.

…Contrary to expectation, the sword easily snapped after several times of this.

It snapped quite neatly.

“Hey…It’s broken off.”

“You think so? And yet…by tomorrow I guarantee it’ll be remade like it was before.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Well then, you should see it yourself with your own eyes tomorrow. …You have seven days. That’s how long I’ll be staying in this country. I’ll come back on the morning of the third day, and if I’m able to confirm that the twin swords have been destroyed—” Mikhail swiveled his left eye, and showed me a bag full of gold coins. “—One million Ev. That is what I’ll pay you as your fee.”

“…That is an extremely large amount of gold.”

“It’s to compensate just for the risk you’re undertaking. After all is said and done, these swords have a demon in them after all. …If you feel any kind of danger or feel afraid and want to quit on the commission, then take the swords to the great Levin church. That’s where I’ll be staying. –Well then.”

Without waiting for a proper reply from me, Mikhail walked out from the entrance.

…So, what should I do?

For now, I tossed the snapped sword in my hand in the case. Next I scooped up the piece of blade that had broken off and similarly put it in the case.

I closed the case and set it in a corner of the smithy.

.

--The following morning. When I opened the case to check, just as Mikhail told me, the sword that should have still been snapped in half had returned to how it had been before.

I had the key to the smithy on my person, and never took it off, so there wasn’t any trace that some outside person had made their way inside. It didn’t also seem to me like any of the smiths were pulling a prank on me.

I thought to myself that this was quite an interesting article. I didn’t necessarily believe the nonsense that there was really a demon inside, but regardless I could tell this was a job that wouldn’t be quite so straightforward.

I didn’t have any real obligation to take it on, but if I could get all that money just for destroying some swords, I had no reason not to.

First, I properly examined the twin swords to come up with an opinion on them.

In ancient times, the Magic Kingdom that supposedly was destroyed by a catastrophe caused by a dragon was said in legends to have had a culture that was far, far more advanced than what we had now. Whether that was true or not, when it came to these swords they didn’t seem to be made by any particularly advanced technology at all. The metal used in them had a low purity, and there was no particular detailed decorations like as would be on a treasured sword.

I decided to have the other smiths help me, and smash them into pieces using a large steel hammer. Not just the body of the blades, but also the hilts and the guard, everything. I put the items that had been reduced to rubble into the case and left it be, but of course by the next day it was completely reformed again.

This time I tried melting it with heat. Thanks to the new model of furnace we had, it was comparatively simple to reduce the twin blades to masses of iron. But…by the next day, those too had returned to their original form as swords.

As expected the other smiths were creeped out, and though they had participated intending to get a cut of the reward, they soon wanted nothing to do with the twin blades. When they did, Nagisa who had seemed indifferent of it all up to then, suggested I try exploding it with gunpowder.

I couldn’t very well do that inside the smithy, so I decided to do it at a nearby riverbank. When I blew up the twin swords buried inside gunpowder, there was a great cheer from all the spectators watching. I took the pieces of the pulverized sword back to the smithy to see what would happen…but I couldn’t hope for much.

I decided to watch over the pieces of the sword through the night, by myself. It always reformed itself in the middle of the night. So then, I figured I would see this happen with my own eyes.

.

--Around two in the morning, a peculiar event happened.

It seemed to me that the moonlight that was coming in through the small window in the smithy suddenly grew brighter.

Right after I realized that, the scene before my eyes suddenly grew too dazzling to see...And then I lost consciousness.

.

--I realized that my body was sinking into the ocean.

I felt no difficulty at all from being unable to breath, so I quickly could tell that it was a dream.

An enormous fish with rainbow scales was swimming right in front of me.

“…Cease your pointless actions.”

It was a woman’s voice.

“You cannot destroy a ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’. Even if you could—there’s no meaning in doing so.”

Was this fish the demon that dwelled in the twin swords?

When I asked her, the fish replied “Correct”, and then continued.

“You are quite lucky. I am a pacifist demon, and as such you are safe even now. If you were to have done such things on any other ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’…You would have been cursed long before. However, I grow tired of playing around on this any further. And…none of you can protect me.”

“Protect you? Are you saying that someone is hunting you?”

“Yes. A ‘sorceress’ who is collecting ‘Vessels of Deadly Sin’—I refuse to be used by the likes of a human being. Mikhail Asayev…Right now, in this period I should be able to deceive her with an ‘Inheritor’ like him. And that girl, Nagisa or something…I could perhaps wait for her child to grow up, but—”

Sorceress—did she mean Elluka Clockworker, one of the Three Heroes?

And…what was an “Inheritor”?

“…I won’t let you put a hand on Nagisa.”

“Then return the twin blades to Mikhail immediately. I think that would be the best thing for the both of us, hahaha—"

.

--And there, I woke up.

It was already dawn. Instead of moonlight, sunbeams were streaming in from the window.

And…as expected, the pieces of the blades were once more twin swords.

.

Had that just been a dream? Or was it a vision that the demon had shown me?

Either way, it would be impossible to destroy these twin swords through regular means.

I had to think of what I would do after this point.

I could just obediently give up and return the twin swords to Mikhail. I’d lose the opportunity to make a large amount of money, but this all happened by chance anyway. I had little need to be greedy about it.

But if these blades really did have demons in them…Could I really just leave them be? They probably wouldn’t cause any trouble if they were in Mikhail’s hands, him being a monk and all…but there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t get possessed by a demon.

The other route that I could think of—I could entrust it to the sorceress Elluka Clockworker. Someone like her might know some way to seal the demon inside.

But I’d heard that Elluka had left the country after the revolution started. I had no way to learn where she was. And she was a friend of the Levin archbishop in the first place. So then, maybe he had already contacted her for help and it hadn’t gone well, or else…maybe he’d had some reason not to.

Well, that wasn’t something I ought to participate in. At any rate, the idea of entrusting the twin swords to Elluka wasn’t realistic.

There’s also—No, I can’t do that. That’d be ridiculous.

A certain being came to my mind, but I instantly dismissed it.

--Spirits.

That was another story told of in the smithy.

That there were dependents of the great earth god Held that were said to live in the Millenium Tree Forest.

And that among those various spirits, there was supposedly one that could destroy and devour anything.

But then…Even if that being exists, I’m hardly likely to find it in just two or three days.

In the end, no other good ideas came to mind after that.

directory------next>>

[zanyanimalstechnologytaco]

My Hero Academia, the series, the fan media, the community all was a mistake of our time

I hate this show. More than Naruto and more than Fairy Tail. I hate Izuku, I hate Kstsuki, I hate how everyone and everything is just being forced to like everything about them, I hate All Might, I hate the Hero Association, I hate how light hearted and shallow arcs end. And I hate how things ended up with my once favorite character, his ship and everything I ever expected to be better became much worse and theres no male based fan media to or communities that allow my project myself in shouto anymore, seriously hes manly than "Cant stop Sparkling" guy now adays based on all the fan stuff he has about being with deku.

Todomomo was a mistake and Todoroki is a mistake. All bnha ships are unholy and wrong. Bnha is all shallowness and impure GARBAGE. I used to love bnha and was a big todoroki fan. But the more I invested through time in this character, the more i felt alone and isolated from the fandoms intention on shouto being bland fangirl fuel, the more I felt more distant from the character and not even the manga supports my reasons to invest in todoroki whom hori treats like the most shoehorned false hype emo in the show. And that offends me deeply, you got all these characters and the ones that you are expected to take seriously (and live through vicariously) are the most important characters in the show. Deku, Bakugou, All Might, Mineta, Kirishima and even Endeavor are these character and he obviously builds up there hidden character development in abilities and progression, shouto still struggles with his own personal development and is basically the same as he started with the added bonus of jobbing.

Oh and all the hype about him being cool and attractive, just irrelevant blanket statement extra tidbit filler, nothing meaningful but to make shouto explained why hes special, I prefer it if the story elaborates this by "showing" it, which the author just skims through with him and hand waves consistancy with contradiction in other following scenes making him seem like a weaker/dumber from before(ex. Fighting Festival(shouto a top tier student in every respect according to deku) to Stain Fight(Shouto is nothing but quirk reliant) according to Stain). Strongest quirk wise, this is all he has for him but even hes not even the most talented or intelligently trained with it, which makes me wonder of all shouto is just a blanket statement based character that just meant to exist to explore how insignificant he is with all his power and advantages compared to the main duo and other coming of age based events involving the cast. Even his father represents this more than his son.

Todomomo seems to relate to this, but its meaningless, just like everything else shouto has been portrayed by fans, based on how much the author puts his narrative into play which is also meaningless in the grander context of the story. Why make momo and shouto work together in the first place only to not build that relationship in future developments.

That pairing I hate(todomomo), I didnt hate in the beginning only to me because it was the only humanizing aspect todoroki had not related to his family and later the forced shoehorned dynamic with deku and bakugou, it made sense because the two are socially awkward people despite their supreme standing in the class and as first years and yet they both encourage each other by standing firm to overcome their own lack of socialization skills to grow as ideal people and improve socially, which seems to be working for momo now not shouto who's still the brooding loner elitist type(only has friends with elitist characters like friends too) . Now it's a husk and a relic of a potential investment in shoutos own story, I dont give a damn anymore, shoutos has no real anticipating developments to compel him to me, his quirk is boring as fuck since it's just a shooting targeting spammer, he isnt a good character to entertain me from a personal way, he really is a broken record of the same issues with a new idea, his family outside of endeavor and overcooked guy is more boring than him, and god I hate him with deku and bakugou which gives me more a reason to not bother with anything about him specifically since they will always overshadow him as story narrative and progress development narrative types, and I hate those two more. They are really just stand ins as horikoshi escapist fantasies, and both of them get more attention than any character as narratives who pretty much get the most attention in doing the most awesome feats and accomplishments as main roles. The new movie was about that. Shoutos accomplishments center around how he plays second fiddle to that basically instead of exploring the potential of being a pure equal to deku and bakugou, he gets the second in command villains or does something less than them in battles they already excell at in quirk control.

It's all worthless, shouto should not be this popular anything, and eventually this reflects in the popularity polls recently, which I noticed in the west from the previous one, shouto was less recieved by a significant margin compared to the main leads as a third place holder, maybe it shows me that todoroki is losing favor slowly, it makes sense, the author is not doing anything with him that makes people catch interest with the plot about strong heroes and villains getting more relevant as major players, while hes stronger than most the class but not plot relevant with his strength like deku has. Bakugou is like just like deku since the plot focuses on his strength to and is naturally stronger than Shouto via being the more badass and more aggressively driven he gets and thus gets as strong if not stronger and more skilled than shouto out of sheer plot armor. Shouto is just getting hotter and cold, bigger and more raw and unrefined in his power, so he has to control it which is still not as grand as bakugous perfect skills and genius and deku grander scaling in brains and brawn. If I were to make a guess, shouto is just going to to be behind them both as a stronger quirk user eventually and more about being a defensively capable than battle capable like kirishima and ochako, fitting for a major yet minor character, which disappoints me even more since shouto can be more battle creative than both of them if the author didnt have a bias in making deku and bakugou better than him despite having a stronger quirk.

God I hate this series. Theres no likable characters that are relatable or even human, there all shallow power and fanservice fantasies, the only character in class 1s that acts less cartoonish and serves as a stand in audience Surrogate is jirou and tail guy, but they are all about being generic looking compared to the unrealistically attractive guys and girls, the looney toon designed comic relief, and the recycled shonen trope cast. But if anything shouto represents all these shallow functions the most, and it's made him a less than a character too, it made him a sellout fan appeal type with no credibility as a character, which is why men dont like him due to not showing much concern to connect to him as a human narrative, at least the characters compared to him are showing why they(despite acting like shallow cliches) are interesting characters to care about, shoutos thing is telling about how tragically sympathetic his character needs to be as the only important thing about him, not as a part of him as a character to endear towards while he grows and helps build up a leading narrative with his development. His story doesnt help any part of the main lead or rivals growth, or his class, or his own personal objectives for his goals as a hero(being like all might and surpassing all might is a all purpose blanket statement to keep him near deku and bakugou as a power hype, not a individual self defined person). Dragging out objectives(season 1: being anti endeavor on surpassing all might which in the end pledges to learn not to do that and become better, season 2.Learning from the festival and from then on to being able to take endeavors legacy and take his training seriously which compared to deku and bakugou isnt enough to show much, Season 3. Promises to make people depend on him, doesnt happen since hes still the unapproachable person people in his class know him for. Season 4. Still makes promises hes gonna be a dependable hero, still accept his fire side, still be his own hero, things he repeats and fails to attempt because hori is lazy or just doesnt care about showing how much hes changed compared to his mary sue duo. etc) that dont happen and are inconsistent with new story details is why shouto is dead to me. High expectations about him are problematic since the author has agendas that don't involve story relevancy about him compared to the actual leading roles, plus the fan reception helps effect how I feel about shouto to, hes not even popular enough to have drawn pornagraphy with most all the girls and high quality momo hentai fanservice artists and circles, fucking mineta and your average joe otaku faceless male is more likely than shouto instead. That's how much the value shouto means to anyone than just a fangirl targeted audience which is just gay or bishi equivalent to sasuke fanworks and the feminine answer to male targeted audiences of characters like deku, bakugou and mineta, the worst and most common types of shonen stock characters in the series.

I hope this series and all the fans get tired of this shit when it gets eventually cancled. Or maybe it has. I dont really keep up with it anymore.

[harmonic-psyche]

The Finalysis: @askgoopi and @askthewaywardaliens

Hey, I am back with more characters for The Finalysis™! Below, I analyze the characters from @ecstaticshli​‘s EarthUnBound continuity on @askgoopi​ and CogDis sister blog on @askthewaywardaliens​. Both blogs are still continuing their stories. While technically only @askgoopi​ is set in the alternate timeline called “EarthUnBound,” I am using that title for both blogs here because of their shared author/artist and characters and because is sounds Really Friggin Cool.

I am still experimenting with the visuals for these Finalysis posts, and I wanted to try something a bit less bare than in my Finalysis post for @askgiegueandcrew​. Hopefully the image is not too crowded. Also, I swear that the “Goopi vs. J” fight in the middle of the picture was unintentional at first — but then I realized that it reflects how they would probably react upon meeting. oh geez, now i want to see them meet and see how many milliseconds it takes for them to start fighting

With that said, on to the character analyses!

Blue Starman ("Stupid," or "Blu"): Seems like an ISFJ.

This nervous-looking "[s]cared nerd Starman" is much more easily frightened than his fellow Starmen, which suggests inferior Ne — especially considering that he regrets being a coward, his "personality" is "Chicken," and he has a bad habit of second-guessing himself. Even in his military decisions, he shows caution. As a "pushover," Blu lacks the toughness of auxiliary Te, implying Fe instead. Also, seeing Giegue happy would make Blu happiest, showing Fe's desire to make others happy. While these facts suggest ISFJ, I have not seen enough of him to feel confident about my typing.

Giegue ("Goopi"): Probably ESTP, maybe ESTJ.

Canon Giegue is ISTJ, but "Goopi" here appears much more impulsive and aggressive. For example, his "bad habits" include "attacking others for seemingly no reason." While canon Giegue is not friendly, before the madness set in he tended to stay calm unless provoked or carrying out a cruel plan. In contrast, Goopi takes a sadistic pleasure in attacking others just for the sake of killing them. He once broke a promise with Static simply because he wanted to kill her after torturing her. Canon Giegue also uses a much more detached and clinical tone than Goopi, who loves using crude, petty insults so much that he literally named all of his Starmen after them. That degrading, crude humor is most common among ESTP types, and notably lacking from Giegue in canon or on @askgiegueandcrew​. In canon, Giegue only acts to follow his plan(s) or when he loses control of himself. On the other hand, Goopi often acts merely for pleasure without a plan or a reason: "I don't need much of a reason," "I did what I did because I wanted to." These show far more impulsive and hedonistic behavior, implying Se rather than Si.

At first, I was unsure if I could justifiably type Goopi differently from canon Giegue. Since they are from different universes, though, they are different characters: Goopi is "a completely different Giegue" (PMs with @ecstaticshli​ 2018-06-22).

J the Shadow: Definitely ISTJ.

Cautious, tough, and stoic to the core, J is an archetypal ISTJ. As an introvert who is still working on acting social, he prefers to avoid the spotlight. Si-dominance is evident in his (over?)protective unwavering loyalty to Vivi, since he considers himself her personal "bodyguard" (a.k.a. "guard dog" — compare the running joke about Si-dominant Pia the loyal dog). J does not hesitate to intimidate, threaten, or attack others to prove it when he thinks that they threaten Vivi. He shows no F-type squeamishness. While he "[t]ends to not be very friendly to others ... if he trusts someone he will be loyal and do his best to protect them," showing Si loyalty without Fe friendliness.

Te over Fi appears in his tough attitude, blunt tone, resent for receiving others' pity, "aggressive demeanor," and tendency to be embarrassed by emotional and cutesy situations — which, naturally, happen all the time around Vivi. When feeling insecure, he responds with aggression. As he has shown repeatedly, he hates being called adorable despite the obvious fact that he totally is adorable. In his own words, "It ain’t exactly easy for me to, uh, open up to others." Auxiliary Te's coldness and inferior Ne's paranoia make him distrust others by default ("We don’t know these people! I can’t trust them!"). While this can cause tension when he first meets other characters, it does help him protect those he cares about, especially Vivi. He also shows inferior Ne when he is totally thrown off by strange new perspectives, like whether he qualifies as an "insectoid."

Note also that, since "J is based on a later version of Giegue from EarthUnbound," it makes sense that J and Giegue would have identical personality types. Again, typing by analogy is unreliable, but in this case it sits on a huge pile of more-than-sufficient other evidence.

Nebula: Seems like an ISFJ.

This "[c]autious noodle" is "[c]alm, for the most part," but "[t]ends to panic when things go horribly wrong," making "other people assume ... [that s]he's a worrywart." Those show inferior Ne, and a lack of Te's decisiveness. Even though Nebula made Static act serious (a minor miracle) when Goopi attacked, came up with a plan, and pointed out that other mooks needed help escaping, she froze up and did not volunteer to help them when Static asked. These show her calm, serious planning skills (Si) and desire to help others (Fe) without any impulsivity (Ne). Nebula corrects others about scientific details even in crisis situations, showing that she is a stickler for detail (Si). Also, she probably would not dare kill anyone, showing what I call "F-type squeamishness." I do not have all that much confidence in typing Nebula, though. I have only seen her in a crisis situation, in which characters often act unusually compared to their normal personality. 

Rac: Seems like an IN__.

Nebula's boyfriend is a "really smart," "nerdy noodle" who "[t]ends to be skittish and awkward at times." Being skittish and awkward suggests introversion. While there is only a weak correlation between intelligence and MBTI (specifically, iNtuition), there is a strong correlation between nerdiness and being an IN__ type.[citation not needed] Rac’s "fears" include "[s]paghettification" and "black holes in general," which are an unusually abstract subject to fear, suggesting N. His "bad habits" include "[s]econd guessing himself," showing a lack of confidence. As a research supervisor, though, he possesses a strong scientific curiosity and enough leadership skills to run his lab. Having never seen Rac's behavior, I cannot type him precisely. Any of the IN__ types could fit this description.

Starman Jr. ("Ugly," or "Ly"): Definitely ESFP.

Ly's "[s]assy and snarky" attitude, chill demeanor, and casual slang-based speaking style point to Se-dominance . So too does her low patience and risk-taking behavior, like when she threw a secret party which accidentally got Static captured. Still, she had good intentions: "I just wanted to do something nice for my friend." Still, Ly's impulsivity and good intentions do not always end poorly. In fact, they may be the only reason that Vivi is still alive.

When Ly found Vivi on a deserted planet, Ly insisted on taking Vivi aboard to heal her. Another Starman asked how they would handle Giegue's reaction, and Ly replied that "I'll figure that out when we get to that point." In other words, she had no plan (low Ni and Te), acting only on impulse (high Se and Fi). When Javik Goopi tried to throw Vivi out the airlock, Ly saved her life by standing up to Goopi, literally annoying him into stopping. It takes nearly-reckless courage to stand up to someone so powerful and unstable. Beyond that, the intentional use of annoyance for persuasion shows Fi's determination and willingness to embarrass everyone involved (compare Vivek the ENFP), whereas Fe-users would likely melt from the secondhand cringe.

Like Static's, Ly's individualist passion (auxiliary Fi) is accomplished through a facade of toughness (tertiary Te). After all, she is "practically the only one who can pretty much talk trash to Goopi’s face and not be killed for it." Her high Fi often causes righteous indignation. Combined with her tough demeanor, this makes her take no BS from anons ("Screw you! Nobody asked for your two cents, bub") who try to help Goopi or from inexplicably hostile mooks. Those show no Fe politeness, even though Fi makes Ly "willing to sacrifice [her] safety" for her friends' at the drop of a hat because of how much she cares about them.

Unlike Static, Ly lacks the eccentric cleverness of Ne — but she makes up for it with Se's down-to-earth decisiveness. Also, contrast their speaking styles: Ly's tends to have more "shortcuts," like dropping letters from the front ("worried 'bout," "lost track of 'em,") or end of words ("somethin' to," "damper on everythin'," "comin' up"). Dropping the -g from the end of words shows informality. Also, a lot of Ly's slang comes from slurred speech ("wanna," "gotta," "gonna," "outta") — and "ain't." Those all shorten words to make them more convenient, but also sound "unrefined," for lack of a better less pretentious word. At least among CogDis OCs, that style is a dead giveaway for Se-dominance (compare Boson, Juice, Rigby, and Szortski). Sensors are more likely to view language only as a tool, making them more straightforward. In contrast, iNtuitors also like to play with it, which is why — unlike Ly — Static really, really loves puns. 

Static: Definitely ENFP.

See full analysis for details. also i totally would've called that this "noodle" is a hugger. wait now i want to hug her :S

Vivineeh ("Vivi"): Probably ISFJ, maybe INFP.

I have tried to figure out which of those two types this "adorable" and "precious" (seriously, she is absurdly cute) noodle is for sooo long! Either typing could explain that she is "timid," "[w]ill cry at just about anything," and "super sensitive," since those come generally from I_F_. Likewise, either typing could explain that she "likes [b]eing kind, ... being around children, ... hugs, soft and/or fluffy things, [and] anything she finds cute." Sentimentality, enjoyment of receiving affection, and compassion can suggest high Fi or high Fe.

The evidence that I have seen barely tips the scales towards ISFJ. Vivi "always tries to be super nice and polite," because "she dislikes making others feel bad," and she loves making friends. Wanting everyone to be happy is generally a trait of high Fe-users, as is indiscriminate positivity — especially politeness, which shows an intuitive submission to social norms. Fi is typically less prone to share its feelings, more selective about them, and defiant of social norms like politeness. Finally, the "fearful" Vivi frequently worries and is easily scared/offended by dark humor, suggesting low Ne. I have already mentioned why inferior Ne causes worrying, and dark humor is appreciated by high Ne-users (compare Ano and Static) but offends Si's often-purist sensibilities. Finally, unlike other CogDis-related IN_Ps, Vivi does not show absentminded or eccentric behavior (contrast Keter, Loris, Niiue, and Origen).

Now consider the evidence for INFP. One might think that Vivi's social awkwardness suggests dominant Fi, because Fe is more socially adept. Yet ISFJs can often be socially awkward too, especially when caused by inferior Ne caution (compare Yi the ISFJ "just being awkward"). The contrast between Vivi's personality and J's also makes her seem like an INFP, because it seems unlikely that they share the same dominant function. Typing by analogy is weak evidence, though, and different extraverted-judging functions (Te vs. Fe) can cause a huge difference in demeanor. At first I though Vivi did not show Si-dominance because I had not seen her show its common (and admittedly stereotypical) traits like obedience to authority or effective detailed memory, but she shows both (PMs with @ecstaticshli​ 2018-06-22). While many parts of her culture "sicken and unnerve" her, as one would expect more from a Fi- or Ni-dominant repulsed at their society, she inherited most of her beliefs from her caretaker Marair. Like most ISFJs, most of her values are inherited from her family.

I am not entirely confident in an ISFJ typing, though. Vivi "likes ... trying new things, learning, [and] visiting new planets," which suggests high Ne. While Si-dominants can love learning, especially if it involves fact-collecting (compare Ore), they generally do not like trying new things. I cannot explain why Vivi likes trying new things, such as visiting new planets, using an ISFJ typing. In fact, she can be downright "adventurous" if she does not feel threatened (PMs 06-22). Similarly, Vivi's "hopeless romantic" idealism is more common among daydreaming INFPs than concrete ISFJs. As a Geik, Vivi seems more like an ISFJ, but as a Gieeg, she seems more like an INFP — but since they are the same character (PMs 06-22), I cannot type them differently.

Alright, that concludes my analysis of @askgoopi​ and @askthewaywardaliens​! Unless I forgot any characters. I considered including some of the other Starmen who serve under Goopi, and probably ought to add the Last Starman featured in recent posts —  especially since he may have a type very rare to CogDis (canon and fan-) characters. But since most of them appear almost exclusively in the background, have minimal dialogue, and lack Charahub entries, I realized that I would not have enough material to make a guess at their personality types.

I am unsure whose characters I will analyze next. Hopefully it will take less time to post the next part of Finalysis. Until then, goodnight!

[alicesmithworld-blog]

HOW TO Walk Like a Woman - In Heels

After many years of struggle ( being a dude in a dress ) I finally cracked the code. I am sharing what I learned for those who DON'T walk very well now and those who do Here is the KEY for you to develop a believable female presentation: The following exercise will overcome some of the fundamental physical problems you'll have in trying to stand and walk like a woman...mostly that you were born with male parts. ( No, seriously. lol Women walk in a certain way for a reason. We walk like guys for reasons too - and it became natural to us to "stand wide legged to stand our ground - and to not pinch a testicle when walking, etc ) You probably already "tuck" - either with tape, a gaff or tight women's underwear, and if you do, you may be missing the most important opportunity for developing your feminine presentation because the method you use to keep your parts in place enables you to do one thing wrong. Simply, if you are securely tucked with a physical method, you are able to walk like a man.  That is, you don't need to worry about the displacement of your p***s if you don't walk or stand with your legs together.  I know you never really looked at it that way before, but that is likely your key issue. You've no doubt seen the famous "tuck scene" in Silence of The Lambs and the parody of that scene by "Jay" in the movie Clerks II Each male actor, because only the pressure of his thighs was keeping genitals in place, is forced to bring and keep his knees together. They also go the BONUS you get from using this method ( Curvature ) So your exercise is this: You can practice this every time you are doing your bathroom routine if you have others in your home from whom you need to guard your secret.   When you have a chance, even if you tuck securely, practice the same pressure fundamental and you will get INSTANT results for the better. 1.  Create a natural thigh-pressure tuck by pulling your p***s back between your legs as far as you can.  The more you can stretch it, the better, as this will clear the front of your pubic area of male tissue to allow the thighs to come as close together as possible. By not using anything but thigh pressure to keep the genitals in place, you will be forced into a more feminine body position in order to stand up straight. 2. Notice how your knees and feet are now closer together and you are forced to maintain this more feminine body position to maintain the tuck.You will also note that it may be painful for you to stand perfectly upright at the waist due to pressure on your testicles when you do so.  This results in the BONUS - you now have a more feminine arch in your back and your butt seems to stick out more. 3.  Then ... walk.  Note how you MUST take short, narrow steps if you want to maintain the tuck. Notice also how your hips move in a feminine way. Even your feet behave more like a woman's. You have NO CHOICE but to walk and stand more like a woman when you consciously must maintain this natural pressure tuck.  This is why it is the most fundamental exercise. Later, when you are securely tucked with physical means ( gaff, tape, or tight panties ) if you remember to maintain the pressure from your thighs to push your genitals more rearward, you will be able to refine a believable feminine ( lower body ) presentation. If you get into the habit of it now, and do it every time your are dressed, and for the entire duration of your dressing session, you will be able to remember it when you are out in public. The funny thing is, since you were born male, it will feel unnatural to you.   But trust that it will look very natural when attempting to pass as a female. Simply by always ensuring your knees and feet sweep across each other, almost touching each other as they pass, you will have a more feminine walk.  This will almost happen automatically when you are using the thigh-pressure tuck.  That takes care of your step WIDTH. The next thing to work on is your step LENGTH.  Naturally, a man takes a very long step ahead of him. When you don't, you feel unnatural and your BALANCE is actually affected because your BRAIN is used to dealing with a LONG step. So you need to fight the urge to take those big steps. Walking in flats ( women's flats or just men's footwear like slippers, sandals, flip flops, sneakers, or "trend shoes" ) will actually tend to cause you to revert to natural masculine steps...because "you can". So I recommend high heels. WALKING IN HEELS. Picture yourself as a tall 13 year old girl who was accepted by a modeling agency.  You've been in sneakers all your life - you've never even had a pair of low 2" heels on your feet and you'ill be in a fashion show next week!  ( Gosh, you're gonna sprain an ankle! ) But there's a secret to walking in heels. Men and unrefined women walk in such a way that their heel of their leading foot contacts the ground before the toe or ball of the foot.   The longer the step, the longer the wait between heel and toe contact.   In mens dress shoes ( or women walking incorrectly ) this results in a sound effect for 4 steps that sounds like: CLIP-CLOP , CLIP-CLOP, CLIP-CLOP, CLIP-CLOP ... This is also what usually breaks high heels - too much leverage on them. Refined women in heels take SHORT STEPS to touch the heel and front of their shoe to the ground at about the same time, resulting in a 4 step sound effect like: CLIP, CLIP, CLIP, CLIP .... Step One: Practice walking in BARE FEET on your "tip-toes". It takes a while for your brain to learn to balance like that and for your feet to become strong enough to keep you on tip toes for a few minutes at a time. But once you can balance there for several minutes, then you will be better able to balance in actual high-heel shoes.   By developing these muscles WITHOUT shoes, when you lose your balance, you can easily recover from a pending fall.  Trying to do this IN HEELS and THAT is how you sprain an ankle or worse!   Did you know that in the weeks before School PROM season in North America, there is an scaling increase in skull, jaw, tooth, neck, collar bone, arm, wrist, hip, lower-leg and ankle fractures in females aged 14 to 18 which stops abruptly at the start of summer, all related to "first time in high heels"?   Practice with BARE FEET first!!! Step Two: Once you can walk in bare feet on tip toes for several minutes at a time, now try it with your thigh-tension tuck.  This will ad a degree of difficulty because now you must learn to balance with a more narrow foot width - you can't recover from loss of balance and prevent a fall by simply widening your stance.   ( Again, this is tricky and will cause loss of balance, so that's why we do it in BARE FEET first until your brain gets used to it. ) Step Three: Get the right footwear.   Women's flat shoes and shoes with a low high heel ( 2" -  3" ) will allow you to make the mistake of walking "heel first", like a man - and it will look awkward.  Go for a "true" high heel. Ignore "heel height" in inches in general, because the design of a platform shoe has a longer heel than an non-platform shoe and depending on what size your feet are, a 4" heel for a size 5 is probably too high and a 4" heel for a size13 will likely be TOO LOW. Regardless of "heel height" - pick footwear that provides a 45 degree foot angle so that your foot is always at the "breakover point" - the point of each step where weight is transfered from the trailing foot to the leading foot, and which places your foot almost as upright as you being on "tip toes".   This will deter you from walking heel first like a man or a teenage girl who has never worn heels.  It will force a shorter step and make it easier for you to remember to place the heel & toe (ball of foot) on the ground at the same time. Note that TALL BOOTS will provide more support & stability for your ankles than shoes and will go with far more outfits, too! Also they will conceal your manly calf muscle definition ( the reason "I" don't wear "shoes" ) I suggest also a heel base of at least two square inches so that you have more support and it is easier to balance while you learn to adjust to the high heels.  Starting with thin "spike" heels is asking for disaster because you need to learn not to rely on the heel part for stability. Step Four: Practice beside a wall or near a railing for balance. Stand and walk USING ONLY THE TOES/BALL OF FOOT.  That is, go "tip toes" so that the heel is NOT TOUCHING THE GROUND.  This will help you get used to the idea that the HEEL is not really a "useable" part of the shoe by itself and that you don't rely on it for balance. Gradually let your heel get lower and closer to the ground as you practice, so that once the heel does contact the ground, you know you must still keep most of your weight on the TOE/BALL OF FOOT so that you don't fall.   FALLS ARE CAUSED WHEN YOU MISTAKENLY TREAT THE HEEL AS A "FUNCTIONAL" PART OF THE HIGH-HEEL SHOE.  IT'S NOT. High heels were NOT created to add height, but rather for MALE Kabuki performers playing female roles, to force their back to arch more and therefor their butt to "present" itself more and make him look more feminine.  That was adopted by old prostitutes to unconsciously seem more youthful and attractive to a male customer by tapping into the primal, instinctive presentation of an open      ( not pregnant )   ovulating female as indicated by "swollen buttocks" and cause the male to respond with "doggie style" mounting of the female. Evolution has caused many changes to humans over hundreds of thousands of years. Our ancestors at one point only procreated in this way ( you know most women still say "doggie style sex" feels best - because their vagina and brain were designed to do it this way )  and we still respond to the same things we did many, many years ago. Heels help this. USING STAIRS: Notice how women tend to actually use the railing when they use stairs.  They go UP using only their toes (heels never touch the steps ) and come down with their shoes hitting flat on each step (toe & heel at same time ) and at a slight angle, with toes pointing more toward the railing than forward ( so the whole shoe is on the step - if their feet were pointing straight forward, their front of their shoe might slip off the front of a step and cause them to fall down the stairs! ). Now that you have all that in your head. let's take FEMININE STEPS. 1 - Take 100 steps which are only one half to one whole foot length in front of your other shoe.  Once you can do that with no problem ... do it again while ensuring that your feet are as close together as possible. That is, a narrow step width. ( If you stop, your feet should be almost touching. ) 2 - Next, concentrate on the getting your butt to do the feminine "snap".  Up to this point, unless you discovered it by accident, you will still be motivating your steps with your trailing foot and bobbing up and down.  You need to motivate your step by moving your hips forward instead, so that you are gliding across the floor, and with that comes the feminine "wiggle". Stand with one foot in front of the other, with your feet at a comfortable distance apart for you.  ( That may only be one shoe-length or even less, and that's ok. ) Start perfectly balanced in the middle. Pretend you're in a super-slow-motion video. SLOWLY glide your hips forward until your weight is TOTALLY over your leading (front) foot, with your trailing (back) foot still on the ground.  It's ok if you need to be only on the toes of your trailing foot since it is impossible to keep your heel on the ground as you move that far forward.   Keep moving your hips SLOWLY forward until you are almost going to FALL FORWARD.  This is the point at which a woman takes her trailing foot off the ground and quickly moves it forward to "catch the weight" moving forward as a result of her hips moving forward. ( Women motivate their steps by moving their hips forward ... ) Take a few steps like that and you'll feel your hips SWAY from side to side as your bring your body to THE LIMIT of falling forward before taking your trailing foot off the ground.  As a result, your butt will "snap" as you walk. Once it happens the first few times ( the "snap" ), you'll understand how it "feels" to walk like a woman, so that you can do it over and over.

[rmjagonshi]

Whole Again - Chapter 13

Whole Again on AO3

Stanford Pines was sat in the main cabin of the Stan O’War noting down another tidbit from some internet blog discussing daemonic possession. He really didn’t think that force-feeding Stan Bill purified salt and vinegar would really do anything, but at this rate, anything might be possible. And even if it didn’t work, the thought of Bill gaging and choking on a spoonful of salt and vinegar brought him a sort of perverted pleasure.    

It was sick and wrong, and he hated it, but at the same time, he got a depraved rush every time he tried something new. He knew he was hurting his brother’s body, and if he dwelt on that, he would stagnate. He would sit and dwell and spiral into an ever darker and darker pit.

Stanford had seen it, had seen it with his own eyes that Stan was…gone. Or going. Why hadn’t he done anything? Why did he not realize what was wrong? Why did he deny it? Why did he pretend that everything was ok? Did a part of him want it?

The crypt. It was fitting, wasn't it? Stan had looked at him and Stanford had seen one beautiful caramel brown, cataract filled eye, and one sickly pale yellow. Had Stan been fighting it? Had he seen the last of his brother looking out at him before Bill…

Stanford pushed the thought down. There was nothing to be done now. And there was still a chance to knock Bill from Stan’s body. He just needed to find the right trigger, the right mechanism. He hadn’t dared try to enter Bill’s mind. He didn’t know if his defenses were resilient enough to defend against Bill’s manipulation. He had already succumbed to Bill’s mind games. He needed to find a way to bring his brother back.  

Yes, a part of him hurt when he hurt his brother’s body. But another part reveled in that fact that he got to hurt Bill. Because Bill was in there, Bill was in control. Bill felt it, had to experience it. And Bill deserved it. Deserved it and so much more. But nothing so far had broken Bill’s grasp.

Even when he slept, Bill seemed to have complete and utter control over Stan’s body. It was so far removed from all of his experiences with Bill and possession, Stanford was scrambling for answers. He had scoured the internet when he could, but there was nothing describing daemonic possession and its characteristics. Well, nothing scientific anyway. Stanford had come across innumerable sites and blogs and videos and religious organizations that talked about the paranormal and daemons and spirits and what-have-yous, but nothing of substance.

There was only so much he could hypothesize on given his limited knowledge on the subject. There were several physicists and phycologists that specialized in astral projection and dream theory, but without the aid of a portal, he couldn’t even hope to get a message to anyone.

It didn’t help that he had let himself be weak…again. He had survived thirty years adrift in more often than not hostile worlds He could handle a nightmare or two. But that last one, God, that last one had been so real. He knew the difference, most of the time, between a dream his own mind had constructed from recent thoughts and feelings, and one that tapped into his mindscape, where they were much stronger and more…real.

He had been trapped in his head that night. Unable to receive sensory input beyond the images his mind had created for him. He had screamed. He must have, that was the only rationale he had for Stan Bill to have come for him. The lock on the engine room bulkhead was beyond repair. Not that it mattered; Stan Bill had gotten through with ease so what was the point in locking him up? For Stanford’s own comfort? Why? It was clear that Stan Bill was just placating him. Luring him in.

That night. He remembered the dream…if only just. He remembered feeling piercing terror through to his core, but he didn’t feel that way anymore. When thinking of it now, he felt…not nothing, because he did feel something, but it was unclear exactly. Like it was just a fact, like it was just something that had happened, and he had moved on.

Stanford prided himself on his ability to separate himself from his emotions when the situation called for it. He had learned this skill in his youth, and had honed it in his travels. To be in control of one’s emotions, to look at a problem with clinical detachment. It was liberating. But this was his family. And he remembered feelings associated with seeing his family torn asunder. He didn’t feel them now, and it was all the more reason to be warry of Bill.

Bill had changed him. Changed how he viewed something, changed how he felt about the dream.

It didn’t matter now. Bill would never leave this boat. They would sit in this forgotten and paranormal ridden sector of ocean forever, or until something sunk their tiny craft, whichever came first. Stan Bill had promised, and Stanford would ensure it. They would stay here far away from people. Bill would stagnate here, power unrefined and out of his control, unable to do anything except reside in a body of his last victim. And Stanford would stay here with him, forever.

Even if that meant he was the one imprisoned.

Imprisoned in his own head, a cell of his own making, a warden he willingly let control him once. A muse that once held the key to everything he ever desired. A master that once held Stanford in the palm of his hand, a willing and eager puppet. A being he once loved. Why could he just let go?

It had almost broken him that night, lying in Stan’s arms, knowing that Stan was no longer there. Knowing that it was Bill, knowing that Bill was the one trying to comfort him, the one shushing him, the once caressing his back. But he felt and sounded and smelled so like Stan. He let himself be fooled. Let himself just pretend that everything was normal. That Stan was still himself; that his brother and Bill were one and the same.

But that was such a dangerous road to travel. It was a slippery slope, and Stanford knew it. Knew how that would end. He had seen it, hadn’t he? It had burned itself into his mind, even if Bill had dulled its initial punch. He wouldn’t forget. But he knew he was not the insurmountable stone he claimed himself to be. He was weak. So utterly weak.

And being with Bill felt so cathartic. He could be directed, he wasn’t expected to be the one with all the answers. He didn’t have to be the one everyone depended on. He could just…be. Just be held, be small (relatively speaking), be taken care of. It reminded him of the times Stan had held him, shielded him from the onslaught of hate and physical abuse. The time Stan had taken a punch, a beating for him; Crampelter and their father. The time Stan had held his hands without thinking, without being started at the extra digit.  

Bill had reminded Stanford so much of his brother as time went on. Bill hadn’t treated him like a freak, hadn’t been put off by his intelligence, had treated Stanford like he mattered. Like he was loved. Like Stan had loved him.

They had been in the mindscape, just idling away the afternoon discussing politics and philosophy and mathematics. Stanford’s body in the physical realm sat meditating in his study while his mind danced around in the swirling void of the mindscape with his mentor.

Without realizing it, as they spoke, Stanford had drifted closer to the manifestation of Bill, enraptured by Bill’s voice. It felt so natural to him, to reach out and stroke one of Bill’s edges, to run his fingers over Bill’s surface and tug on the bow tie.

“Um…” Bill had noticed his presence, but Stanford was too lost in his own fantasy to do much more than smile.

He had enveloped the triangle in his arms, pressing Bill to his chest and resting his cheek against the thin side. He had felt the ever present top hat float off. It was one of the only times Stanford remembered ever surprising Bill. Bill had sat dumbfounded for a few seconds, arms held awkwardly to the sides, before pushing against Stanford’s chest and floating a few feet away.  

“Whoa, hey there big guy, what’s with the touchy-feely business?”

Stanford hadn’t known what to say then. What do you say to someone you hugged without consent? Stanford had held tight to himself, embarrassed about what he’d done. It was high school all over again; he was tripping over himself and being awkward and, God, what did Bill think of him now? Would he leave? Would Bill stop helping him? Would he think Stanford was a waste of time? He didn’t care if Bill had decided to give up on the project, but he didn’t think he could handle it if Bill left him. He wasn't even sure if Bill was real yet, or just a manifestation of is insanity and loneliness. But if Bill left…

“I didn’t mean, I just, I…” He couldn’t even get the words out. God, he was a fool. Useless and pathetic.

Bill had floated up to his side, and placed a three-fingered hand on his shoulder. He knew it was supposed to be comforting, but, it felt like condemnation. It stung just as much as…  

“Let’s just keep this…professional, ok?” Bill awkwardly patted his shoulder and floated back to his original position across the slowly bobbing coffee table. Stanford just hid his face, wiping his hand over his eyes and under his glasses.

“I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”

Was he so in need of affection he would latch onto the nearest being for it?

Maybe he should just pay someone. Pay someone for their company. He didn’t want sex, but it would do, and some prostitutes would even give the “girlfriend” experience for extra. He could claim the lost money on “personal health and mental wellbeing” on his next cost report to his benefactors. It rankled his skin and made his hair stand on end to think of going to such lows, but he desperately needed something. Just a hug, that was all he wanted.

“You don’t need to do that, I’m sure there’s someone in town you could…what’s the word? Copulate with? For free even. I could scope one out for you. There’s a female at the diner that seems to like you.”

Stanford cringed. They were in his mind, nothing would be hidden from Bill here. Nothing he thought was private until Bill left. Before it hadn’t been an issue, he was too wrapped up in discoveries to even think about how lonely he was. He guessed he only realized it now because Bill was his ever-constant companion, but they could only talk. Bill had no real form, and thus always seemed so absent. Like a ghost. Except ghosts were annoying; Bill was brilliant, and wonderful and…he had a problem. Stanford sighed.

Bill just seemed to take it all in. Quiet and unfazed by the tumultuous flow of thoughts and affection from Stanford’s mind. Bill rubbed at the underside of his eye, lips pouting like pert and full lips. He needed to stop. Bill hummed, smiling at Stanford’s new thoughts. Stanford closed his eyes in shame.          

“Hey IQ, how about this?” Without stopping to explain, Bill grew from a size maybe two thirds of Stanford’s form to one that towered above him. By the time Bill stopped and said with a triumphant, “Ta-da”, Stanford could have been a stuffed animal or a small cat to Bill.

Bill picked him up in both hands, palms pressed under his arms, and lifted him to float near a spot beside Bill’s bowtie. Bill reclined, resting his hands behind his form and crossed his legs where the knee joint would be; Stanford being pulled with the force of it to kneel on Bill’s form. The relaxed posture brought forth memories of finding his brother on the Stan O’War in the same position. Stanford couldn’t help himself. He did what he had done with Stan; he curled up on his side and huddled in close to the body beneath him. Bill was warm, and surprisingly not as hard as Stanford expected him to be. Bill’s surface had some give to it, like an old and familiar chair, and it seemed to cradle him.    

He felt so safe, just as he did with Stan. Arms wrapped around him, protected, safe.  

“You humans are so strange with your incessant need to touch.”    

Looking back on it now, with the hindsight of knowing what Bill was going to do, it was so pitiful that he craved Bill so much. Stanford had sought out any affection the daemon would give, desperate and needy. In his subconscious, Bill had replaced Stan as his protector, he could see that now. Touch starved, lonely and in helpless need of a protector, a guardian, someone to make him feel small. It was how it started, but not where it ended. He fell hard, hopeless and wretchedly. He had love Bill. Still loved him.

And he didn’t know why.

Bill taking Stan’s face, Stan’s touch, Stan’s smell…it was too much. Stanford was not going to dwell on why Bill looking like Stan made it worse; that lead down a dark path, darker yet than any road he had ever traveled. He thought he’d crushed those feelings years ago. Apparently, they had laid in wait for the most opportune moment. He knew he would break; it was only a matter of when.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The experiments never seemed to end. It started with what kinds of objects he could form on command. Which was really, really hard. It shouldn’t have been, because food and drinks and things like toothpaste and shampoo were easy; they came almost without thinking.

Random things were the hardest. “Bill make a bonsai tree.” “Bill, I need a set of scales.” “Make me a sample of gallium.” Nothing ever came out the way it should have. The ‘scales’, instead of something useful, became a pile of fish and reptile scales. When he tried again, Stan’s hands were covered in a thick layer of calcium and magnesium like the hard water scale back in Gravity Falls.

Gallium had, for some bizarre reason, become a guillotine. It was fine though, the blade was made of rubber and giggled like a small child when it tried to chop your head or arm off. It even squirted out raspberry jam with a squeal of delight “You’re dead now, yay!” The jam wasn’t bad and was really great on toast, but pretending your hand had been cut off and then scraping it off your arm onto toast just to eat it was far too complicated to bother with. It was a shame.

The only thing that was anywhere near what Ford had asked for was the bonsai tree. It was more trunk and branches than leaves; there was a small spattering of twigs and leaves growing out of the top of it, with two branches spreading out from the sides like little arms. At first, Stan thought he had finally done something right. He grinned at the tiny little tree in the blue terra cotta pot like he’d grinned at the model car he’d gotten for their 10th birthday.

He was so excited to show Sixer, presenting it with both hands and face split wide revealing his dentures. Ford had bent slightly to inspect the tree, adjusting his glasses dismissively (Stan didn’t care, he’d gotten it right this time!), as if to critique the form of the tree or something when it moved. The damn tree moved. It opened two dark eyes under the smattering of greenery and bobbed back and forth like it was dancing.

Ford had said nothing, just pressed his lips together and looked up at Stan with a look that made Stan want to pout. They’d put the thing in the main cabin where it could get sun and Stan made sure to water it daily.

Ford named it Herman. Herman liked music and would dance to any music played for it. It also liked company and would make tiny squawking sounds when they hadn’t paid enough attention to it. Stan found himself passing tiny objects back and forth with Herman when he was bored. It seemed to be the tree’s favorite game.

When object manifestation had failed, Ford had moved onto pain experiments. Poking and prodding with varying degrees of pressure and gradually sharper and sharper objects. First a pencil eraser lightly tapped against his arm. Then the point of the pencil until the blunt carbon had left a sizable dent in his skin. Then tweezers and nail clippers cutting away small sections of his epidermis with minor blood flow. They had gradually moved onto more involved injuries.

He had sustained physical damage such as a broken nose, various lacerations, and a knife through his hand with various control of his magic. Minor damage seemed to require his active input, so Ford had moved onto more severe measures. While Ford didn’t need to drug him anymore, the sedative was no longer working. Additional amounts should have resulted in complete autonomous bodily function shut down after twelve hours. Stan regained consciousness after six and showed no signs of damage. Ford had stepped up his game to poisons, but had not had the guts to actually just shoot him already. If Stan were being honest, he didn’t even think that would do him in. Not really.

They were on the main deck of the Stan O’War as evening fell. It was cool, somewhere in the low sixties, and definitely warmer than anywhere in Oregon in the middle of December. Stan was just trying to enjoy the clam breeze and gentle waves rocking the ship. He was in that blissful intermediate stage of sleep and awake where his mind wandered and came up with weird and nonsensical ideas that were lost as quickly as they came. He snorted and jerked awake when Ford stepped out of the open cabin door.  

“I knew. You know.” Stan blinked at the non-sequitur. His mind searching for something that made sense. Sixer knew a lot of things. Like how Stan was still physically human and still had distinct pain response, and that Stan was the one that taught Herman how to throw wads of paper at Ford’s head. Knew what? Knew…  

“What?” His voice was rough from coughing. His throat still itchy from the poison Ford had forced him to drink. He had really thought he was gonna die then. But his magic made him vomit it out as a solid piece of ice; his body was sweating out the remainder. Stan was shirtless and slumped over the railing trying to cool off as his body and magic fought with the residual poison.

Stan should be mad that his brother tried to kill him, but they both knew it was a long shot that it would work anyway. He was just tired. And hot. And Ford looked really good in the evening light. The sun was reflecting off his skin and making him glow. His hair looked like glistening silver and half of his face lovingly draped in shadow; Stan wanted to take a picture, but he didn’t think he had the energy to paint right now. Wait, what?

“I knew, that…that something was wrong.” Ford stood in front of the cabin door where he had finished writing the results from his latest murder attempt. By now they were both curious as to what Stan was immune to. It seemed that while he had little control over manifesting objects, his powers of healing were in perfect form.

He’d even had an accident where the fish he was filleting kept healing with every cut and had eventually started flopping around. It was flopping so violently, it ended up on the floor of the galley, where it likely died due to blunt force trauma. When Stan had tried to pick it up, it came back to life and started squirming again. He had spent far too much time trying and failing to get the fish to stop moving, to stop resurrecting, to just be food, that Ford had taken the poor thing from him and thrown it overboard. Stan made hamburgers for dinner with the ground beef that appeared on the counter. In fear of suddenly having a live fish on his plate, Ford had forbidden them from having fish for dinner thereafter. Or anything that wasn’t completely and fully processed.

Stan’s mind snapped back to more pressing matters when Ford kicked at the bait bucket.    

Ford knew. When? How? Why hadn’t this come up before?  

“When?” Stan was incredulous. When had he…? Oh no.  

“The draugr.” Damn it!

“What?” Please be something else.

Ford was exasperated. He gestured wildly, pulling at his own hair, and pacing in the small area allotted by the deck.

“Your eye. You looked into my eyes and I saw one brown and one yellow. You read an ancient language even I didn’t know. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. Like you just had accumulated weird bits of knowledge during our time apart. I told myself it didn’t matter. But it does and I just…I can’t handle this!”

Ford crumpled, dropping down to the deck on his knees, hunched and covering his eyes. Stan could see wet streaks running down his cheeks. It hurt to see his Sixer like this. It never used to, not really. He used to love it when Sixer responded to him, would show emotions, would make all those delicious noises for him. Moaning, laughing, screaming, delighted squeals, sighs, whimpers, all the beautiful soundtrack to his little Sixer.  

His favorite had been when Sixer had tried so hard not to scream, so hard to not make a noise, and then he broke. It would be so quiet at first, just a little gasp, an aborted moan through gritted teeth, sound leaking out in rivulets between Sixer’s enamel and dancing in the air to his ears. Music, the sweetest music he had ever heard; it made his amorphous insides dance every time he heard Sixer’s voice. There was something about it; something so primal that even he, who had lived for literally millions of years, couldn’t understand. It had made his angry at first. How dare this puny little human, this insignificant little ant, have this much control over him. He was a God in this world. He was a God among worlds, he needed nothing but a pawn, wanted nothing but a willing puppet, a willing pet. Then, it had turned to fear. WHY, did Sixer have so much power over him? Was he weak? Was he losing his edge. Had he finally become so damned lonely in is self-induced isolation that he was craving attention; someone that would stroke his ego, grovel at his proverbial feet.

In the end, he didn’t question it. He was a God, so what if he wanted to keep a toy. His wants and his desires didn’t have to have reasons. He liked Sixer, so he claimed the man. Sixer was his toy, his puppet, his pet. He could do what he wanted with Sixer and it didn’t matter, because he wanted it. And his desires were final. If he wanted to make Sixer scream for him, cry for him, then that was his business.  

It never used to bother him when Sixer was in pain, but it does now and now is what matters. Stan approached Stanford’s small form and knelt down to wrap him in Stan’s thick arms when Ford lashed out.

“Don’t touch me!” He’d smacked Stan’s arms away and scooted until his back was pressed against the wall of the Stan O’War. A corners animal, scared and gearing up for a fight. Stan didn’t want to fight. Not anymore. He just wanted to hold Ford, let the man curl up in his arms and rest. To stroke his back, fingers tracing every dip, every uneven patch of skin. He bet he could heal some of Ford’s scars his he tried. Give Sixer his full range of motion back. “Stay away from me! I don’t know who you are and I don’t trust you!”

“Stanford, I’m still your brother. I still care about you. I still lo-“

“Shut UP!” Stan flinched. “Shut up shut up shut up!”  Ford curled in on himself, trying to get further away from Stan. “Please…” Stanford’s plea hardly a whisper.  

Stan was wrecked. He could force this. Part of him wanted to. Part of him really wanted to. Force Sixer to let Stan hold him, force Sixer to look at him, to trust him. It was so alluring. It would be easy, so easy…

No. It wouldn’t. It would be hard for Stan. Not just because of the metal plate in Sixer’s head, but because it would hurt him make Sixer do that. He wanted Sixer to love him on his own. He had, once-twice upon a time. As a lover, a brother, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, just as long as Sixer loved him, cared about him in some way.

Stan slowly stood up from the deck, standing over his brother. Sixer looked so small, so fragile, he wanted to pick him up and wipe the tears away, carry him to bed and talk about nerd things. About the kids, about anything. But he didn’t. All Stan did was blink and stare at his brother, Stanford’s form still heaving with silent wails.

“I love you”, was all he could muster before he turned and walked back into the cabin and below deck. Stanford’s tears just intensified.    

Previous

Next

Chapter 1