#grease monkey near me

[insanethrottlebikernews]

BEWARE!! STAY AWAY FROM GREASE MONKEY

#greasemonkey #automobile #carrepair Would you go to a doctor that wasn’t qualified? No, you wouldn’t! So why take your vehicle to someone that didn’t have the qualifications to work on it? Grease Monkey is one of many oil lube hacks that hires unqualified individuals and you’re putting your 30k or whatever price vehicle into their hands.

[semperamans]

Ooh kinda angsty thought! No cause benny would kill for you... Literally

The first time he meets your folks your dad asks him what he would do if someone hurt you (like your protective!benny blurb!) and benny answers honestly, he'd kill them and your mum laughs awkwardly but benny gives your dad a look that confirms the worst, benny is trouble no matter how much he loves you! - ✨

for all of my “but daddy i love him” taylor swift girlies, this one is for you <3

your father's cool facade begins to crumble when he processes the name formed on your lips. he lowers the newspaper from his face, pushes his glasses back against the bridge of his nose. "you're asking if your momma and i will host benjamin cross for dinner?" "yes sir." and your father knew one day this would happen - well, not this necessarily; he knew you'd find a sweetheart and have aspirations of folding him into the family, but benjamin cross? he silently asks god what he did to deserve such punishment. the boy's reputation precedes him. 'course, everyone 'round town calls him benny and you call him benny and your father thinks that is better suited. benny sounds childish, less serious, and let's face it, the boy has nothing going for him. i mean, it was just weeks ago that your father and momma sat near the radio, heads bowed as they listened to news anchor john phillips recount benny's wild ride through town. seven traffic lights, he ran! the boy is a menace so no, your father doesn't want him in his house let alone his table and he has no on the tip of his tongue, but then he stops, looks at your face and where did your pigtails and missing front teeth go? the woman who stands before him is grown, not his little girl, and you've got this look on your face he's seen before but can't place. he's quiet. studying. where has he seen that look? then it hits him like a train because your momma used to look at him with the same bewitched twinkle you have in your eyes. dinner will be fine, he tells you. sunday at 3.

the boy isn't wearing that dreaded denim jacket and for a moment your father allows himself to think of benny as just a boy you met at school studying some highly regarded subject, a future career practically locked upon graduation. but no, the sleeve of his too-small dress shirt jumps upward as he reaches for the salt and your father sees the tattoos and the burns and the scars and your future laid bare before him. he has to stop eating, press his napkin to his mouth and he's thankful your momma. she is better at this. she actually talks to the two of you, asking benny questions, and he's quiet, but respectful. your father hadn't anticipated him to be so quiet and its deafening when your momma steps away to grab dessert. your father figures it's time to say something to the boy. anything. he tries to remember what it was like when he sat down at your momma's table for the first time, how her father had grilled him, made him sweat, and benny looks so cool it grates on his nerves. is this unimportant to him? how many girls has he sat beside, promising daddies that he'll take care of their little girls only to leave them heartbroken?

the answer is none. you're it for benny and that's why he's so anxious. his hands are trembling, fingers shuddering as he reaches out, grabs the glass of tea and takes a swig as your father begins to speak. "tell me, benny," and you know trouble is comin'. "you gotta job?" "i, uh, yeah. doug's garage on 43rd. work on bikes, cars, things like that." "grease monkey," your father folds his hands together, clearly unimpressed. "you plannin' on doing that long term?" "well yes sir. m'good at it." "and you think that's sustainable? gonna be able to take care of my daughter slingin' wrenches around?" it's a loaded question filled with contempt. "daddy," you warn, but your father plows forward. "you see, benny, she's my main concern." your father is pointing at you, elbows on the table. he's getting angry, face turning red, mouth open to continue, but benny cuts him off. "with all due respect, sir, she's mine too." and then nobody moves for what feels like a lifetime. you're sure time has stopped, your momma is likely stood frozen with an icing bag growing limp in her hands. it's the strangled huff from your father that sets the earth turning again. "s'that so?" he drops his hands, smiles, even. "s'that why you take her to that cesspool you call a clubhouse? throw her on the back of that piece of shit you park down the street?" your mother practically squawks when she reenters the room, quickly putting the cake dish down and hissing your fathers name, but he can't be stopped. "see my problem, benny, is that don't want my little girl anywhere around people like you, people who'll hurt her." "i'd never." benny's fists are tightening on his lap. his eyes locked on your father's face. "let’s say that i believe you, which i don’t, then what about one of your little buddies, eh? or their friends? what are they gonna do when you bring a pretty little thing like her around, huh?" "i'd kill anyone who hurts her." and it comes out so stone-cold matter-of-fact that a chill runs down your father's spine because there is no faking the conviction etched into benny's features or coating his words. “doesn't matter who. doesn't matter what happens to me. no one is messin' with her." benny hesistates for a moment, eyes dancing back and forth, gauging your father’s reaction. when he says nothing benny rises from the table. your father has no words, his bravado flying out the open window as he watches benny take your mother's hand in both of his, look her in the eyes and thank her earnestly for everything and she just nods, almost numb as you join his side. "where do you think you're going?" your father rasps. his voice is growing hoarse, nerves pinching his vocal cords just so. "with benny." your face is drawn, eyebrows pulled together. "i love him, daddy. whether you approve or not. i love benny. n'that's not gonna change."

and as your father stares down at his picked-over plate, the distant rumble of benny's bike rattles the china in the curio cabinet signifying your departure and tears well in his eyes. there is nothing he will ever be able to say or do to deter you from benny. he just hopes the boy keeps true to his word.

[tgmsunmontue]

Get your motor runnin' - 2/6

Bradley, a bit of a (very talented) grease monkey and Jake, who has been sent to see him because he's apparently the best mechanic Maverick knows.

A longer fleshed out fic at the request of @poetryandpickles based on their idea in this post. Likely going to be 3-4 parts and likely an excuse for lots of smut. Just as an FYI.

PART ONE

PART TWO

                Bradley isn’t sure why Mav insists on sending work his way, it’s not like he needs it. And North Island is not down the road or around the corner. Not that he doesn’t mind the scenery, the man standing in front of him clearly regretting his life choices that brought him out her to the middle of not-quite nowhere with a car Bradley hasn’t even looked at yet. God. He doesn’t even know the make or model, and if it’s a newer car he’s going to have to go and get the diagnostic reader from his little house that’s hidden around the back.

                “What’s your name?”

                “Jake. Jake Seresin.”

                “Hmm. Nice to meet you. Now walk me through what’s wrong with your car.”

                “More like what’s not wrong,” Jake mutters and Bradley barks out a laugh, walks out beside Jake and winces under the unforgiving glare of the sun, doesn’t have his aviators and raises his hand to at least block the sun as he takes in the 2007 Toyota Camry and pulls a face. Of course it’s a fucking 2007 model. He listens as Jake lists off issues, not surprised to hear about the potential engine problems, or the melting dashboard, although the pooling water is something he’s not come across particular to this make and model. He’d bet good money it’s stored outdoors while Jake is deployed as well as near the ocean.

                “You have the service records?”

                “Uh…”

                “For your car,” Bradley clarifies, his lips twitching in amusement.

                “Oh. Uh yeah, in the glove compartment.”

                “Thanks. Keys?”

                He catches the keys one handed over the hood, nods his thanks. Bradley needs to look, because there were so many problems with this make and model, an accelerator pedal recall not being the least of the problems, there were also issues with brakes and wheels and he really needs to know what he’s working with and what work, if any, has already been done on the car. The idea of anyone driving around a ticking time bomb causes his skin to itch. There’re potential issues with the transmission as well for this year, along with heavy oil consumption. It’s a fucking dud of a car.

                “Did you buy it new or second hand? I’m going to need to take it for a quick spin. Want to jump in?”

                “You don’t need to lock up?”

                “I’m just going up and down, it’ll be fine…”

                He slides into the driver’s seat, waves away Jake’s apologies about the mess, because he’s seen far worse, is just hoping he doesn’t leave grease stains on any of the upholstery, but at least Jake doesn’t seem precious about it. He turns the ignition and oh yeah, crunchy. He sucks his lips into his mouth and eases it out of his drive and into the road, listening carefully, and yeah, it’s not as bad as it could be but he’s certain it could be a damn sight better. He heads back, the short drive enough to confirm things.

                “What? You making a face. What’s wrong?”

                “Well, you listed a lot already, but I’m going to need to check the transmission. But I want to go over the service records and see what has already been done. And you didn’t answer me. New or used?”

                “Used.”

                “Okay. Let me have those papers.”

                Jake hands him a collection of papers and he’s pleasantly surprised at how well organised it all is considering the rest of the car. There’s a solid seven years of records, all in chronological order and held together with a clip, but then there’s change of ownership papers from 2014, and again in 2017, showing when Jake apparently bought it. The accelerator pedal recall was carried out and documented properly, and the transmission has already been fixed.

                “What’s wrong with it? I was told it was a good car when I bought it…”

                “2006 was a good year. 2007 was very definitely not. They started getting good again around 2013. But looks like the first owner was pretty diligent.”

                “Yeah. It was like, the grandmother of some guy, and then he got it, and I bought it from him.”

                “And you don’t drive it that much, which has its own pros and cons. Lower wear and tear, but if the engine isn’t getting turned over regularly it isn’t good for the battery, but also engine fluids start to break down, parts that aren’t getting lubricated begin to corrode…”

                “Can you fix it?”

                “Yeah. Haven’t met a car yet I can’t fix.”

…            …            …

                He’s not quite sure what he’ll do if Bradshaw can’t fix it, despite his confidence. He can still drive it, even if the list of things wrong with it is growing longer every time he turns the ignition. Assuming Bradshaw doesn’t make it undrivable. His confidence is… attractive though. He drives Jake’s car directly into an empty bay and the immediate shade makes it feel several degrees cooler immediately.

                “Right. I hope you brought a book or have lots of data on your phone, because town is a little walk away…”

                “I can hang out, just point me to where I’m out of the way.”

                Weirdly there’s a little comfy set up in the corner with two worn loungers, little coffee table with some books and a pile of magazines, some Aviation Traders which makes him wonder if Bradshaw works on planes as well. There’s a small fridge and Bradshaw tells his to help himself, pulling a bottle of water out for himself and Jake tries not to outright stare as Bradshaw drinks the entire bottle in one go. Drool. He grabs a bottle of water for himself, definitely needing to cool down a little. Then Bradshaw’s sauntering off, and baggy grease-stained coveralls should not somehow be that sexy. He’s left to the music of the radio and the sounds of Bradshaw doing whatever he needs to do to ensure Jake’s car won’t unintentionally kill him.

                He plays around on his phone for about thirty minutes, resists the urge to take a sneaky photo of Bradshaw bending over and sending it to Trace, because she’d at least appreciate it, even while telling him off for taking pictures of people without their permission. Then he picks up one of the battered books and decides to start reading, it’s a romance novel but it’s clearly going to have a happy ending.

                Then he hears Bradshaw start to sing, and surprisingly he has a nice singing voice, clearly going into his own little world and forgetting Jake’s presence completely. Sings loud and sweet along to the radio and Jake can’t help but find it endearing. He even catches him playing the air guitar and air drums at different points and it’s pretty much all the entertainment he needs, although Eric and Alexandra’s relationship has at least caught his interest, Eric’s own family being so much like his own he can feel a sick sense of camaraderie for the fictional character.

                Hours slip past, the temperature drops, lights flicker on, bright in a different way. The sun is no doubt kissing the horizon somewhere he can’t see, judging by the pink and orange hues the sky is turning, from what he can see through the one raining open roller door. He’s over half-way through the book and he’s starting to feel like it doesn’t have a happy ending, and he quickly scans the back, stomach sinking as he reads the blurb. The title should have also given him a clue…

                “All finished.”

                His head snaps up.

                “What? Really?”

                “Yep. I’ve fixed up everything with the engine. Running like a dream now. Gave her new brake pads and did a wheel alignment. I mean, you’re still going to have to book her in for a proper overhaul of the seals, because salt and sun’s a bitch on rubber, so I’d recommend getting a cover for her when you’re deployed if you can’t get her stored inside somewhere. Also the drainage holes were blocked, which was why there was water accumulating, and I’ve re-gassed your aircon as well, and fixed the hole in the condensing tube which should stop the water dripping into the footwell on the passenger side.”

                Jake blinks, because that sounds like a lot of work.

                “Wow. Okay. Thanks. Seriously man, I didn’t think when I headed out here about the practicalities of everything. Really appreciate it.”

                “Well, I don’t normally accept walk-ins, but if Mav is sending them,” he shrugs, like he is used to Mav getting what he wants and Jake guesses he does. “And you drove all this way. Couldn’t really turn you away. Come on, let me ring you up…”

                Jake follows him, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, and yeah, when he looks at the printout there are quite a few parts, and five hours of labor, which doesn’t seem to match the actual hours he’s worked, and he wonders if he should question it. He doesn’t, swipes his card and considers it a bargain. The Bradshaw is handing him his keys along with a receipt and the printout.

                “And you’re free to go. Not stuck here.”

                “Hmm. Can I interest you in dinner?” Jake asks, because he’s got to ask, he doesn’t have to see the guy ever again if he says no. From the way Bradshaw’s slowly smiling at him he’s feeling pretty confident about the answer and he smiles slowly back in response.

                “Actually dinner? Or… I mean. I have a bed not even twenty yards away…”

                “Yeah? Show me?”

                “What? Never seen a bed before?” Bradshaw asks and fuck yeah, Jake likes guys who are a little bit snarky.

                “Not one with you in it…”

                “Smooth. Come on. It's a nice bed.”

PART THREE

(For the love of god do not ever buy a 2007 Toyota Camry).

[spacetimesally]

Good day, toy fans and action figure fanatics! It's time for another Spacetime Sally action figure round-up and there's so so so much to get to this week, so let's jump right in, shall we? And, as always, you can check out previous action figure toy posts here.

Above, we have the Fight Pit Sally figure. Who can forget that classic episode where Sally was enslaved by the Kurnonian Sweels and forced to fight for their entertainment? Which gives us a nice segue into Sally's saviors from the episode, and fan favorite, The Beagle Crew! (And a big big thanks to GravHell's Garage/TheAnkhst for suggesting some coverage of The Beagle Crew! I almost forgot about these guys!)

Beagle Crew leader, Captain Joyce Janetti (left, original figure; right, 2nd series figure with her signature Wrist Blade weapon)

Beagle Crew Ace Pilot, Dallas Lawrence (left, the original Dallas; right, 2nd series Dallas and his resulting white locks after being shocked to near death by the Cosmic Witch, Shelluno)

Beagle Crew member, the Jack-of-All-Trades, Tripper (left, original figure; right, 2nd series figure)

Beagle Crew Security, The Assassin, Sno (left, Sno in Battle Armor Spacesuit; right, 2nd series Stealth Assassin Sno)

Beagle Crew antagonist, Space Sheriff Furl Knottie (left, original figure in Sheriff outfit; right, 2nd series, empowered Judge Furlington Knottie the Third, and his SurveillanceBot, I-Speye)

Beagle Crew antagonist, Constable Norman Ropes (left, in official uniform; right, 2nd series, Search & Destroy Constable Ropes)

A couple more Sally figures: Grease Monkey Sally; and a most sought-after Sally figure, Space Vixen Sally

Top Left: Ticker, the out-of-control bounty hunting robot built and programmed to do only one thing: KILL; Top Right: Metro SecurityBot, Officer Stomp; Bottom Left: the animated version of Aluminum Tony (who can also be briefly seen in, 'Connection Cornucopia' in his live-action form; Bottom Right: Trick-a-Dee Six, the NavBot gone rogue

And for the Beagle Crew's nasty ne'er-do-well antagonistic group, and the ones who had enslaved Sally, the Kurnonian Sweels, an advanced Sweel species (the more primitive Sweels were seen in 'The Exoneration of Sharkfeather')

Left: a weaponized/armored primitive wild Sweel; Center: Sweel Trooper; Right: Sweel BattleBot

Top Left: Douglas, the kind-hearted Sweel who assists Sally and the Beagle Crew in escaping, and who eventually becomes a member of the Beagle Crew; Top Right: Maiden Aurelie, the Sweel Assassin; Bottom Left: Commander Tallus; Bottom Right: Lord General Grah'Vez de Gra'Vho

Welp, that's it for this week's toy round-up and, boy, was it a doozy. Hope you had fun and if there are any Spacetime Sally figures you'd like to see in the future, just let me know, and I'll see what I can track down in the archive! Until next time, So Long, Space Cadets!

[rainwaterapothecary]

"Unsettled" (A Serennedy Golden Compass au) pt. 2

[Pt 1][Quick Lore Explanation] ("Speaking aloud" - "Speaking telepathically between human and daemon")

A safe distance from the Arctic Islands Research Compound, 1947.

The agent’s blond hair was so caked in Dust-gathering solvent, grease, and sweat that it barely moved when he plopped his head down on the thick carpet of Luis’ safehouse. His ribs expanded slowly before contracting with a spasm as his massive, white wolf daemon copied his action right on top of him.

“Thanks, Cucciola.” He coughed. His daemon merely completed his inhale with a gusty, canine sigh.

”I missed you, let’s never fucking do that again.”

Leon nodded, his body awakening aches and scrapes with every centimeter that thawed.

Blue eyes blinked up at the cabin’s hewn-log ceiling.

“Panza was a moose.”

Laughter sounded from near the fireplace as Luis Serra settled the kettle on its hook.

“Sí, he was.”

“He was also a lizard.”

“A salamander, but yes.”

“I can be a monkey, too. Luis says it might unsettle people though.” A tiny, peach-fuzzed head came into view just in front of Leon’s eyes, causing them to cross as they took in the tiny monkey’s big eyes.

Then Panza pushed his eyes further apart as he morphed into a tarsier, just to fuck with their old friend.

It worked.

Swearing in enough languages that their entire block would have been proud, the ex-guard shoved himself backwards, dragging Fiorire’s bulk with him.

“Fuck, Panza, what is wrong with you?!”

The cheeky daemon made small noises that could only have been laughter before he bounced into the air and landed as a blindingly red macaw on Luis’ shoulder.

“Fanfarrón.” Luis smiled, offering the daemon a dried piece of fruit. Panza continued to make laughter noises in the unnerving way birds have.

Leon shook his head in wonder, dropping his skull back into the soft rug.

“You never Settled.”

Luis turned to him, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Leon was lucky for the arctic winds keeping him awake enough for this conversation. Even then, all he had in him was a dubious eyebrow raise.

The scientist chuckled again and settled himself, cross-legged, on the rug by his old friend’s head.

“He Settled for a while, shortly after Abuelo and I got back to Spain.” Thick, brown eyebrows furrowed at the sad memories.

“What, not enough ladies to impress?”

Luis snorted and ruffled Leon’s decidedly disgusting hair.

“None half as pretty as the rompecorazones I left behind in Harlem.”

Leon wrinkled his nose at the nickname.

“I’m sure Ellie was heartbroken.”

“Who?”

Leon hit his friend on the knee with the back of one hand.

“Baker’s girl, over by the plaza with the fountain.”

Luis genuinely had to think before any sort of face matched a name.

“She threw a rock at my head that one time, when we were buying rolls.”

“Oh!” Luis snapped his fingers as he aligned a memory with the name. Then he shrugged with a helpless smile down at his friend.

Leon looked between his gray eyes, trying to understand what was going on behind them before another thought shot to the forefront.

“Luis! You got a beard!”

The other man looked down as if to see the thing on his chin before beaming at his friend.

“Yes! Hormones are fascinating.”

“’S that why you were way up here? Working with hormones ‘r something?”

The light in the seated man’s eyes dimmed.

“Ah, no, I’m afraid. I…” His eyes wandered over to the low bookshelf filled with journals, both private and scientific. Another weak pat on his knee from the back of Leon’s hand brought his attention back down.

“D’worry about it. You got me out, ’s what counts.”

It was as if uttering the sentiment aloud made it real, and all the fatigue of the past four months- hell, since the end of the war two years ago were suddenly upon the emaciated man. Delicate, blond eyelashes fluttered closed as Leon fought for his thoughts.

“Ve a dormir, Sancho. We’ll keep you and Fiorire very safe.”

Whether it was the weight of the torture he’d been put through, the force of the Arctic weather in the prison he’d been kept in, the knowledge that his dearest friend was back, whole, and had survived the fucking war, or the comfort of being able to hold his daemon to his chest for the first time since he got caught smuggling kids out of their cells…

He only realized he’d fallen asleep when he awoke beneath a heavy blanket and a heavier wolf daemon. Her white fur caught the sunlight of the Arctic’s permanent noon as she conversed with her old friend. Panza was still in his bright red macaw form, standing with one leg on the back of a chair Luis had put by the bed for him. With the other foot he was motioning like Luis used to when they were kids and he got excited. Fiorire’s tail gave his consciousness away when it flumped twice in greeting. He buried his fingers deeper into her thick coat.

“He’s awake!” Panza called out behind himself, to where a brown blob that must have been Luis sat. Maybe Leon needed more sleep if his vision was this fucked.

“Shhh Panza, let them sleep, parlanchín.”

“Mm, no- M’wake.”

Warm chuckles sounded from that red clay-colored blob and Leon found himself smiling at the sound.

“You sound it, amigo!”

“Mentiroso.” Panza muttered, mutinously. Luis waved him off as he got to his feet and crossed the cabin on long legs.

What had little Luis gotten so tall? That sweater was a good color on him…

When Leon smiled up at Luis, the taller man felt his heart break at the sight of crows feet around those clear, blue eyes he remembered.

Leon had grown up without him.

Settling himself on the chair he’d parked beside the bed for Panza to perch on, Luis leaned forward to take in his friend, cataloging what damage he could see over the blankets and trying to push the fact that each hurt and abuse was inflicted on his Sancho. His baby-faced friend who had been thrown into a cage and torn from his daemon over and over just to further Luis’ own research…

He shook his head, curls that Leon remembers kept shorter than they were back in New York bouncing jovially. Europe had been good for the man, it really solidified his sense of style…

A startlingly warm hand settled on Leon’s forehead to feel for a fever and neither man addressed the wounded sound that left Leon’s lips at being touched. Luis flipped his hand over and felt his face with the backs of long fingers.

“Y’r sad…” Leon looked down at his own arms in perplexion when they didn’t heed his call to action. He had things he wanted to do. Like smooth out that concern line between Luis’ eyebrows.

Fiorire huffed, her doggy ribs expanding as she breathed…smack-bang on top of his arms. Traitor.

”You love me. Now calm down, your human is speaking.”

Your human.

Summer days spent jumping off swings and chasing one another through alleyways while they dodged returning seamen and laborers rushed past Leon. On those boys’ heels came the smells of Nonna’s cooking, just waiting for the two laughing scamps to wash their hands and their faces, say their prayers, then fill their bellies. A small boy weaving giant stories with the aid of his ever-shifting daemon: now a bird with island-bright plumage, then a coyote howling into the desert stars, later a tiny snapping crocodile…

Running along the pier until that boy disappeared from view, still waving where he stood holding tight to his Abuelo on the ship taking him away.

Leon blinked back to the present where that boy leaned over him, grown and filled with life, if sporting more worry lines than someone their age probably should. Not that the supine man had any room to talk, he was sure.

Chocolate curls diffused the light like the earth they had dug in until Leon’s grandmother had admonished them and Luis’ grandfather had pulled them aside and taught them to make things grow out of their bullish destructive tendencies.

“Leon?”

He was trying to focus on that voice, those eyes that were so familiar behind the curtain of Time.

Blue eyes slipped closed once again and Luis let him sleep.

---

A/N Panza is such a bastard, I love him.

Back to writing... I'm at least two posts ahead, so I should be able to upload as I feel like it. (The whole thing will be cross-posted on my ao3 when it's complete. <3)

For silly thoughts and previews - I've been tagging stuff for this au as 'serennedy daemon au'!

I only speak English, please be kind to me I'm going off of rules I learned when I was like 12. ;;

[Part 3]

[lovebillyhargrove]

Wake me up when July is around

Chapter 22/? Half in hate

Billy is listening to Scorpions "No-one like you" (1982) and Ratt "I'm insane" (1984)

***

Ugh, fuck this cow-turd town, fuck

Every! fucking! thing!

FUCK !!

..

So yeah .. the news. Billy gets rejected in all three California universities he applied to - Los Angeles, Berkley and

San Diego.

The fucking irony. It's like the state he was born in, doesn't want him anymore, the city he's lived all his life in, takes revenge in him for leaving.

Like it was Billy's fault.

Goddammit.

God-fucking-dammit!

There goes the dream. Grease monkey, that's all you're gonna be, Billy.

And, that's fine. He likes grease. It just sucks to hear a no. Three of them, in a row.

Of course, the places he was striving for are all super-top-notch-level. Like he said, the high GPA, impressive SAT results that he got in his junior year - Billy had it all, but he lacked fucking recommendations and the stuff he couldn't really scrape here, in a new town, new school, as early as autumn.

Thanks dad, for making me change schools in my fucking senior year, really like .. I appreciate the hell out of it.

Fuck this shit. Billy is sitting in the camaro, waiting for Maxine, smoking and listening to nothing. He got the news from Berkley on Monday morning, right after the party, and from San Diego - in today's mail, bright and early, and all day he's been suppressing fucking tears. Feels unfair, somehow, his state turning him down like that.

Jesus, what kind of kindergarten snot is that, Billy?

Everything is the way it is, in life.

To each its own.

For him it'll be a job in San Diego when he gets there. Maybe he'll reapply next year, maybe he'll aim not at such prestigious places, he'll need to think of a plan, get his full focus on it. Everything now has kinda lost its clarity

Since he's been uprooted and torn away from his ground.

He needs to get back to himself. Needs to stand steady on his feet again.

Billy sees Harrington walking towards the beamer, his girl's already waiting for him near the car. He's putting his peachy ass on its wing, takes out a Parliament, lights it.

He looks so hot taking a drag, hollowing his cheeks, cupping his hands to shield the flame of the lighter from the wind. Steve's wearing a dark gray light jacket, and the colour becomes him.

The nose looks a bit bashed in huh, well .. doesn't make him less pretty. He's still

The prettiest.

Fuck, stop it, dumbass, avert

Avert the stupid unruly eyes. Don't let them run wild.

But I haven't taken even a peek at him all day .. three days.

Is Harrington going to bring Tammy to her house, and they are going to kiss in the beamer, and then say bye for the rest of the day? Or are they driving some place else? To the king's castle?

The rich boy does fuck all. No need to have a job, studying isn't his forte .. the hell he does with all the time on his hands?

Fucks around, that's what he does.

For Steve, life must be so easy. To each their own. For Harrington it means daddy's money, probably a cushy job in his big important business. Very possibly, a trust fund. His life is taken care of. Billy's never liked rich kids. Fucking entitled, believing they are better than everyone else. Too clean, too uninteresting.

University of Chicago accepted him and - guess what, the fucking Purdue - Billy doesn't even like the sound of the name - waitlisted him. Yeah, fuck you and your waitlist which nobody cares for. He's not gonna go to either of these places. Billy needs to get to the coast, away from here, this Mid-fuck-western state.

He craves warmth, he craves air, it's an absolute SOS situation for salty water to wash his wounds.

Max waves good bye to her friends, but comes to the car with the bunker girl.

"Billy, Jane is coming home with me. She's staying for the rest of the day. We're having a sleepover, actually. You're bringing us both to school tomorrow morning."

Bossy much?

Like fuck I care.

"Hi, Billy."

That Jane girl always looks at him like he owes her a thousand bucks. She's an odd bird.

Don't talk to the driver. Get in and let's go already.

Billy grips the steering wheel, and the knuckles on the hand he'd smashed a car window at the junkyard with, hurt.

The girls jump in the backseat and start chirping excitedly.

Billy gets going, but doesn't even turn the music on to wipe out the cheerful noise. He's lost in thoughts.

He's still thinking about Harrington. He's trying not to, but he can't control it. You can't throw someone out of your head completely in a matter of days. The only thing that he succeeds in is

At school, Billy doesn't let himself look at Steve. Okay, today in the parking lot he slipped a little, but in classrooms, in the hallways he doesn't. This week there aren't any basketball practices, which is very convenient, coach Nelson is on a sick leave or something.

Billy looks at everything and everyone BUT Harrington.

The

I'm not a cocksucker

Still burns.

Sometimes he can feel something hot scraping all over his back

And he knows

That's the asshole's stare.

Fuck him.

Billy needs to get the fuck away from here, this place is like quicksand

Sucking him in.

It's trying to tie him down, make him stay. Why did he even send the fucking applications to the nearby universities here if he was never planning on going there? Hargrove doesn't know. He doesn't always make the best and most rational decisions.

Quicksand. Step back, get away, a-fucking-sap.

School still has to be graduated from.

***

Alright, one thing here has become bearable. April in Indiana truly marks the irreversible arrival of spring. The bitter cold that lasted through the winter and still showed its frosty face in March is now mostly a cursed memory.

Hargrove's outside. It's close to midnight, and he's slowly walking down Cherry Lane, a cigarette between the fingers. April is starting to feel really fucking nice. Cool still, but nice. Soon everything's gonna bloom and hustle. The sun shines every day now. Rains pour. The sky, with or without clouds, is marvelous and gives hope.

Billy's taking advantage of warm nights. He sometimes leaves the house when everyone is already sleeping - either walks out of the door when he is sure he won't disturb anyone, or climbs out of his window - ground floor, easy as pie.

It's dark, windless and serene, and Hargrove just needs to clear his mind. Street lights are flickering slightly, and it's misty, the night air is damp and thick, especially after the recent evening rain, with a promise of fragrance of blossoming flowers soon.

Billy's watching his boots step heavy on the wet gray asphalt. Right, left, right, left. He's not gonna let Harrington do it to him. He's not gonna fall for this rich fucking asshole.

Like,

F

A

L

L

for real.

They've fooled around, Billy got knocked down a notch from his wuthering high, enough. Did he seriously think that Steve's on the same wavelength as him?

It's ridiculous.

Hargrove's following the movements of his knees. Right, left, right, left. He likes the way his solid thighs sway. Billy needs to get his shit together. Feed the anger. Stay in the right lane. Double bag his dick, it's always been a rule with girls. In the case in question, extra precautions seem necessary. Triple bag his heart. He just needs to hold out for three fucking months, and then he's on the road, driving west. Southwest.

Billy's nurturing his fury, replaying in his mind over and over again

Steve's voice, Steve's raised eyebrows. The word, the phrase, the meaning of it

I'm better than you

The fury grows, bursts in acrid flames,

Lets him think for a moment that he can be in charge.

Billy tightens his fist, and the knuckles hurt again. Good.

He turns around and slowly walks back to his car. He didn't park it in the driveway, he usually leaves it at a distance from their house now.

Hargrove gets in, turns the music on, makes the volume down. Lights up a cigarette and savours a long looong drag. Watches the smoke drift around and up in the dark sky, listening to Scorpions' "Rock you like a hurricane." Shit, isn't that the song that was on when he first set his foot in the Hawkins High parking lot?

It is.

Billy remembers the moment, how jittery he felt, how miserable, the whole move still making FUCK sense to him. That was the first time he ever laid eyes on King Steve.

It was in September. Now the school year is almost finished.

Girl, it’s been a long time that we’ve been apart

Much too long for a man who needs love

What in fucking hell ..?

Billy wants to turn the song off but then changes his mind.

There’s no one like you

I can’t wait for the nights with you

I imagine the things we’ll do

I just want to be loved by you

No one like you

Other thoughts come to mind. Billy puts his head on the headrest, shuts the eyes and remembers their kisses, all of them. Remembers how they held each other's bodies, the absolute, utter frenzy. Why has he never felt anything like that before, what is the secret, what is the fucking sorcery.

The fury, well-fed and groomed, is still present but it steps away a little, letting sadness and .. something like yearning? .. seep through the tiniest cracks.

Girl, there are really no words strong enough

To describe all my longing for love

I can't wait for the nights with you

I imagine the things we'll do

There's no one like you

No-one like you

Remembers the first and only blowjob, and how strange and amazing it felt. He would do it again. He wants to. Kiss and touch Steve again. All of him. Starting from the pinkie toe and going up to the guy's mane of hair.

It's not gonna happen.

When Billy's finally done with his midnight brooding, and gets home, slips under the coolness of bedsheets and drifts off to sleep, he sees a very vivid dream.

He's amidst the ocean, clear warm dark waters all around, light waves rocking him softly,

Lovingly.

It's dark because it's night time.

He sees a beautiful light purple jellyfish, swimming in the near

It looks otherworldly, gently propelling its umbrella-shaped body through the water. The jellyfish glows in the dark, and, naturally, Billy wants to touch it. He is aware that these creatures can be dangerous, the tentacles are covered in millions of stinging cells, holding venom that can be very painful, even deadly.

Billy is extending his left hand, and the jellyfish touches him gently. It is the prettiest one in the whole wide ocean.

Hargrove keeps playing with it and notices that the tentacles start growing longer, the body is stretching itself, and the colour changes from purple to transparent and then light blue.

It is still glowing, and it's by far the most beautiful thing Billy has ever encountered.

Suddenly the tentacles are grasping his hand tighter, and they claw their way up Billy's arm,

Despite the intensity - or because of it - it's still such a pleasant sensation, he lets the jellyfish twine itself all over his limb,

When immediate piercing pain shoots through his body and the skin on his arm starts burning

The pain stings viciously, Billy is trying to set himself free from the tentacles

In mad realisation that he might actually die right now. It's like something is drilling holes through his veins, going for

The heart.

The jellyfish loosens its hold, caressing the boy, soothing the burn.

Billy understands that he must swim ashore, get some kind of medical help

However, he doesn't distance himself from the stunning ocean creature, against all reason, against the sense of self-preservation.

He doesn't swim away but stays close, gazing, admiring the beauty

Mesmerized.

Blood bringing venom to his core.

***

On ao3

[jellyfishvibes]

hi jelly! what's your favourite headcanon about flora?

Oh god i have so many, you will be getting a Flora rant

Ok so love me a classic super nerd Flora, absolute grease monkey that girl, would casually rip off the back of the slate and fix something in there without pausing her sentence, I'd also pin her down as a sewing nerd, not just cause she was the one who made all the champions clothes but cause i think she has like a 3d puzzle brain, and both mechanical problems and clothing construction slot right into that perfectly (i have ideas about all the zelda's being some flavor of fiber art girlys but that's an aside thing)

I also!! love dragon traits!! on Flora!!! which is why i've be hesitating with her redesign cause my brain is struggling to figure out the engineer-draconic design marrying without it getting way too busy

Shes totally got autism, her and Wild got that opposite autism disease, he's strong silent very non verbal and shes a massive chatterbox that cant help herself but explain everything, he's super hands on with everything, can't help himself but touch to figure out what stuff is and shes super squiked out by texture and wears her gloves so she doesn't feel any bad sensations, i imagine she whacked off her hair cause she couldn't stand the feeling of it long but like put up with it because of her father/for the princess image? (also maybe inspired Riju to cut her own hair shorter, i love Riju and Flora being besties) Wild loved braiding her hair as a fidget thing and grew his own out cause he liked hers so much, I think she began to understand why he liked that so much when she cut her own and used her hairstyling knowledge on him, it's way more fun to do it to someone else then to wear those styles all day you know?

If she keeps some form of scales after totk i think she picks at them as a nervous habit (and probably gets multiple slaps on the wrist from Wild to not pull them for research Zelda please-) i also really like the idea of her like, back spike guys? being like fingernails, it that she still has the crystalline spikes back there and so she can still lie down on her back Wild helps her chip them down to like flat crystal discs on her back, they still probably grow and they need to be cut off regularly but she probably has a tonne of the crystal lying around and makes stuff out of it, also the antler horns! (this is not from my love of scott empires rivendell shut up) she keeps the antlers! and they have actual deer antler stuff! like they will just randomly fall off! and they will be super velvety when they regrow! the image of the soft velvet falling away to reveal like glowing holy crystal underneath is a sick af image and also its horrifically gorey looking cause the velvet has alot of blood vessels in it, i dont think its painful? it just looks like a horror movie lmao

I have some stupid ideas around both Wild and Flora having adhd, in the sense that Wild had the inattentive type and Flora the hyperactive type before everything, Wild being a knight spaces out very easily, is terrible with organizing his personal quarters, boredom is a mind killer and find focus on instructions and tasks near impossible, Flora as the princess with the weight of the world on her shoulders struggles with fidgeting and standing still, being impatient and acting out of turn, by 17 she had social rules all but beaten into her and is kind of living in a personally design hell, but after Wild comes out of the Shrine of Resurrection and after Flora wakes up from the 100 years of sealing Ganon and the millennia being a Dragon, they both now have the combined type lmao, being trapped for so long outside of time has made focus for Flora hard and fucked with her attention span, she also now spaces out alot, i think it would also have the exact opposite effect, and she would seek out excitement and desperately avoid boredom and quiet

I also think shes got echolalia! her stims are mainly vocal and she will absently repeat fun phrases she hears, Purah is a terrible person for her to hang out with because of it, she has called Wild 'Linky' without realising multiple times and he doesn't have the heart to tell her About Purah, her and Flora get on like a house on fire and its terrible for everyone around them

I personally love some exploration of botw/totk and the power/wisdom/courage goops, i'd think flora would put alot of research into the blue shiekah energy and canonically she was looking into the malice/gloom, i'd love her looking into the green Zonai energy and the purification chamber that mummydorf was being used as a battery in and the conversion between the 3 goops (i need to stop or i will start ranting about gods and divinity speculation again) all this to bring up the fun images in my head of her using the glowy blue water in like attacks and animations an stuff like Wilds ascend, if you've seen the kda more music video the little glowy finger trails would be cool for her or even like full steam punk mechanical stuff with tubes full of the stuff, considering that the blue stuff stores information and how she uses her own tears as a dragon to store her memories a collaboration with the Zora and Sidon specifically who can control water to make a more robust storage system that cant be destroyed in a calamity style cataclysm would be cool, like Monomon's archives in Hollow Knight if you know of that, you could even crystalize it to be like the Zora history tables?

I really like the idea of Zelda needing like reading glasses? maybe some lingering weirdness from the dragon eyes or she just reads too much, she has a pair of glasses she doesn't wear very often for reading and for looking at small machinery components, maybe some form of prescription goggles made by Purah? I think she probably has needed them for a long time but only actually started using them recently, i think shes a thin wire frame with smaller rectangular ish lenses kinda gal, very perched low on her nose while sitting reading in bed

I'm going to force myself to stop here cause if i don't this will forever sit in my drafts as i think of new things to add to it

[allwaswell16]

— Animal Fics by allwaswell16 —

One Direction fics by me that include an animal that is important to the story in some way. I always think I'm done writing these, but...

—Louis/Harry—

🐒 Ace of Spades (E, 80k) : spider monkey

Living as a sheltered omega in a farming village has not prepared Harry for life aboard the most notorious pirate ship to sail the Atlantic.

Or Louis is a pirate, Harry is his captive, and no one is who they say they are.

🐕 Consequences (E, 78k) : dog

Two years ago Harry let his powerful family come between him and the love of his life, something he deeply regrets. Louis has tried to move on from their devastating break up. Sometimes, he even thinks he has. It only takes one moment to freeze them back in time.

An amnesia au

🐐 Until (E, 60k) : horses, a dog, and a weird goat

Rural Eagle County, Colorado wasn’t the type of place to find a famous musician or actor. At least not until songwriter Louis Tomlinson showed up with pop star Niall Horan to visit his uncle’s horse ranch, and they just happened to find themselves next door to a reclusive former movie star.

🦎 I Didn't Fall For You (You Fucking Tripped Me) (E, 20k) : monitor lizard

These days Louis tends to steer clear of dating alphas. He’s dated too many knotheads in his time, and he’s ready to just focus on school and his friends and his pet monitor lizard, of course.

Too bad the alpha next door won’t take a hint and stop using the worst pick up lines of all time on him. He’s really got to stop laughing with him--and talking to him and walking to class with him and letting him bring him coffee and tea and gifts for his lizard and watching Netflix together and...

🦜 That's How I Know (E, 19k) : African grey parrot

Louis Tomlinson has just landed his dream job, coaching soccer at Augustus University. When he moves into a new house near campus, he meets his very fit new neighbor, English professor Harry Styles. Although their first meeting leads to an instant mutual dislike, the more Harry gets to know Louis, the more he likes what he sees.

Or the one where Harry’s African grey parrot spills his dirty secrets to his very hot neighbor.

😽 Charity Ficlets (NR, 10k) : cat and niffler

Chapter 1: Shiny Objects: Louis isn't so sure about Professor Styles, but when he must save him from a loose niffler, things change between them.

Chapter 4: Grease Lightning: Louis' cat likes to give out his phone number.

🐬 Never Been Knotted (E, 9k) : aquarium animals

Harry doesn't mind that he presented as a beta. It mostly just makes his life easier and more convenient. There's just one small problem: he'd really like to be knotted.

🦀 The way you smile (E, 9k) : crab

Harry doesn’t need to go on holiday. Unfortunately, his mum and sister disagree, which is how he ends up alone on holiday in the Caribbean. Luckily, he's not alone for long.

🐈 Won't You Please Come Around (M, 5k) : cat

Harry has lived in London for a month, and so far the only friend he's made is his sister's cat, Mr. Whiskers. When the lock on the window breaks, Mr. Whiskers begins exploring his new neighbourhood a bit too thoroughly and brings back mementos of his escapes.

Or a Valentine's Day story where Harry has a really fit neighbour, and his cat is a thief.

🐽 Let the Feeling Last (T, 5k) : pig

Omega Harry thinks the alpha at the grocery store buying a cart full of vegetables must be an amazing chef. He doesn't know that Alpha Louis is feeding all those vegetables to his pet pig.

😼 Do You See What I See (T, 2k) : cat sort of, have to read to find out

Harry may or may not be rescuing stray animals as an excuse to see the very hot local veterinarian.

Or an absurd pet fic inspired by She Is Beauty We Are World Class

🦓 White Stripes (E, 3k) : zoo animals

Harry’s roommate is gorgeous, kind, generous, and basically everything Harry has ever wanted in another alpha. The only problem is that he isn’t even sure that his alpha roommate is into other alphas. In an effort to finally get over him, he lets Niall set him up on a blind date.

🪳 Happy Valentine's Day, You Cockroach (E, 2k) : meerkats and cockroaches

Harry Styles, new director of the Milltown Zoo, has a great idea for a Valentine's Day themed fundraiser. For a donation, they'll name cockroaches after people's exes and then feed them to the meerkats on a live stream. He just didn't foresee how many cockroaches would end up with his name...

—Rare Pairs—

🐎 Need (E, 21k, Niall/Shawn Mendes) : horses, a dog, and a weird goat

Niall Horan loved his job. Who wouldn’t? He was the biggest pop star in the world, and he’d found his kindred spirit in songwriting and friendship, Louis Tomlinson. The sky was the limit now. He had the perfect place they could hide themselves away from the world and write his next album...his uncle’s horse ranch in Colorado. What he didn’t expect was the cowboy next door.

🐱 Next Door (NR, 2k, Louis/Rob Pattinson) : cat and a dog

When a stray cat starts coming round Louis' garden and bothering his dog, Louis and his best friend set out to capture it.

Or a famous/famous fic where Louis and Oli embarrass themselves in front of Batman.

[notasapleasure]

A belated birthday present for @r0b0tb0y in gratitude for his encouragement of all things Brasso/Brassian/Joplin Sibtain. I hope you enjoy this! Riffing on the idea of Brasso’s fear of flying, but it’s really just a bundle of loose headcanons wrapped in a trenchcoat pretending to have plot :’)

I’m picturing 2008-era Diego (Sólo Quiero Caminar) and 2003-era Joplin (hair and all. See the Grease Monkeys recap I’ll post immanently that’s been haunting my imagination).

Escape velocity

Cassian is working his way through the crowds at Cavo's. Squeezing those skinny hips between tight-packed tables and dropping a friendly hand on the shoulders of those sitting at them. He smiles, he makes small talk, he buys drinks for a select few marks from the serving droid as it passes. He's coming this way.

Brasso chews his lip and contemplates his own cup of fortified ale. He acts like he's unaware of Cass's approach, like he doesn't expect at least one of the off-worlders Cass has brushed past to exclaim suddenly about their missing credits. Like he's never seen Cass schmooze his way through the bar for advances on his schemes before.

Cassian sidles up to him and leans his elbows next to Brasso's on the bar. He eyes him and his smirk grows, and he shakes his head as Brasso resolutely keeps his eyes on his drink.

"I'm not lending you any money..." Brasso tells him, raising the cup.

Cass looks pleased. Brasso can tell, even from the corner of his eye. He orders two more drinks and slides one over.

"I don't want you to," Cassian says cryptically, and takes a mouthful of his own drink.

Brasso looks at him, maintaining a stony, neutral expression in case anyone in the bar is looking to see who Cass is conspiring with now. "Oh? Come to whisk me away on a holiday for two with all your earnings, then?"

Cass snorts and runs his thumb and forefinger over the wispy moustache he's been growing. He's trying to appear less baby-faced, but Brasso can still see the softness of his cheeks beneath the thin cover. "Sure, actually," Cassian cocks an eyebrow and meets Brasso's skepticism with a look that would turn most knees liquid.  "That's just what it is."

Brasso's eyes narrow. There's no way he's going to rush into a trap like that, no matter how prettily Cass has arranged it. He finishes his drink and studies the one Cass bought him, taking it in his hand but not lifting it to his mouth.

"It's gonna be great," Cass sidles along the bar, touching their elbows together and leaning in as though he's sharing a secret. So much for Brasso's hopes of not looking conspiratorial. "Just you and me. A short break to the seaside. A bit of exercise on the beach. And we'll be back for the first ringing-in of the work week."

Brasso has to take a drink to give himself time to parse this. Cass smiles, like his doing so has sealed the deal.

"What?" Brasso concedes the question, turning to Cass and meeting his keenly assessing expression.

Cass can smile in a way where his lips convey one emotion while his eyes say something totally different. Usually, people receive a smile that looks genuine, but that masks a hardness in his gaze; Brasso, however, is more accustomed to this one, where a sharp, almost cruel smile is accompanied by warmth and respect nestled deep in Cass's eyes.

"I need your help," Cass says candidly. "I had to jettison my last cargo - Corpo fly-by."

Brasso sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn't like hearing about the near-misses, and there seems to be all too many of them these days.

"It's fine, they were never going to catch me with it," Cassian clucks defensively at Brasso's response. "But I need that gear."

A short break to the seaside. The beach. Brasso manages not to rub his palm over his face in exasperation, but only because he has a near-full cup of ale to drink. He takes a large mouthful and hisses through gritted teeth, "Please tell me it's this side of the sea, Cass?"

"Yes!" Cassian is still on the defensive. "Yeah, of course. It's just... it's a little way along the coast..."

"You said we'd be back before the week started -"

"Yeah, Brasso, I'm not talking about taking a speeder to haul this stuff," Cass says urgently. "I can get the ship off Pegla again, we don't need to - Brasso. Brasso look at me, we won't even be leaving atmo -"

Brasso's shaking his head and Cass is gripping his arm, repeating his name, repeating that he wouldn't ask if he didn't need to...

"Cass no. No. Ask someone else," Brasso rubs his forehead. He doesn't fly. Cass knows he doesn't fly.

"I need you, this stuff is heavy, Brasso," Cass insists.

"How did you get it on board in the first place?"

"Droids, how do you think?"

"Ask Vetch, Cass."

"No, I need you," Cass is right up in his space now as Brasso tries to turn away from his appeals. "I need someone I can trust, Brasso."

---

He can't believe that line worked. On the following night, Brasso stands by the gap in the fencing round Zorby’s shiplot and looks up at the hulks inside, feeling an icy chasm open up where his insides are meant to be.

Cass has squeezed through the gap already and he shrugs impatiently, his arms wide. "Well?"

"I can't believe that line worked," Brasso murmurs out loud. "What are we doing?"

"I come in this way all the time," Cass gestures to the jagged cuts in the wire fence.

"You said you'd okayed it with Pegla!" Brasso seethes, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched and his cap pulled low - as if most Ferrixians wouldn't recognise him by silhouette alone.

Cass looks confused by Brasso's objection. "I said I could get a ship. Come on!"

He reaches out with a gloved hand and pulls the fencing back, and Brasso goes through, shaking his head at Cass. There are always going to be things Cass doesn't mention. He should know that by now. He should pay attention to the wording.

He follows Cass with a reluctant, loping stride, feeling sick to his stomach as they pass by the enormous bodies of the ships docked there. Brasso could turn to any one of them and tell you what needs to be stabilised and removed before the hull is dissected, where to aim the laser cutter for maximum efficiency, which parts of the structure contain the densest thickets of wiring. He couldn't tell you how they're meant to get off the kriffing ground and stay off it - how they stay sealed against the heat of passing through atmosphere and sealed against the cold of space beyond it. They're so easy to dismantle, such frail, fallible things - he's trained to look at a star ship and see its flaws, so climbing into one and putting his life at its mercy doesn't come naturally.

Cassian is different. There's a spring in his step as he approaches his chosen steed. He smiles up at the ship with none of the complexity he reserves for the lifeforms he interacts with and he runs his fingers almost lovingly along the Beskar to the panel that will drop the landing ramp.

"Oh, no..." Brasso curses and stands back to watch the ramp descend. He can see the scorch marks on the hull from old journeys. He can see how often - and by how many different tools - that control panel has been popped out of its housing and tinkered with.

"Come on," Cass repeats, one foot on the ramp.

Brasso grimaces. "I really don't think I can, Cass. Is this the best Pegla's got?"

"She doesn't look like much, but she's reliable," Cass says. He pats the ship's belly. "And we're only going a few hundred klicks, remember? We're staying in atmo. It'll be an hour or so, that's all."

"I still think you could've asked Vetch," Brasso looks over the body of the ship again and repeats the words of a Ferrixian ballad in his head like a prayer. He knows he's not going to back out on Cass, not now, but making his body accede to that truth takes a moment of focus. His knees feel stiff and his boots feel heavy, but he persuades himself to walk up the ramp after Cass and into the hold of the little ship.

Cassian grins fleetingly at him and slaps his shoulder. "I'm closing the exit now, go on, go and sit..."

Brasso chooses to stay and watch Cass secure the hatch, to follow every movement of his fingers over the console and hear every piece of steel lock into place. Then he follows Cass to the cockpit and sprawls dejectedly in the co-pilot's seat.

The ground is really a long way down already. He's not afraid of heights, but it gives him a sense of the ship's size again, how unwieldy it must be for one person to manage, while simultaneously being so small that a team of grapplers could gut it in half a day.

"Buckle up, but don't be sick on the console, Brasso - we won't have time to clean that up and Pegla will feed you to his hounds." Cass is initiating the ship's start-up and Brasso follows the instruction to buckle up with unthinking obedience - all his concentration is on controlling the nausea that is fighting to fill his body up.

But then he has to speak, when Cass seems ready to go and he notices something: "The landing lights, Cass - you need to put the lights on."

Cass's eyes flicker over him, a momentary distraction from the processual pleasure of a familiar task. "We're trying to be subtle, remember, Brasso? I don't need lights for take-off."

Brasso swears again and closes his eyes. He grips the arms of the seat and breathes in deep, irregular gulps, trying to wrestle back enough composure to breathe through his nose instead. The ship comes to life with a whole orchestra of noise: whirring and clicking and humming and buzzing. At first, Brasso tries to identify the sounds of all the things the ship needs in order to operate, but then, when he realises he can't unravel it all, he gives up and returns to his breathing.

Cass's take-off is so smooth, so steady, that it's only when Brasso cracks his eyes open that he realises they're fifty feet up in the air and he feels his stomach plummet. He lets out a long, shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut again.

He doesn't move until he hears Cass's voice, gentle and quiet. "We're away from the city. I'm keeping us low, we're flying towards the dawn, and there's no cloud-cover. It's a pretty good view, Brasso."

Brasso swallows and tests the depths of his nausea. He can probably manage this, right? Keeping his eyes so tightly clenched is starting to be uncomfortable.

Stiffly, he squints out of the front port.

Oh no - the ground is moving far too quickly. The sky is full of colours - beautiful colours - but there's such a sensation of wrongness in travelling towards the dawn rather than letting it come to you. "Bugger that," Brasso says hoarsely and turns his head to the side, eyes shut again.

After a moment, Cass speaks. "Sorry, Brasso. I forgot it was this bad for you. You going to be ok?"

The sound of genuine apology in Cass's tone rallies him, strangely, more than anything else could have.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine," Brasso says thinly, not opening his eyes.

Cass shows him the respect of granting him a snort of laughter. "Oh, my mistake. It's just that you're pale as a Bith and I think you've permanently altered the shape of the foam in those arm rests."

One of Cass's hands covers Brasso's and squeezes, and Brasso forces out a tight laugh of his own. It takes him a moment, but then he realises Cass is trying to pry his fingers away from the surface of the arm rest. He's able to relax his hold enough for Cass to do so, and feels Cass's palm find his, offering a tight grip for Brasso to reciprocate.

It's nice, for a little while, actually helpful. Then a thought occurs to him - "Don't you need two hands to fly?"

Brasso turns to Cass, eyes wide, heart hammering so hard he'd be amazed if Cass couldn't hear it.

He sees that Cass really does look sorry, and it gives Brasso another jolt of motivational adrenaline - Cassian has nothing to be sorry about.

"We can cruise this part, the computer will alert me when I need to go manual again," Cass explains.

Brasso's next question relies on looking outside. He tightens his hold on Cass's hand and slowly lets his gaze travel to the front of the ship. They're flying through a lavender twilight, where earth and sky fade together into an indefinable blur. It's only on the console in front of them that Brasso can confirm the topography of the area - now they're above the desert and there are no mountains for miles around. There's nothing for them to unwittingly crash into. Just the ground, his treacherous mind notes.

His throat is dry and closes up on speech, but Cass sees him looking at the console.

"You know what all this stuff is, yeah?" Cass scooches forwards in his seat, gestures at the screens with his free hand.

Brasso blinks at the lights and the switches, the visualisation of planes and angles in glowing lines on the screens. He tries to concentrate, for Cass's sake.

"Uh," he frees his right hand from the other arm rest and wipes the sheen of sweat from his clammy forehead. The switches go in the barrel for plasteel recycling. The screens need to be taken out in one piece - if they're cracked, they go in the barrel for plexiglass. They're all labelled, but the abbreviated terms squeezed on between the controls are abstract, and the aurebesh is faded from use in many places. Still, Brasso scans the panel until he has something to answer with. He points with his free hand: "Altimeter. And that's the throttle. This is....oh, Sithspit...we're doing a thousand klicks an hour..."

Cass squeezes his hand, and it reminds Brasso that his grip must be turning Cass's fingers numb. He takes a deep breath and tries to relax.

"You're right - and we'll only be doing this over the desert. The quicker we get there the quicker we get back, yeah?" Cass stares at him until he nods acknowledgement, and then he starts to point out other parts of the control panel, speaking in a chatty tone that gets under Brasso's skin and pushes all the other noise coming from the ship away into the background. Cass knows his stuff, and it's impossible not to be touched by his enthusiasm as he explains the point of every switch and dial.

As they near the mountains by the coast of the Farside Sea, Cass puts the controls on manual again and slows them down. Brasso's able to follow his hands across the console and understand what he's doing, and as their speed reduces by a few hundred klicks per hour, Brasso can even glance up at the landscape without wincing. They've met the dawn, and the sun is orange over black, choppy waters of the ocean. It paints the mineral rich land in the colours of Ferrix's streets: reds and ochres and mossy greens and yellows.

Cass takes them on a winding course down towards the shoreline and then asks Brasso to fish a transponder out of his coat pocket as he pilots. It should take them to the location of Cassian's lost cargo, but Brasso doesn't like the way Cass keeps trying to look at the transponder screen and pilot at the same time.

"Cass! Cass, you wanted someone you can trust, well trust me - I'll tell you what it says! Just - please, keep your eyes on the front port..."

"I'm not going to crash into anything Brasso, I told you about the proximity warning, yeah? And I need some idea of where we're going so I can find a place to land..."

At least bickering over this keeps Brasso's mind focussed. His directions are better than Cass wants to give him credit for - and Cass's flying is steadier than Brasso wants to admit. They hug the coastline, flying low over rocky strands and outcrops until both of them spot it at once and yell in triumph: a collection of small plasteel crates scattered like the eggs of some giant beast on the sand of a crescent shaped cove.

Cassian slaps his shoulder and his fingers squeeze tight over Brasso's collarbone.

"Hands, Cass!" Brasso yelps. "Both hands - on the controls..."

Cassian laughs and pinches Brasso's cheek for good measure before returning his hand to the console. Brasso shakes his head and notes the way his pulse has spiked - probably just from fear at Cass's antics, of course. He looks down at the cove hungrily and can't wait to be able to set foot on solid land again.

--

The cold sea breeze quickly dries the sweat in Brasso's black hair. He's left his cap and his coat on the co-pilot's seat and he relishes the feeling of the wind beating his thin cotton sleeves against his arms. The noise out here is all organic - waves roaring, not thrusters - and it seems to wash away the last vestiges of grubby panic that clung to him.

The crates aren't huge, but he admits that Cass would have struggled on his own. Brasso hauls them across the fine red sand to the ship's ramp, and then he and Cass lift them together into the hold.

"Don't you want to know what's inside?" Cass asks, a dangerous twinkle in his eye as they stack the first box of a second layer on top of the others.

"Nope," Brasso tells him shortly, giving Cass the most non-plussed look he can.

It annoys Cass, as it's meant to. "Come on, you're not curious?"

"I don't wanna hear it, Cass," Brasso turns to go back down the ramp.

"You think you wouldn't be implicated anyway for helping me retrieve these?" Cass trots down after him.

"Implicated? I'm just helping a friend move his gear..." Of course, every time Cass is getting ready for some new scheme, Brasso does ask him where he's going and why. But Cass never tells him - so it's only fair that Brasso makes him commit to his secrets at a time like this.

In return, Cass insists on helping him get the next crate back to the ship - and it's about the most unhelpful thing he can do. With just one person dragging the crate by one handle, it glides fairly easily through the soft wet sand, but with Cass pushing it as well it keeps stopping, the corners ploughing uneven furrows that their progress catches on.

"Cass!" Brasso says in exasperation. "Go and get another one, or wait up at the ship again. I've got this."

Cass glowers at the crate, his hands on his hips. The wind ruffles his hair into wild shapes and his jacket flaps around his skinny body. "I think we're short some," he says uneasily.

Brasso pauses before hauling again, looking up at Cass. "If they're not on this beach they're lost, Cass."

Cassian nods and swears, but it doesn't seem to be a nod of acceptance. He turns and frowns at the arc of the shoreline and mutters something about the transponder before heading back to the ship.

As Brasso drags the remaining crates to the foot of the ramp, Cass strides up and down the cove with the transponder, cursing and chewing on his fingernails. Brasso has to call him back to help lift the crates inside, and then he's expecting to steel himself for another flight - but Cass looks at him with that expression that's part apology, part plea, and Brasso knows they're not done yet.

"Cass, we're not dredging the sea..." Brasso sighs.

Cassian shakes his head and beckons for Brasso to follow him outside again.

"Look," he leans close and points at the far side of the cove. "There's a cave there. I think that's where the last ones are."

He's brought the macrobinoculars and peers through them. "I swear I can see one, look Brasso..."

Brasso accepts the binoculars with a sigh and takes a look. There is something that might be white plasteel there, but then again it might be sea foam caught on the rocks.

"I need to get them all back. I can't lose this, Brasso, the money from this job is already locked up..."

He doesn't need to beg, Brasso's already walking, and Cass catches up after a couple of paces with a nervous laugh. "Thanks. You still swim, right?"

"Better than I fly," Brasso rolls his eyes. He likes swimming, actually. There aren't many opportunities for it in the town, but his family used to take a sandspeeder out to the coast for the designated holiday weeks. "How about you? You remember how?" he glances down at Cass.

Cassian is cold, his hands tucked in his armpits and his arms wrapped tight around his body. He lets a breath hiss out from between his teeth and chuckles. "I remember."

"Ok," Brasso stops when they're at the far side of the cove, slips his sleeveless vest off and hands it to Cass. "You wait here. I'll go and check it."

Cass clutches the warm fabric to his body. "I'll come too - then we can start bringing them back if they're there."

Brasso shakes his head and pulls his shirt off. It takes more than this for him to feel the cold, but Cass is shivering just watching him. "Don't worry about it, Cass. If they're still sealed they'll float - if they're not, then even the two of us won't be able to get them back."

He takes off his boots and trousers and raises a brow at Cass, who's watching him with an unreadable, intense expression. Stripped to his underwear, he offers a brave laugh and turns towards the restless waters.

"Brasso!"

He's waded in up to his thighs and the temperature of the water is cold in such a different way to the cold of the air. It's not unpleasant - it brings a flush of heat to the surface of Brasso's body, though he knows that won't last. He turns back to Cass, squinting past the hair that's blown into his eyes.

"Don't do anything stupid, ok? The sea looks rough," Cass is still clutching Brasso's clothes to his body, standing on the edge of the water and watching Brasso intently.

"I won't do anything you wouldn't do," Brasso calls back.

Cass swears, and it's carried away by the wind. "That's what I mean, you moof-milker!"

Brasso laughs and wades out further, letting out a gasp as he launches himself into the water. The waves are big, but Brasso's comfortable in them, striking out towards the rocks. It's a battle, but with enough concentration he can navigate the currents and pick his way over to the cave. He manages to get to its rocky mouth without anything more than a graze or two and pulls himself up onto the skerry. Cass is pacing on the shore, so he waves reassurance and makes a gesture to affirm that the crates are there. There's three of them, scattered across the jagged floor of the cave, and Brasso winces as he picks his way over the sharp rocks to the nearest one. He checks it all over for damage and gives it an experimental tug by one handle. There's no sound of seawater sloshing inside it, and it doesn't seem heavier than the others were. Still, moving it over this surface is going to be more of a challenge, and Brasso briefly regrets his confidence in coming out here alone. But he wants to prove his use after the meltdown he had on the flight, wants to be worthy of the trust Cass puts in him. So he digs his toes into a patch of gravel and heaves, and the crate lurches willingly towards him, only narrowly missing his feet as it thuds down from its perch.

He swears triumphantly and takes a step back, finding another place to get purchase before he tugs again. Step by step, foot by foot, he manoeuvres the crate to the edge of the water and sits down on the rock with a sigh. No chance of getting cold with that kind of exertion. And this is meant to be his rest day.

He looks up expecting to see Cass on the shore, and blinks when there's no one there, his heart sharpening with panic, beating against his breastbone. Then he spots him, his long arms forging a path through the waves as he makes his way towards Brasso.

"For Force's sake, Cass," Brasso yells down at the sea as Cassian splashes determinedly towards him. "I've got this."

Cass raises his head and reaches out to secure himself on the rocks. "I couldn't see you. It was taking a while," he hauls himself out, hair and underpants dripping with seawater, and pulls the weighted fabric back up as it threatens to slide off his skinny arse.

Brasso gestures. "It's not the easiest ground. There's two more. I was going to get them over here and then float them back."

Cass nods. "They're intact?"

"Seem to be."

He's shivering, miserable as a drowned mynock, and Brasso shakes his head. "Get out of here, I'll do this."

"You need some cable," Cass says between chattering teeth. "It'll make dragging them easier, and you can lash them together so you only need one trip back."

Brasso says nothing - it would make things easier. Cass's skin is puckering in the wind, to the extent that it's making Brasso cold just watching him. Cass goes to take a step over the rocks towards the crates, like he wants to check for damage himself, but wobbles on the uneven footing, and throws out an arm that Brasso catches hold of.

"How about you go to the ship for the cable," he tells Cass firmly. "I'll do what I can here without it, and you be as quick as possible. Don't stand around in this air catching hypothermia - you think I'm going to be able to fly us back?"

Cass looks at Brasso's brown hand on his arm and his lashes flutter as he shivers. Brasso thinks, for a minute, he's going to have to argue with him, but then Cass nods.

"All right. If you can't get the others just wait for me, yeah?"

"Go," Brasso turns him by the shoulders, feeling Cass's marble-cold skin under his hands. He can't quite resist the impulse to give a protective, warming squeeze before he releases him, and feels a glow in his chest at Cass's furtive, grateful smirk.

While Cass is fetching the cable, Brasso does manage to get the other crates to a more accessible position, through sheer stubbornness and force of will. It leaves his muscles feeling stretched and used like he's spent a day unravelling kilometres of wiring from inside a freighter, but that's just part of the satisfaction of getting things done.

He waits for Cass to return, dangling his scraped feet in the seawater and contemplating the view across the cove. He admits to himself that he's enjoying all this, despite the flight there and the imminent return journey. It's a nice spot. He wonders how long it would take to get here on a speeder - then again, his family wouldn't change their holidays on a whim when they have a perfectly good beach they've been visiting for generations. There's only one person Brasso would come here with, and he's currently arranging a coil of cable across his body, preparing to swim out to the cave again.

"How are you not freezing out here?" Cass sputters when he swims up to Brasso's legs and grabs an ankle for purchase.

Brasso shrugs. "I don't feel it, it's fine. Natural born Ferrixian, you see?"

Cass snorts. "It's all that coolant you drink at Cavo's," he mutters, squirming out of the coil of cable he's wearing like a bandolier and passing it up to Brasso.

"Nog is good for you, I keep telling you, Cass," Brasso takes the cable and offers a hand to help Cass up onto the skerry again.

They secure the three crates together end to end and push them into the sea. There's a moment where the first one bobs beneath the surface and Brasso thinks it's just going to keep sinking, but then it pops back up and they both let out a sigh of relief. One all three are afloat, Cass takes a running jump and splashes back into the water by them.

He gestures to Brasso to do the same and, laughing, Brasso takes his own leap and plunges like a knife, feet first into the sea.

The exertion of getting the crates back to land and then dragging them up the shore to the ship is enough to keep him from cooling down, but as before, Cass is shivering pathetically by the time they've got the last of the cargo on board. Brasso grabs his own coat and approaches Cass from behind, wrapping it around Cass's shoulders as he tackles him a bear hug.

Cass yelps in mock objection. "Let go, what are you doing?" He laughs and wriggles, so Brasso tightens his hold.

"Nope - not until you stop shivering." He's taller and stronger and his arms are long enough to keep a wiry off-worlder in his place. Besides, Cass isn't fighting that hard - now it's more like he's squirming to dry himself off on the lining of Brasso's coat.

Brasso exclaims in disgust when Cass whips his face with the wet hair at the back of his head, but he doesn't let go. Cass tries standing on his toes, so Brasso lifts him off the floor of the ship a little and Cass swears breathlessly, laughingly.

"All right, all right!"

"What, you don't like flying?" Brasso cackles back, dropping Cass and giving him a shove so he takes a couple of steps away.

Cass grips the damp coat around himself and turns to Brasso with more colour in his cheeks than he's had all day and a smirk that could gut a fish it's so sharp. "Oh, you want to go there? Remember I'm flying us back, I could take us up into high atmo, we could make orbit, go out into the system..."

Brasso's hands are planted on his hips, and he represses a shudder at that. "You wouldn't..."

Cass just twitches his brows and gives Brasso a look to leave him questioning, and then goes to raise the ramp and seal the hatch.

Brasso tries to pay as much attention to the sounds of it locking as he did before, but there's a significant part of his mind that's elsewhere now, unable to focus on the details in the same way. He shakes his head at Cass, at himself, and goes to find his clothes.

-

With the heating inside the ship on it doesn't take long for them both to dry out properly. Brasso doesn't take his seat in the cockpit with quite as much trepidation as before, but that's largely because he's exhausted. He watches Cass cycle through the start-up with miserable inevitability and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back into his seat like his distance from the console will give him extra distance from what's about to happen.

Cass starts the engines but doesn't activate the thrusters. He frowns at the screen, though Brasso can see nothing wrong with it. It makes him uneasy.

"What's up?"

Cass pulls a face and shrugs one shoulder before looking away from the console. "I was just thinking..."

Brasso gives him a withering look. "Dangerous."

Cassian's patchy moustache twitches and he narrows his eyes. "You've never left atmo?"

Brasso draws a deep, steadying breath and his arms tighten across his chest. "Cass..."

"Never?"

"No, never. And I don't have a problem with that."

Cassian chews the inside of his lip. He doesn't look convinced, and frowns at the console rather than taking on Brasso's glare. "You'd go your whole life, never seeing that..."

"I don't need to see it!" Brasso insists.

"How do you know, when you've never seen it?" Cass responds quickly, the eagerness in his voice saying he thinks he's made a winning point.

Brasso closes his eyes and sighs. "It doesn't matter how stunning it is Cass, if I feel like emptying my guts all over the ship it's not going to be a memory to cherish, is it?"

Cass tilts his chin, conceding something. But he's not given up entirely - once he's got his mind set on something he's as focussed as Pegla's hounds when they sense a rat. "Do you trust me?" he asks, entirely unfairly in Brasso's opinion.

The answer is yes, of course. Unequivocally. Always, even when he knows he absolutely shouldn't. That's the difference between Brasso and Cass's other friends: even without all the information, even without the context or the background, Brasso trusts Cass. Maybe that can't last, Brasso reflects sadly. If Cass corners him into agreeing to this, maybe it'll be the last time he can trust him so completely.

"Brasso?"

"Yeah."

"You trust me?"

"I said yes, Cass," Brasso repeats, looking back at Cass and letting some ferocity into his voice.

Cassian studies him, perhaps weighing up the same costs Brasso's been contemplating.

"You trust me to fly this thing?"

Brasso frowns. "I trust you - the ship is a different matter."

"But I'm flying the ship," Cass says crisply. "Do you trust me to know what this ship can handle, and to know what it can't?"

Brasso presses his lips together tightly and looks Cass in the eyes. "Right. I guess so, then." He's been outmanoeuvred, as he guessed he would be.

"I want you to see this. You're not going to come up in a ship with anyone else, are you?"

"Seems unlikely."

"So let me show you - next time you're back at the yard and you're taking one of these things apart, maybe you'll think about where it's been? What it's for."

"You want to tell me about the wonders of space travel?" Brasso says drily, though Cass's tone holds a genuine excitement and awe that it's hard to be cynical about.

"Sure," Cass gives him a crooked smile. "I'd never have found out about it if Maarva and Clem hadn't kidnapped me."

"They adopted you..." Brasso is taken aback.

Cassian raises his brows and shrugs, activating the thrusters. "Call it what you want. But I'm kidnapping you," he smiles and turns to the controls, and Brasso feels his stomach sink again as they leave gravity behind in a swirl of red sand.

Cass's take-off is as steady as his gaze on the console. His hands rove across the controls with unhurried fluency, like he's speaking a language with them that Brasso doesn't understand.

He finds himself compelled to watch each movement, following Cass's gestures and finding an unexpected calm coming from it. The juddering and roaring of the ship still sets his teeth on edge, and he has no interest in looking at the landscape he was quite content being in a little while earlier. But he finds he's not engulfed by it like he was on the flight out, not when he focusses on the competence with which Cassian navigates the controls.

The number on the altimeter goes up, and Brasso swallows as he feels the ship spiral in a loop over the mountaintops.

"We'll take it nice and slow," Cass says.

Brasso checks the speed on the screen for good measure and unfolds his arms to grip the seat as he did earlier. "Well I might not have done this before, but I know we can't go too slow if we're leaving atmo," he summons as much sarcasm as he can from the pit of nausea within him.

Cass laughs, the sound sparks with delight, and he cranks the throttle forwards steadily. "Good point, thanks for that, Brasso..."

Brasso gulps down another wave of horror at the way the numbers on the screen are racing now, but the nose of the ship is pointing up, he's being squeezed back in his seat, and there's nothing left outside to blur sickeningly with speed: it's just blue sky, as delicate as an eggshell.

The ship's engines sound confident - there's no screech or whine of exertion as Cass works the throttle, and Brasso lets his eyes drift from the blue outside to Cass's face.

He's wholly absorbed by what he's doing, immersed in the pleasure of flying. His lips are a little parted, moving with silent words of encouragement to himself, to the ship. His eyes are keen and bright and there's a flush of colour high in his cheeks. It deepens when he notices Brasso watching him, and a dimple marks the cheek nearest to Brasso as he smirks self-effacingly. "See? I'm not worried. You don't need to be worried," Cass says.

Brasso just pulls a face, but he feels his own skin darken with heat at being caught out staring.

To show off, Cass tells Brasso what trajectory he expects the navicomp to give them for leaving Ferrix's atmosphere, and he gives a triumphant laugh when the numbers come up right.

"Ok, just sit back and enjoy this, Brasso," he tells him, leaning forwards eagerly over the console, like he's the one straining against gravity, not the ship.

"It's a light show, but the port's shielded and it adjusts automatically. It's not gonna blind you, so keep your eyes open," Cass gives him one last meaningful glance and then flicks a switch to give them the thrust needed to push through the upper atmosphere.

Brasso intends to do as he says, but finds he can't take his eyes off Cass in the end. The 'light show' is reflected in his face, which is drawn in ethereal levels of contrast. His eyes are wide and his mouth is hungry, and again Brasso thinks of the way the ship itself has to challenge the laws of nature in order to escape the planet, but it only does so because Cass demands it - it's only hurtling through fire and vacuum at his behest.

The colours on Cassian's face begin to fade out from the harsh fluorescents of singed minerals, and the soft glow of Morlani's light takes their place. Cass has arranged their passage into orbit just so that they face into the sun, and he beams with pride and pleasure when the noise levels reduce and the thrusters go off and they settle into a silent, weightless place between Ferrix and the stars.

Brasso lets out a breath he'd forgotten he was holding and hazards a glance at the galaxy.

"What did you think?" Cass asks.

Brasso looks out at all the stars and represses the urge to shudder. He closes his eyes and rubs a clammy hand over his face, but he nods for Cass.

"Yeah, it really was something."

Behind his eyelids it's Cass's face, lit up by the burning atmosphere, that he sees.

"Told you..." Cass can't resist saying. He glances mischievously at Brasso. "And you didn't feel like throwing up your guts too much, I hope?"

Brasso gives him a sideways look, and then the tension inside him that's built from all the pent-up nerves bursts all of a sudden and he lets out a laugh. He feels light-headed, maybe hysterical, but he doesn't feel like throwing up. He feels like a fool for even thinking the trust he puts in Cass would be shattered by something like this, but he shakes his head, still laughing, and looks over at his kidnapper.

"Let's not speak too soon - going back in is going to be worse, isn't it?"

"Oh..." Cass affects a worried expression. "I totally forgot about that."

"Sithspit..." Brasso leans his head back against the headrest and rubs his face with both hands. He's smiling, but thinking about re-entry really does remind him of his terror.

"It'll be ok, Brasso, I promise," Cass says assuredly. "You can close your eyes, or look at - I don't know, look at me, you'll know if you need to worry about anything then, because I'll be worrying."

This time, Brasso's laugh is weak, like he's been found out for cheating on a test. But Cass is concentrating on the new trajectory and only glances up to say with a smile: "Say goodbye to space! One last look..."

"I'll see it again when it's night-time," Brasso grumbles, wincing at the view of his homeworld below them, powdered blue by the haze of its atmosphere, curving away beyond the port.

"Might be cloudy," Cass shakes his head. Grins. "Ready?"

Brasso just casts him a pleading look, and Cassian reaches out to give his hand a squeeze.

It's easier, on re-entry, to just close his eyes. Cass's expression is severe with concentration going back in - it's less an act of reverence and rebellion and more the inevitable consequence of the former. Brasso leans back in the seat and feels the ship's body rattle with exertion, and he sinks into the cushions and imagines himself a part of it, shaken to his bones but not coming apart, driven to survive this because Cass has asked it of him.

Cass whoops when the ship settles into the planet's atmosphere again. He tells Brasso when they're on an even keel, but warns him he's going to see the town zoom by as they circle over it, and Brasso chooses to keep his eyes shut.

They land a little way out of town and unload the crates at one of Cass's hideaways.

"I'll take the ship back to Zorby's later," Cass says. Returning it during daylight is only going to raise questions he'd rather not answer.

They walk back to Ferrix together and by the time Brasso's alone in his place, arranging his seawater-wet coat to dry in the sonic, his legs don't feel hollow and numb any longer. His muscles remember the effort of dragging crates of contraband alone the beach, of swimming against strong currents. When he closes his eyes he doesn't remember the stars or the proximity of Morlani, filling the port with its light. It's Cass, lost in the work of piloting them, lost in his own awe at the galaxy, that Brasso won’t forget from today.

[odysseyeurobeat]

I've been watching a lot of a vtuber lately whose thing is that she's a very tan blonde monkey-girl and she's currently about to rebrand to this like, car mechanic theme ("grease monkey") and I'm trying my best to be normal in her chat while she goes about her life complete unaware of how dead-on she is as like, Eurobeat Branding-- vtubers feel like a eurobeat thing to me now thanks to you!

That's fascinating! I'd love to meet/get to know this Vtuber, and I'm glad to help bridge the connection between eurobeat and Vtubers with you! There's a stronger connection there than a lot of folks might expect, and I'm excited to see it become more evident in the near future. ❤️

[nokiareptilestonaniteandlumen]

Dear Readers, How's it going? Good, I hope. 

For the last 6 months I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for anything AI related that I could understand, and today, I’m finally going to weigh in on Sam Altman’s brainchild, ChatGPT.

First disclaimer, I’m not a professor, nor an expert. Nowhere near it and since I started this blog about 1 year ago, I have been pursuing a career in tech, so I’m a noobie. I thought I’d go down the rabbit hole of neural networks because lots of experts are hinting towards it as the future. With a formal education in communications from the Univ of Tenn @Chatt, I know enough about research, media, and business to be dangerous. Second disclaimer, since this new wave of tech was recently released, I have had the pleasure of picking at it abroad, therefore in two different languages (3 if you count Wolfram, a computational language). My research will be presented at the bottom, however, I mainly relied on 2 sources because I simply preferred their direct approaches. Warning - were about to get into the weeds, ***obligatory gulp of coffee***

First was an interview conducted by The New Yorker. In my intro I asked you guys, “How’s it going?” I bet you didn’t answer like ChatGPT, “ As a language model, I do not have the ability to experience or do anything. Is there anything else I can assist you with?” You probably sound more like this, “I’m fine, thanks.” Quite the different approach, but exactly the same as Siri. This is important because it is how we differentiate chat bots from humans. Which leads to the second question - why is it that you are a you then if you aren’t a sentient being? This makes me think of men and their cars. For me, I have only talked to a car to pep talk it into making it to the next gas station. You spend your good and bad times with your car. When you aren't a grease monkey/mechanic and she makes a weird noise or doesn't do what you want, people resort to talking to it and make loosely based comments based on these behaviors sometimes to appease it or treat it. We could go further with the similarities of these relationships, but the analogy screeches to a halt because cars don’t talk back, unless you're Chuck Norris.

Back to the interview, the answer it gives is interesting albeit creepy. It says it’s for you (the user) to feel more natural. Evidently, our brains aren’t wired to speak to AI. But it’s this inauspicious start that sets the mood for the article and makes the AI seem unsettling at the least and perhaps a little manipulative.

My research then went to the tech side from watching Stephan Wolfram do a 1-hour breakdown on his blog that I think is worth checking out. If you’re in a hurry, I have taken my time to bring you my highlights. His perspective is one of greatness, as a CEO of an eponymous research company, and a neural network researcher.

I wanted to learn how the technology works and be able to explain it in broad terms before testing or adapting to everyday life. Like in life, it’s always best to gain knowledge of something foreign, before blindly collaborating with or passing away precious past time with it. This topic was different than most. It was hard to read about on platforms like Twitter. These sites thrive off of outrage, I was coming to this conclusion after laboring through posts that only boiled down to shock value. Or as the writer, Bounthavy Suvilay (Indie Games 2) aptly puts it, (they) ‘only benefit social media networks by keeping their users captive in a heightened emotional state’. I’ll add to this, they are a great place to find pessimism as compelling as it is obscure.

So what is it? ChatGPT is based on the fact that there is regularity in the English language, and it may be even deeper than we thought, it  takes this structure (grammar, literary tools,etc.) and assimilates what we know. As you know its goal is to complete your text, but it does this by taking everything it’s dealing with and grounds it up to numbers called weights as opposed to a computer which operates in 1s and 0s.

After this, the AI uses what it knows about the English language and returns (at a rate of 1 word at a time) the outcome and that’s as far as I can understand technically. Again I’m not a computer scientist so I’ll stop there and leave you with the quote, “the simplest answer is usually most likely the correct one”. What is it with ChatGPT’s super celebrity status though, why are so many people becoming users? Its wild success in the short time it’s been available makes apps like Instagram seem novel. I don’t get it. But I was obsessesd with the movie Phenomenon featuring the John Travolta. Is it the ol saying if it’s free it’s for me… Most of the internet world can speak or understand the English language. This might be a helpful start.

Back to Wolfram, in the Q&A portion of his blog, I loved how he wistfully entices his audience by flaunting his 45 years of expertise casually stoking the fire of the deeptech industry, which has been around for years. Experts consider 2012 a milestone when Googlex found it possible to train and use deep neural nets. Concentrating on ChatGPT, it's not only scraping the internet, it’s picking up regularity in the way humans speak/write similar to how we learn. But some aspects may be deeper and it’s likely picking up haptics from a space where we have yet to be able to artificially describe. Maybe that last part is a stretch and unprovable, but may be as the tech inevitably progresses. In the end, Wolfram draws parallels with other aspects of biology and says in theory these features can be attributed to other animals. He was vague but sounds a little like Dr. Doolittle to me.

On this animal topic, let’s take a dog, any kind, your family pet, a sheep dog, or even a police dog. According to Meta’s chief AI scientist Yann LeCun, ChatGPT in its current evolutionary stage resembles a canine, and it will take the next 30 years to reach human intelligence.

But back to my question, what makes this app different? My take is when people seek new toys/games/etc., especially ones that try to fool the brain, we get this stubborn and relentless urge to test its limits until one is fulfilled. And in this respect, ChatGPT has passed with flying colors. If you have tried the app, take the example of ‘tokens’. OpenAI engineers are like “the house” in a casino except instead of cards they deal in workability, the game is how closely can their ‘tokens’ work to sound like logically sounding answers according to human’s current understanding of the topic. This token can be reinserted into this neural net until one’s tiny heart is desired, at the same time the next prompt is fed back into the machine working in its favor as feedback. Until, you can no longer trace the token back to its original form — meaning you cannot ever truly arrive at a perfect answer. The boundaries are also limited by how many tokens can be used. And to reduce server usage, OpenAI started limiting tokens.

I don't want to mince words, but they haven’t sold me on it. I decided to learn about it before trying, and I’m glad I did. They essentially released the beta to collect data, but that’s not why I turn up my nose. It’s my background in sales, I have to be sold on stuff before buying it/using it. And frankly, the world obsessing over something is not enough to interest me. The pessimist in me still strives to find utility. For now I’ll stick with Google. I know it’s different and old skool, but in the end they use algorithms that take your words, or what ChatGPT refers to as prompts and quickly lead you to an answer that still satisfies my little heart.

I really loved the spirit of how creatives saw the utility in strong-arming sucky machines with it. I’m referring to this Foxbusiness.com article where it tricked a task rabbit by playing a person who is blind in order to forgo a CAPTCHA. Sounds like a wee-bit Black Mirror, duuuude. I had to investigate further on the subject to find out visually impaired are truly struggling with CAPTCHA. Something I never thought about. I then uncovered some even cooler news. This minority who has trouble seeing can now use ChatGPT to ID things in photos. Side note: what a terrible security system CAPTCHA is. I’d argue this invention is as annoying as the pop-up.

Also, I want to address people profiting from AI-written books by selling them via sites like Amazon. I doubt these guys are actually making money, if so awesome, but as someone who reads I don’t buy it. From a Reddit thread on the other hand, I learned that video game devs are using the LLM to write code. However, it is uber specific code in the video game engine Unity. In fact, it helped code blades of grass to appear more realistic. You can’t just write into the prompt code grass moving and basta! The coder is already skilled and delegates tasks to the AI to save time.

In the end we will undoubtedly come up short in fixing all of society’s problems via using it in its current form, and like most tech advancements, they will likely aid in generating wealth for Big Tech. Speaking of, Reddit is now being hijacked by its most popular mods and (***puts on tinfoil hat***) to my belief, it might have something to do with pressure created from companies like OpenAI's. Why? The threatening of ad revenue perhaps, why sift through hundreds of Reddit comments threads when the machine does it for you. More specifically ChatGPT's operation depends on ‘terabytes of books and Reddit posts, virtually all of Wikipedia and Twitter, and other vast repositories of words’, according to The New Yorker, or as Wolfram estimates ‘a trillion-ish words of texts’ are at its disposal.

Speaking of disposal, let’s not get started on its environmental impact. As I painstakingly try to sort my trash from recycling, ChatGPT servers are sitting in an air-conditioned warehouse 'plagiarizing (sic) essays, sending flowery emails and asking if God exists,' says Aisling Ní ChúláinNo’s (euronews.com article).

At last, we all know when it comes to freemium software or ones being sold for a loss, it’s only the tip of the iceberg. ChatGPT at first seemed to me like a beefed up predictive text finding the most plausible of ways to explain ideas via language, but now I know its use is gaining potential and has a 30-year plan to take the world by storm. I’d like to push it further and interview an OpenAI employee next month.

 **RELATED FUTURE BLOGPOST lol ** - The new wave of enthusiasm for neural networks created by the release of ChatGPT appears promising for the future of big tech with its eco-friendly rating being harmful for its stakeholders.

SOURCES:

What is ChatGPT doing...and why does it work?

https://www.newyorker.com/news/the-new-yorker-interview/its-not-possible-for-me-to-feel-or-be-creepy-an-interview-with-chatgpt

Suvilay, Bounthavy. Indie Games 2. Portland, Oregon, Ablaze LLC, August 16, 2022

[counttwinkula]

i was looking for a website that would make a simpsons chalkboard gag for me so i wouldn't have to open photoshop (or comparable free application) and instead i found a list of chalkboard gags from the show

only they were formatted in such a way that they looked like a poem

thus i present to you a found poem i call Standards:

I will not carve gods. I will not spank others. I will not aim for the head. I will not barf unless I'm sick. I will not expose the ignorance of the faculty.

I saw nothing unusual in the teacher's lounge. I will not conduct my own fire drills. Funny noises are not funny. I will not snap bras. I will not fake seizures.

This punishment is not boring and pointless. My name is not Dr. Death. I will not defame New Orleans. I will not prescribe medication. I will not bury the new kid.

I will not teach others to fly. I will not bring sheep to class. A burp is not an answer. Teacher is not a leper. Coffee is not for kids.

I will not eat things for money. I will not yell "She's Dead" at roll call. The principal's toupee is not a Frisbee. I will not call the principal "spud head". Goldfish don't bounce.

Mud is not one of the 4 food groups. No one is interested in my underpants. I will not sell miracle cures. I will return the seeing-eye dog. I do not have diplomatic immunity.

I will not charge admission to the bathroom. I will never win an Emmy. The cafeteria deep fryer is not a toy. All work and no play makes Bart a dull boy. I will not say "Springfield" just to get applause.

I am not authorized to fire substitute teachers. My homework was not stolen by a one-armed man. I will not go near the kindergarten turtle. I am not deliciously saucy. Organ transplants are best left to professionals.

The Pledge of Allegiance does not end with "Hail Satan". I will not celebrate meaningless milestones. There are plenty of businesses like show business. I will not re-transmit without the express permission of Major League Baseball. Five days is not too long to wait for a gun.

I will not waste chalk. I will not skateboard in the halls. I will not instigate revolution. I will not draw naked ladies in class. I did not see Elvis.

I will not call my teacher "Hot Cakes". Garlic gum is not funny. They are laughing at me, not with me. I will not yell "Fire" in a crowded classroom. I will not encourage others to fly.

I will not fake my way through life. Tar is not a plaything. I will not Xerox my butt. It's potato, not potatoe. I will not trade pants with others.

I am not a 32 year old woman. I will not do that thing with my tongue. I will not drive the principal's car. I will not pledge allegiance to Bart. I will not sell school property.

I will not burp in class. I will not cut corners. I will not get very far with this attitude. I will not belch the National Anthem. I will not sell land in Florida.

I will not grease the monkey bars. I will not hide behind the Fifth Amendment. I will not do anything bad ever again. I will not show off. I will not sleep through my education.

I am not a dentist. Spitwads are not free speech. Nobody likes sunburn slappers. High explosives and school don't mix. I will not bribe Principal Skinner.

I will not squeak chalk. I will finish what I sta "Bart Bucks" are not legal tender. Underwear should be worn on the inside. The Christmas Pageant does not stink.

I will not torment the emotionally frail.

[tgmsunmontue]

Get your motor runnin' - 4/6

Bradley, a bit of a (very talented) grease monkey and Jake, who has been sent to see him because he's apparently the best mechanic Maverick knows.

A longer fleshed out fic at the request of @poetryandpickles based on their idea in this post. Likely going to be 5-6 parts and likely an excuse for lots of smut. Just as an FYI.

ONE TWO THREE

PART FOUR

                He has no choice but to follow Bradshaw, naked, follows his lead in leaving his sodden briefs lying on the pebbled floor of the outdoor shower but grabs his jeans and t-shirt at least. He can go commando. Won’t be the first time, even if it’s not his first choice. Then Bradshaw hands Jake a towel from a cupboard right beside the front door; clearly showering outside is something he does regularly. There’s jerking off material he’s likely going to come back to. He’s just had a top-five handjob. He didn’t think he’d get more than a quick handjob, maybe a blowjob if he was lucky. Had been fully prepared to take Bradshaw out to dinner if he’d accepted the invitation at face value. He’s really fucking glad he didn’t, was capable of reading between the lines and just cutting to the quick and peeling everything back to exactly what Jake wanted.

                Needed.

                More than he even realized.

        ��       He lets his attention shift from watching Bradshaw’s ass walking away from him to have a quick look around; curious. It’s a tiny home, or container home, made of maybe three or four containers placed and joined together in a U-shape. He’s seen adverts for them, but he’d never imagined them quite this size or quite filled with this number of amenities. It’s clearly only a few years old, but minimalism is clearly Bradshaw’s preference, very few personal touches that he can see and he wonders if the bedroom will be any different.

                He finishes drying himself and wraps the towel around his waist, wonders whether he should just pull his jeans back on. Then Bradshaw is back and handing him a pair of underwear, gesturing to where the bathroom must be. He does it with a little smirk, like he thinks Jake is cute for maybe being a little shy after they’ve just jerked each other off, towel wrapped around his waist to cover up rather than being simply years of ingrained habit. He meets the challenge in Bradshaw’s eyes with his own, show me what you’ve got, lets the towel drop and pulls on the underwear, followed by his jeans. If Bradshaw is going to walk around in only pants, then Jake will do the same.

                Bradshaw is clearly comfortable being naked, or near naked. He’s pulled on a pair of jean shorts, which should not be as attractive as they are, but they leave his back bare and he finally gets a good look at the highly detailed tattoo on his back, which is an F-14, mechanical detailing so accurate it must have taken hours under the needle. There is also the leg sleeve tattoo, which is a completely different style from his back. While his back was all shades of gray and black and heavy detailed, the leg sleeve was a veritable riot of color, reminding Jake of a meadow filled with wildflowers, done in a watercolor style, no less detailed but not a single hint of black ink except for what he thinks is a fuzzy bumblebee just above his knee.

                “Hmm. Nice.”

                The blatant admiration voiced aloud has him feeling suddenly self-conscious, like Bradshaw is deliberately trying to unnerve him and Jake forces himself to ignore it, instead smirks and looks back. Lets his gaze move slowly up Bradshaw’s body from his bare feet and ankles, pale and delicate looking, to well muscled and toned calves, one of which is covered in ink, thighs covered in denim, slim waist and flat stomach, tan lines where he’s clearly been wearing or not wearing a wide range of clothing while working in the sun. He’s got broad shoulders and strong looking arms, ones meant for moving heavy things around rather than meeting fitness tests and he feels a little thrill.

                “Mmm,” he hums back.

                “So. Food?” Bradshaw asks, pushing himself away from where he’d been lounging against the bench of his kitchen, clearly comfortable in allowing Jake to just look his fill.

                “I could eat…”

…            …            …

                Bradley is glad to have something to do, drags out preheating the oven, putting the pizza on the tray, can feel Jake watching him before he asks where the bathroom is. He directs him with a jerk of his chin and a just down there on the left, mindful that it’s the one opposite his bedroom. He’s going to have Jake in his bed soon enough hopefully, so no reason to get concerned about his privacy now. He pulls out a bottle of beer from the fridge and drinks half of it in one pull before he grabs his phone and distracts himself.

                Then Jake is back and it feels a little awkward, both of them standing there looking at each other, not sure what to say or do. He offers him a beer silently with a raised eyebrow, holding out his own bottle as in invitation. Jake takes it as one, plucking the bottle from his hand, closing his mouth around the lip of the bottle and then just drinking the rest of the bottle. Then he’s licking his lips, sliding the bottle onto the bench and stepping in even closer to Bradley’s body.

                “So, come here often?”

                Bradley huffs, but it’s cut short because Jake’s mouth is covering his, body pressing close; there’s definite heat and desire, but not the same sense of urgency. At least not yet. He feels warm fingers on his sides, dipping into his waist band, a knee trying to insert itself between his and he shifts to allow Jake even closer, so they can press together and he smiles into the kisses, lets his own hands travel over the naked skin of Jake’s back, grips an ass cheek and grinds them together. It feels good, not exactly gentle, but unhurried in the way it can be between one orgasm and the next. Both letting their arousal slowly build up, to brush against them like waves on a beach to then recede, then return. Bodies pressing together, drawing away, and then coming back together with more force.

                “Shame we have to wait for food…”

                “Going to need the energy,” Bradley murmurs against his neck.

                “Yeah? That a promise?”

                “Yep.”

                They do eat, but only two slices each, bodies and hands wandering as they eat, not bothering with plates, leaving the rest of it on the chopping board. He can clean up later. Tomorrow.

                “Bed?”

                “Yeah. I’ve waited long enough.”

…            …            …

                Jake pushes him back onto the bed, both flattered and encouraged when Bradshaw’s legs spread open to give him room. He shakes his head though, if he’s going to do this then he’s going to indulge in something he doesn’t often get the chance for, because he has a feeling he won’t be disappointed, if the strength in Bradshaw’s legs are any indication. He already did some basic prep with this in mind, unashamedly going through Bradshaw’s bathroom cupboards looking for lube and condoms, using what limited time he had. It’s enough to start with.

                “Oh? Okay then… Take what you need.”

                Bradshaw leans back into his pillows, hands behind his head but he jerks his chin toward his bedside table. The top drawer is filled with things, lots of things, and Jake wonders briefly who Bradshaw uses the nipple clamps on. Or if he uses them on himself when he’s jerking off. The idea of it makes his cock jerk and he ignores it as best he can, reaching for the things he definitely needs, along with a thin rolled up towel tucked along the side. Practical.

                “You want any help with that?” Bradshaw asks, as Jake presses his own lubed up fingers into himself. He bites his bottom lip an shakes his head, watches as Bradshaw strokes his own cock, his eyes very firmly on Jake and he likes the attention. Likes knowing what he’s doing is clearly getting Bradshaw going. “You sure. I’d be happy to help.”

                “No, no I’m good…” Jake manages to say, voice rough.

                “Yeah you are. You look very good…”

                Jake moans at the words, hips flexing against his own hand and he watches as Bradshaw reaches for the a condom and rolls it down, then slicks himself with lube, all without taking his eyes of Jake and he’s reminded that Bradshaw works with his hands. Is probably unfairly good with them, along with looking like an underwear or pinup model, covered in grease stains and half-dressed. He knee-walks up the bed, straddles Bradshaw’s waist and leans down to kiss him, lets their cocks rub together even if Bradshaw has preemptively gloved up.

                “In a hurry?”

                “Just being prepared…” Bradshaw says, but his words trail off with a groan as Jake grinds their cocks together harder.

                “Good. Not going to make you wait.”

                He lets the head of Bradshaw’s cock slide between his ass cheeks, feels how slick it is with lube and then grabs one of Bradshaw’s hands and guides it to his own cock to hold it still and then sets about lowering himself down. He has to push through the initial burn of discomfit, but he’s good at that now, pushing his body to its limits. This doesn’t come close to any of his limits, plus the payoff sometimes comes close to the sensation of being catapulted off a carrier. Sometimes.

                “Fuck,” Jake says on an exhale, forcing himself to relax further as he rocks back and forth and rotates his hips in tiny circles, eyes closed as he lets his body grow accustomed to the cock inside him, as he starts to enjoy the sensation and feeling after the fact it’s been a very long fucking time since he’s allowed himself to do this. Prolonged leave, in order to relax and recuperate. And get fucked if he wants it.

                “Going to ride me cowboy?” Bradshaw asks and Jake opens his eyes to find him looking up at him, like he’s calm and composed and not even put out that he tightly encased in Jake’s body.

                “You’re kind of an asshole.”

                “You kind of like it…”

                Jake hates that he’s right, but he doesn’t say anything, ignores Bradshaw’s knowing smirk that he knows he’s got Jake’s number. Instead he grinds down and around with a twist of his hips and this time Bradshaw lets out a groan of approval and yeah. Jake can work with that. Soon enough their bodies are slapping against each other, skin sweaty again and Jake is very glad to be alive right in this moment. His skin, his entire body, feels all lit up, nerves sparking with pleasure. Bradshaw’s fingers are digging into the flesh of his thighs and ass, shifting and moving Jake in counter-balance to Bradshaw’s own movements. His thighs are burning, muscles unused to this type of workout but he doesn’t care, can ignore and compartmentalize the discomfit easily enough. Then Bradshaw’s hand clamps around his cock, almost too tight and his whole body jerks and shudders at the sudden unexpected pressure. It’s not gentle, both of them too turned on now and he curses as he realizes that Bradshaw is now thrusting into him with driving precise jabs while his hand works on Jake’s cock, clearly intent now on making Jake come and he lets himself sag forward, hands resting on either side of Bradshaw’s head and then he’s coming coming coming.

…            …            …

                Jake wakes up in the dark, and it is dark. No streetlights or ambient light from anything, thick curtains blocking any potential moonlight. Bradshaw’s deep regular breathing telling him the other man is fast asleep. He doesn’t want to do the awkward morning after thing, doesn’t know what they’d say to each other, what they might have in common other that bodies that set the other on fire. Fuck it had been good though. He grabs his phone and uses the dimmed screen to find his clothes, dresses as quickly and silently as he can. It’s three in the morning, but he feels like he’s had a full eight hours of sleep. Amazing what orgasms do for him. He slips

…            …            …

                Bradley wakes up alone, holds his breath and listens closely. Wonders if maybe Jake is in the bathroom or kitchen. His house isn’t big enough for him to be out of earshot, and he doesn’t get the sense that he’s here. Okay then, that’s fine and pretty much what he expected, even if it still sends little spikes of disappointment into his gut. He gets up and starts his day, deciding to finish up the work on the van he’d done in between doing work on Jake’s Camry yesterday. He tidies up the remnants of pizza, and when he steps outside he spies them, lying crumpled and damp on the smooth stones of the outdoor shower are both his and Jake’s underwear and he huffs out a breath, and goes to put a load of washing on.

FIVE

[axel-addams]

#huntsvilleintro

the basics;

FULL NAME: Axel Andreas Addams

NICKNAME: Doesn't have one, goes by Axel

GENDER: Male

PRONOUNS: He/Him

AGE: Forty

OCCUPATION: Mechanic @ Pete's Garage

RESIDENCE: The Town

RESIDENT or VISITOR: Resident

HUNTER or GATHERER: Hunter

TITLE: The Damned

FACECLAIM: Sebastian Stan

the personality;

++ resourceful, problem solver, genuine, honest, independent

-- irritable, stubborn, private, reserved, unlucky

tropes - grease monkey, mr fixit, the chosen one, the cursed, lamb to the slaughter

personality type - virtuoso (ISTP)

the bio;

(tw; death, depression, alcoholism)

they're kooky and they're spooky, the addams family.

a common joke that axel put up with when he was growing up un huntsville. the addams family, a legacy family who have been around huntsville since it was founded. the family were well liked in the town and often made charitable donations to huntsville to support their community. when axel came along, the family legacy was drummed into him and how that legacy came with certain expectations. axel being axel had no intention of being defined by expectations, his family was huge, there was no need for that kind of pressure.

seemed like fate loved to take the piss out of axel, as his family started dropping like flies around him. one by one it was like they were being picked off by age, illness and downright freak accidents. death was playing russian roulette with the addams family and by the time axel was in his late twenties he was the last remaining addams. the sole heir to their estate and everything that came with it.

being around so much death would get to anyone, and it got to axel. the paranoia alone almost killed him. he was grieving his family, stressed to the point his own brain would work against him in confusion, he'd stopped eating and sleep was but a near distant memory. it had taken him being admitted to hospital for a duration that he finally started to get his wits about him again. axel's never recovered from the losses in his life and its been a lasting fear in him that if he were to ever meet someone and have children that they would be taken from him too. convinced he's damned, he now remains reserved and private, and returns back to an empty home that's far too big for one so alone.

inheriting the family estate meant that axel didn't need to work a day in his life if he chose not to. he had studied mechanics and engineering but didn't plan to do anything serious with it other than be a freelance advisor to companies outside the town. but when the internet and cell service died that plan went up in flames. when he returned home from his stint the hospital, he spent his days locked away in his house drinking away his sorrows. with nothing to do, infinite cash and a brain that had too much going on, he found himself reaching for the bottle more and more. it took years and hitting lower than rock bottom for axel to have that epiphany wake up call he needed to get his life together. he joined AA and vowed to never to let alcohol touch his lips again.

his sponsor advised doing something to keep himself busy. falling back on his mechanic and engineering skills had never been more of a lifeline than they were then to him. he joined the team at pete's garage and has been putting time in there ever since. he likes it, it keeps him busy and it forces him to talk to people - which he wouldn't do otherwise.

other notes;

+ joined AA after realising he had a drinking problem. he's been sober since his mid 30's

+ lives in the big spooky house - contents of house less spooky, more kooky...maybe a lil goofy

+ restores cars & any other broken items he can find

the possible connections;

friends

besties

acquaintances

enemies

ex's

co-workers

customers

family friends

neighbours

AA sponsor/other AA attendees

open to any and all plots/connections & if you'd like to plot with axel or would even just like to have a chat, please feel free to drop me a message any time

will add to this as i go along but this is the general outline

[mudskip-muses]

Kazuichi had been trapped in his own little world as he tinkered away at his desk, the mechanic not even realizing class was even over with how enthralled he was in his work. He hadn’t even meant to start anything, a small engine from a go-kart simply sitting on his desk that he had used for a presentation towards the beginning of class Chisa had them all do to teach their classmates about their talent. Kazuichi’s had started out nervous, but soon delved into a passion filled ramble about how he had restored the engine from one he found in the nearby junkyard, his plans for modifications to make it more efficient, and how instead of a go-kart, he was going to build a bicycle from scratch and attach it to that with the hopes of making an electric bike that would run on solar power instead of fuel and not suffer speed loss because of it. 

Through talking about his project, ideas had inevitably began to flow, and without even realizing it he had taken the thing apart to take stock of the parts he would need to make his project a reality after class let out. He was nearly finished putting the thing back together when Gundham’s voice broke through his thoughts, the mechnic startling slightly as his concentration was severed. With a few blinks he came back down to earth, his face now tinted pink when he realized Gundham had complimented him. 

Ever since his intervention conversation with Hajime and Fuyuhiko about his past behavior, and his subsequent apologies to both Sonia and Gundham, he had mostly kept his distance from the pair to show that he was serious about it all. He wouldn’t lie though, that in such an absence, he found himself not thinking of Sonia, but of Gundham. With his eyes not clouded by false hatred, he was able to see more of the breeder. Compassion, softness, everything he seemed to try so hard to hide around humans came out so easily with his animals. More often than not, Kazuichi found himself watching Gundham from the corner of his eye during class as he cared for his latest animals ward with a kindness in his eyes that Kaz had never seen on anyone before, let alone Gundham. 

And now the breeder was complimenting him, and Kazuichi suddenly couldn’t breathe. 

Rattling his voice loose with a cough, Kaz let a shy little smile spread across his lips as he popped the last part into place. “Aha, thanks man. That uh, that’s the first I’ve heard that one. Useful yeah, but incredible?” He was a grease monkey, his job was dirty and filled with manual labor not many people could handle. Everyone had use of his skills yes, but not many people seemed to actually appreciate them...

“Um, yeah.” A nervous laugh as he wiped his grease slicked hands on the legs of his coveralls, unable to meet Gundham’s eye. “...your uh, your stuff is pretty cool too, you know. I never really got to interact with many animals growing up ‘cause we uh...money was tight.” We were so poor food was a luxury. “But there were a few cats around my neighborhood that would let me pet ‘em sometimes! And one time this dog wandered into my dad’s bike shop while I was watching it, and I got to hang out with her for a few hours until her owners could come get her. She was cute as hell. Uh, Penny was her name...I think it was a beagle? Her bark was funny...” A pause as he reminisced with a smile that slowly slipped into a confused look as he finally took in the near empty classroom. “Oh uh, is...is class over?”

soda. / @from-across-the-stars

Gundham watched, enraptured, as Kazuichi tinkered with various metal parts whose names he was sure only the mechanic knew the names of. It was like dark magic, the way he moved without thought, as if it all came as simply as breathing -- no, it was much like the way Gundham handled animals. With care, compassion, empathy.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his eyes ran over the muscles peaking out from under Kazuichi's rolled up sleeves.

Pulling himself out of the thought, Gundham coughed, watching Kazuichi from behind the wall of his scarf with bewilderment. He could not figure the man out, or perhaps it was his own feelings toward him he couldn't figure out. He was both friend and aggrievance. Fellow Ultimate and lowly mortal.

"You have a talent I don't understand, but an incredible one nonetheless," Gundham spoke after a time.

[baehaar]

X