#but ugh the lack of discernment got to me so so bad

[arget-star]

This was SUPPOSED to be just a short lil thing and then I realized I can’t shut up. A continuation of this that somehow ended up at 1.3k

In which Sakura teaches you the beginnings of self defense

Cw: none! Just fluff and the obligatory Sakura teasing

“I’m not punching you,” you tell him stubbornly, hands planted on your hips. Sakura snorts in agreement.

“No, you won’t. Just throw one, will ya? I’m tryna teach you the basics, that’s all.”

Ugh, he’s so annoying sometimes. You huff, then release your hips, curling your fingers into loose fists. You know you won’t actually cause him harm—he’ll dodge anything you toss his way. It’s the principle of the thing that bothers you; everyone in Sakura’s life leading up to Furin did whatever they could to hurt him. Logically, you know this isn’t close to the same thing. Yet standing here, now, with the intention of aiming your knuckles directly into face…it’s harder to reconcile your emotions with good sense.

Sakura, oblivious to your internal struggle, gestures to your hands. “C’mon, defend yourself.” Perhaps he’s a bit more in tune with your emotional state than you realize; he sounds like he’s making a conscious effort to be patient.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you comply, trying to copy the easy way he raises his own fists. Your shoulders are practically by your ears, and you feel too stiff, but at least your thumb isn’t tucked underneath your knuckles and your body is at a slight angle. Heterochromatic eyes assess you; it still baffles you, how anyone could see something so beautiful and immediately try to snuff it out.

He steps closer, placing his palms atop your shoulders. “Relax,” he murmurs, gently pushing down until he’s satisfied. “You’ll make yourself sore bein’ all tense like that.”

Honestly, you’d expected him to be a little gruff, given how he’d spiraled over your lack of self defense skills last week; this surprising tenderness is welcome. In fact, you do relax, some of your nerves melting away as he takes a step back.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gives you a look you would call bored if you didn’t know better. His eyes flash with hidden excitement. The thrill of a fight—even teaching the mechanics of one—runs through him.

It’s cute, really, and you bite your bottom lip on a smile. Now’s not the time to tease him.

“Alright. Front hand, go.”

You stare at him. His cheeks no longer tinge pink whenever you do so, and privately, half of you mourns the loss. The other half is proud he’s growing more comfortable with your relationship. Inhaling through your nose, you tighten your fist, then unleash it straight for his nose with a sharp jab of your elbow.

Naturally, it doesn’t land. Sakura easily leans away, black eyebrow raising with a meaning you can’t quite discern. Is he impressed? Disappointed? “Too obvious where you wanted to punch. Couldn’t keep your eyes off my nose.”

You retract your arm, poking your tongue out at him. “Don’t I get a well done for my first attempt?”

Now a faint blush spreads atop his cheekbones. You don’t bother hiding your smile. He looks away with another scoff. “It wasn’t bad. Now stop teasin’ me! Ya wanted to learn, didn’t ya?”

Well, this had been his idea, one you readily agreed to if only to soothe his anxiety, but you refrain from pointing that out. A small glow of pride blooms in your chest instead; he praised you, in his own way, and that’s worth enduring a few of his prickly outbursts. “I did.” Truly, after you’d said yes to this, you realized just how much you did want to learn, especially to see the look of surprise on some jerk’s face the next time they tried hitting on you. Hardly anyone expects the girls in this town to defend themselves.

Sakura puts you through a dozen or so punching drills, correcting everything from how you twist your hips to how to best hold your other fist up while punching. Once he’s finally satisfied you’ve got the basics down, he stands in front of you again, looking completely unruffled. Meanwhile, strands of hair have come loose from your ponytail, hanging limply around your face. You flick away a particularly annoying piece dangling across your nose.

His pointed chin dips in silent go ahead. You’re prepared, this time. Mostly. You know where to focus—forward, but not lasered in on any one thing. Another inhale. You’re about to throw it, even have your hips half twisting, when a sudden idea strikes you.

“Wait, wait, hang on—can you pass me my sweater, please?” Oh, he’s going to be so mad. It will be absolutely worth it, if you can pull this off. Indeed, Sakura looks at you like you’ve gone crazy, but he still stomps over to the park bench you’d draped your sweater over earlier, picking up the garment with all the inherent gentleness everyone refuses to see in him.

“Tch, you can’t stop and ask for your sweater in the middle of a fight! You cold or somethin’?”

“Something like that,” you reply, fighting back a grin with every ounce of self control in your body. His fingers brush against yours as he passes you the sweater. He gives you another look, assuming his former position while you slip your arms into the soft material. Once situated, you resume your fighting stance, all trace of mirth gone from your expression. “Alright, take this!”

It’s a good punch, all things considered. You remember everything he told you, and you barely hesitate as you watch your hand inch closer to his (pretty) face. Sakura neatly sidesteps it, though not before you notice the approving little curve to his lips. Triumph makes the prideful glow inside your chest glow sunshine bright.

However, instead of throwing your arms up in success like he anticipates, you grab the lapels of your sweater and give it a little tug. “And that’s why I can’t stand weaklings,” you intone, in your best impression of Sakura, complete with a self-satisfied smirk.

The real Sakura tilts his head, confusion flickering across his face—and then it hits him.

Las night, you’d accompanied him and his vice captains to dinner at Café Pothos. Suo and Nirei, in clear disregard for their lives, had regaled you with tales of his first few fights with Bofurin, off-base impressions included.

His ensuing blush is a brilliant shade of crimson. You do feel a slight twinge of guilt; you’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

He takes a step back, launching an accusing finger in your direction. “I do not sound like that! ‘Nd I told ya to stop makin’ fun of me!” Notably, he makes no defense about the jacket tug. (You find that particular quirk of his incredibly endearing.)

Despite your best efforts, you can’t help the laughter bubbling up in your throat. Were it anyone else, it’d make him angrier, enough that he’d knock them out cold. But it’s you, and you’re murmuring out apologies in between peals of mirth, and well, he’s never able to stay mad at you. Sakura stands down, lowering his finger, unamused as you gather yourself. That glower of his is rather impressive.

“I couldn’t resist,” you finally say, giggle fit over. Stepping into his personal space, you drape your arms around his neck, curling a finger around a strand of hair. “Sorry, Haru. I promise you look way cooler than that.”

“How do you know, huh?” Sakura returns your hug, tugging you closer, until you’re flush against his chest. Incredible that only a week ago you were apologizing for calling him Haruka, and now his nickname flows so easily off your tongue, like you’d been saying it for years. He wonders, not for the first time, what his life would have looked like if he’d met you earlier.

“’Cause. I have seen you fight before. And you’re the strongest in Bofurin.”

Sakura rests his chin atop your hair. One day, he will be, and he knows it’ll be because you’re by his side.

[mythologyfolklore]

Liù'ěr Míhóu joins the jttw gang, or: How to redeem an all-hearing celestial monkey with a superiority complex and a seriously bad attitude

(A/N: TW: mention of sexual abuse, depression & suicide)

Chapter Twenty-Three: Tripitaka reveals dark secrets

.

“Ah, this is wonderful!”, Liù'ěr Míhóu sighed happily. “Normally at this time of the month I would be bleeding and in absolute agony, but with these pills I feel as fresh as an apple blossom! Can someone remind me to give generous offerings to the Bodhisattva, who gave me these pills? I may be able to hear everything, but I don't actually have the best memory.”

Tripitaka nodded. “No problem, but … if I may know, why is your memory lacking?”

Liù'ěr Míhóu explained: “It's a filter, that keeps my mind from overloading. Hearing so many things is kinda straining. Now imagine being unable to forget any of that. I'm already mentally unstable, but remembering all the shitty things I've heard and that have happened to me over the aeons I have lived, in all gory detail? Yeah, I would be … you know …”

The rest of the group got what he was saying, shuddering at the thought.

He heaved a sigh: “Yeah. And with the things I hear … ugh. Overall I like my ears, but sometimes I wish I was deaf.”

Bái Lóng Mă gave him a comforting nuzzle with his snout and a low neigh. The macaque smiled tiredly and nuzzled back.

“Huh. I'm actually familiar with that feeling”, Tripitaka spoke up. “Except instead of hearing, I've seen things I can't unsee. Like your and Pilgrim's bloody rampages, for example.” He narrowed his eyes at the two monkeys.

They sweatdropped.

But Liù'ěr Míhóu was now curious. “And the rest? Maybe you can tell us about some stuff even I don't know?”

The monk hesitated, but then seemed to relent, as he began to list on his fingers: “The things one of the older monks at my monastery would do to the acolytes, until the abbot found out and gave him the boot. My mother's corpse dangling from the ceiling, after she committed suicide …”

The disciples stared at their master in horror.

Tripitaka gave a hollow chuckle: “I should stop there. A good Buddhist shouldn't have worldly attachments and I don't want to think about what happened years or decades ago.”

“But you are upset about it, Master”, Wùkōng pointed out.

At first he was met with silence.

Then the monk mumbled: “It doesn't matter.”

But all of them could tell: to their master, it did matter.

.

It was now nighttime and Liù'ěr Míhóu was on watch duty.

Normally it would have been Wùkōng's turn, but he had passed out from exhaustion earlier and slaphead had decided to let him sleep.

So the Monkey King was now sleeping like a rock – pun intended – while the Six-Eared Macaque had agreed to take over his shift.

He was crouched on a branch, listening for any potential threats, when something else caught his attention.

The monk wasn't sleeping. He was lying perfectly still, but his breathing and heartbeat gave him away.

Liù'ěr Míhóu sighed and climbed off the tree.

“I know you're awake, monk”, he whispered into the human's ear.

A sigh.

Then the other turned around (with some effort) to face the monkey, eyes now open.

“You could hear that too, huh?”, he mumbled.

“Most creatures' breathing and heartbeat change, when they're asleep”, explained Liù'ěr Míhóu. “Not all and the difference is hard to discern, unless you're looking for it. But if you paid close attention, I'm sure even you could hear it.”

Tripitaka blinked. “Really? Interesting. I didn't know that.”

“You learn something new every day. Now, what's keeping you up? Your back acting up again?”

“No. Just my mind messing with me”, the monk muttered. Then he added, with audible caution: “I know you hear almost everything, but … can you tell the difference between the outside noise and your own thoughts?”

“Not always”, he admitted. “Is that your problem right now? Loud thoughts?”

“Yeah … loud and unpleasant. All the memories I'm trying so hard to let go of. I guess, after our talk this afternoon, they chose to remind me of their existence.”

Liù'ěr Míhóu frowned; that was something he could empathise with.

“Wanna talk about it?”, he offered.

Tripitaka replied, hesitantly: “I don't want to burden you with my issues. Buddha knows you're dealing with enough as it is.”

“Probably, but I wouldn't be offering to listen, if I wasn't willing.”

“I guess … but can we go a bit further away from the others? I don't want to wake them up.”

The macaque shrugged: “Sure.” Then he picked the monk up in his sleeping bag and carried him across the clearing (surely it was a ridiculous scene, a monkey carrying off a human thrice his size).

After picking a tree that was outside of listening range, but within the others' sight, he set the human down and helped him lean against the trunk.

“Alright, now spill.”

Tripitaka gave him a reproaching frown – probably because of the tone – but Liù'ěr Míhóu chose to ignore it.

After some more hesitation, the monk finally admitted: “I can't stop thinking about my parents.”

Oh.

“Do you know about them? I mean, have you heard anything …?”

Liù'ěr Míhóu could see where this was going.

“Hm … I do remember hearing something- no. Stop it. Quit the puppy eyes.”

“Wùhuàn, please! I know you're apprehensive about sharing your knowledge of the past and future, but I need to know, why my mother …”

“Ugh, alright, fine! But I warn you, this won't be pretty.”

Tripitaka gave him a look.

The macaque threw up his hands: “I'm just saying, some creep drowned your mother's husband right before her eyes, just because he had the hots for her, then forced her to pretend that he – your father's murderer – was her husband. You have to admit, that's some fucked-up shit.”

“Language”, the monk muttered. “And I already knew that part.”

“I know, that you know. But put yourself in your mother's shoes for a moment. Surely you can guess, what that bastard did to her over the almost nineteen years she was chained to him. I know I did, when I heard her weeping. Frankly, it's phenomenal she held out as long as she did.”

Liù'ěr Míhóu hugged himself. Many times he had wept in the same way as Yin Wenjiao. And many times he had heard other people (mostly women) weep in the same manner. But of course he wouldn't say that out loud. The monk alredy knew that anyway.

Suddenly Tripitaka spoke again: “It wasn't the only suicide attempt either. First my grandfather and I had to stop her from hanging herself, then from jumping into the river my father drowned in. No matter how many times we told her, that nothing about this situation was her fault and there was nothing for her to be ashamed of, she-” He swallowed again. “But that was before we managed to bring my father back! After we brought his murderer to justice and got him back … I thought she was happy! She looked happy! She smiled, laughed and everything! Then one evening, while I was visiting my family between some errants, she bid us all good night … and the next morning we found her hanging by the neck from the ceiling of her bedroom! Just … why?! Why were we not enough to make her stay?!”

Liù'ěr Míhóu honestly wasn't sure what to do.

On one hand, he had never had a parental figure, nor a wanted child.

On the other, the monk had readily accepted his temperament and had been nothing but kind upon guessing what the Six-Eared Macaque had gone through in the past. There was no harm in returning the favour.

So, after carefully considering his words, he sighed: “Okay. I'm not good at empathy stuff, so bear with me, but I'll try. Review in your head all that you know happened to your mother.”

The monk nodded.

“Now add that all up. That's a lot of heartbreak, shame and despair. And sure, she got justice, but here's the thing: justice can do amazing things, but it can't make the pain go away. It can't undo almost two decades of misery. It can't silence the voices in your head, telling you, that you're to blame, that you're filthy and a disgrace, that you brought shame upon those you care about, that they'd be better off without you.”

The macaque couldn't help but feel pity, as the young human hugged himself. Maybe he would've curled in on himself, were it not for his aching back (had he really hit him that hard?).

“Sometimes I feel like that”, the monk confided.

The white monkey tilted his head in what was hopefully an encouraging manner.

Tripitaka bit his lip. “Can I tell you something else?”

“Sure.”

“What she went through … what you went through … it happened to me too. Only once, but-”

Liù'ěr Míhóu lifted a hand. “Don't finish that sentence. One time is one too many, no matter the circumstances. Do you … wanna talk about it?”

A small nod.

Then the monk took a deep breath and began.

“I've been harassed or flirted at way too many times. Though usually it stays at that. When I say no, they stop what they're doing and don't go further (even if the alternative is them wanting to eat me). They get angry or upset, but they stop. Except for one.” He paused for a moment, clearly to compose himself, then continued: “A scorpion demoness. I had just escaped an unwanted wedding, when she showed up, kidnapped me, you know how it goes. At first she tried it with the usual 'trying to tempt me' spiel. But the longer she failed to get me to consent to 'play husband and wife', as she called it, the more forward she got. My ankles and wrists were tied up, so I couldn't stop her, when she started to lift up my robes. Uhm … I think you can guess the rest. And my disciples were away, so they couldn't prevent it.”

Tripitaka hugged himself.

“Sometimes I can still feel her hands on me …”

Liù'ěr Míhóu frowned.

That explained, why he once had heard the monk crying that way, a few months before he had joined the group.

This new information made his stomach churn.

He still wasn't a fan of the monk, but damn, the guy didn't deserve that!

The Six-Eared Macaque curled up and pat the mortal's shoulder with his long tail.

“You know that doesn't make you a bad monk, right?”, he asked.

Tripitaka stared at the macaque, like he had grown even more ears.

“How does it not- but I-?”

“Didn't do anything”, Liù'ěr Míhóu finished. “You didn't want her in any way. You didn't seduce her or give into temptation or some bullshit. Nor did she tempt or seduce you. She forced herself on you. That was not at all your fault. Okay? It wasn't your fault, that she hurt you. You're not any lesser, because someone touched you against your will. You're not filthy. You're not impure. You have not broken any vow. Remember this, when her touch haunts you, okay? Can you do that?”

For a moment there was silence.

Then, without any warning, the monk picked him up and hugged him tightly, eliciting a startled chirp from the macaque.

“Uhhh …”

“Sorry”, Tripitaka sniffled. “I just … really needed to hear that. Thank you … thank you!”

Liù'ěr Míhóu sighed and patted the young man's back, as the other sobbed into his shoulder.

At some point however, Tripitaka's tears had soaked the macaque's robe so much, even the thick fur couldn't keep it away. Making the monkey squirm.

Fortunately, the monk got the hint and let go.

“Feeling a bit better now?”, asked Liù'ěr Míhóu.

The human nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“Good. Because this was a one time thing, just to make that clear”, Liù'ěr Míhóu informed him.

Tripitaka gave him a weird look, but by now it was too dark to discern what exactly it was.

Whatever.

“Thank you for listening to me. Just … one more thing, Wùhuàn.”

“What is it?”

“Don't tell your brothers, what I just told you. They can never know. Promise me you won't tell. Please. I don't want them to- they'd be so upset. Especially Pilgrim. H-he'd be so devastated, if he ever found out, that …”

“I understand. I won't tell anyone. You have my word.”

.

---

.

Just to clear this up: in the original novel (chapter 55), the scorpion demoness gets pissed, when she fails to turn Tripitaka on, and leaves him tied up in the hallway.

[youaresogoingtohell]

Hi, I saw you talking about cults in a thread. Most people are referring to cults of personality when they use that phrase. They think of the Manson family and the Jonestown massacre, of Heaven’s Gate and of the Solar Temple.

What cults are you thinking of?

Wouldn't it be great if everyone was as precise as you? And aware of how easily they were conditioned to hate their neighbors? See them as Manson? Jim Jones?

and forgive all the same crimes of their pastor, cops, teachers, doctors, governors, fucking registrars…

I'm sure that the Krishnas have gone off USA's radar, but they used to bear the brunt of this particular form of white supremacist hatred, for quite a long time. Understanding that it was actually a big and "real" religion doesn't seem to part of it. I wonder what it is? I mean really I wonder, not like "I'm posing a question I know the answer to in order to look smart", I really wonder.

Is it the lack of modeling norms? Probably part of it! Not obeying the proper patriarch? Maybe so; I know that in the 80s a lot of groups were kicking around the Square that I didn't like, I didn't care for their looks or their ideas, but I also (here's the part I think is key) noticed they didn't hurt anyone. Then, later, I started quizzing this one guy a CoG "elder" (probly about 25) about the Bible and was impressed with the depth of his reads. I got a very clear understanding of what was going on with their group: they were running from the last town they were in, and were squatting. At the time, shit, that was half my social group! BUT, these CoGs were not bathing, and they all had scabies, and they were just ugh, real not well. But that was none of my business, right? Several of their members were recent survivors of abuse, hiding out from the blood relations that assaulted them. So, am I turning them back over to Papa for correction? Dunno about you, but I'm not.

So like, to me, CoG (Children of God) is one of the worst religious groups ever here, bad in a lot of the ways y'all like to mewl on about as if they're rare or confined to this one "special" kind of group, the CULT, such a scary word, and not a Basic Feature of the Whole Entire USA Shitpit. I mean, that's what I see when people race to denigrate folks who are in cults. "WHITE FATHER DOESN'T LIKE THAT. WHITE FATHER CLAIMS THAT POWER FOR HIS OWN". And the masses going "oooooh charismatic leeeeeeader! worldly possessssssions! not allowing them contact with faaaaaamily!!!" on cue - where to start with that kind of thing? People won't elect to stop being shitty about it as far as I can tell. Top three tumblrs agree: nonchristian ways of life that violate USA norms Must All Be Bad. Everyone who is CULT is also JIM JONES, in the minds of ostensibly sensible and non-evil-bigoted-trash tumblr bloggers, just like in the minds of confirmed idiotic fully evil bigots across the land.

how do y'all live with the belief that this natural human method of survival and love is evil, using only a description of your church, schools, military, courts, cops and judges?

if you believe what they tell you about cults, without doing any further study, on the basis of anecdote and propaganda only, fail to find out of your assumptions were based in reality & fail to scrutinize the institutions which benefit from this failure, I don't care if you think I am a bad person. You don't have the ability to discern good from bad people. That's why I say you're dangerous. If you're one of these, the norm, you are a danger to the few good people running around, the few trying to learn to be good.

If you can't understand it, I can't help you. I'm not one of the people I'm defending, here. I live alone.

The people this crew is hating and endangering are gardeners and animal husbanders and writers and shit. I'm just a city dweller with a lot of friends. Better friends than y'all will ever be, carrying around this uneducated animus for your owners' targets.

Sorry mecha, that wasn't really directed at you (unless it was, in which case, do better, in a hurry).

[septiembrre]

I'm a little late but I just saw your post from a year ago about latinx rep in good girls and its sad reflecting back on it and how the show could've done better. Rio was just another stereotype, I hate how he was ambitiously latino and there was just no connection to his culture. Was he first, 2nd, or 3rd Gen? If he was 1st Gen it didn't make sense to have the family speak English. One thing that always annoyed me is how OOC he was at times and how the writers purposely made him out to be like some brown aggressive misogynistic man. They didn't bother making him complex. In a way I'm glad the show got canceled. As a Mexican woman the way Rio was written was racist.

Wah, I’ve been sitting on answering your ask. I wanted to tease your ask apart and respond to it sentence by sentence. But... my brain kept rechazandolo, so now I have feelings dump instead.

Since Good Girls ended, I have been parsing through how I feel about S4 and GG overall — sometimes more positively, sometimes more negatively. Then, I flip to reminding myself it’s not that serious (it's just tv! this is supposed to be my leisure activity!). Then, I waffle back to reflecting.

So, no textual analysis just feels and whining under the cut. I know folks are still mourning the end of the show and I don't want to yuck anyone's yum. Tagging with #ggnegativity.

My short answer is that Good Girls is my beloved, sometimes joyful, sometimes hurtful, complicated little show. Even now that we’re no longer getting new episodes I’m wary of sifting through the information we have about Rio because it’s a mess and it seems like a lot of his character was poorly thought out (ahem, all those dumb messages from Bill Krebs confirming multiple instances of lack of intentionality or care!).

I say this because I was tempted to start responding to you by riffing off of your comment with, “y'know, now that you say that, I think he’s third or fourth gen…”, pero who cares? And the point was never specifically about what gen he is, or even more specifically about... lol, I was going to say it doesn't matter what nationality he was, they just needed to pick one. Ugh, but the wording of that is too glib. The lack of intentionality behind these details feels sanitized to me, it feels very white gaze, it feels lazy.

However, I could have forgiven a lot of this weak character construction if his baseline, plot-related characterization on-screen was more consistent. But, Rio was often used as a plot device in a way that often fell flat for me, a weekly recurring bogeyman whether his antagonism made sense or not. On one hand, I feel for the creative team, because I think they were in a hard place, trying to avoid romanticizing Rio, and trying to seemingly backtrack the sexualization of him in Season 2, but... Idk, it's complicated.

Retrospectively, it’s sitting with me how much Good Girls is rooted in whiteness. While it's something I discerned before (lol, most obviously with 2x13 and in S3 with Lucy's disposability), you know how some shows get to their third or fourth season and finally start investing in their marginalized characters? It’s a crappy thing to hold out hope for, they're crumbs! But, I was. And we did get some Rio worldbuilding. But, ultimately, it felt weak to me -- under-conceptualized or under-worked.

For example, I liked Nick as a Bigger Bad who drove Rio and Beth together. I also thought that Nick's non-existent moral code was a lovely foil to Rio's, and that this contrast humanized Rio in a way that he needed. It also cast a new light on Rio's behavior of the earlier seasons, outside of Beth's perception in a way that I thought was healthy and needed. Great, meaty stuff! However, Nick and Rio's relationship came across as shallow to me. There really did not seem to be a lived-in quality to their scenes. The show really struggled with that element overall -- even with the three lead protagonists (their decades-long history with each other and interactions between their families being largely absent). I wonder why they made that choice.

It's strange because on the flip side we got a hefty amount of contextualization for MLM guy Vance and Annie's bf Kevin... Even that cop who Mick killed! All white men, too.

Me da pena.

Or maybe the thing that bothers me is that those scenes between Nick and Rio didn't center Rio's perspective effectively? Despite the one-on-one scenes being outside of Beth's framing (Rio being a secondary character typically tethered to Beth's story arc), there still was a lot of distance between Rio and the viewer? Like I think of Vance in his kitchen with his wife and child, and the way we as viewers were brought into that to empathize with him, and I think of the distance of Nick+Rio boxing scene or the scenes at the bar. Argh! It's hard to pinpoint without the textual analysis I feel too grumpy to do. It was such a narrative choice to keep Rio aloof and I side-eye it.

Anyway --

Overall, the writing room/show creators/decision-makers didn't seem to consider Latine/x/a/o viewers throughout the crafting of Good Girls and that sucks. It really feels like I'm being told to conform to the white gaze in watching the show, and after 2x13 that makes me feel prickly and defensive. A part of me yearns to do a rewatch to map Rio’s character (and inconsistencies) but I still yield joy from Good Girls — it’s been my main comfort story during the pandemic. I also rendered joy from Season 4 specifically — some of those scenes between the leads at the end were phenom!!

I am leaning into what's bringing me joy right now, so I feel hesitant to stew in critique, even while I also feel some sort of need to make sense of the hurtful racializations. I have a compulsion to write them all down on the same post or list -- somewhere where I can see them all at once and understand. But, at the moment, it’s not a use of my time and energy that feels good. Opting into fics and writing is bringing me a lot of joy during hard times.

I have to close with one final whine, that I am SO fatigued with television options right now. I find myself desperately wishing for more TV out there whose priority audience isn't only white folks. Good Girls isn't alone in its treatment of Latinx characters, or alone in mishandling characters of color or gay characters, or prioritization of empathy for white het male characters, but certainly, creating something more thoughtful shouldn't be so hard.

[johobi]

Falling, Falling, Gone

Word count: 5.8k

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Warnings: None really, it’s my first ‘SFW’ fic, though there is some extremely bad language in here. And there might be an erection because I can’t help myself.

A/N: This is the fourth and final ‘drabble’ for the drabble game I ran ages ago. Prompt: “The thought of me making out with someone else is ruining you.”

Music inspo: Don’t Be So Serious, Baby Don’t Stop, Waste It On Me

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477485

Taehyung. Captain of the soccer team. Master of your heart. You'll never tell him for fear of rejection.

So why the fuck are you about to do it in front of dozens of his peers?

Banana and peanut butter become pulp in your mouth as you glare out the kitchen window. It's so grey out there. Greyer than it has any right to be. As if your dour mood has polluted the very atmosphere. Rain lashes the exterior in leaden pellets, each one compounding your headache like a rap on the head. Don't be so serious, your bluetooth speaker croons as you chew and chew, unblinking. The bridge of your glasses slip further down your nose but you don’t correct them. Don't be so serious.

Oh, but it's all so serious. 

Your final portfolio lacks in ways your mentor is incapable of articulating, and you only have so much time to fix it. Your college life is coming to a close. There are frighteningly few opportunities out there and they’re sure to spurn a sham like you. What do you do now? Where do you go from here—

"God, you listen to such depressing music," a husky voice sounds. It’s thick with sleep and horribly attractive. You hear his feet next; big and bare as they slap the tile floor and disrupt the ambience. 

Yes, dismal is an ambience. 

Before you glimpse the interloper himself, his fingers pilfer your next mouthful of toast. His other hand has your phone and is skipping through your carefully curated playlist of moody tunes. With all the scant energy you can muster, you glower at him. 

“Taehyung.” 

Soccer captain. Campus celebrity. Doofus.

Unlikely friend and unlikelier crush. But life is strange, and he is both these things. Indeed, he proclaims himself your best friend to all who will listen. As for the matter of your tender feelings, however, he is oblivious. And will remain so.

Taehyung is long-legged and limber-bodied, but round of face and feature. A kitten in a tiger’s pelt. Will mew for affection and roar when angry. Has quite literally nudged your hand for pets and raged at referees in the same afternoon. There is usually no in-between. 

Your scowl goes unseen. He sidles past like the oblivious buffoon he is and continues to tamper with Spotify.  Smears his peanut-buttered thumb around your phone display. Ugh. You brush back your hood and fix him again with extra scorn.

"Actually, douchebag, it’s good music for thinking. And I have a headache. I hardly wanna listen to something like—no, don't you dare put fucking Party Rock on right now. Tae!"

It’s too late. The lanky idiot is already gesticulating to the beginning beats. Your phone is an unreachable hostage in his flapping hands. You’re about to lunge for it but he preempts the attack by smothering you with your own hood. “Tae.” Your whining sounds all the more pitiful muffled. “Everyfing hurfs. ‘m hungover. Pleathe.” 

Taehyung relents after further, strangled pleas. Unwraps you with a grin that grows like the sunrise. For a moment, you’re dazzled. “Sorry. No more torture,” he chuckles all low, hair in his eyes. His locks are long and always untamed. An aureate crown befitting of his celebrity status. 

One swipe and he’s muted the racket and returned your phone. You turn the sticky thing over in your hands, rueing the day you met the overgrown imp. “How did you get it this dirty…?”

You go ignored and Taehyung gets closer. He scrutinises your hunched and hoodied appearance with a thoughtful hum. “Headache?” A rounded nose and two brown eyes come into focus. "Hungover? How? I didn't see you go out last night."

Averse to such study, you shy away. "Well, I did." You did not. You stayed home and guzzled $4 Prosecco while lamenting your trash portfolio. But you aren’t about to regale him with that pitiful tale. The sheerness of shame prevents you. Taehyung would be so sweet about it, too! So buoying, with his sunny smiles and fervent encouragement: "Why were you crying over that?!" He'd ask. "Your work is amazing. Seriously amazing. I love everything you do!" He'd gush. "People will be stumbling over themselves to hire you!" He'd continue, naively. And that hurts the most, because he just doesn't get it. Taehyung is a sponsored, collegiate athlete that's graduating into a guaranteed draft. He is—and always has been—praised widely as up-and-coming. The kid has had scouts scrapping for him mid-way through high school!

You, however, are small fry, swimming in a shoal of other unknowns, leaping for the hook of internship. Your dreams of animating for Disney died long back. They dwelled with Walt now.

But you don’t resent Taehyung for any of it. Ever. He’s a paragon. Born for the limelight. Has sweat and bled oceans for it. And for some reason he insists that you, too, are deserving of that same renown. Why? He’s ridiculous. Far too kind. And—Christ, he has a big dick.

"Taehyung, can you please not shove your tiny fucking penis in my face while I'm trying to eat? I'm nauseous enough as it is."

The soccer captain rests a foot on the seat next to you, giving you ungainly insight into his crotch. Taehyung, as he often, inexplicably is, is clad only in his boxer-briefs. This would be alarming were it not so goddamn commonplace. He is allergic to clothes.

According to him, he’s a naturist. 

According to you, he’s an attention whore.

Taehyung points to his elevated foot, but it's a little difficult to ignore the bulge he's brandishing. "Do you understand the concept of inappropriate proximity and your current state of undress?" You rattle on, words slurred half by OJ, half by fluster. He simply points again, and with more insistence. Relenting, you follow the line of his finger to his pretty, if gigantic, foot. Then notice the ink around his ankle, black and fresh. "Oh, wow, you got a tattoo? Cool!"

"Yep! I didn't ever really think about getting one 'til I saw yours. They were so cool I became kinda obsessed with getting one. So I finally did it last night."

‘Til he saw yours? Your stomach flutters. It's not the nausea. You smother it with more orange juice. "Well, that's awesome, Tae. You'll probably want more eventually. I would've gone with you if I'd known you were gonna go alone."

Finally, he lowers his leg. It’s a small mercy. But then, for no discernible, earthly reason, Taehyung begins flexing his many defined muscles. His calves in particular catch your attention. They’re so goddamned thick. They ripple. Fucking soccer players. "Hm? Oh, I wasn't alone. I went with some guys from the team." He ogles his reflection in the microwave door.

How can you avert your eyes when his pecs dance so compellingly? It all becomes a bit too much. "Okay, what are you doing? Seriously, what? I know you're into yourself, but this is ridiculous.” He stops. Snorts. Thank God. “If you were with the guys, why did you come back here last night? I thought you’d go back to your dorm."

Finally Taehyung sits, but he’s spread-legged and that’s perhaps worse than what he was doing just now. He’s 6ft of pure, hewn sex and just so fucking casual about it. He reclines. "Some of them took girls home last night so I needed somewhere to go and you're always an open door." Finger guns follow a cheesy wink.

You scoff, but he's right. You’d do anything for the big-hearted clown. Open door? You'd be the doormat under his soccer cleats, licking them free of dirt— "You're lucky Areum isn’t here right now. Don't think she’d take kindly to having some almost-naked oaf clambering into her bed."

"You say that, but she’s tried to hit this several times.” Taehyung is smug, brows high on his forehead. Yours lower harshly. “Tell her I slept in her bed last night. She’ll cream herself thinking about it later, I guarantee you."

“You’re gross. And can you stop—why do you keep flexing? There’s just me here.” You peer about for emphasis. Taehyung is again admiring his form in some burnished surface. “No-one is looking. Or cares.” Contrarily, you’re doing both those things. But he needn’t be privy to that. 

"This is serious. I need to work on my angles.” He contorts himself into something of a pretzel to peek at his back muscles. “We're holding a hook-up auction at our dorm to raise money for a graduation blow-out. And I'm on sale. Do you think I need to work on my back?"

You ease into a squint. "When you said serious, I thought serious words were about to follow."

"I am being serious!" Again Taehyung flexes, biceps bulging by his ears like an overfed turkey’s thighs. "How much do you think I'm worth?"

The world.

"I dunno. I'd take you for free, I guess, if you were the last one left."

Taehyung is unperturbed by your acerbic wit. It ricochets off him like rubber bullets would a muscle-bound ox. He is your greatest adversary. The bastard lacquers his lips until they’re plump and glossy and boasting a smirk. 

He’s always doing this. 

Always moistening himself. 

"Oh yeah? Well, I think you'll be disappointed." A boxy smile emerges. "I got girls and guys already approaching me about it. Some of the guys literally just wanna buy me for mentoring. I mean, that’s more effort than kissing, but—" He shrugs. The thought goes unfinished.

"That makes sense. You are a God among these mere mortals, Taetae." It's not sarcasm this time. Taehyung senses it. The grin he returns is life-affirming. You're so close to reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. Telling him you're proud. Telling him you most likely, maybe, love him. But you notice you've dragged your sleeve through peanut butter—”Ah, shit,”—and you can tell him how you feel some other day.

Some other day.

"Some of them just wanna make out too, of course, and, like, I'm happy to comply. It's all for charity." His altruism knows no limits.

"Charity, huh?" You snort. Taehyung's mouth grows more square at your incredulity. "Who else is up for bidding, then?"

"Mostly guys from the team and dorm. There are some mutuals who just wanna get in on the action, too. Uh, you know Kim Namjoon?" He measures your reaction. When you give none: "Jeon Jungkook?"

Disinterest mellows your features. "Oh, right. Cool."

"So you don't like Jeon Jungkook?" Taehyung's eyes are eager, his body poised. Anticipating.

"What? No. What gave you that idea? I've talked to him, like, twice." Your face crumples as you towel your soiled sleeve. The peanut butter smears into a tragic, shit-brown stain. "Damn, that's never coming out."

"He's gonna be so disappointed. He might even cry." Taehyung heaves a hammy sigh and clutches at his breast. There’s nothing the captain enjoys more than clowning his subordinates.  "Kook likes you so much. He's really into your whole androgynous fuckboi thing you got going on. He literally said, 'She's like a mystery, man. I'm not sure if she's a girl or a guy and—like, I'm not like that, but that's hot.'"

If your eyes could roll past the bounds of their sockets, they would. "Wow, what a poet. He sounds like a douchebag and I'm even less interested now. Fuckboi? Is that really the vibe I give off?" You don't fuck full stop. Nor were you aware you could dress like you do. 

"I dunno. You just seem kinda like a gremlin to me. Or like that weird guy from Death Note," Taehyung is quick to reassure you. Cool. You’re fucking overjoyed that he perceives you that way. Not as a goddess, or his beautiful, sexy soulmate, or the princess that wanders the spires of his captive heart. No. A gremlin. Or L.

"Well, you got me there, son."

"What about Kim Namjoon?" Taehyung presses, urgent again. He picks at your bread crusts with one hand, head cradled delicately in the other. The boy could be a world-class model, too. His loose, dark curls hang like a Van Gogh nightscape, framing the planes of his unmarred face. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be looked at.

A self-conscious shuffle. "What about him? I don't know who that is." You flick away his foraging fingers but he draws you into an impromptu game of thumb-war in retaliation. It's the only thing to extract a smile from you today.

Taehyung looks sceptical. "He's the physio student with our team! You literally talked to him all day during this season's semi-final." His lengthy digits best yours easily. But though the match is won, he doesn’t withdraw his hand. Instead he encroaches further. Thumbs your wrist. Encompasses your knuckles in a soft, warm palm. He’s clasping you like an enamoured suitor might their bashful sweetheart, and it’s very strange. What is he doing? His mind looks to be elsewhere, now.

"Uh...—oh. Oh." Yours ambles back to you. "Yeah, he was really nice, but you know my rule. No—"

"—dating in final year. Yeah, I know. I'll tell him that if he asks about you again." Taehyung has returned, too. His hand is gone. Your gooseflesh ebbs with it.

With a cough, you sober. "I think the auction's a bit stupid, really, Tae. You sure you wanna do it?"

"Stupid? Why?" He shimmies in close, smug on his face and intolerably naked the rest of the way down. His skin is hot and golden and just far too close. "You're only saying that because you're jealous, right?" He tickles your chin to keep you honest and your eyes on him. You seize and squeeze the offending hand because he might be right and now you’re embarrassed. "The thought of me making out with someone else is ruining you," he goes on to say, brazen as the smirk defiling his cherubic cheeks.

"Some rather large conclusion-jumping going on there," you smile, sweet as sugared cyanide. Your vice-grip tightens until he’s pouting in repentance. "I meant it's stupid to put yourself in a potentially uncomfortable situation if you don't want to kiss that person." 

"I'm just joking!" he whimpers like the overlarge puppy he is and you free him of his snare. Because you would die for this big, soppy boy and his big, soppy eyes. “You’re so grouchy today.”

‘The joke won’t land if it collides with the truth, Taehyung,’ you muse. You expect him to know this despite never having apprised him of your situation. You’re jealous and cowardly and completely unreasonable. You want him for yourself but you never want him to know that. 

If he wants your candour he should be a telepath. Simple.

Irritated by your own nonsense, you lash out at the unsuspecting boy. "You know what? I was joking, too. I remember Namjoon, he was hot. And smart. I think I'll cheat on my dating ban this once and bid on him. He has super nice lips, so." 

Taehyung simply smiles. "Oh, okay. Cool! Glad you’re gonna come along." 

Your threat proves ineffective because he doesn’t like you like that. Wouldn’t give a shit if Namjoon rawed you on stage while you stared him down. You stall on that thought because it’s kinda hot. “It’ll be great. Can’t wait to get my tongue down his throat.”

“Hell yeah! I knew you liked him.”

Yep, Taehyung is oblivious to your pining. As he should be. Because outwardly, your pining consists of nothing more than the odd, lingering look here and there. The balled-up sketches of him he will never see. A secret smile if you’re feeling particularly sentimental. Other than that, you're steely. Poker-faced. Rarely blind-sided by his allure, especially now that you've acclimated to his penchant for exhibitionism. 

 "Thank you in advance for your patronage." Rising from his seat, Taehyung comes to a stand behind you and leans. Encircles your shoulders with his terribly athletic arms and puts his lips to your ear. You're like a feral cat in the arms of a senseless child. You're bristling. "If he turns out to be a jerk and tries something he shouldn't, I'll protect you." For a moment, you're touched enough to unclench a little. "With these guns." And then you choke between his straining biceps and vie to repay him in kind.

----

The common room of Taehyung's dorm has been crudely transformed. Some questionable construction has taken place in order to build the catwalk centrepiece. Sofas and tables line the walls, thrust from the limelight. You've occupied the drinks table for the last 45 minutes, from the second you entered this place. You harbour an intense dislike for the chaotic energy of Taehyung's dorm. Machismo rages noisily between these walls and you much prefer less testosterone-drenched environments. Nevertheless, despite it all you're here on an endeavour this evening. One your idiot, rampant mouth has obligated you to. To buy time with a guy that's perfectly nice and all, but isn’t Taehyung.

Kim Namjoon makes eyes at you from the head of the runway, awaiting his musical cue. The beer you just slurped down bubbles up. You have to look away. Unfortunately, when you do, Taehyung is immediately there, his face in yours, his thumb and fingers pulling at your cheeks. "Hey you, don't get too drunk, okay? I don't trust a single man here. Especially not nice-as-pie Namjoon." 

Nice-as-pie Namjoon has chosen some Bruno Mars track by the sounds of it. The auction-goers' excitement ramps up considerably.

Unable to move your captured face, your eyes sweep the room. "Not even your own teammates?" you scoff cynically, swatting at his hands until he’s baited into a game of slapsies. "Now who sounds jealous?" 

Taehyung stops for a moment, thoughtful. "You know, you're right. I'm extremely jealous. I want Namjoon all to myself. He gives the best massages. And a happy ending when I ask nicely." And then he's back to rough-housing you, slapping your upper arms to alternating beats. "You look cute tonight. Your outfit, I mean," he offers up out of nowhere, so quiet you almost lose it to the bass. "He's lucky."

But you look exactly the same as you did earlier that day. Exactly the same as that afternoon in the cafeteria when he ribbed you for raiding Billie Eilish's Good Will donations. "Um, thanks. I guess." You're genuine, but don’t sound it. You can't look at him for fear of revealing the dopey grin that has hijacked your face.

"You're welcome, buddy." A large palm flattens your hair. His fingers get all in there, ruffling it until it probably looks more akin a bird's nest. Is Taehyung trying to sabotage you? Also, buddy? "Look, Namjoon's walking." 

You turn and see that he is. Strutting, moreover, albeit awkwardly. It's obvious that the lanky boy is unaccustomed to the same attention the team he services is. Nevertheless, there are whoops and hollers aplenty for the handsome blonde dork, and you, too, catch yourself smiling. How can you not, when he pokes at his dimples so? The others seem captivated, too, though less by the  finger-hearts and more by his form-fitting tracksuit. 

“I’d wrap my car around a tree if he was the tree,” one auction-goer confides to her friend. “And then I’d wrap my legs around—”

“Yeah, we get it Lisa.”

Lisa quiets. 

Namjoon’s endless legs sidle to a stop at the catwalk's end, directly opposite you. His bespectacled eyes meet your bespectacled eyes. For one, long second, the interest is palpable.  But then he breaks, and casts his gaze down to his FILAs. 

"Okay, he's, like, in love with you, I think," Taehyung whisper-yells, hands aflurry in applause. "Are you gonna bid?"

Shouts puncture the cheering either side of the room.

"$10!"

"$20!"

Neither of them are you.

The evening’s auctioneer - Taehyung's partner-in-slime Park Jimin - echoes each cry that rings out, giggling into a tinny karaoke mic. "$20 for our team physio?! Is that all you got ladies and gents? Do I have to remind you this guy can grope away pain with his magic hands?"

Namjoon spins toward Jimin's makeshift podium of an upturned bookcase and menaces him with his eyes. Well, it would be menacing were the man not as threatening as a ribbon-wrapped basket of newborn sloths.

The striker backpedals. "Okay, the massage might not be included, but don't let that deter you! He kisses like a pro!"

Screams of how do you know that, Jimin?! erupt and the throng grows ever more wild. Namjoon is redder than the cup you're strangling.

"Are you gonna bid?! You're gonna miss your chance!" For some reason Taehyung is still here, harassment game still strong. He should be preparing to walk next, but sees fit to pester you instead. And because of that, he's caught you in your lie, bare-faced and blushing.

No, you are not going to bid on Kim Namjoon.

"Uh, oh no, I forgot my purse," you grumble around the rim of your next drink, gulping it down like the bottom is your way out of this God-awful situation.

Then what are you doing here?

"It's right there." Taehyung pokes the cross-body bag hanging traitorously by your side.

"Oh, is it?" You reach for another cup even while burdened with one. Anything to sidetrack this conversation.

Taehyung intervenes with a firm hand. Swaddles your knuckles ‘til the shaking stops. You’re shaking? Beer slops over the sides, unnoticed. “___?”

Stupid, warm hand. And why are his fingers so fucking delicate for a footballer? He should model jewellery. Wedding rings.

Yours.

His ringless fingers close around your wrist when you persist in avoiding his gaze. The ruse is almost up. Fuck. There’s nothing left to do but to look at him. 

You do, ever so timidly. “What?”

"What are you doing?" Puzzlement becomes him well. Why is he so goddamn handsome? "If you aren't gonna bid on Namjoon, why did you come?"

Silence, but for the pump of background Bruno Mars.

‘You. I came for you. You were the plan all along. Not him,’ your mind screams.

You, however, just stare.

"Going—going—gone! Sold for $70! Come claim your kiss!" Jimin can hardly stop himself from squealing. For a guy that beds girls on the daily, his sincere excitement over simple lip-locking is amusing.

Taehyung's teammates hail him from the drapery behind the catwalk but he won't yet go. No, he insists on searing holes into the side of your face while you watch Namjoon get sloppy on-stage with some girl you don't know. They're really getting into it. Damn, he forgot about you quick. In  their fervour they edge towards the bounds of the catwalk, too absorbed in one another to notice. Thankfully, voyeuristic bystanders are on-hand to catch them before they fall.

"Kim Taehyung! How many times do I have to call you?! Get over here before I kick your fucking ass," Jungkook roars across the hubbub, halfway through the room. He  enacts the violent gesture for emphasis and knees some unsuspecting girl in the ass. Immediately the macho facade drops and he's all doe-eyed and buck-toothed, prostrating himself before the girl who actually seems grateful to have been assaulted by one Jeon Jungkook. Between his hushed apologies, Jungkook shoots Taehyung a look something murderous. And then he sees you and throws a shy wave, the kind a little kid might when cajoled by his parents.

"Ew." The word comes up involuntarily, like bile.

A deep cackle emanates from beside you. "Okay, guess I'm up." Taehyung squares his shoulders. His mouth, too. He's a very angular boy. "Better get my kit on. Cheer for me!" With a pat to your shoulder, he makes for Jungkook. Leaves you with an insidious dread. His soccer kit is your weakness. 

No, he is your weakness.

"Next up - and I'm sure most of you here tonight are anticipating this guy - our very own Team Captain and soon-to-be Major League Soccer player, Kim Taehyung!" Banshee-shrieking reverberates at Jimin's announcement. "Stick around, he'll be out in a few minutes!"

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. You turn from the catwalk and fully embrace the drinks table, supporting yourself with two hands and God's grace.

Nah, you aren't gonna do this.

No way.

This wasn’t an actual plan. Just a fantasy.

You're not gonna tell him like this.

You're not gonna tell him ever.

All you have to do is just say you turned out to support him. You rarely get to go out with him anyway, what with his ever-growing entourage. Taehyung would appreciate that, and he'd never have to know that you came here for cornier purposes.

You're not a big gesture kind of girl.

Nah, you aren't gonna do this.

Distantly, you wished Areum were here. She'd have slapped some sense into you, maybe even literally.

No. Wait.

The devious cow would've talked you into doing it. For sure. She has a flair for the dramatic.

"Sorry, can I just—thanks." Someone with offensively bony elbows bulldozes you aside and passes a drink to her companion. An apology is on the tip of your tongue but evaporates into the ether upon seeing the twosome in question. Both were complicit in the casual bullying you endured during your high school years. They don't appear to recognise you now. Not that they even spare your pitiful person a glance.

"Who's up next?" the worst one queries, cup snug to her bosom.

"Taehyung," the lackey answers, glee upending her petulant features. "Kim Taehyung."

An elbow jabs you again as the girl struggles with the clasp on her clutch. Her overlong claws impede her. "Oh shit, already? I thought we had more time. Shit."

"Nope. It's go time. Hurry up, girl, competition's gonna be fierce." The other one watches her digital acrobatics to get into her purse.

Oh God. She has so much money. There's no doubt in your mind she'll trump everyone present.

No. Oh, no.

Not her. Not with him.

Your mind flits through premonitions of the future. They’re all  rather grim. The last one is that of a wedding. A marriage between this dreadful bitch and your most cherished of friends, Taehyung. It's garish and tacky - she's denied him input, of course - and the ceremony is filled with faces that once mocked you mercilessly. None of Taehyung's friends are there; indeed, he is no longer even part of his team. Her possessiveness and his undying loyalty have put an end to his blossoming career. He looks sad beneath a mask of happy. Eyes that once blazed with the embers of ambition are doused by despondency. He is a husk.

And their first meeting is this auction, this cute anecdotal encounter of oh, I just had to have him, and when I kissed him I knew.

Just a glimpse at this dystopian future disturbs you silly. Conviction, while tentative, burgeons in your heart.

You can't let her have him. Anyone but this noxious cunt.

And suddenly you've money in hand, too. Bills you withdrew specifically for this purpose, and yet would sooner have left them crisp and cold in your purse than followed through. But public humiliation is endlessly preferable to damning Taehyung to a kiss with this serpent. Because it won't stop there. It won't just be a kiss but an appeal for more. She’ll say it’s no strings attached, but she doesn't attach strings. She weaves webs. You recall her high school boyfriend. He was a well-performing, jovial guy that always waved hi. And she consumed him, heart-first, ‘til he was naught but a sunken-eyed zombie. He took a leave of absence that never ended.

Sexy, dangerous synth sounds from the speakers either side the catwalk. Ah, shit. Not that song. Any song but that one. NCT U’s Baby Don’t Stop. Of course Taehyung picked that. It fills the air with a fatal drum beat and in he comes through the curtains, strutting like he is the rhythm. The room, rather than become uproarious, falls eerily quiet. Everyone breathes as one entranced being, and no one moves but him. Halfway down the catwalk he body-rolls with the fluidity of wind-rippled satin, burgeoning from his chest and snapping at the hips. Prospective bidders gasp, as do you. And then his thumb is in the hem of his shirt, luring it upwards, exposing his olive expanses inch by mouthwatering inch. You see his abs near every day, but in this context, backed by that song, you find yourself as winded as everyone else. His stomach tautens for show, feeding into loose-waisted shorts that sit far too low. Even you haven’t been privy to this much. And especially not the alluring trail of hair that thickens at his waistband.

Someone shatters the stupor and screams, “$80!”

“Geez, you’re a horny bunch.” Jimin’s laughter peals. “We already have $80. Any advance on—“

“$100!” Some breathless sap cries next. “Oh my God, look at his thighs!”

And look you do. Taehyung grooves at the catwalk’s end, shirt back in place but hiking up the hems of his shorts instead.  You almost glimpse groin. He’s absolutely shameless, straining the muscles of his thighs until they’re lewdly pronounced. They’re veritable tree trunks. His calves, too, defy belief. Rock-hard and rounded and begging to be bitten. The party-goers crowding round his feet must think similarly. 

What distracts you most, however, are Taehyung’s straying fingers. They skirt his crotch in a salacious manner, stretching the material where it shouldn’t. Accentuating things they shouldn’t. You may pass out.

All the while his eyes are down, maybe closed. You want to see his face more than anything. The playful smirk on his plump, wet lips and the focus in his brows. 

“$120!!” You almost lose your head to a cash-strangling fist beside you.

It's her. Pointy-elbowed bitch.

But you aren't thrusting your student loan up just yet. You're in the middle of an almost holy, revelatory experience. Taehyung is still undulating and provoking the crowd, who are no longer hushed but whooping like chimps in heat. His shirt is off and helicoptering overhead. He allows one overcome girl at the sidelines to verify the thew of his biceps and bags himself another bid. You, however, do nothing but gawp, bills clutched to your chest and your eyes affixed to the glorious grin that breaks across his face. His eyes open onto you and then it's you you see at his wedding, standing afore him, bouquet instead of a wad of cash. You want to be the one. Now is the moment, while he's watching you envision this.

"$200,” you splutter. Volume is difficult when your voice is a quivering inconstant.

"What was that? Did we just get another bid?" Jimin wavers too, out of disbelief. "Did someone say $200?!"

The room is a clamour of confusion but Taehyung watched you mouth the very syllables. The shock is such that it softens his salacious movements to a dance more modest. His eyes are wider than you've ever seen them; mouth too. It hangs agape and downturned, as yours does. Because you're not quite sure whether you said something else altogether. Maybe you hurled a cuss word out of frustration? Did you momentarily black out and proclaim Hitler did nothing wrong? Nothing else can account for the scrutiny with which he punishes you with now.

Or.

You actually did bid, and that's why he's walking over, to the very drop-off of the catwalk, no longer any swagger to his step. "What are you doing?" he calls down, the music still strong and now strangely inappropriate. You simply watch the mole beneath his bottom lip move, dumb.

Louder, now, you call again. "$200!"

"Oh! It was a bid! ____?!" The flame-haired MC shares his puzzlement with the rest of the reacting room. All heads turn toward you.

But yours turns nowhere but Taehyung, your expression an open book of long-hidden liking. You watch, suspended by dissociation, as he lays a palm flat against his chest. "Me?"

It could all still be explained away. A joke. You drank too much. You just wanted to see the look on his face. Instead, you grant him the minutest of nods. A simple tip of the chin. "You," you whisper, whether it's heard or not.

Taehyung sees it in the shape your lips make. And then his gaze sweeps back upward, his chest heaving far too much for a man standing stationary.

"What's going on?" The disgruntled echo each other.

Jimin is quick to make sense of things and keep it rolling. "Okay, so, a bid of $200! Anyone else?"

A new song comes on; it's gone on too long. Something with a cantering beat that's adequately sentimental.

So if love is nothing more than just a waste of your time—

Clambering atop the platform, you counter someone's desperate bid of $220 with a measured breath. "$250." You hold Taehyung at fingerpoint. "You."

Waste it on me.

For a pants-shitting second, nothing happens. Your outstretched arm gains a tremor that could crumble it. Taehyung sifts your soul with his big, dewy eyes and then he's walking. Stalking toward you. Knocks the money from your hands and seizes your shying face with both of his. The last thing you see is his nose mole before his mouth joins with yours. His grip is like a vice and his lips are no gentler. They pry you open with little effort and then you're flooded with wet heat. Taehyung is insatiable in pursuit of your tongue. His hands drop to draw in your waist, your chest, every inch of your overclothed form. He's underclothed but burning hot, planes of honed skin beneath your fingertips. It's all so right. Feels so good. Taehyung moans that much into you when he chances a breath of air. Applause starts up as the music swells. It's so cliche but you've never had a cliche of your own before and your gloom-ridden ass needs this.

"Going—"

"I didn't know. I wish I had. This would've happened sooner," Taehyung gasps between desperate, too-short smooches. It proves too difficult to resist the pull of your mouth and he captures it again, sloppier. Slower.

"Going—"

"It doesn't matter." You pull the oxygen in, impatient. "Doesn't matter." Your fingers are a tangle at the nape of his neck, tugging on his lustrous locks. "Make up for it."

"Gone! Sold for $250!"

The two of you won't be parted for a moment. Not even when dismounting the platform. There's ruckus around you but it's so distant when his lips are on you. You sink into him like you would a scalding bath. "You don't have to pay that," Taehyung tells your cheek, smearing his saliva-slick mouth back to yours. His greed for you manifests against your stomach, and you ache in return. "This is a freebie."

Your passionate clinch takes you to the sidelines, away from prying eyes. Most of them, anyway. "What about this?" Your hands are suddenly in unseemly places.

"Th-That's also free. Everything's free. Oh, God."

[zorkaya-moved]

Lilia :thinking:

@crimsontyrant

Recommend romantic candidates for my muses and see their reaction! (x) ― CURRENT CANDIDATE: Lilia Vanrouge.

" Lilia Vanrouge, huh... This one is hard to call a possible romantic candidate. He is smart, far smarter than anyone would ever expect and I can respect it, but the way he presents himself does rub me the wrong way. Not in a sense that his personality is bad, but he's more unpredictable than anyone I've met at Night Raven College. Others, I can expect to do certain things, but with Lilia it's must harder. I prefer to being in control of certain information, but with him it's not enough to keep me on a good side for now. I do like when people act unpredictable, but with him it's enough to cause me to be wary of him. There are a lot of things I don't know and it's hard to fully discern what type of person he is. He is one of the people that makes me think of myself but also a version of me that... I'll never reach, so it can be a bit of a bitter topic. It's hard to explain, so I will not waste our time. "

Zarina rubs the bridge of her nose with her gloved hands. There are far more troubles when it came to Lilia specifically. Unlike Malleus who had certain moments she could find a way to escape and avoid, Vanrouge seemed like he was far more aware of topics that she would've liked to keep a secret or not expose.

" Well, I think certain things that would make him a good date would be his choice in music and his talents as a musician as much as his wisdom that he tends to share every once in a while when his mood asks or the situations needs it. I can appreciate him finding time and place to switch from the friendly and light-hearted manner into someone who can bite, and bite hard enough to make you lose your whole arm if you're not careful. He is powerful, his power not only lies in his magic capabilities but also in the fact that he can hide himself rather well. I do not know if he is genuinely so nice or not, this makes me become uncertain and I do not really enjoy this sensation; with most it's at least some weight to the other side, but with Lilia it feels like a perfect 50/50. Haa, I think what I don't like the most is the fact that I admit he knows more than he lets on and any time he would smile knowingly at me, it makes me feel like I'm walking on needles. In shoes, thankfully, but any misstep and something bad would happen. I am wary of him because of his intelligence, I cannot trust him. At least, we haven't interacted enough for me to change my opinion as much. It's different than with Leona because Lilia's rumors make me conclude that as fae he's far older than anyone would claim and he's got more tricks up his sleeve, I'm not stupid to think he is... " She shakes her head, the talk of fae must stop right now.

" Never mind. What I mean is that we wouldn't be compatible. I have a very different approach to life and as much as I find it quite fun to mess with people, the mystery surrounding him is far bigger than same Malleus. I would need to spend more time with him to find any plausible means for us to ever come closer because I'm talking about how I would feel dating him. As of now, I feel he would be more patronizing to me than anything else. I don't know what brings this thought in. I am probably wrong and it's only my lack of knowledge trying to fill the blanks to justify not getting closer to him. Ugh, it just feels like if I will get closer, it's not me who will gain information but he will. I would say that if he was the last person in Twisted Island, I would date him. Hm, if there were a hundred people left as well, but I do need to learn more about him to have more reasons to think he would be a good candidate. Right now, he simply feels more like a threat than a romantic candidate. "

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - The Delta Paradox. Chapter 1: Deceit

Rumor is the outbreak spreading like fire around the world is somehow Dr. Morbius’ fault: people turned into monsters after getting bitten by the ones already ravaged beyond the irreversible mutation. The last news broadcasted four months ago suggested not all creatures are mindless beasts, a few might still remember who they are and The Joker is about to find out if the story is true.

“Dad…” you whisper and point at the box on the shelves. “I found some peas.”

The Joker turns around and silently walks your way, signaling you to fill up your backpack while he patiently waits for his turn.

The King of Gotham and his 23 year old daughter are scavenging the convenience store on Halsey Street for supplies: food was running low and they had to come out of the bunker in order to acquire basic necessities.

It’s hard to see in the darkness with the tiniest flashlight since they can’t risk being detected.

“Did you find water?” you mumble under your breath.

“No.”

“Dammit, we only have six bottles left,” you sigh, upset at his disclosure. “Should we raid the mall too?”

The Joker covers your mouth, carefully listening.

You can’t discern much until an unnerving screech echoes in the air followed by others in the next second.

“Ssstttt,” J removes the restrain and you clutch to his arm, scared to death.

“Dad…”, you gulp at the commotion happening in the distance: the creatures are probably hunting and you are not willing to become the prey.

“What do we do?” you barely utter and The Clown shakes his head, worried.

“Let’s use the sewers entrance by the dumpster to make it passed the dangerous radius; it’s still open from last time we were here.”

“Ok…” Y/N quietly agrees.

J adds the rest of the containers to his rucksack and lifts it up when he accidentally knocks off a light bulb: the fragile glass shatters to pieces and the two of you stare at each other terrified for a few moments.

The turmoil outside immediately intensifies as The Joker urges:

“Run!”

The panicked Y/N follows her father and she can’t even hear what he’s saying over the deafening roars that seem to come from above the building. Suddenly, the mad man turns and gives you a violent push against the loading dock exit; it’s so unexpected you stumble and before you have the possibility to process what’s going on, J locks it.

“Dad?!” your eyes pop at the small, broken window just to distinguish him backing away. “Dad?!” you start crying. “What are you doing?! Let me in!” The Princess pleads with her parent.

The Joker bites his lip, conflicted at his desire to survive no matter the cost: even if the price to pay is his own daughter.

“Daddy?!” Y/N sobs, petrified at his behavior. “Please?...”

“Better you than me,” he grumbles and runs in the opposite direction, covering his ears when your screams reach him. J rushes out of the shop and drops in the sewer, three monsters already on his trail attempting to grab him; yet they fail because thankfully these beasts are so much larger than the humans they used to be: they can’t fit through the narrow gap The Joker used.

Your father keeps navigating the convoluted catacombs in the darkness while the dim flashlight fails to warn him of the obstacle floating in front of him. He staggers on the dead dog and plunges in the disgusting waters, instantly resurfacing after the initial shock of how bad it stinks. J crawls to near the concrete wall, panting up a storm succeeding the whole ordeal and it hits him: Y/N didn’t pursue.

How could she? The Clown sacrificed his daughter in order to save himself and her agony still resonate in his mind. She was brutally ambushed without any chance of escaping her fate: The Joker made sure of that when he forced her out of the mini-market.

The same daughter that came back for him at the Penthouse when it was clear things are going downhill - no other gang member ever returned; the same daughter that accompanied him in their perilous searching trips as it all went to shit; the same daughter that took care of him when he got sick in the bunker and risked her life in order to bring her father antibiotics; the same daughter that was the only family he had left on this God forsaken planet.

And now she’s gone.

The Joker is all alone like he was always meant to be: nothing can withstand his poison.

**************

8 Months Later

The King of Gotham sneaks in the blackness with precious cargo: tonight was a lucky one. He found soda, crackers and peanuts at a vending machine inside the mall. The road to the bunker is not a short one and he has to be alert; food is scarce and each time he has to venture further and further to find needed items which is why he’s still roaming at this late hour.

Surprisingly calm atmosphere in this neighborhood; J saw a lot of creatures on McCormick Avenue and then an infested Main Boulevard made him backtrack and take this path. It was the correct call because his progress has been steady: moving in shadows has developed into a skillful talent.

He abruptly stops noticing movement blocking his route West of 5th Street. The Joker had no idea it’s swarming with the infected also.

J barely notices something splattering at his feet and freezes: it’s difficult to discern what it is but he has a vague concept. He looks up only to see one of the winged scouts landing on the broken light pole whilst drooling and sniffing the air. The Joker’s body is stiff, his senses sharpened to the maximum: what is he supposed to do? Try to leave? That’s an enormous risk and motion could unleash a chain reaction among the beasts if the one above identifies the helpless individual. Stay? The threat would be equally menacing.

The high pitch snarl belched by the demon’s throat makes him inhale in fear: was he spotted? Or is this merely a power display from the crazed predator?

The Joker feels there’s something behind him and before he can act a sharp pain in his forearm makes him yell. Another bite in his leg makes him lose balance and he collapses to the ground, unable to defend himself from the hoard. The burning sensation is taking over completely: the creatures tear his flesh apart and he passes out without having the strength to shout for help anymore.

*************

The Clown opens his eyes and rapidly blinks since the sunlight is hard to endure.

“Ugh…” he groans and rolls on his side on the concrete pavement.

Everything hurts, including the brain: it���s as if someone drilled holes and he can’t concentrate or form thoughts.

He aims to lift his torso off the walkway unsure why it’s strenuous to accomplish such a simple task; J doesn’t register the reason why is the different anatomy he now has: scaly, gray skin, long, distorted arms with sharp claws, inverted knees and membranous toes. The wings certainly don’t add to his ability to sport the same agility he was blessed with while still a person.

He finally manages to gather himself up, surprised to experience an odd sensation: The Joker is so much taller after his mutation and everything crushes down once the hideous reflection shown in the partially broken glass belonging to “Macy’s” department store glares back at him.

“Ahhh!” J blurs out alongside an uncanny roar emerging from his transmuted vocal cords. The frantic sound gets the attention of beasts in his vicinity, then they ignore him because he’s one of them.

“Fuck…” he mumbles in disbelief at their reaction, grateful they didn’t attack.  

The Joker’s raspy breath scores big with a creature nearby though.

Apparently a female due to her red orbs, she’s approaching the former human with a certain restrain.

The Joker would love to bail: unless he can control the horror of what’s happening to him in a few moments, he might get out of there in one piece.

The curious monster is inches away and J had nothing better to do than articulate:

“… Do you… understand me?”

“Grrrrrrr…” the female sneers, unraveling her fangs.

“Y/N… is that…is that you?” The Joker tosses the question out there for the lack of a better plan.

No answer, just a low howl that makes a few males digging in rubble unhappy: why is the group’s favorite displaying interest in the newcomer?

They shriek and emerge more and more agitated, drawing the attention of others in the proximity. The displeased attitude seems to elevate the mood in a negative direction to the point of having a large flock landing on the same street too.

“Crap…” The Joker assesses his situation and it’s not good. “Shoo!” he gently gives the female a nudge and she coos as her distorted fingers touch his grotesque face. Nevertheless, her gesture unlocks the gates of hell: the female’s keen dart towards the unfortunate Clown with the sole purpose of finishing him off. Competition is not tolerated from a rookie and that’s how The Joker is perceived by the mindless crowd--a threat to the hierarchy.

A loud, eerie scream covering all others makes the murderous bunch halt in their tracks: a humongous female leading the group that arrived moments ago is making them retreat. She keeps shoving them and growling while followed by a huge specimen: definitely The Alpha Male with his yellow eyes and dominant figure that don’t allow disobedience.

The party showing The Joker affection gives up on her advances as you stand in front of your father, not necessarily excited about the encounter.

“Dad?...” you smell the air out of habit.

“… … Y… Y/N?... …” The Joker stammers at the inexplicable revelation. “You… You’re alive??!!”

“If you consider this being alive.”

“Delta, we have to go soon!” one of your fighters announces. “They might snap again!”

Your parent is baffled and you bother to enlighten him a bit:

“I’m part of a coven made of turned humans still self-aware. You’re lucky we flew by and saw you. I felt you were born but I didn’t know it was you until I sniffed you. I wished I knew so I won’t waste my time!!!!” the bitter statement brings to life past memories. “Let’s go!” you raise your voice.

“We’re not taking him with us?!” The Alpha Male inquires, baffled. “He’s self -aware!”

“Trust me, we don’t need someone like him amidst us!” you spread your wings and prepare to fly.

“Y/N… “ The Joker gulps. “Can I come?... Please?... I don’t want to die here.”

Y/N ignores his plea and angrily replies:

“Better you than me!”

How can he justify his behavior in these circumstances? It’s impossible to request forgiveness when you’re at an obvious loss regarding your daughter.

“I’m sorry I did what I did, ok… Pumpkin?”

“I am NOT your Pumpkin!! I am Delta!!!” Y/N mutters.

“Huh?” the clueless King inquires and your obvious disapproval suggests you hate where the conversation is headed.

“Delta is more valuable than any of us and we must protect her at all costs until we find Morbius,” one of your companions gives away details you don’t care your father knowing about. “She can do incredible…”

“Enough!!” you cut him off. “We’re leaving!”

“What… what things?...” The Joker attempts to distract you from the imminent departure.  

“None of your business!” you float in the air, the other 40 sets of wings following you while he is left behind with the horde that made him an outcast: brainless monsters already clustering around once more in order to punish his transgression.

“Hey!!!” The Alpha Male glides on top of The Joker. “Delta said you can come!”

“Really?” hope flourishes in his heart.

“Hurry up before they shred you to pieces!”

“I don’t know how to fly!” J shouts.

“Don’t be an idiot! Move your shoulder blades!”

Your father would normally go ballistic at such affront but he actually ignores the disrespectful sentence due to the insane events leading to today’s reunion.

What other choice does he have besides taking advantage of this unique opportunity?

The Joker clumsily bumps into a trash bin and finally ascends towards the blue skies trying to keep up with the flock.

His daughter might be a mystery now but one thing is undeniable: he would rather suffer a thousand deaths before abandoning her again.

 Also read: Masterlist

https://diyunho.tumblr.com/post/153664676321/joker-x-reader-masterlist

You can also follow me on Ao3 and wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho

[fraink5-writes]

From Darkness Into the Lantern Light - Chapter 7

Unfortunately, we must leave the Crux behind, but only good things can now--for the readers at least.

Thank you very much, @leio13​, for editing!

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a cold-hearted queen. Although the Tsaritsa, as she was called, possessed her own divinity, she coveted the powers of the other Archons. Aiming to steal the Geo Archon’s gnosis, she sent her strongest warriors to Liyue Harbor. But just when Rex Lapis was almost defeated, he escaped to another vessel, that of a powerless baby, and was swept away to a hidden tower for his protection.

Many years after the great fight, the young and ambitious Harbinger, Childe, arrives in Liyue to grant the Tsaritsa’s desire, but, on his search for the Geo Archon’s gnosis, he ends up tangled in a mysterious man’s dreams to see Liyue Harbor’s Lantern Rite.

This chapter can also be found on Ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

Childe darted down the hall, glancing frequently at Zhongli to make sure he was keeping up. They had been so close earlier in the morning, yet now the distance felt insurmountable. In fact, his entire relationship with Zhongli was in the balance. Although he had already been losing his control over their trip to Liyue Harbor, the arrival of the Millelith had ousted him once and for all. Childe could no longer hide his criminal status. Any wrong move, and Zhongli would get rid of him. So, Childe restrained himself to doing only what was necessary: at the moment, running.

When the sound of frantic searching faded away, Zhongli jogged up to Childe. “That was unexpected.”

“Really?” Childe deflected his disappointment with a laugh. “Most people don’t have much hope for Snezhnayans.”

“Oh?” Zhongli cocked his head. “I didn’t realize. Sorry. I simply had not imagined that you would be good with children.”

Childe faltered. Then a laugh swelled up from his chest. “That is also an indispensable part of being an adventurer.”

“How so?”

“An adventurer needs someone to tell their stories to!”

Zhongli smiled warmly.

The rhythmic plod of boots came back into earshot. Childe changed tone. “They must have found our tunnel. Let’s keep going.”

With a nod, Zhongli and Childe took off side by side. 

As promised, the tunnel let out on the sandy beaches of Yaoguang Shoal. Theoretically, the Alcor was anchored somewhere on the sandbar, but Childe was not going to look for it. He didn’t want to cause the Crux Fleet any more trouble (or risk the possibility that the members guarding the boat were less friendly than those at the tavern.) “Get ready to get wet,” he warned Zhongli.

“I was under the impression that we’d be boarding Captain Beidou’s ship.” “Change of plans.”

Zhongli pouted, but Childe ignored him and started running westward under the large arch of stone. With no other choice, Zhongli trudged through the shallow waters after him.

“They won’t pursue us over the bridge,” Childe attempted to reassure Zhongli, pointing to a wooden bridge in the distance.

However, the bridge itself remained a problem. All the wooden planks had splintered. While Childe could easily spring across, Zhongli stumbled on the uneven boards, grabbing constantly at his falling hair. Childe quickly scooped up the fallen hair and stacked it in Zhongli’s arms. “Got it?” He asked, wrapping his right arm around Zhongli’s left for extra support. With Zhongli’s agreement, Childe helped him over the rickety surface.

But less than a third of the way across the river, the bridge had collapsed entirely. “We’re going to have to jump.”

“Jump across?”

“No, down.” Childe eyed the swarm of soldiers marching across the grass towards the bridge. “And fast.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped off and plunged into the water. Although shallow by river standards, the water was too deep for him and Zhongli to stand in. He hoisted himself onto a nearby floating wooden plank.

Zhongli remained atop the bridge. His weight danced nervously from foot to foot, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Zhongli!” Childe called out to him, holding out his arms.

Zhongli glanced frantically from Childe to the Milleliths, who were rapidly encroaching at the edge of the bridge. Finally, with a large sigh, he threw himself off the bridge, square into Childe’s arms.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Childe grinned. Zhongli, breathing heavily, clung silently to Childe’s jacket. “Alright, hang on.” After pulling Zhongli closer, Childe took off and sprinted across the wooden planks to the other shore.

When Childe made it ashore, and it was clear that the Millelith would not pursue any further, Zhongli climbed out of Childe’s arms. With a bit of straightening of his clothes and hair, he transformed back into a stern man. “Childe.”

“Mm?”

“I know very little of your history, nor do I believe I want to know.”

Childe gulped.

“But I have chosen to trust you. I hope you will not betray our contract.”

“Not a chance.” Even Childe himself couldn’t discern whether his smile was genuine. “If you so desire, I will take you to Liyue Harbor.”

“Thank you.”

"No need to thank me." The gratitude, which also stemmed from within, warmed Childe’s cheeks. “If that’s all, we should get going.”

***

Although Zhongli had not previously left his tower, it was painfully obvious that his tour was the farthest thing from normal. From his penchant for fighting to the military target on his head, his guide was undeniably a suspicious character. And this, naturally, bled into his navigation. After nearly escaping a police chase, Zhongli and Childe were still slinking around the plains like delinquents. More often than not, Zhongli found himself straying off the main road and hiding behind whatever was convenient (trees, stone walls, etc) while Childe kept watch.

Nevertheless, Zhongli was not deterred by the bizarre circumstances. Due to their ignorance about each other, Childe appeared to be trustworthy. Although dishonest, he had no capacity for malice against Zhongli, and, despite the many obstacles he created, he had a straight-forward commitment to the task given to him. 

From just about every angle, their favorable relationship was protected by their ignorance. So long as Zhongli kept hidden the secret of his hair, he was safe from rapacious hands. Similarly, Zhongli’s trust of Childe was contingent on his deliberate lack of knowledge pertaining to Childe’s actual potential for wrongdoing. 

Yet somehow Childe had subtly transformed into an intriguing exception to Zhongli’s rationality. To begin with, Zhongli’s idea to sneak away from the safety of his tower with Childe was already a gap in logic. But with every plastered-on smile, with every lightless gaze, Childe wormed deeper into Zhongli’s brain. Zhongli wanted to rip the mask off and investigate every mystery—his profound devotion, his tenderness towards children, his discarded dreams—and at the bottom of the fathomless darkness, he hoped to dig up a source of light.

At the moment, Zhongli sat by himself. In order to stay out of view of a second Millelith tower, Childe and Zhongli had ducked behind a small hill, against which Zhongli leaned as Childe scouted out the area. A song-like breeze played with Zhongli’s hair, carrying nostalgia in its wake. The golden leaves of the trees and the rocky field of grass rustled Zhongli’s heart. As he gazed out towards the horizon, he imagined a sea of flowers blossoming across the plains. Their fragrance enveloped him in a warm ache.

“Zhongli!” Childe shouted to Zhongli, although he was standing right above. “We need to go. This place is dangerous.” He peered over his shoulder. “Ugh.” He shoved Zhongli to the side moments before six missiles crashed into the rocks. Then without missing a beat, he charged after the source of the bombardment, armed with only daggers.

Zhongli staggered to his feet then ran after Childe towards the ruins ahead. However, the sight before him nearly liquefied his standing a second time: by the central pool, four ruin guards, eyes aglow, loomed over Childe. During Zhongli’s hesitation, Childe pounced at one of the guards, swiping rapidly at one of its legs. The giant machine was unfazed as it pushed Childe back with heavy steps. Childe gracefully ducked and leapt over its swinging arms. Then he jumped over a slab of stone and braced himself. The ruin guard lifted his foot and tripped, thudding to the ground. Before it could stand again, Childe sprung atop and rammed a dagger into the glowing cross on its back. It twitched silently then went dark. 

A giant arm slammed into Childe and threw him off the still machine, spinning after its fallen prey. Zhongli gripped his spear, but he couldn’t find an opening in its rotation. Plus, he couldn’t risk catching the attention of the other two guards by approaching. Childe rolled a few feet before bounding to his feet. He sprinted around the circular pool. Behind him, the dormant ruin guards grumbled, but he paid them no heed, watching intently as the whirling robot fell right into his trap. It landed with a mighty splash in the narrow pool. It gyrated ceaselessly even in the water, sending up a column of splashes. Nevertheless, Childe jumped onto its rotating head. As he was whipped in circles, he jammed his dagger into the guard’s eye right before being flung onto the stone.

Childe groaned but quickly rolled over when the two remaining ruin guards threatened to step on him. He stood shakily on his feet then charged under the legs of one of the guards. With each step, Childe’s leg almost gave way, but he would catch his balance with the other leg in the nick of time. Unsustainable as it was, he quickly collapsed on a patch of grass. Zhongli sprinted over, but he was not as fast as the nearby ruin guard. The ruin guard stomped the ground a hair’s breadth from Childe’s head. After narrowly dodging several blows, Childe jolted to his feet and around to the back of the machine. The robot whirled around right as Childe dropped to the ground and a rain of missiles slammed into the guard’s front. 

As the final ruin guard plodded over, Childe sent Zhongli a glance: stay hidden over there, it said. Zhongli ducked behind a nearby tree and readied his spear, waiting for his chance. The ruin guard towered over Childe then kicked him once—twice. Again and again. Despite the brutal assault, Childe’s glare insisted that Zhongli waited. Finally, the ruin guard’s foot slammed against Childe’s chest. Blood surged from his lips. 

That was the last straw. Zhongli pulled back his arm and launched his spear. But before it could land, a small knife cut through the air and pierced its eye.

“Ahaha…” A wispy laugh came from the nearby grass. “I did it…”

Zhongli darted towards Childe’s mangled body.

“How was that—” Childe coughed up droplets of blood—“for a fight?”

Zhongli had no time to process Childe’s question. “Hang in there, Childe.” He scrambled to lift Childe’s head into his lap.

“Did you know… Childe’s not my real name…”

“What?” Zhongli’s concentration broke.

“Sorry, all the spinning and blood loss has made me a little delirious.”

Zhongli shook his head. “Nevermind that. I need to help you.” He hastily opened Childe’s jacket and shirt. Childe’s chest was marked all over, some new, most old.

“Are you alright, Zhongli?” Childe spoke softly.

What an absurd question. “You must have hit your head quite badly. Don’t speak.”

Childe laughed lightly. “I’ll take that as a yes. Listen, I’ve been in my fair share of fights; I’ll be fine after resting a bit. But I won’t be able to accompany you to Liyue Harbor. You’ll have to go on your own. If you go south, you’ll see it. Or if you ask the Millelith, they will accompany you. They won’t be out to get you at least. Just leave me here.”

“I said don’t speak. You’re being ridiculous. You can rest after I heal you. And then you will be the one to accompany me to Liyue Harbor as per the contract.”

Childe just sighed in resignation.

“Please don’t do or say anything strange,” Zhongli asked as a final precaution. “I need to concentrate.” He carefully lifted his hair and placed it lightly on Childe’s chest.

“What are you…” Childe creaked.

“Shh.” Zhongli then wrapped Childe’s head, starting with the mouth, like an excessive scarf. Finally, he moved to the legs, bundling them tightly. 

Zhongli breathed deeply. Please, heal Childe. Slowly, a familiar amber glow crept up from the tips of his hair, encasing Childe. 

“Zhong… li?”

Zhongli gently touched his finger to Chide’s lips. After the heaving of Childe’s chest mellowed, Zhongli painstakingly removed his hair. Although many scars remained, Childe’s skin was soft and healthy. Zhongli lightly swept the hair from Childe’s sleeping face, carding through with delicate fingers. Although he knew that Childe would wake up in good health, Zhongli dreaded the moment’s end.

[nix-needs-coffee]

The Choice Between You and Chocolate

Prompt: “The choice was between you and chocolate.”

Jane leaves Anne and Katherine to their exploits in the kitchen.

AO3 Link

“I cannot believe you are abandoning me tonight,” Jane, dismayed at the thought, spoke softly. She rested her hand on Katherine’s forearm, as though waging an internal battle over whether to physically drag the girl along with her. She gave a gentle squeeze before letting her hand fall back to her side.

"I’m sorry, but the choice was between you and chocolate,” Katherine gave her a weak smile, feeling guilty about cancelling her plans to go out for dinner with some of the other girls in exchange for a night in with Anne and the promise of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. After a manic few weeks, she was not able to pass up the opportunity to swap her usual routine of makeup for a face mask, a cocktail at a bar for a cheap bottle of fizzy drink from Marks and Spencer, and heels for slippers.

“I know better than to stand between you and your sweet tooth, love. Keep an eye on Anne. You know how she is,” Jane looked over her shoulder wearily, her bottom lip held tightly between her teeth. She passed her keys back and forth between her hands, and tightened the hold on her lip.

Katherine could almost hear the prayer that Jane was reciting in her head for her kitchen to still be there when she returns home later. She smiled at her with a little more reassurance, hoping to assuage some of Jane’s hesitancy and encourage her to stick to her intended evening. “Go on. Have a great time. I’ll keep an eye on things here,” she assured.

“Right then. I’d better get going. The girls are waiting.”

“Have fun. Love you!” Katherine threw her arms around Jane and held on a little longer than was necessary, not quite feeling like she was repentant enough for the change in her plans.

“You as well. Love you too, sweetheart,” Jane whispered kissing her cheek. She gave Katherine’s back a pat before finally pulling away and walking out of the door.

“Ugh! About time! I thought she was going to camp out in the kitchen all night!” Anne screeched, making Katherine flinch and run to the window to ensure that Jane had not heard.

Thankfully, Jane’s retreating form gave no indication that she had heard the outburst. Katherine watched her walk away for another moment before she made her way into the kitchen.

“You ever made these before?” Anne dropped the bag of flour onto the counter, releasing a white cloud into the air. She looked at Katherine expectantly, as though waiting for Katherine to step in and take over.’

“Erm, no. I thought you had.”

“Just follow the recipe, yeah? How hard can it be?”

Katherine watched on with amusement as Anne placed her hand on the kitchen scale and applied pressure until she was able to get it to read a specific number that Katherine was unable to discern.

“Right,” she announced once she hit her target number, “Best get on with it then.” She began to pour flour from the bag directly onto the scale.

“Anne, shouldn’t we use a bowl or something to measure out the ingredients we’re weighing?” Katherine asked trying to sound more confident than she felt.

“Probably. But then there’s loads of washing up to do after.”

“Okay,” Katherine followed the logic, though she didn’t entirely agree on the method. “How can I help, then?”

“In the other bowl you can mix the butter and sugars together first. Then it says add the eggs and extract.” Katherine pulled her hair back into a messy bun, washed her hands, and got to work measuring out the butter and both sugars while Anne leaned back against the counter looking very pleased with her accomplishment of getting flour, salt, and baking soda into a bowl. Katherine knew she was content to watch her finish all of the hard work.

Once combined and the chocolate chips folded in, Anne pulled four spoons from the drawer and they set about dropping tablespoons of dough onto the baking sheet in between each mouthful they stole.

“Balls. We forgot to preheat the oven,” Anne growled, crunching on another chocolate chip, as she slid the tray into the cold oven. “I guess we’ll just add a few extra minutes to the timer to let it heat up.”

“They don’t take very long anyways,” Katherine agreed, picking up the mixing bowl that contained more than enough left over dough to make several more cookies and taking it to the living room.

Both girls, face masks applied, draped themselves over the couch. Their spoons reaching back into the bowl every so often while they sat captivated by Our Planet on the TV.

“Katherine, how much longer left on that timer?”

“What timer?”

“The one for the cookies.”

“I thought you set one.”

Anne leapt to her feet and raced to the kitchen. Black smoke was streaming from the oven.

***

“You set the kitchen on fire?!” Jane roared the moment she walked through the door, smelling the smoke at once. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you unsupervised.”

“Just a little, but it means we can start the remodel you wanted sooner, right?” Anne’s tone was sheepish, but her words intended to provoke.

Jane glared at her, hands itching to reach out and wrap around Anne’s throat.

“Jane, it’s not that bad. It’s just a bit of smoke and a couple of ruined baking trays,” Katherine soothed, shooting Anne a reproachful glare.

“I thought I told you to watch her! You told me you would keep an eye on things here!” Jane turned some of her ire on Katherine.

“It’s just a couple of baking trays. Why can’t you just be proud of me? I think this is an improvement,” Anne whined, upset with the lack of praise for not actually burning the house down during her first foray into baking.

Jane’s hands raised, rigid fingers bent like claws, unsure whether she wanted to strangle Anne, drag her by the hair out of the house, or rip the sly smile that was appearing on her face clean off. Katherine stepped in her path before she could act on any of her fantasies and lowered her hands with her own.

“I am never leaving this house again,” Jane, exasperated and exhausted, let Katherine comfort her with a hug, though she did not return the gesture. “There aren’t even any cookies to make it worth while,” she mumbled into Katherine’s shoulder.

“I’ll pop to the shop, Jane,” Katherine offered, stroking her back. “There’s a bit of cookie dough left while you wait.”

[eyepatchdate]

Batman au

@abysskeeper

Finally.  This is from the 3 sentence prompt meme.  Which I am still doing.  Fucking.  This one is the longest I think.  Almost 4k words.  I’m not looking at this anymore.

———

Trickshot frowned, the light of the computer monitors in front of him casting his features in blue light.  His eyes flickered from screen to screen, but nothing notable was to be found.  Usually that wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily, but they had already been tipped off that someone was on the move tonight, so it was tense, waiting for the pin to drop.  Just watching and waiting, unable to do anything else.

The sound of the door opening behind him was hardly worth him switching his attention away—he could see the person entering on the security monitors anyways.  But, he did call out a brief greeting, “Hey.”

He could see Jonathan wave at him from a subwindow on the monitor on his upper-left, and Trickshot smirked, amused—he had even waved in the camera’s direction, despite the fact that it was the size of a marble, not visible to most.  But, of course, Jonathan could see it.

“Tavon,” he greeted as he stepped closer to the monitors, “I take it no moves yet?  Never mind—you’re still here.  So obviously not.”

“Mn,” Trickshot nodded.

They stood in silence for a little while, watching.  But it was never long that Jonathan would stay quiet, not while they weren’t on a mission at least, “Sooo.  Have you come up with a name for this place yet?  I feel like we really need a name for this base, or center of operations, or whatever.”

Finally, Trickshot looked away from the monitors, raising an eyebrow at Jonathan, “My garage?”

“Yes,” Jonathan snorted as he propped a hand on his hip, “We can’t just call it that.”

“I don’t see why not.  It’s not like anyone else is ever going to be here.”

“We can’t just say we’re ‘going back to Trickshot’s garage’ at the end of the day.  We should say something that sounds cool.”

“No,” he replied, unimpressed, “Why do we even have to say anything at all?  We don’t have to explain ourselves to anyone.”

“Ugh,” Jonathan let out a long-suffering sigh.  Trickshot smothered a smirk.  “I get tired of your dark broody thing sometimes though.  It feels rude to just disappear on people.  It isn’t uncool to say ‘bye,’ you know.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, don’t pull the fake ‘I’m-considering-it-but-I’m-actually-not’ tone with me, Tav.”  Jonathan was grinning though as he said it, their usual banter making the time go faster.  It was nice to take his own eyes off the monitors for a bit too, he could trust that Jonathan would notice something pop up even faster than he would if he were looking himself, and so he could take a moment to be at ease.

It wasn’t the monitors that finally alerted them though, but rather the ring of the communicator on Jonathan’s belt. Trickshot could see who it was before Jonathan even brought it to his face, the red heart emoji giving it away rather obviously.  Jonathan, predictably, lit up, quickly clicking to accept the call, “Nexus!  Any news?”

Trickshot lacked super-hearing, so he didn’t really have a chance to overhear, but that was quickly remedied as Jonathan tapped the side, activating the holo-interface of his communicator so that Nexus could presumably speak to both of them.  Nexus’s face came into view, looking only mildly irritated, “I have received a call meant for the two of you.  Since your identities are unknown and your communications are more underground than mine, you’ve forced me to become a relay.  I don’t approve.”

“Oh,” Jonathan’s eyes widened slightly, and he looked far too apologetic for something that was hardly a concern—of course one of the most active heroes on the net was easier to contact, “Sorry about that!  I guess we could open a line or something—”

“No,” both Nexus and Trickshot said at once.

“Stop bullshitting,” Trickshot frowned.

“Fine,” Nexus sighed, continuing as if his complaint hadn’t even been aired, “It was your ex-partner, Trickshot, back in your ‘Crosshair’ days.  I maintain that that was a stupid name, despite how fitting it was for your prior job.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

Jonathan looked at him in concern.  He wondered if his voice was as tight as it felt.

“No, and I didn’t ask.  I’m not your secretary.  All she gave me was a set of coordinates.”

“Transmit them.  And tell Sequitur that we’re out, it’s up to him to deal with anything that arises.”

“Fine.  But I maintain that I’m not your secretary.”

“Thank you, Nexus!” Jonathan added, quick, just before Nexus hung up.

———-

“I can’t believe you made him hang up on us.”

“You’re still mad about that?”

“Yes!  I’m trying to—”

“Yeah, I’ve seen your contacts list.”

“You can’t talk, you’re gunning for—”

Trickshot brought a finger to his lips and Jonathan immediately grew quiet, his eyes narrowing behind his visor as he turned his focus to their surroundings.

“Five o’clock, 40 meters,” Jonathan whispered, low enough for Trickshot to just barely hear him, “She’s got a cloaking device on.”

But, of course, Jonathan could see through something like that, attuned to even the slight shifts and wavers in the air.

Trickshot glided down to the rooftop, landing with ease, and he turned himself towards where Jonathan had said she was.  “Bolt,” he greeted.

“Don’t pretend to be all cool,” her voice rang out as her form shifted, the cloaking device at her belt being deactivated, “I know you didn’t see me.”

Jonathan landed so that he was slightly between them, but without saying a word.

Lynnick chuckled, “Way to ruin his attempt at mystique, Sentinel.”

“Spotter,” Jonathan corrected coldly.

“Yeah, I’m not calling you that,” Lynnick hissed, emerald eyes blazing in a way that was both familiar and not.  “I was his spotter.”

“Not anymore.”

Trickshot interrupted, not that he didn’t appreciate what Jonathan was trying to do, but they weren’t here to fight (verbally or physically).  “What do you want with us?”

“You,” Lynnick corrected, turning her gaze to him alone, “I didn’t ask for the other guy.”

“Fine, just me,” Trickshot snapped, narrowing his eyes, “What do you want with me?”

“I’ve heard whispers of something I knew you’d care about, so I’d figure I’d do you a favor—for the last time you got me out of a jam.”

“…When was that?” Jonathan’s eyes flicked to him, sparking with uncomfortable uncertainty—he never liked it when Trickshot kept him out of the loop.

Trickshot shrugged, “Sometimes we keep up connections.  Help each other out.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed behind his visor, but he said nothing more.  He wouldn’t, not while they were in front of someone else.  Later though, Trickshot definitely hadn’t heard the end of this.

“Stop interrupting, Sentinel,” Bolt hissed, “I want to get this over with as much as you want me gone.  So let me say my piece so I can fuck off.”  Jonathan shrugged, prompting her to continue, flipping her braid over her shoulder, “Great.  Specter is planning another raid—yes, I know you’ve been following them. Every superhero has.  But I know you don’t want her dead, and I don’t either.  She’s a good distraction, and she gets my crew out of jams sometimes.  But, she doesn’t like us contacting her, so I can’t warn her.  And fuck if I’m going to be where the shit is going down.”

“What’s going to happen?” Trickshot asked, masking the spiking worry—it wasn’t surprising that it was getting risky for Specter and the rest of her team—there were a lot of people gunning for them.  This could be…bad.

“They’re going to be stopped, obviously. Attacked.  Police, SWAT, whatever else they got out there, I don’t know. All I know is that there’s gonna be a lot of brass and I’m out. And, sure, Specter is good at getting out of things, but she won’t leave her team behind, and I’m sure more than one of them will be along.”

“How did this information come out? What’s your source?”

“I know a guy embedded with the cops. He heard about it and was nice enough to let me know for a few hundred bucks.  He’s never steered me wrong before, and this isn’t a trap for me or anything so the likelihood of him lying is, I assure you, quite low.”  She still remembered his paranoia.  And, he was sure she could go on for longer to disregard all of his concerns about authenticity.  She knew him. He could trust that much. “Specter’s people must have a leak or something too—you just can’t trust people these days.”

Jonathan opened his mouth, probably to object, but Trickshot quickly interjected, nodding, “I appreciate the information.  Tell us when and where and we’ll handle it.”

Bolt grinned, her eyes glimmering, “Oh, a part of me wants to come along just to see how you handle it.  How you’ll get them out.  Especially since you don’t want them to know you like them, right?  A little…well, it’s a little supervillain of you.”

Jonathan stepped forward, fists clenched, “He’s not—”

She scoffed, “Please.  Don’t delude yourself.”

“I’m not.  I wouldn’t stand here if he was.  I know him better than you do.”

Bolt turned, her footsteps sounding softly off of the rooftop.  She stood near the edge now, looking back at them, shrugging, “Tell yourself whatever you want, Sentinel.  Don’t come crying to me when he leaves you.”

With that, she tapped her belt, activating her camouflage, shimmering invisible, the distortion barely visible to him, until she jumped, disappearing below.  The sound of a grappling hook could be heard firing into the next building, but Trickshot couldn’t discern where she was once distance was established between them.

Jonathan could though, his eyes cold on the horizon.

He couldn’t just let the silence remain though, he had to—to address what she had said, he couldn’t let her turn Jonathan against him.  Trickshot quietly affirmed, “I’m not going to—”

Jonathan cut him off, “You don’t need to validate yourself to me.”  He tore his gaze from Bolt, “I know you.”

He didn’t know how to reply.

Jonathan sighed, fumbling with the pouches on his belt to bring his communicator out, and predictably, another call was coming, a little red heart displayed on the screen.  He clicked to accept it, solemnly scanning the information that was displayed in green over its surface.  No voice or video this time, just the information, presumably the coordinates and time that Bolt was referring to.

Jonathan smirked a bit, swiping the message so that Trickshot could access it on his goggles, “I like how he says he’s tired of being our secretary but then tells us that he’s standardized how he’s sending us coordinates.”

“Of course you like it,” Trickshot quipped, a weak smile tugging on the corner of his lips, “You like everything he does.”

“Mhm,” Jonathan nodded, an ease to his stance now that Bolt was gone.  “So, I assume we’re getting there first.  Before they even break in.”

Trickshot shook his head, already running possibilities in his head, “We’ll just run into the authorities that way. We can’t be seen either—they wouldn’t understand our sympathies.”

Jonathan smirked, “Not when they’re trying to catch her too.”

“You and I both know she’s not what they think.  That there’s way more going on here, we just have to figure out what.”

“Or ask.”

“Or ask,” Trickshot relented.  “Either way, we have to head them off before they even get there.”

Jonathan frowned, “We don’t know where they’re coming from, only where they’ll hit.”

“Well, that’s half the puzzle.  Surely with all the pieces we’ve been picking up about them, it’ll be easy enough to figure out.”

“Maybe for you, but I haven’t reached quite the same understand of them that you have,” Jonathan admitted, a bit sheepishly.  “I’m not sure how much help I can be with so little information.”

“You can be plenty help.  You’re my eyes.  Come on, it’s only a few dozen blocks from here.”

“Why do I work for you again?”

———-

They were split up again, Jonathan on a radio tower a few blocks away, placed in the highest vantage point to take advantage of his heightened senses.  Of course, their communicators still kept them in contact, Jonathan able to whisper so that Trickshot could hear him in his earpiece.  He had told him to focus on the area north of the site—it was the least covered by the covert police and hero forces they could see since it was right by the waterway.

They had, of course, kept themselves from being detected by the other forces, which was easy when you knew them all so well.  Better than Specter and her crew would—although they also knew how to hide.  But, not knowing enough (and being limited in their mobility since they needed room to carry things out too) would hold them back from scouting to the extent that he and Jonathan could.

If only, a traitorous thought whispered, You were on her team.

Pushing it aside, he shifted his focus on the streets below, the little alleyways, the gratings that led to the sewers and the underground systems of the city—it was likely that those would be her choice of entrance.  They were still a long way from her actual target, but they needed to catch them first.  Before they entered the snares of the trap.

Jonathan’s voice whispered in his ear, “A shimmer of steel—Archangel’s wings fifty meters to your left.  Alleyway grating pushed up.”

Ah.  Specter’s right hand.  They would be in two separate groups though, two entry points.  Trickshot squinted to where Jonathan indicated, nodding as he caught sight of a brief flash, something no one else would notice, especially not from this far away.  But, since he knew where, he could see.

“Keep looking,” he whispered back, “There should be a second group, that’s where Specter will be.  We need both before we move.”

With a lack of anything else to do for the moment, he kept his eye on the small group of figures in black moving. Archangels wings were even painted black to blend in, but the slightest shimmer of their gears was the tell for Jonathan’s sight.  From this far away Trickshot couldn’t identify the other members, but he was sure they were the profiles he had seen before.  Perhaps a few new ones as well—her group was ever-growing.

“Twenty meters north and thirty meters west from your position—doorway of a building near a streetlamp.  Probably has an underground entrance inside.”

Trickshot smiled, relieved, shifting his attention away from the others who he knew Jonathan would keep track of as well, tapping his goggles to enhance his own vision (although mere tech couldn’t compare with Jonathan), and just as he had thought, there she was.  Alone—a surprise, but not too much of one.

She was sacrificial, he thought.

“You handle the others, try not to fight them.  But we can’t have them fall into the trap.  I’ll talk to her.”

“Don’t get distracted,” Jonathan’s tone was lilting, “Recall that you don’t want her to complete her mission this time.”

“I know,” Trickshot smirked, “I don’t get caught by such distractions so easily.”

“Ah, leaving the ‘like you’ unspoken, how unlike you.”

“Just try not to harm her subordinates. We’re trying to save them, not make things worse.”

“There’s only two others, I’m sure they’ll be amiable.  I have a good reputation.”

“Oh, rub it in why don’t you.”

They could go on like hours like that, but they both had tasks to complete.  He saw Jonathan glide down from the radio tower, landing soundlessly on the rooftop before running, heading towards where Archangel was. Meanwhile, Trickshot shifted his own attention to where Specter was starting to move, sticking to the shadows, and he would have to catch up to her quickly before she’d phase out.

He leapt between rooftops until he was closer to her, jumping down onto a staircase at the edge of a building.  He allowed his impact to rattle the metal, creating a slight sound, enough to catch her attention.  And it did, immediately her gaze snapping to him, alert and prepared.

He held his hands up, palms out, raising his voice only enough to be heard, “I’m not—”

Specter blinked out of existence underneath him, and before he could even think of where she would go, she reappeared, right beside him, soundlessly on the metal, her dagger up and ready a mere foot away.

He froze, eyes widening a bit, continuing as he carefully kept still, “—Intending to do you harm.  I want to help.”

“You’re…Trickshot.”  Her brows furrowed, green eyes bright in the dark. Slowly her dagger lowered, just slightly, “…Where’s Sentinel?”

So, she knew enough to know that they were rarely apart.  He answered with ease, “Spotter is speaking to Archangel.  And whoever else is here, I didn’t quite see who was on your other team.”

Her eyes narrowed, dagger raised again, “How did you know where we’d be?”

“Your operation has been leaked.  A lot of people are trying to capture you, heroes and police alike.  I caught wind of it and wanted to tip you off before you were in the trap.”

“How did you know where I would be?” she repeated, slowly, although she still didn’t quite seem hostile.  It was starting to hurt, keeping his hands raised, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be seen as a threat to her, so he remained motionless.

“I’ve been observing your group’s actions. Reports, CCTV feeds, anything I could get my hands on.  I’ve only run into you a few times in person, far off, but—” he swallowed, “I made an educated guess.  And Spotter’s eyes did the rest.”

“You’ve…you have helped us, in the past. I noticed how sometimes our path would suspiciously clear, even though we expected a fight on our way out of somewhere—but never have you appeared before an operation.  You’re with them, aren’t you?  The people trying to get us?”

He was pleased she had noticed that much, at least, he hadn’t ever really been trying to hide, “No,” he replied smoothly, “They keep me out of the loop.  I learned of their intentions from a contact—I have not been involved in their planning or their chase of you and your crew.  I have no interest in labelling you as a foe.”

Her dagger lowered, again, this time staying low, and she took a step back (not that distance meant much for a teleporter).  He allowed himself to lower his hands, but he kept them away from his belt.  He continued, “I don’t want you to walk right into a trap.  I know you aren’t what they’re claiming you are—and I don’t know what you are, but I’ve been wanting to know.”

He was usually skilled at reading expressions, but he couldn’t quite parse what emotion it was crossing her face at the moment.  She seemed to be evaluating him, that much was clear and predictable, but he couldn’t discern what it is she saw.  Did she believe him?  Trust him, or at least trust his words?

“…How many are in the trap?”

“I don’t know that much.  But when we were scanning the area, Spotter discerned that three blocks around your target is entirely stonewalled.  They’re all undercover but there’s signs, equipment and practiced patrol routines that aren’t as normal-passing as they’d think.”

“…How much do you know?”

It was easy to respond, perhaps a little too easy to share his information, but he had been waiting for this for what felt like so long, to actually stand in front of her and speak to her, to be a more proper ally to what he felt was right.  Even though he didn’t understand yet, he had seen the sort of things her people had been doing, and none of it was with true evil intent.  “I don’t know what your purpose is.  Or what your target is.  Only where.”

“And still, you warn me?  Without even understanding?”

“How am I supposed to understand with so little information?”

She let out a breath, the barest hint of a laugh escaping her lips, “Good point,” she mused, a corner of her lips tugging upwards, “I suppose that’s too much to ask of anyone when so much is hidden.”

“I want to uncover it,” he said, “I know something is wrong but I don’t know what you’re fighting.”

She stepped back a little farther, shrugging her shoulders, “You have to find that out yourself.  I can’t just tell you.  You have to see it.”  Her eyes glittered, “Sentinel has good eyes.  He might be able to, if you help him figure out where to look.”

He paused, unsure of how to respond to that, frustrated but unable to direct it towards anything.  His fingers clenched slightly.  Finally, he shook his head, “You aren’t still going to go for the hit, are you?”

She tilted her head, “Hm.  No, not with the forces you described.  This one wasn’t that important.  It’s not worth getting captured, or risking my allies. Archangel agrees—Sentinel is someone even we’re prone to trust.”

He tried not to be too obviously relieved, but was sure that some of it bled through his façade, “Good.  I wouldn’t have wanted all my efforts to go to waste here.”

She blinked, scanning him over, seemingly evaluating him again, “I’m sure we would have gotten out of it, but perhaps we wouldn’t be unscathed.  While, clearly, we are now, even if our goal remains unaccomplished.”

“I’m sure you can plan accordingly later. In the meantime, I suggest you figure out the source of your leak.  Someone who knows about your operations leaked it to the authorities, and they leaked it to my source.  So…be careful.”

She nodded, “…Thank you,” she said after a moment.  “…I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again.”

And, before he could reply, she vanished once more, and he didn’t see her reappear.

Jonathan’s voice crackled from his earpiece, “Archangel is headed back through the underground.  Specter gave the order, but even before that she was listening to me. We aren’t seen as foes as much as you thought, Trick.”

“I’m glad whatever they were hitting is unimportant enough to drop.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what we’d do if they just ignored us.  I guess at least they’d be warned?”

“Yeah,” Trickshot agreed.  And as Jonathan chattered on about meeting back up and heading back to base (“Which we really need to rename,” he added), he was left to his thoughts of that scenario.  What would they have done?  Gone back after simply accepting that they had done all they could by informing them? Or—

Would he have followed her?

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

Winter Rain

I'd like to thank @xerxezra for the encouragement. I really needed it, and to the Enya song in which the title and fic is based on. I'm still working on the fic to go with a fanart of mine, but until then feel free to check out my other fics which can be found on my Fanfic Masterpost or Ao3 links which are in my description under my header.

In this fic the reader deals with a change in plans.

_______________

City streets were passing by, underneath stormy skies. No, there were no neon signs but there were cargo trains rolling by on the tracks parallel to the main road. Hmm, wasn't that an Enya song? Perhaps it was.

Funny that you were thinking of new age songs when none were playing on the radio, though you wouldn't have minded if any music was on; it would've made a difference. Enya's songs in themselves reminded you of that one teacher in elementary school who wore that cherry brooch you liked and drowned herself in a bottle of perfume. Your teacher, whatever her name, was halfway pleasant, but always wore a blouse which was a size too big and thus you always saw more of her then you cared to whenever she leaned over a desk to assist another student. Another Enya song, Only Time, reminded you of that one book you tried to read around that time with the questionable cover. Of course, neither of these things had anything to do with the drive home, but it was a passing nostalgia you couldn't pass up.

Wiry, naked trees were scattered along the way; none of them of much consequence except to the fragments of your imagination, where they were dancers in a wintery, mournful ballet. For his part, Rick was unaware of these random thoughts, for you had not mentioned them, but you did wonder about something else when you took a glance at the time and found you two were getting home a little faster than usual. “Rick, do you prefer driving? Or is flying in your spaceship easier?”

“I-I think each one is great in its own way,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “but th-the fastest way to travel is by using my portal gun.”

“So it is. Hmm, makes me wonder what the Flash would have to say about that.” you commented as rain pitter-pattered against the passenger side window. “I bet he'd have a few things to say if you can catch him.”

“Gee, I don't know. I'll ugh - I'll have to ask him the next time I'm in his Earth dimension.”

Sometimes you didn't know if he was being serious or simply joking, though you tended to believe him, especially since it only added to your natural wonder. Your curiosity was a quality which tickled him immensely, but whether he could withstand it while driving was not something you were about to test. Outside, straight ahead, the roads looked all the same, although, to the discerning eye, one would notice the cracks here and there, and the splattered paint on the curb closest to city hall and the fire station. And while the roads were neither empty or full, you would say they were in want of life and perhaps a good shoveling, but with whatever technology hidden in the nooks and crannies of his station wagon, you two drove on the icy roads with ease. It was cold outside, but you weren't cold; Rick made sure of that by giving you the heated seat and a quilt to drape over yourself.

You were, however slightly bored because Zeta-7 hadn't been talking all that much this evening. He had been in a mood and you thought it could've had something to do with the phone call he received while you two were at the craft shop but he didn't say. It hadn't made him any less sweet, but he seemed distant in a familiar way that you were sure you had experienced some time ago. Perhaps he was fearful, he would have reason; contemplative as always; afraid, to an almost unhealthy degree, but risking a chance to placate him, you joked. “Are you trying something new? Is it a seduction tactic, cause I'm certainly intrigued.”

“Wh-what?” he blushed, as he turned the corner to head towards your street.

“Aren't you trying the broodish thing all cool guys do in those cheap romance novels? You know, the kind they sell at the drugstore?” you giggled, turning up the heat in the car to fit your preference.

“Gosh, n-n-no. I ugh - I-I don't think I'm cool enough t-t-to do that.”

“Really? Well, I think if you wanted to you could, though I doubt you'd try it unless convinced it would work. Not sure how effective it would be on me, but this isn't about me. What's going on with you,” you questioned with a serious, but gentle candor. “you haven't said much tonight.”

“I ugh - I have a few things on my mind is all, but it's going t-to be okay. I'm sorry if I alarmed you.”

“Not too much, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Are you?”

Stopping in front of your home, he admitted with a sudden disheartenment. “I don't know. Sometimes it's - it's hard to know especially if you hear bad news but I th-think I will be. Eventually.”

One of his watches was flashing, and it made you wonder if it meant what you thought it meant. While you couldn't read the line of code which passed over its digital face, you thought you'd seen a similar line of code before. “Are you going to have to go? Is that what's bothering you? I know you promised that we'd paint together tonight, but you won't be able to will you?”

“No, I'm - I'm sorry. I had asked for the whole week off, but this - it's from my supervisor. I can't ignore it. I have to go in. I-I really wish I didn't have to.”

“Oh Rick, if you had to go, why didn't you tell me earlier? I would've understood.”

“You were having such a-a great time picking out supplies that I didn't - I couldn't bring myself to crush your excitement. Now th-that I think about it, I don't know if this was any better, but I-I asked that I'd be able to bring you home first so that I wouldn't have to worry about leaving you there without a-a word.”

Zeta-7 hated to break his promises, and you hated the feeling of a broken promise, but as he switched the car off, and you two walked towards your porch, you admitted. “I would've figured it out and got home somehow. I mean there's enough Uber drivers in this town, and one of them would've driven me home, but I'm glad that at least I had this time with you. Please be careful and visit me whenever. You know you can.”

Instead of comforting him as your easy resignation usually would, he balled his fists and hit them against the railing; hateful of his own inadequacies. You had to admit that when he got upset, it caught you off guard, but it also reminded you that he still was very much a Rick, albeit a softer one. “Th-this wasn't supposed to happen. I-I don't understand why it always comes to this. We were - I had so many things planned out for us and th-”

You hugged him from behind, interrupting what he was going to say. “There will always be next time. Calm down,” you cooed, “it's all going to be okay. It's not the end of the world and I'm not upset by it.”

“But I don't - I don't want t-to keep doing this to you. I promised.”

“I know, but it's not like you do this on purpose. You see, this is what happens when a girl like me dates a guy like you. Expect the unexpected, and maybe a few space worms every once in a while if I eat a sandwich from a gas station on a comet somewhere. These things happen.”

“I wish it - it didn't. Lately,” he confessed, his voice taking on its softer quality. “I've been thinking a-about when I'd like to retire. Maybe I finally should.”

“Whatever you want to do, I'm okay with it. As long as it makes you happy, but only if you do it without regret. You would know best of course.”

“I-I certainly hope so.”

You two stood there in silence for a moment, but you heard a beeping noise emanate from under his sleeve. “I d-don't want to say goodbye, but I'll miss you m-mi corazón.”

When he wasn't around, your home felt emptier,

though you refrained from saying so, and because you didn't want to add to his guilt you simply said. “I'll miss you too.”

“Th-there's a chance I won't see you in a few days. At least it will feel th-that way for me.”

“You can always call me, and if you can't then I'll see you when I see you. You know where I'll be.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “somewhere I-I'm not.”

“Don't say that. You're always on my mind, and I'd like to think you're always with me, in one way or another. There's no way I couldn't think of you.”

He turned around to face you, his eyes appearing twice as expressive through his glasses. Zeta-7 studied you and brushed his thumb across the back of your hand. “Siempre estás c-conmigo, and because of - of that, I'm never truly l-lonely.”

“Oh Rick, I love you.”

As easily as it was to adore him with your entire being, so it was to break his heart. Whether it had been a lack of love or an abundance of heartache in his life thus far which shook him to his bones, a replenishing of spirit was always in order. You weren't tall, you never had been, but stepping on the tips of your toes, you pressed a kiss on his cheek that never failed to floor him, and marvel as though it were from a fairy queen; one comprised of stardust and moonbeams. “This means you belong to me. Got it cutie? No one else has dibs except for me, so don't look so surprised. You're mine.”

Like a tease, the weather picked up and the strong gust which followed made you shiver, which alarmed him and prevented his reply. You were trying to tough it out because he could be gone at any moment. And must've sensed this, for against your control you shivered once more, but he pulled off his own scarf to wrap around your neck. “It's going t-t-to get colder,” he said protectively. “so please don't forget to wrap yourself up tonight. I um - I placed a-a few thick blankets in your closet just in case. Why d-don't you go inside?”

“Because I can bear it for a little bit longer. Thank you,” you smiled sweetly up at him, despite losing feeling in your cheeks. “but I doubt I'll try to leave my house for the next few days. I'll look after this for you. Hopefully, it's going to be warmer where you're going.”

“I-I can't say, it's…”

“Classified information.” you finished.

“Gosh, I-I-I guess you know th-the drill by now. Smart girl.”

“Maybe. I don't know much, but I know you, and that you can't tell me certain things because you don't want whichever information to be held against me. At least I'm learning. Either way,” you softened, buttoning the top button on his jacket. “please be careful.”

“I-I will. Can I um - can I-I give you a kiss?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

Though of course, he would ask as though your disappointment would disqualify his validity to partake of your affection. He bent down to try to kiss you goodbye, his glasses fogging up at the closeness between you two, but a portal opened right behind him and the guard Rick's on the other side pulled him through. And like that, he was gone again; without a choice; without a goodbye. Your arms which had been around his waist a moment ago, you brought down to rest at your sides, and you too clenched your fists in quick frustration but found yourself halfway exhausted by the cold temperatures and suddenness of it all.

His scarf felt warm and soft about your neck and smelled like him; of vanilla, and of whatever his house smelled like. You thought of the painting that you two would not do tonight, and how you were once again alone. That seemed to magnify it all, intensify the fact that you might've always been alone and destined to remain as such. It used to make you cry when you realized that he could be taken from you at any moment, but you had gotten used to it, or at least you thought you did. Only a few hours ago, you two were at a café, discussing painting techniques and how with a little practice you too could paint that little tree you liked that was growing in the corner of your yard; his enthusiasm was contagious, and you were pumped because you really wanted to show him you had been practicing.

If once again someone cried, then it was you because he couldn't cry where he was going; he wouldn't dare to and repress it for as long as he could help it; if only you were as strong.

Oh, winter rain, how could it relate? It knew little except its natural way; of falling upon the earth; of life; of beginnings; of letting go; of uncertainty. Yet, it wasn't the rains fault; it does not know and could not know; if only. It was cold, and you were cold, with the only part of you that was really warm being where his scarf was.

Thinking of what lied in store for him made you want him back all the more so that you could hold him, and make him feel safe. You wanted him back now because it seemed so unfair that they'd take him when he didn't want to go, but you couldn't bring him back; not even for his sake; being against your power just like the rain. For now, all you could do was only open the front door to your home and step in as the last train passed by; not knowing when the next will come.

Fin

[lifejustgotawkward]

365 Day Movie Challenge (2017) - #348: Blade Runner 2049 (2017) - dir. Denis Villeneuve

As the end credits rolled on Blade Runner 2049 last Sunday night at the Regal Union Square multiplex, I turned to my friend and asked her my usual question, “So, what did you think?” She groaned out, “that was really boring,” and the wave of relief I felt at her response was the perfect summation of my feelings.

How did Blade Runner 2049 disappoint me? Let me count the ways.

I watched Ridley Scott’s original Blade Runner (1982) back in September. I was impressed, though not bowled over, by the theatrical cut, but I still wanted to give the final cut a chance. When I got around to watching that “definitive” version, I found that I actually missed Harrison Ford’s gruff, noiresque narration from the earlier edit of the film, but overall my appreciation for Blade Runner had grown and the second viewing allowed me to focus less on the plot and to better appreciate both the acting and the technical aspects of the production.

My expectations for Blade Runner 2049 were fairly high. I was eager to see how Denis Villeneuve built on Scott’s (and, of course, writer Philip K. Dick’s) visions of dystopian Los Angeles by pushing the narrative thirty years further into the future from the first Blade Runner’s setting in 2019. Although I missed the chance to see this new installment in IMAX - hey, those tickets are expensive when you don’t have spare cash to throw around! - I knew I still had to take the time to watch the film on the big screen. No TV could possibly do justice to an epic sci-fi tale of the Blade Runner variety, at least not for an introductory experience.

Bear with me, now, when I say that Blade Runner 2049 was a massive letdown. Yes, Roger Deakins’ stunning cinematography is practically guaranteed to earn him an Oscar nomination. And yes, the art direction, production design and set decoration further supports Denis Villeneuve‘s strengths regarding compelling visuals. I would also be totally fine with Renée April getting an Oscar nomination for costume design since the coat that Officer K (Ryan Gosling) wears throughout the film is incredible. Unfortunately, for the third year in a row (after Sicario and Arrival) my hopes for Villeneuve’s work have been dashed. For three years running he has fallen short of his ambitious ideas, whether attempting to concentrate on an idealistic DEA agent (Emily Blunt in Sicario), a linguist simultaneously mourning the death of her daughter and trying to make contact with aliens (Amy Adams in Arrival) or a Replicant Blade Runner (Ryan Gosling in Blade Runner 2049) who unravels a mystery about a female Replicant who was able to bear a child. All of these protagonists should be worthy of my undivided attention. Instead, Gosling - like one of Nexus’s new edition of Replicants - is just another in a continuing line of failed leads.

Part of the issue is Ryan Gosling’s own fault. In interviews I find him absolutely delightful, a funny and self-deprecating guy with a nicely offbeat sense of humor; in movies he is unremittingly bland. Whether we’re talking about The Notebook or Crazy, Stupid, Love or The Big Short, he never seems to have any discernible personality on film. It makes sense, then, that he would be chosen to play an android in Blade Runner 2049. But what does it say that he didn’t even play Officer K well? Replicants can be portrayed with emotion, if you recall Rutger Hauer, Sean Young, Daryl Hannah, Brion James and Joanna Cassidy in the original Blade Runner. Each actor breathed life into their characters in unique styles. So why couldn’t Villeneuve and screenwriters Hampton Fancher and Michael Green find a way to inject some flavor into their film’s characters?

The posters for Blade Runner 2049 imply that Harrison Ford and Jared Leto play important roles in the film, but in actuality, Leto’s “antagonist,” Niander Wallace, barely has any screen time and Ford’s returning antihero, Rick Deckard, doesn’t show up until the last third of the film. I enjoyed every moment he was onscreen, spitting his dialogue out with the same jaded sarcasm he had in the first film, but I wish the character had had more time to develop in the film. Wallace bears an undistinguished aura of evil, but what was supposed to be so special about him? Given the spotlight often put on his sightless eyes during “creepy” closeups, was his blindness really intended to be read as part of what defined him as bad (in which case, uh, what is that saying about disabilities)?

Next we have to take a look at the women of Blade Runner 2049. There are six notable female characters: Joi (Ana de Armas), a hologram who is a product created by Niander Wallace and who functions solely as K’s live-in girlfriend; Luv (Sylvia Hoeks), a Replicant who acts as Niander Wallace’s right-hand woman; Lieutenant Joshi (Robin Wright), K’s supervisor on the police force; Mariette (Mackenzie Davis), a "pleasure model” Replicant; Dr. Ana Stelline (Carla Juri), who works for the Wallace corporation in a capacity that I shouldn’t spoil for those who have not seen the film; and Freysa (Hiam Abbass), who plays a role that I similarly should not divulge. Of these six, Joi and Ana Stelline are the most sympathetic characters, but regardless of how these women’s actions are meant to be interpreted, the designs of these ladies are problematic.

Joi is an immediately likeable character, but since she is a product (and one who does not initially have a corporeal form), she does not have autonomy. With the push of a button, K can turn her off any time he wants, which I’m sure is an option a lot of dudes wish they had available for their girlfriends. Joi exists only to serve K, telling him how wonderful he is when he gets home from a long work day and providing whatever eye candy he desires (she can shapeshift to alter her clothing, hair and makeup). Should I ignore the fact that Joi has zero character development and applaud Blade Runner 2049 anyway for highlighting the ickiness of a future society where Joi-models are prevalent (thus eliminating the need for actual human women)? Maybe, but the film doesn’t bother to make a statement about this element of social interaction, other than the fact that it exists.

K is finally able to experience physical contact with Joi when she “syncs” with Mariette, a prostitute, to combine their bodies for a sexual encounter with K, resulting in my favorite shot in the film: an unsettling image of Joi and Mariette’s four blurry hands wrapping around the back of K’s head and caressing his hair. While this interlude incorporates an interesting degree of romantic intrigue - to what extent do K, Joi and Mariette understand what love is? - there is something a little too weird in the film’s dependence on the Madonna and Whore tropes, suggesting an either/or dichotomy where the only time a woman can possess both attributes is when she finds another person (technically a Replicant) who can temporarily provide the missing skills.

Luv is probably the best-developed female character, although since she is Niander Wallace’s servant, it is impossible to say where her allegiance to him ends and her own taste for violent retribution begins. Luv seems to genuinely savor hurting people, but I suppose that attitude was programmed into her by Wallace, which somewhat minimizes the cool factor in her badass fight scenes. It’s kind of odd, though, that she manages to outshine the film’s other resident tough gal, Lt. Joshi (I didn’t think anyone could outdo Robin Wright in this department, especially after Wonder Woman). Villeneuve and his writers couldn’t settle on how best to represent Joshi, so the character fluctuates between a generically butch stereotype and a leering boss who drinks too much and flirts with K. Again, not that women have to be only one thing, but I like consistency in characters rather than mixed messages. I wonder how much of Blade Runner 2049′s muddled and archaic depictions of women are thanks to Hampton Fancher, who also co-wrote the original Blade Runner’s screenplay, which was full of troublesome approaches to womanhood, sexuality and sexual consent.

In the end, the difference between Blade Runner and Blade Runner 2049 is like the distinction between a human being and a Replicant. 2049 tries to live up to the originality of that which inspired it, but it lacks the soul of its predecessor. It really says something that the most heartfelt moments in Blade Runner 2049 are two references to Ridley Scott’s film: a pivotal scene in Wallace’s lair that conjures up the memory of Rachael (Sean Young) from the film, and a moment in the penultimate scene that reuses a key piece of music from Vangelis’s original Blade Runner score. I recognize that many viewers see Blade Runner 2049 as a masterpiece, and I have tried many times in the past week to understand why, but I’m hard-pressed to comprehend why I should have spent close to three hours sitting through such an unsatisfying project, other than being able to say I bravely weathered this particular storm.

P.S. (because I couldn’t figure out where else to write this): I don’t know how many viewers will know where I’m coming from, but for the cult classic freaks out there, let me propose this theory: Blade Runner 2049 is trying to be like Paul Morrissey’s notoriously wild horror-satire Flesh for Frankenstein (1973). Check it out: a really bizarre and wealthy man (Udo Kier/Jared Leto) and his devoted assistant (Arno Juerging/Sylvia Hoeks) endeavor to construct a set of superhumans (FfF) or humanoid robots (B42049), entities that will give birth to a new generation of superbeings that will take the place of their inferior progenitors and obediently do their master’s (Kier/Leto) bidding. In fact, there are two specific scenes that reminded me of Flesh for Frankenstein while watching Blade Runner 2049: when Niander Wallace kills the naked, infertile Replicant woman (ugh, what a terrible scene), it mirrors a moment in Flesh when Arno Juerging, the loyal assistant, tries to commence sex with Baron Frankenstein’s female zombie-monster by punching her in the stomach and fatally damaging her internal organs, resulting in a grotesque display of violence similar to what we see in Blade Runner 2049.

Secondly, when Luv battles K at the sea wall and she kisses him, she is mimicking an action that Niander Wallace carried out when he killed the Replicant woman; this is also reminiscent of Flesh for Frankenstein since the Arno Juerging character often does horrible, perverse things - like conflating his lust for the female zombie with a disturbingly compulsion for violence - because he is following his master’s patterns. Take all that analysis for what it’s worth, Blade Runner fans!

P.P.S. I am also convinced that Blade Runner 2049′s Las Vegas wasteland scene was either an homage to or a ripoff of Nastassja Kinski’s desert dream sequence from another of 1982′s finest cult offerings, Cat People. Even in the slightly faded YouTube upload of the clip, the orangeness cannot be overlooked.

[spiderbird7-blog]

Fire Jim Boylen as Bulls coach not just because of what he says, but what he does

Not sure what phase I’m in when it comes to processing the trauma of seeing the Bulls stick with Jim Boylen next season (at least!), but it’s definitely not complete acceptance yet.

It’s easy to be dismayed that they’re keeping the worst coach in the NBA just because he’s in the building, he’s affordable, and he parrots the same dumb shit that management and ownership say about spirit and toughness and Chicago blue-collar whatever.

It’s also easy to remark on what a bad on-court coach Boylen is!

This was somewhat forgotten in the great February of 2019, an era of ::checks notes:: ten games where Boylen’s team wasn’t among the worst in the league. For reasons that I believe entail being optimistic for the sake of wanting to feel not-terrible all the time, it was reasoned that while Boylen may have had the worst first week of coaching in NBA history, things improved. That was mentioned regarding his off-the-court scream-o toughness and conditioning habits - did you hear Zach LaVine offered to pay his fine???? - but also on the court.

The Bulls at the start of Boylen’s “leadership” were not only a laughing stock, they were playing slow and outdated basketball while being laughed at. Hold the ball off a miss, limiting threes in favor of ‘paint touches’, that kind of thing. Boylen was openly saying he wanted to do this.

After the acquisition of Otto Porter and coinciding with a hot streak from him along with Lauri Markkanen and Zach LaVine, the Bulls offense did get a lot better.

BUT:

Small sample size

No, they didn’t have to be worst-in-ten-years bad first before being decent

We should be more wary of February NBA regular season providing good evidence. I wish this was asked of John Paxson as to whether he learned this lesson in being more skeptical, else repeating his ‘we’re comfortable with Cam Payne’ stance from last offseason

Boylen’s Bulls went back to bad pretty quickly, just nobody much cared to pay attention: the only thing worse than February NBA is March NBA.

So how did this team look both in that majestic February and outside of it? I have subjectively broken up this horrible Bulls season into 5 different ‘eras’:

Era 0 - Hoiberg’s tenure

Era 1 - 12/04 - 1/28: Boylen’s hell-world, shock and ugh, what Paxson called dyn-o-mite

Era 2 - 1/29 - 3/2: Expanding the February to give them a bit more credit. This is after they lost to the friggin’ Cavs, so starting with a ‘competitive’ performance in Brooklyn. Otto Porter’s first game was 2/8. Last game here is the 4OT game in Atlanta

Era 3 - 3/3 - 3/24: This is after the 4OT game when Markannen cooled off, up until big shellacking at home to the Jazz, which were the last games for Markkanen and Dunn.

Era 4 - 3/25 - 4/11: Garbage time, but worth noting that their garbage was neither better nor played harder than other garbage teams, despite that being Boylen’s big selling point to ownership. And we’re talking about guys who will play hard for anybody simply to try and stay in the league.

We’re not even touching the defense, which never even improved to where Hoiberg had it. This despite Boylen’s reputation as the ‘defensive coordinator’ and any false concepts he and GarPax have about defense being primarily about effort (defense is also strategy!)

Boylen always talks about ‘paint touches’ (should note that stat above isn’t pace-adjusted), but they were actually very bad in that even after he took over. They did greatly ‘improve’ in their percentage of points scored in the paint, so maybe he was just confused. Just look at how, and how much, Robin Lopez was used after how Wendell Carter Jr. was coached in the brief time they had together.

The great surge of February did see an uptick in pace and 3-point attempts as a percentage of total attempts. But it wasn’t a huge difference, certainly not a ‘pace and space’ edict (I guess that’s dead?), and then went back down. What we see as more significant in that time is the 3-point make percentage. This is very volatile! In that same surge era (I called it ‘fluke’, just having fun here) the Pistons were 2nd in the league in 3pt%. Then in the GLeague-esque final stretch Detroit was down to 25th. It fluctuates when we’re talking about a relatively small group of games.

It’s more important to look at what Boylen (or his team) does versus what he says, but we should also look at what he says...and not simply the bozo coach-y stuff that we make fun of.

Again, in February there was a lot of reporting saying to the effect of: “Boylen said they’d crawl before running! He delivered!”. But then at the end of the season he showed himself to still very much be old-school, not just in attitude but in basketball principles as well.

Before the game, coach Jim Boylen provided some insight when asked what he will take into the summer from this uneven season.

”I think we have identified some real positive things on how we’re going to play,” Boylen said. “I think the multiple ballhandler system has been good for us. I feel like driving the ball, I think we’re second in the league in paint touches since I got the job*. That was a point of emphasis from Day 1.

”I would like us to take good 3s. If it ends up being more 3s, great. Defensively, we’ve been real good some nights and really poor some nights. I’d like us to be more consistent there. I’d like to see some more toughness at that end of the floor.”

*they weren’t, see above

Boylen isn’t a total basketball idiot, he showed that in his 2-part conversation with Darnell Mayberry of The Athletic. But maybe that makes it worse? That he has the experience of decades coaching basketball and is more entrenched to these philosophies:

Because I ask our guys to take open shots. I’d like [3 point attempts] to keep rising. But I want us to take quality shots. I don’t mind a contested 3 from the corner. I haven’t pinpointed a number that is ideal for this team. What I’d like to do, though, is make good decisions for quality looks and have great discernment in our half-court offense.

I think the reason we’ve grown offensively is because our multiple ball-handlers and our discernment. And we’ve limited our mid-2s. I’ve coached this team not to (settle) for mid-2s.

Fred (Hoiberg) wanted 3-point attempts. I want paint touches and paint drives. So how, analytically, can we adjust to that as we go? It’s a weapon. It’s a tool. It’s not a cure-all. But I do understand it, and I do think it’s valuable. It doesn’t drive me every minute of every day.

As Mayberry’s colleague Stephen Noh found, even with Boylen playing lip service to these ‘modern’ tenets, the results weren’t there:

The reality is that he could not get his players to do any of those things consistently. The Bulls had the fifth-highest mid-range jumper frequency, per Cleaning the Glass, and were 19th in average time of possession, per Inpredictable. They were a slow team that lacked any sort of offensive cohesion.

(as Noh notes to be fair, Hoiberg also couldn’t get his teams to do this much. But at least he spoke to the value like he knew it.)

It probably isn’t a coincidence that Boylen doesn’t seem to really believe in the value of faster pace and 3-pointers (or analytics in general suggesting best ways to play), and as a result hasn’t been able to coach his team to better apply itself with these beliefs.

It’s undoubtedly not helped by his influences either. We know that while the Bulls do have an analytics department they don’t seem to have much influence compared to the old heads. Paxson is totally out of step when it comes to winning in this league, and even he was trying to walk back some of Boylen’s edicts, though noticeably not completely:

“I personally don’t subscribe to the theory that you have to shoot 50 threes a game to win at a high level,” Paxson said. “Jim’s thing is getting to the rim. It’s not necessarily through post passing, although that’s still something—if you have players that can catch the ball close to the basket and score—that is a valuable thing. His thing is getting to the paint and drawing defense. If you have shooters out there with them that can space the floor, that’s valuable, too.

We’ve come to learn that Paxson treats Boylen’s amiability as a feature, in that he can simply tell him how to coach. And then there’s the coach whisperer, Doug Collins, who always had slow teams and was booted from his last head job for being too stuck in the past.

It’s easy to get distracted when pointing out the many ways the Bulls keeping Jim Boylen is to the level of insulting. It’s a pretty big problem that even if you believe he can teach and ‘coach up’ teams without having them mutiny on him this time, if it’s to achieve an outdated goal.

Source: https://www.blogabull.com/2019/4/26/18292257/fire-jim-boylen-as-bulls-coach-not-just-because-of-what-he-says-but-what-he-does

[swan-archive]

@the-everqueen is i’m guessing the only person who will enjoy this, if you’re not her maybe...probably don’t even bother clicking through to the rest of this tropey bullshit

TL;DR: PSA for pet owners! alcohol is extremely toxic to dogs, even in small quantities, so keep those PBRs away from your furry friends unless you want an emergency vet trip in your immediate future!

“To another battle survived, gents, and another day working our asses off in service of this fair country!” Tilghman announces, smiling around the campfire at the assembled aides and raising a flask of something-or-other in a toast. “And may I just say what a real pleasure it is to see you here with me this evening, all your limbs still attached and no bullet holes in your skulls. Cheers.”

“Not for lack of trying,” grumbles Alex, digging his elbow into John’s side. “I can’t believe you attacked a house with nothing but a sword, you idiot.”

“Come on, take it easy, I’m wounded—”

“Yeah, in your other shoulder.” Alex lays another jab to John’s ribs. “This is what you get for being reckless and ignoring orders. Accept your rightful punishment.”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” John complains, shoving Alex away with his good arm and fussing with his sling. Alex sticks his tongue out at John. It’s not a look quite suited to his features as they are, but Alex just seems happy to be able to access human facial expressions again, so John makes no comment. After the hell of these past weeks, it must be a great relief for Alex to feel his muzzle slowly shrink away and the fur on his face thin and recede. Not that it’s done so very much, yet—Alex still looks rather like the misbegotten offspring of a stray dog and a gargoyle—but John has caught him running his fingers over his face with hope in his eyes more than once in the last couple of days.

For John’s part, and despite all his protests, it’s simply good to hear Alex talk again. Barks and whines and yelps don’t suit him. He should have a real voice, even if all he’s doing with that voice at the moment is harassing John.

“Laurens, you in?” asks Tilghman, walking over to where John and Alex are seated. He offers his flask. John accepts it with good will, takes a nip, passes it back. The drink goes down smooth, and John says a little prayer of thanks in his head that Tilghman hasn’t been so well blacklisted by his bloody Loyalist family that he can’t still get his hands on stuff like this to share.

“How about you, Ham?” Alex looks up in surprise, and Tilghman shakes the flask, holds it out to him. A faint trace of guilt on his face there, but nothing malicious. “You made it out alive too. Worth celebrating.”

Alex hesitates, then reaches for the flask. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I will. Cheers, Tilghman.” After a last you-sure-this-is-okay glance up at Tench, he tilts his head back and takes a long swallow. Splutters. His tail bristles.

“Okay, okay, don’t drink the whole thing, greedy, we gotta make this stretch,” says Tilghman good-naturedly, and Alex coughs and passes it back.

“Khh—fuck—what is that?”

“I have a friend in town, he hooked me up. It’s good, right? Not that cheap shit they have at the commissary.”

“Good, sure. Jesus. Your friend’s trying to poison us, man.”

“Lightweight.” Tilghman moves on around the circle, and Alex shakes himself. Licks his chops where the alcohol has dribbled into his fur. He flattens his ears and perks them back up, a gesture that John is starting to recognize as the canine equivalent of a little frown.

“Did that stuff smell weird to you?”

“No? I mean, it was a little strong, sure, but it was just booze. Nothing unusual. You have got a better nose than me, though. Maybe you’re just not used to the smell yet?”

“That could be it. I guess I haven’t had the chance to, ah, indulge, not in a second. Not since the battle, and before that was full moon, and before that there was all that work I was trying to get done, and before that was, well…Schuylkill.”

“You’re overdue for it, is what I’m hearing.”

“Definitely overdue.” Alex nods decisively. The firelight dances on his face, and for a moment John can discern the vague shape of his smile as it used to be.

The flask makes another half-pass around the circle before being pronounced empty. A bottle of wine is produced, as well as a surprisingly large amount of rye whiskey, the provenance of which Harrison will not expound on outside raised eyebrows and a conspiratorial wink. John is drawn into a game of cards; Alex, in classic form, offers loud criticism on every move made without apparent allegiance to any player, until John gets up and offers his seat on the grounds that well, if you think you can do so much better, show me. Alex plunks himself down confidently, takes up John’s hand, promptly loses several dollars, and swaps out again just in time for John to make a spectacularly bad play and be subjected to a hearty swig of the rye whiskey. It really does taste like Harrison’s been distilling it under his bed. Alex cackles at John’s distress.

“Oughta make you take a shot, too, Hammie,” says Harrison, “you were the one who screwed him over, throwing away all his good cards like that. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” He ruffles Alex’s fur and John tenses, because Alex does not appreciate that sort of treatment from people who aren’t John most of the time, but Alex leans into the touch, albeit with his nose wrinkled in disgust at Harrison’s suggestion.

“No thanks,” says Alex, cocking his head to give Harrison a better angle, “I’ve heard the horror stories about the shit you bring to parties. Just wondering, have you ever consumed anything a human being could actually drink?” Harrison shoves Alex and calls him a little shit and Alex shoots back motherfucker and John would normally join in at this point, but his throat is still burning. He lets out a sad wheeze.

“What’s that face for?” says Alex, abandoning Harrison and poking his snout at John. “You getting weepy already? Because I am not going to hold you in my arms and pet your hair while you bawl about how one time your daddy bought you the wrong color horse and it ruined your life, not until—what time is it—until at least eleven.”

“Shut up,” John manages.

“Okay, ten-thirty, but that’s just because it’s you, John.”

“Will you fuck off,” says John, and Alex snuffles playfully at John’s cheek in that way he has now, canine signifier for just kidding, man, it was only a joke. John feels a little hot under the collar. The drink, right. Alex draws back with a grimace.

“Eurgh, Christ.”

“What’d I do now?”

“Nothing, just—ugh.” Alex looks up furtively, sees that Harrison has moved away, then says, “I didn’t wanna be mean to Harrison, but that shit he made you drink smells like death. You’re lucky you don’t have my nose right now. And don’t,” Alex adds quickly, “do not make a joke about the size of my nose, now or normally, I’ve heard ‘em all and they stopped being funny when I was about six, so.”

“If that was you being nice to Harrison…” Alex makes a grumpy not-quite-growl noise. “Duly noted about the nose though. It is dainty and beautiful and that will be my final word on the matter.”

“I’ll accept it,” Alex says, with haughty magnanimity. “God, I can’t wait to have a proper face again. You know how much of a headache it is trying to focus on the General’s stupid squiggly handwriting down the length of this fucking thing? If I end up needing spectacles before the end of this war, I’m sending him the bill.” He prods at his muzzle. John swallows down the just a couple more weeks and it’ll be gone that wants to come out, which Alex must have heard enough times at this point to render it completely meaningless.

“Well, you don’t need to think about the General’s correspondence right now,” he says instead. “Or for the rest of the night. Come on, you wanna see if Tilghman’s got anything else to drink that isn’t, fuckin’, lantern oil or whatever?”

“I,” says Alex, “am pacing myself. Enjoying myself in moderation, as it were.”

“Ahh, he was right, you lightweight! You get all in my face about being a sad drunk, but three drinks’d knock you on your furry ass, admit it.”

“It’s not the booze! It’s—” Alex frowns. “I’d just be careful about whatever that stuff is, that’s all. I feel a little. I don’t know. It must’ve been cut with something. Just...”

“Don’t trust Tilghman and his sketchy friends. Got it. Come find me when you’re ready to stop being a pissbaby, though, yeah?”

“Fuck off, Laurens,” says Alex, baring his teeth in a not-quite-grin, and John smirks and makes a rude gesture at him and saunters toward a likely-looking knot of colleagues.

The drink continues to flow (luckily supplemented by individuals other than Harrison), and the gathering starts to take on the air of a decent party. Alex drifts back toward John eventually. Whatever malady he’d been complaining of has been forgotten, and he’s high-spirited, almost silly, and he pants happily as he drapes himself over John. The smell of liquor is heavy on his breath. Good, thinks John, means he found something he could stomach, and he scratches at Alex’s ribs through his jacket and waistcoat to show no hard feelings.

“Hoooow stands the glass a-roooound, me boys,” croons McHenry at a lull in the conversation, standing and spreading his arms like he’s the lead tenor in an opera. Someone chucks their glove at his head; several other someones fall in on various harmonies. Alex joins lustily on the middle split while John trips along above, trying to ignore Gibbs’ cheerful tone-deafness. They’ve made it into the second verse, the bit where people start forgetting the words, when Alex tilts his head back on an ascending line and breaks into a ringing howl. The melody wavers with a series of titters.

“OooooOOOOOwwwhhhhyy, soldiers, why,” bellows Tilghman in a clownish imitation of Alex, and Alex redoubles his efforts in apparent appreciation, his howl taking on the shrill wailing quality of a coyote’s. Soon half the aides are trying to out-howl Alex, not that he appears to notice; whenever he pauses for breath he simply lays his head to one side and frisks his tail as if listening to a pleasant tune. And then he’s off again, howling at a pitch so piercing they must be able to hear it behind British lines.

The song limps to an end, somehow, met with general rowdy applause. “And another round for our prima donna!” says McHenry, gesturing grandly, and Alex stands and executes a very wobbly bow, his tail wagging in delight. He collapses back into his seat next to John, fixes him with a wolfish grin, leans forward and licks him from chin to hairline. The other aides hoot and holler in glee and John goes argh and wipes at the slobber on his face with his sleeve. This does not appear to deter Alex, who comes after him and tries to lick him again on the ear.

“You’re fucking drunk,” says John, pushing Alex away with a snort of laughter.

“Noooooooo,” says Alex, still with that stupid grin on his face. “Definitely not drunk. Nope. Only had one.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not lying! Ask Tilghman, ask anyone, you know, you were right next to me the whole time. Only one. ‘S the truth.” Alex burps, shudders all over as with a sudden chill. “Cold out here tonight, yeah? Or is that just me?”

“How are you cold? You’ve got all that fur under your jacket still and you’re sitting right next to the fire.” Alex mumbles something and goes for another lick, but John puts his hand in Alex’s face before he can get too touchy-feely. Flinches at the cold wetness of his nose—no, not wet, the leathery skin there cool but unusually dry. He’s panting very hard despite that, John notices, hard enough for his tongue to loll out and his chin to dip forward slightly with each breath.

Alex shakes off John’s hand and sits there, just panting. “I don’t feel so great,” he says at last.

“Well, take a break, then, huh? We still have to work tomorrow, can’t have the General catching his best aide hungover.”

“Mhm.” Alex barely seems to have heard John. He stares glassy-eyed at the campfire for a long minute. His panting takes on a different tone, further back in the throat than before, and his ears are pinned. He coughs once. John feels a little twist of worry in his gut.

“Okay, you know what, Alex, up, come on, let’s get you some air,” he says, hauling on Alex’s arm. Alex rises to his feet, swaying.

“Wher’goin’,” he mumbles.

“Just away from the fire a little bit, get you out of the smoke. That’s it.”

“I’m—don’t—” Alex stops dead in his tracks. Licks his muzzle. Pants and pants and pants.

“Alex…?”

Alex doubles over and vomits at his own feet.

John leaps away with a curse, as do a couple of the nearest aides, and Alex crumples to his knees, still retching. “Can’t hold his liquor!” shouts someone from the other side of the campfire, to a lively chorus of jeers.

“Christ, Alex, I thought you said you only had one drink!” says John. “Here—McHenry, help me get him up before he pukes on someone.”

“I did,” slurs Alex, letting John and McHenry set him on his feet and steer him away from the campfire. “Just one. From Tilghman.” He goes huuurgh again, and John and McHenry drag him over to a convenient tree so he can lean on it and empty his stomach without dirtying anyone’s boots.

“Are you gonna tell him he’s not fooling anyone, or should I?” says McHenry, rather loudly.

“Just one,” Alex repeats, as though he’d never stopped talking. He makes a token attempt at straightening up. “Not drunk. Can’t be. It doesn’t feel, it hurts, it—” He staggers hard into John with a groan that has a real edge of pain to it. John catches him clumsily, one-armed, and McHenry grabs the back of Alex’s jacket before the two of them topple over. Alex clutches at his stomach in abject misery. “I said, didn’t I say it was poison?” he wails. “Tilghman’s trying to kill us.”

“I…do not think Tilghman is trying to kill us,” says John, in a brave stab at a reasonable tone of voice.

“Gonna kill him.”

“Do not kill Tilghman.”

“I’m gonna do it, fuck that guy, I’m gonna…” Alex takes several steps in the approximate direction of the campfire before gagging and losing steam. He sits down heavily on the ground, puts his head between his knees. Lets out a couple of wet coughs.

“Ham?” McHenry asks.

“…I would like to go home now,” says Alex in a small voice.

“Takes a while to get back from the Caribbean from he—oof!”

“Not funny, Mac.” John removes his elbow from McHenry’s stomach. “Yeah, probably for the best. Come on, let’s get you in bed.”

Alex looks up at John with the most piteous golden puppy eyes John has ever seen him deliver, fists his hands in the fabric of his waistcoat. “Hurts,” he whimpers. McHenry giggles.

“I know, Alex,” says John.

“…It was only one.”

“Jesus, I know, you said it a million times!” Alex folds his ears back and whines, and John checks himself, lowers his voice. “I…sorry. Sorry. But you’ll feel better if you get some rest, promise.”

“You good to get him back there on your own, Laurens?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. We’re good. Come on, Alex, stand up.” Alex makes another tragic face and tries to scuttle off on all fours with his tail between his legs, but John manages to pull him to his feet. “Here, lean on me—no, Alex, headquarters is this way—there we go…”

They’re barely out of sight of the campfire when Alex has to pull over and throw up again. Just this morning he’d been all excited that his fur was starting to grow out enough to make a real queue; now, John does his best to hold the scraggly strands back and glumly imagines the mess Alex (and by extension, John) will have to deal with tomorrow morning.

I attacked a goddamn house with a sword two days ago, John thinks. Alex makes a noise that John can’t even begin to describe, heaves and drools. There is no way in hell I am qualified to be the responsible friend right now.

—

“I could have told you that it was too close to the full moon for you to be drinking,” says Lafayette severely.

Alex whines and pulls the pillow down over his head. “All right, I get it, I did wrong, won’t do it again, now can you please stop talking so loudly?”

“I will not. Not until you promise me you will make a study of what you ought not to be eating on your wolf days.”

“It’s—urgh—it's just a hangover, Laf.”

“It is not! You are more than half a wolf still, and there are things we can’t—the drink, it’s too strong for us, it doesn’t make us properly drunk, it makes us sick. Could bring you near to dying, if you had more than one at the wrong time of the moon.” Lafayette pauses. “Not that…not that I know this from experience. It is simply what I have heard.”

“Oh, yes. Our dear friend Gilbert, who is the very picture of self-control and common sense,” says John sweetly. “Wouldn’t dream of accusing you.” Lafayette flaps a hand in poorly-concealed embarrassment.

“Whatever, whatever, it doesn’t matter, but if you die in so stupid a way as this, I swear to you, Hamilton…” Laf trails off, wrinkles his nose in disgust. “And it reeks of vomit in here.”

“Alex threw up on himself,” John supplies helpfully.

“Traitor, why’d you tell him that, he doesn’t need to know,” Alex moans from under the pillow.

“You had better get down to the river for a wash, then. It takes forever to get a stink like that out of one’s fur, and since you can’t even change to get some relief from it—”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder that I’m ugly, this is an angle that I had never considered before, certainly not every time I look in a goddamned mirror.”

“Who said anything about ugly? Did I?”

“You did not,” says John. “Someone’s just a little sensitive, sounds like.”

“Shut up. And you were thinking it,” grumbles Alex. He lifts the pillow just enough for the tip of his nose to poke out from underneath. “If we’re all done lecturing me, then…”

Lafayette jabs a finger at Alex. “If I catch you poisoning yourself again before new moon week, I shall bite you so hard—”

“Yeah, someone beat you to the punch there, not a great threat,” says Alex, with an ironic waggle of his tail under the blankets.

“I will tell the General you’ve been making an ass of yourself—”

“What is he, my dad?”

“I’ll—I will—he—you—” Lafayette lets out a truly terrifying snarl of frustration, turns on his heel, and storms out of the room. John can hear him cursing to himself all the way down the hall. It’s a testament to how bad Alex feels that he doesn’t even snicker at having gotten a rise out of Laf, just whines quietly to himself.

“I can go tell the General you’re, uh...indisposed,” John offers after a while.

“I’m not indisposed, I’m gonna be fine just as soon as I—urk—” Alex sits bolt upright in bed and claps a hand over his mouth. John scrambles out of the line of fire, but the nausea apparently passes after a few seconds, leaving Alex to drag his hand down his chin and pull a ferocious scowl. “Unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable. What kind of world is this, where I can’t even get a stiff drink for half the month without almost killing myself? I’m going to find the wolf that bit me and tear him to pieces.”

“So dramatic,” says John, half-joking, half-nervous; it’s always a little uncomfortable to remember that Alex could actually tear someone to pieces now, if he put his mind to it. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I promise I’ll take you into town for drinks once you’re good for it again. My treat, even.”

“The catch being…”

“I mean, it’s not like it ever took you more than one drink to get sloppy anyway.”

Alex groans and flops back down onto the bed. “I hate you.”

“No you doooooon’t,” John coos, scratching under Alex’s chin. Alex swats his hand away.

“Cut it—you don’t get to use that against me, asshole, not today.” Alex tucks his chin down against his neck and curls up into a ball to ward off further attacks. Doesn’t get very far; his spine’s starting to be the wrong shape for it. “This is bullshit. You shouldn’t be allowed to be conscious and out of bed and functional before me. It goes against the natural order of things. God’s gonna hit HQ with a lightning bolt for this.”

“You could at least say thank you for not letting me puke myself to death last night, John.”

“…Thank you for not letting me puke myself to death last night,” says Alex grudgingly.

“And for getting me back to bed safe.”

“And for getting me back to—yeah, okay, actually thank you, though. I was in a bad way, everything was all fuzzy, I couldn’t think straight. You saw me, I didn’t even wanna stand up and walk like a person. I thought Tilghman was trying to assassinate me, for Christ’s sake! I could’ve done any number of stupid things in that state. Fallen in the river and drowned, or wandered into camp and gotten myself shot. So. I owe you.”

“You remember all that?”

“Yeah. ’S how I know I wasn’t drunk. It sucked, but I remember every second.” Alex uncurls enough to grimace ruefully at John. “…Sorry I kept trying to lick you. It made a lot of sense at the time.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t so bad until you were doing it after you’d already been throwing up for half an hour.”

“I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.” With a long sigh, Alex pushes himself out of bed at last, stretches himself down to his tailtip, and starts gathering up the scattered pieces of his uniform and pulling them on. “Okay. I’m going for a bath. Get this filth out of my fur so Laf doesn’t spend all day glaring at me.” He pauses with his trousers half pulled up. “And if you see the General, yeah, go ahead and tell him I’m indisposed. Make up some story. Tell him it’s a wolf thing, he usually backs off for those. Gets all weird and grim. Er, weirder and grimmer than usual, I mean.”

“Doesn’t sound very convincing to me.”

“Then help me think of something better. If I have to sit through a lecture on moderation and self-control and manners befitting a gentleman and an officer right now, on top of everything else…” Alex pulls his tail through the hole in the seat of his pants, scrubs at his face to unstick the worst of the matted fur. “Anyway. If I’m not back soon, assume the headache didn’t go away and I decided to put myself out of my misery.”

“Dramatic,” says John again. “Don’t drown yourself.”

“Can’t make any promises.” With a last parting frisk of his tail, Alex steps out into the hallway. John hears his toenails clicking on the floorboards as he makes for the stairs. The noises stop partway down the hall.

Alex retches audibly.

“Really, Alex?”

“Shut up!”

[ziharku]

Log R52: Worries in the Ward

A dimmed light looms through groggy eyes as Sepira awakens in a familiar room. Having spent time healing with the Conjurer’s guild, she’d spent more than enough time in the rooms reserved for patients designated to stay for at least a few days. Aches and pains shoot through her arms as she leans forward and scoots back to lean against the wall behind her. Sensing the movement, her sister turns her attention from the broken blade that held her attention and sheaths it.

A flashing image runs through her mind as Bianchi, blade in hand, attempts to break her wind wall and assail her. A moment’s panic draws her mind to reach for aether, but finds none. Bianchi’s gaze fixes on her, in question at the clearly confused look on her face. Again she reaches, but still to no avail, to grasp aether from within herself. Sepira’s eyes close as she breathes in, attempting to allow aether to flow back in unchecked, but immediately recoils as the fresh stream of aether runs like boiled water over her channels. Her body convulses at the sensation, the aether dissipating.

Bia opens her mouth to protest, seeing her sister’s composure change for the aetherflow, but too late. She sighs as Sep shudders at the action. “The Conjurers said you’re not allowed to use magic.”

We shall see about that. Again, she opens herself to aether, but in smaller quantities. A small trickle of aether runs through her fingertips, just enough to grasp, to warm them.

A swift knock comes from the doorway, followed by footsteps that for some reason don’t particularly care for a response before entering. Bia’s hand moves quickly to her intact dagger, but slides away as the familiar pair enters. Lacking his usual chain mail in favor of a patient’s gown, the Au ra grins down at the pair. A bandage runs up one arm and over his neck. “Glad to see you’re up! We’re just popping over from Zi’s room, apparently he always takes a few days to get through.” He laughs as Kankri trails into the room as well, several small bandages up and down his neck and cheeks. His face shows both embarrassment and a lack of amusement.

Another image runs through Sepira’s mind, of Ziharku pressed to her wind wall and the spray or red that filled her vision after. News that he’s still alive, at least, eases her conscience. Though how, she can only wonder.

The elementals wanted him dead just as much as moogle mog

“So uh...what’s with all the...bandages?” Bianchi stares blankly at Kankri. “Late costume for All Saint’s Wake?”

“They aren’t even covering anything…” the midlander grumbles, robes shifting as his foot kicks idly at the floor. “Cro just kept asking for them to put on me-

“I gasp. My love does not desire the healing and affection of his beloved. It wounds me. I need another band-aid. Put it on my chest for me Kanni.”

“You’re garbage.”

Cronus feigns pain again. “Ugh! Now I need two. Please...my...love...urk…” He clutches a hand to his stomach as he leans forward, taking a knee and grabbing at Kankri’s robe.

“Geez, I’ll put one on your face or something just stoopppp.” His gaze shifts from the clearly okay Au ra kneeling before him and the sisters as his hands try to push Cronus away and make him stand up. “More importantly, we’re supposed to be catching these two up. Or you are. You remember better than me.”

Cronus freezes before rising quickly. “Oh yeah. Your memory is uhh bad. Cause you got bonked. On the head. Totally. Right.” He seems nervous as he turns about hurriedly. “So, first things first, Moogle primal whatever guy is dead, and that’s good news. More good news is, the moogles that summoned him are also ok. All back to normal. Just like you.” Cronus’s eyes are directed at Bia.

Bianchi raises an eye. “Okay like me?”

“Oh. Uh. Bianchi totally got brainwashed. Seemed like it was tempering buuuut since she and the moogles went back to normal as soon as he was gone, we figure it was just something while he was here and not like, legit tempering? I’m really not good at this stuff. You’ll have to talk to Zi about that junk, he knows what he’s talking about.”

“No fucking way.” Bianchi shakes her head. “I wasn’t tempered. I’m not tempered. I’m not trying to summon a giant fluff again what the actual fuck.”

Sepira’s eyes wander for a moment before she nods. “You were… Clearly not yourself.”

Kankri glares. “She aLMOST STABBED ME.”

Cronus purses his lips. “I meeean. Almost. He’s got a new hole in his fancy robes now that I’m hoping you can stitch up later. But seriously. Tried to stab my boyfriend.” Cronus eyes Bianchi. “I know it wasn’t like, you you, but not cool bruh. Not cooool.”

Bianchi shakes her head. “People don’t just get untempered!”

The volume leaves Cronus and Kankri taken aback for a moment. They exchange a glance. “Uhh, Miri got tempered before. And she’s fine.” Cronus gives a small shrug.

“The hell-

Bianchi is cut off as a Lalafell stomps her tiny feet into the room. “I heard my name. You’d better not want another Twelve’sdamned band-aid.”

Cronus motions grandly at the tiny lady. “Thissssss is Miri! Not tempered. Normal girl. Used to be a Garuda thrall but Zi fixed it with some bullshit he won’t explain. So yeah. Untempered. Said you were too. Okay?” His hands raise again as he continues his prior shrug.

Sepira’s brow furrows as she glares. “Make sense or get out.”

“If you can walk you can ask him, he’s down the hall. Stuck in a bed. Damn.” Kankri folds his arms, still eyeing Bianchi.

Sepira waves a hand impatiently. “The giraffe can wait, my chart?” She stares expectantly at her sister, hand extended in wait.

Snapping out of her thoughts, Bianchi turns back toward her. “Uh, E-Sumi-Yan has it. He’d said he wanted to take care of it personally, but when he couldn’t do more than stabilize you he wanted to go check on something in the library and call on the Elder Seedseer for a second opinion.”

Of course he did.

Miri shrugs. “I haven’t really done much here so they didn’t trust me with more than bandages.”

Kankri looks down at the Lalafell. “Guessing you don’t have any ideas what’s wrong then?”

Her head shakes. “Another thing Mister bed-ridden talked about but did his usual nonsense in explaining. If he could put it into actual magic terms I could probably give it a whirl.”

A clamour from down the hall catches Miri’s attention. “Altana’s sake, Zi! Stop giving the guys a hard time and stay in the bed!” The little one stomps angrily from the room back down the hall.

Cronus lets out a sigh. “He’s been on about ‘getting a decent meal’ since he woke up earlier. Apparently doesn’t like Gridanian food. Or sickbay food. Or both. Meh. Just would rather hop on the airship than get some rest.”

Miriel’s voice echoes down the hall as she begins to chide me for trying to escape, and Sepira’s eye twitches. She grumbles and turns about, rising to her feet as best she can. Doing her damndest to keep upright, she makes her way out of the room down the hall to where she spies Miriel glaring into a room. Her legs brush past the Lalafell as she comes into the doorway, grabbing an empty vase from atop a set of drawers near the door before hurling it at my head with surprising accuracy as Silver and Major keep me held to the bed.

The porcelain breaks against my forehead, leaving a long cut that bleeds down the center of my face and showers the pair with small pieces. The impact leaves me speechless for a few moments, the four of us present locking eyes with the shivering mage. “Sleep first, then dream.”

I stare confused. “The fuck?”

She takes a breath, exasperated. “This is the most secure ward in the Stillglade Fane. The chances of you making it out are the same as you finding a decent girlfriend.”

Silver and Major go wide eyed. “OHHHH SHIT SON.”

A glare from Sepira silences the pair, their mouths still wide from the ‘oh’. ”This is a hospital, there are people here trying to recover and I can hear your stupidity clear down the hall.”

Before she could lay down another sick DISS THO (are you actually-YES I AM IT’S WRITTEN) the sound of double doors opening at the end of the hall catches her attention. Behind her, Bianchi utters an “uh oh” as a diminutive woman comes barreling down the hall.

Miriel hops into the room and out of the line of fire, hurrying over to Silver’s side. “She just charged down the hall in high heels!” She whispers up. “I want her to teach me how to do that.”

Silver stares down at the Lalafell. “But you don’t wear heels.”

“I can dream!”

Muffled conversation comes from outside of the room, the trio of voices either talking at once or in responses too close to discern from one another from where I lay.

“Maman please-”

“No, no one lost an arm-

“Always so reckless maman got three grey hairs!

The figure spinning and chatting and squeezing the pair of sisters catches my eye, striking features, porcelain skin, and a brightly colored dress fill my vision as the scent of flowers floats into the room. I lean up toward Major. “Soo who’s the uh. Lovely lady?”

Major shakes his head. “Just a guess here, prooobably their mom.”

Silver grins. “Zi likes someone’s mooom~”

“Dude shut the hell up.” I go to elbow the Roegadyn but he scoots out of reach.

I grumble and cross my arms as the pair snickers. Cronus and Kankri sneak their way past the rabble and back into the room, grabbing a pair of chairs opposite the door.

“So what’s with the chick dragging those two up and down the hall?” Kankri watches as they glide back and forth outside the door.

“Their mom.” Major grins at me, accentuating the word. “Well, probably. I think. I heard Maman stuck in their somewhere so I’m just guessing it’s another word for mom and not a name.” Cronus nods in affirmation.

An older voice catches their attention, bringing the hustle and bustle to a stop. “Marguerite, you’re causing a scene. Clearly if they’re well enough to be walking about, they’re fine.” The clack of wood against stone floor is audible between steps as the older man approaches the trio out of view.

A more hurried set of feet rush over, hugging the girls as Marguerite takes a step toward her father in law, straightening her back as she composes herself, staring him down. “Wiz respect, Père, you and I have very different ideas on what constitutes as ‘fine’.”

“Heeeeyyyyy,” I call from my room. “I feel left out, what’s going on Sep? Bia?”

Shuffling feet hurry to the door, and a rather mousy looking Hyuran stands in the doorway. He seems rather uncomfortable as he notices the number of people in the room staring at him. “Er, my apologies. I, um, my name is Leon- that is, Lord Faremis. Their, their father, yes. Um.” He stands there and gives a hard sniffle, eyes watering slightly. Those of us in the room exchange a glance as the man seems nearly on the verge of tears, though at relief of his daughters’ state or having to speak before us, we aren’t sure. He seems to be specifically avoiding eye contact with me, probably because my forehead is still bleeding. I won’t accept this.

I raise a hand in greeting. “Ziharku Mecru, pleased to meet you Lord Faremis. Perchance, could you toss me some gauze from the drawer by the door for my fountain of a forehead?”

He seems to tremble before he moves to the drawers, pulling it open and nearly dropping the roll back into the drawer several times before offering it over, clearly still too far for me to try and reach. Silver extends a thick arm and takes it gingerly, as though worried the man would shatter for approaching too quickly, then tossed it over. It smacks my cheek.

“Aimed a little lower than she did, buddy.” I pick it up and run some aether over it before pressing a strip to my forehead. I take the rest and run it down my face, smearing blood over it without realizing. With a sigh, Major takes the gauze and keeps wiping until my face is clear. The drops of blood on my sheet and shirt, however, will not be removed so easily.

I take another moment to eye Lord Faremis before he lets out another loud sniffle and decide I’ve had enough of the poor fellow trying to be brave in front of us. “Perhaps, good sir, you could introduce us to the rest of your party? We are...well, I am I guess, a friend of theirs. Though I suppose with the noise I was causing prior to your arrival, Sepira wouldn’t be so quick to admit it.”

The fellow in the doorway snivels and stares at us for a moment longer before the clicking of heels nearly commands the room, his wife gliding in with a whirlwind of color. Her hands come to rest on his arm as sharp blue eyes peer over us. “You are the ones zat brought my Bébés home?”

Surprised at the accent, Major takes a moment to answer. “I. Yes?” His eyes shift before he nods again. Almost to convince himself that he answered correctly.

A manicured eyebrow raises at the odd statement. Then a bit higher as the odd Hyuran simply nods to himself. “I am the Lady Marguerite Faremis, if you would allow me to introduce my father-in-law, his lordship Arcturus Faremis.”

The older fellow follows in her wake, sparing the barest amount of expression as he nods. “Rest assured, your service to house Faremis will be...duly rewarded.”

Major rises from his seat, giving a slight bow. “It would be most welcomed, your lordship.”

I can almost sense the silent groan as Silver rolls his eyes. I clear my throat. “If I could uhh, borrow your ears for a sec.”

Major grimaces in his bow. “Ah, right. That.” He straightens his back again, arms crossing in front of his chest. “While our crystal warrior was...able to keep things from worsening, we found one of your girls in an...interesting state. Has uhh..Sepira’s the shorter one right? Has she been prone to...say...elemental stuff?”

Marguerite’s smile draws thinner as it grows more forced. “Sepira, she has always been… close to the elementals, what the conjurer’s call, a ‘hearer’.”

My cheeks scrunch as my lips purse. “Are hearers usually uhh...angry and floating and filled with elemental energy trying to kill primals with vines?”

A light rap at the door surprises us as guildmaster E-Sumi-Yan eases into the room. “No mister Mecru, no they aren’t. Hearers are simply far more attuned with the elementals in both understanding and ability to communicate with them. They help us keep the elementals at peace, and don’t generally levitate.”

Silver gives a wide grin. “Miiight wanna check on that then. We’ll keep pink-tum here while you make sure the little lady’s still on the ground. Guessing you didn’t see her in the hall then?”

He freezes for a moment before dashing out of the room. “That Girl-”

[quixoticsanity]

So...

I’m taking time out of my busy days just to point out that Sasuke can’t not know about his daughter. Why do we even discount what Naruto said when Chouchou asked him for details about Sarada’s dad, something like “maybe it’s more apt to ask Sarada about that” and then going “yeah, he’s been away most of the time travelling” when Uchiha baby said she can’t do that because she does not remember. I mean wouldn’t that imply that Sasuke was at least around during Sarada’s early years? Because I doubt Dear Lord Seventh (godblessthishunkyadultnartoe) would tell Salad to talk about her dad if that wasn’t the case, and The Sass Master Sasuke maaaaaaaaaybe only dared point his Kusanagi at his own daughter because, uh, children grow and it’s been more or less a decade since he last saw his kid and the extra level of caution brought about by the sudden appearance of the alien Uchiha prompted him to be on guard? I don’t know, I could be wrong, especially when Kishimoto is proving to be such a troll.

But yeah. Reading comprehension. Helps us out from time to time.