#he wil never not serve

[justc2world]

Carlos for Icon Magazine

[rayveneyed]

cw: smut / a/b/o dynamics / cisfem!reader

contrary to popular, old-fashioned belief, alphas and omegas can be friends.

long gone are those times of wilful ignorance, the use of nature as an excuse for shitty behaviour —well, i'm an alpha, see, so i really can't help trying to shove my hand up your skirt, so—

most people are chill nowadays, you like to think — like to being the key phrase. sure, you get the occasional tradomega trying to tell you that you need to dive into your divine feminine and serve your alpha as god intended — and you've definitely been on the receiving side of some ticking biological clock rhetoric, for sure, by snot-nosed alphas with not even a single yen to their name — but it is what it is.

all of this to say that: when sero hanta is guts deep in you, it's completely platonic. completely. cute. casual. nowadays, no hair-brained ideas of marriage or monogamy or commitment accompany your coupling — it’s animal instinct, dirty and intense and slick and hot, scratching a biological itch, and that’s it.

you really lucked out on your choice of partner, too. sero’s an alpha, yes, but not in the derogatory sense. he doesn't get pissed when he smells other alphas on you, like a territorial dog; doesn't tell you that you should be settled down, already, with a household of pups to manage at 25 years of age; doesn't push and prod when you work long hours and devote most of your time to your career. he's funny, and goofy, and tall, and lean, and — and, well, his hair is floppy and inky black, and when he's hunched over you, sweat dripping onto your collarbone from his pointed nose, his cheeks flush the cutest shade of pink…

ahem. anyways.

while there are many omegas that are no doubt stronger than you when it comes to heats, forgoing human contact in favour of 700-odd pounds of silicone, you're part of the large majority that would rather shack up with somebody real. you're not knocking it, of course! your sock drawer is testament to the fact that you love your silicone, really, but there's just something about a person. all heat and skin-to-skin, sticky and nasty in a way that leaves you more satisfied than anything else.

and sero — with his kind eyes and goofy smile (and skintight hero suit) — is not only more than willing to help you through your heats, but have you enjoy them. not an easy feat when your insides are tying themselves up in knots between orgasms, but by god does he do it. something about his hips... something about the way he bows his head to your shoulder, grinding long and slow into you, hips pressed flush to hips. his lips brushing against your skin when he groans, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back. you're not sure if you should be jealous of his obvious sexual experience, or just grateful that you get to be on the receiving end of it.

there is, of course, the obvious romantic connotations of it all. you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore it; after all, heats are these romanticised, coming-of-age-esque happenings, the plot of most early 2000 rom-coms and bad pornos. cute omega roommate forgets her suppressants and goes into heat! real alpha-omega love-making guaranteed!

but its not like that, because hanta is hanta and you are you. you’re like sharkboy and lavagirl. or fireboy and watergirl. whichever pairing fits the dynamic better — you’ve always been the hothead between you two.

“that’s a really shitty idea,” a friend warns you. she’d caught you with your scarf undone, baring the hickies that hanta had left on you to the world — an embarrassing result of the occasional non-heat trysts you’d find yourself caught up in. you couldn’t even blame the heat hormones for the way you’d almost mauled him, but a girl simply has needs! “i’m telling you, casual heat sex never works. trust me.”

but it works for you and hanta, right? because no matter how much you fight, how much you disagree, how much you chastise him for putting himself directly in the line of fire — on live tv, no less! — it all melts away in a pile of blankets and pillows. no matter how deep his cock drives in you, no matter how his teeth scrape your scent glands and have your toes curling against his back, it all ends up the same — slumped in front of the tv, lazily lounging on your phone while he boots up his nintendo 64 to kick ganondorf’s ass for the billionth time.

(and it doesn’t matter that sero isn’t seeing anyone else — it doesn’t matter that he’s deleted his dating apps, or that you keep the pillow he sleeps on when he comes over so that you can scent it when he’s gone. it doesn’t matter that he reminds you to take your anxiety meds — you know, omegas are 44% more likely to have GAD than the average person? — or that he remembers how you take your tea, coffee, and pho. these are things you’d do with any friend, of course.)

it’s cute. casual. not at all romantic, so surely you shouldn’t think twice about leaving a toothbrush at his place. and what harm could a set of pyjamas do? and you could always do with an extra pair of socks, and your skincare, and perhaps an extra phone charger…?

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

It’s Tolkien Meta Week, and today is LOTR Day. I’d never really describe any of my own random musings as formal “meta” (and certainly not like the brilliant stuff other people think up!). Nevertheless, I do muse away, and so I’ll just blather it all out here informally. Read below, if you are so inclined, for more of my obsession with incredibly obscure characters and Tolkien’s obsession with forcing Gondorian supremacy on everyone!

We know Tolkien loved to set up really distinct narrative parallels between pairs of Gondorians and Rohirrim (think Denethor/Théoden, Boromir/Théodred, Háma/Beregond) so that the ways that they are both similar and different can teach us specific things about the characters as individuals and about their kingdoms and cultures as a whole. And I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the life experiences of a much older pair — Valacar of Gondor and Thengel of Rohan — and what Tolkien was trying to communicate with the undeniable connections he drew between these two very different characters who were separated by ~ 1,500 years of history.

First, since these are lesser known characters who exist largely in the appendices, let’s start with the basics:

Valacar was the heir to the throne of Gondor when he was sent to live as an ambassador of sorts among the Northmen of Rhovanion (the people who would go on to become the éothéod and then the Rohirrim). He was meant to learn their language, manners and customs, but he did more than that — he fell in love with the culture, married a local woman (a princess of the Northmen named Vidumavi) and had a son, Vinitharya. Eventually, his time in Rhovanion came to an end and he went back to Gondor, where he met almost nothing but grief. A substantial part of the Gondorian ruling class rejected his wife as being of lesser blood than the Númenórean lines of Gondor, and they certainly rejected his half-Northman son, who they did not want as king when his time came. Despite the fact that Valacar and his family showed only loyalty to Gondor and, in fact, tried repeatedly to bend in the direction of the Gondorian hardliners (for example, they changed Vinitharya’s name to Eldacar to make him sound less “foreign” to the Gondorians), those same hardliners staged a coup against Eldacar, killed his own son, and started a civil war that only ended after much death and destruction.

Thengel was the heir to the throne of Rohan when he left to live in Gondor, by implication because he wanted out from under the rule of his father, Fengel, who was described as greedy, difficult, and often at odds with everyone around him. Thengel threw himself into Gondorian life, learning their languages, joining the military, and serving their steward. He also married a local woman, Morwen, with whom he had 5 children, 3 of which were born in Gondor, including his son. When Fengel finally died, Thengel returned to Rohan and took the throne, where he had a successful reign despite the fact that he had been very resistant to the idea of returning and spent the rest of his life still clinging to elements of Gondorian culture (like holding onto Sindarin as the language of his rule rather than using Rohirric as one would expect). Still, he ruled well and passed the throne on seamlessly to his son, Théoden. 

So. BIG SAME on major elements of their stories — a prince of Gondor who went to live in proto-Rohan and a prince of Rohan who went to live in Gondor. They each embraced those foreign lands, married locally and had sons of mixed heritage before returning to their kingdoms to rule and pass on the throne to those sons. But the paths couldn’t be more different once they got home again. Valacar, who left Gondor as part of a duty to his land and returned willingly, had his wife and son met only with discrimination, resistance and eventually full-on insurrection despite repeated attempts to ingratiate themselves with the Gondorians. Thengel, who left Rohan of his own accord and only came back against his will, had his wife and son welcomed and honored by the Rohirrim despite the fact that Thengel himself continued to show some, shall we say, divided loyalty when he was there.

In terms of outcomes, the text of the appendices seems to come down hard on the people who opposed Valacar, Vidumavi and Vinitharya/Eldacar, because their effort backfired spectacularly. The civil war so thoroughly depleted the ranks of the Gondorian nobility that Eldacar, once he’d won the throne back, had to encourage significant immigration from Rhovanion to replenish Gondorian society. Plus, that depletion and the lingering fear of *another* civil war prevented the Gondorians from resolving a thorny succession crisis years later — lacking any heir whose claim to the kingship would be accepted by everyone, the line of kings in Gondor just came to an abrupt end instead. It’s hard to imagine a bigger karmic smackdown than to have your coup, which was meant to protect the alleged sanctity of the Gondorian monarchy from “lesser” influences, instead result in an influx of those “lesser” influences into your society and eventually the total loss of the monarchy itself! 

On the opposite side of the ledger, the Rohirrim were narratively rewarded for their more open minded approach. Thengel proved to be a decent king and gave them the line that produced Théoden (another good king, one small period of manipulation aside) as well as Théodred, Éomer, and Éowyn, all of whom had critical roles to play in the fight against Sauron, the preservation of freedom in Middle Earth and the survival of Rohan as an independent kingdom. All good things!

So this seems like a clear situation where Gondor did wrong and was punished, and Rohan did right and was rewarded. And so the moral of the story would be to Be Like Rohan, at least in this respect. AND YET,  I’m not entirely sure that’s what Tolkien is really saying because the Gondorians don’t actually seem to have learned their lesson. And that’s fine — what are humans if not bad at learning the lessons of history? — except that the meta narrative of LOTR itself seems to agree with them. 

For starters, the carping of the Gondorian hardliners about the tainting of pure Gondorian blood turns out to be true. Introducing “lesser” bloodlines into Gondor *does* eventually shorten their unusually long lifespans, which had always been the sign of the divine favor that was bestowed on them as a people. So the book buys into the notion that there are real and significant differences of quality between the high Men of Gondor and those from other parts of Middle Earth that have nothing to do with their actions and intentions but come only from genetics. That’s a big ick, but the book definitely validates the hardliners’ position.

For that reason, it’s unsurprising, I guess, that the Gondorians are still invested in these ideas of blood purity — they can see the proof of its effects in their own bodies. Yes, they are more accepting of outsiders marrying into the upper echelons of their society by the late Third Age, but I don’t think their embrace of either Éowyn (who has some Gondorian heritage and, anyway, was not marrying the king!) or Arwen (who is from a race that is fetishized as higher and nobler than the others and that has been present in the Gondorian royal line as far back as the very first king of Númenor) can be offered as proof that they would have similarly accepted a queen from a “lesser” community of Men. Indeed, they still explicitly endorse the same beliefs about the inherent inferiority of other humans, with no less than Faramir himself repeating the idea that there is a hierarchy of Men in high, middle and low tiers (with the Rohirrim only qualifying as “middle”) based on their perceived difference from the gold standard of a descendant of Númenor.

I think it’s significant that it’s Faramir who says this, because he is Tolkien’s self-described Author Insert, and he’s also someone who is established as the very pinnacle of wisdom and judgment. If Faramir believes something to be true, we, as readers, are generally meant to believe that it IS true, as pretty much every other thing he says in any other context is proven out by the narrative. So, again, the book is telling us that not all Men are equal in Middle Earth.

So what are we to make of this? If Tolkien truly meant the Valacar/Thengel parallel to be a cautionary tale that would warn against a mindset of looking down on other Men as inherently inferior — and I really don’t know how else you can read it given how sympathetic the text is to Valacar and his family, how catastrophic the kinstrife in Gondor proves to be, and how Thengel shows us what it looks like to handle a similar situation very differently — why does the story still seem to want us to embrace the very same ideas that nearly brought down Valacar’s family and caused untold suffering in Gondor and elsewhere? Why does the introduction of Northmen heritage into the royal line cause its degradation? Why does The Author’s Favored Character still espouse the Gondorian insurrectionists’ rhetoric about lesser Men? Why is it that the whole world can only be saved by the return to Gondor of a king who has that pure “blood of Westernesse” that the Gondorian nobles of Valacar’s day cared so much about? They were wrong to hold Eldacar’s mixed heritage against him and yet it’s also true that the world can only be set right when someone of “pure” heritage like Aragorn is put back in charge? It seems like a mixed message for sure.

Personally, I think Tolkien got trapped by the allure of a particular religious/moral idea, namely that you can earn divine favor through service to god. That might have been a very appealing concept to someone looking at the world through his particular religious lens, but when he allowed that divine favor to pass down through generations such that people were benefitting from it purely through inheritance and not from independent effort, it becomes a real problem. The Gondorians have to be better than everyone else because they come from the Númenóreans, and the Númenóreans have to be better because they come from the houses of the edain that fought alongside the Valar in the war of wrath and received that divine blessing in the form of longer life *for them and their ancestors.* And now you’ve got to square the implications of that with the otherwise obvious truth that no Man is inherently better or more ennobled than another simply because of where/when they’re born. And you really can’t. It forces you to have Men — in the form of the Rohirrim, most notably — who are acting only in good and noble ways but still have to be subordinated to the glory of Gondor for reasons that have fuck all to do with the behavior or intentions of either group. I think Tolkien recognized this problem, which is why the story feints at the idea that Gondor is wrong, but ultimately he couldn’t let it go and the story ends up bearing out their beliefs. And so here I am, all these years later, finding it infuriating!

[la-petite-lapin]

Double the Love | Part Two

Double the Love masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x female civilian!OC Word Count: 2.9k Series warnings (may change between chapters): 18+, Minors DNI, angst, mentions of death, mentions of violence, mentions of poor mental health, injury description, eventual explicit sexual content, polyamory, M/M/F, FMC is bad at feelings

They finally meet

One year later...

The message comes out of the blue. The first time I've heard from John Price in a whole month, and it's a fucking text message.

I'm watching TV, curled up in a ball on the sofa next to my best friend and flatmate Winslow "Winnie" Sloane, when my phone pings. I think about ignoring it until I catch a glimpse of his name. It's an unspoken rule between the two of us - we never knowingly ignore one another. Obviously, he can't reply to my messages when he's on ops, but that's different - that's not wilful.

I pick it up without hesitation and take a look.

JOHN PRICE: Tali, I need a favour. It's urgent.

My heart drops.

TALIA KELLER: What's happened? JOHN PRICE: Call me. I'll explain.

So, I do. I tap Winnie on the shoulder and rise up to my feet, shuffling off to my bedroom so I don't disturb her episode of Slow Horses. When I'm safely shut behind my bedroom door, I tap on the call button, dreading what's awaiting me on the other end of the line.

"John?" my voice is full of nerves as the call connects, echoing slightly around the room.

"God am I glad to hear your voice, Tali." He sounds haggard, his own voice tired and hollow. It's not hard to tell that he's fresh off an op. I can already imagine how drained he looks; can picture the dark circles shading his eyes and his scruffy too-long beard.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly brave, I try to talk him into leaving the service. I think about Alex and his death, and I hate that John still knowingly puts himself in harm's way day and night. He's the only serving soldier I know now - I never met any of the other members of their unit - and I desperately wish that he'll retire soon.

"How are you?" he follows up, voice puncturing through my thoughts.

"I'm okay. At home with Winnie. How's Marcella?"

A soft sigh leaves him at the mention of his long-suffering wife. I wonder if he's even had a chance to see her yet. "Last we spoke, she was perfectly fine. Misses you though. You need to come over for dinner soon."

An easy laugh leaves me. Winnie and John aren't the only ones who've been supporting me since Alex died. John's wife Marcie has been there every step of the way too, helping me through rough patches whenever John is away on deployments. And Winnie's never been anything but kind and understanding - it's not in her nature to be anything but.

"Soon," I mumble in agreement. There's a sound on the other end of the line in the background, a murmured snippet of conversation and a drawn-out groan followed by a soft shut up. "Not alone?"

"Got some company," John admits. "Speaking of... does Winslow still have that big trip coming up?"

My palms slick with sweat. Yes. Yes, she does.

Ever since her big promotion six months ago, Winnie's job now involves a lot more travelling than it used to. And - because of that - in three days' time, she'll be in France, starting a month-long assignment helping a struggling marketing firm in Paris.

And I'll be alone.

It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, but I've always had this thing about being alone. It's part of the reason why I live with Winnie; why I've been seeing a therapist since I was sixteen; why I struggle to have normalcy. My current therapist thinks that it's a form of abandonment issues from being orphaned at a young age, which has led to my inability to maintain stable relationships. The therapist before that thought it was something completely different; that I seek to form attachments but wilfully don't, self-sabotaging and creating my own permanent sense of loneliness. But, my point is, I don't react anywhere near as badly to it as I did when I was a kid.

I still remember when I was fifteen and Alex left for his first deployment. I was still living with our maternal grandmother at the time, and I completely shut down. I holed up in my room for almost a whole month, refusing to speak and barely eating or sleeping. I could hardly function for worrying about him...

"Tali?"

I snap out of it. "Sorry. Yes."

"Could you... could I possibly bring some of my guys to your apartment? Just while Winslow is away. Our safehouse in the area has been taken out of action and we need somewhere to lay low for a little while."

My guys. The unit.

"What about your place?" My brow furrows. Surely Marcella wouldn't mind a few guests. She's calm and motherly and takes great pride in hosting. I'm sure she'd be in the element with them.

John clears his throat awkwardly. "Not an option. They don't know."

Ah. The brave, almighty Captain John Price still hasn't told his team that he's married. Typical.

I roll my eyes. "Okay. I hope you know that we're coming back to that later." A beat of silence passes. "How many people are we talking, John? Because it's a two-bedroom flat in London. It's spacious but it's hardly the Tardis."

He snorts out a dry laugh. "Only two. One of the lads is local so he's got family around here he can stay with. And there's some stuff I've got to get done, so I'll be hopping from base to base."

"Where are they going to sleep? Are they going to mind sharing a bed? Because the sofa is comfortable, but I know how you army guys are built..."

There's an awkward silence on Price's end as I hear him shifting around. It takes me a second to realise that he's covering his mouth against his phone's microphone. "Yeah... that's, um- that won't be an issue for them."

Oh.

Oh.

"Okay. Cool. I'll take them."

I wince. Why the fuck did I say cool? Of all the ways that I could respond and I choose that. Way to go, Tali.

"Are you sure that you're okay with this, Tali?" Price asks, his voice soft and encouraging. "If you aren’t, we can find something else-"

"Price, I'll take them in. Winnie leaves on Tuesday morning, so just have them swing by around then, okay?"

Favour asked and questions answered, we say our goodbyes and hang up. It takes me a second to gather my thoughts before padding back into the living room. The moment I step through the hallway, Winslow pauses the TV, angling her head up to look at me. A cloud of black curly hair frames her beautiful face, dark eyes wide and expectant. "Is John back home?"

I wince, getting ready to launch into an explanation. "Not quite."

Tuesday morning rolls around all too soon. By 9 a.m. I'm sitting cross-legged on the foot of Winnie's bed as she packs up her stuff. I can't help but feel a pang of anxiety strike deep in my chest.

"Are you sure that you're gonna be okay?" Winnie asks, almost like she can read my mind.

I meet her dark, knowing gaze and offer her a smile. "Winnie, I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about me. If I need anything, I can call Marcella."

She smiles, running a hand through her freshly braided hair. The pearls attached to some strands clink together softly. "Okay. Good. But you've got to call me once a week at least, okay?" Before I can reassure her that I will, she adds, "And you've got to text me every day."

"Winslow, I will. Stop stressing, please."

A moment of easy silence passes before the laughter starts. Both of us crack up, her eyes finding mine and holding my gaze.

Once we've both calmed down, I take a closer look at her cases. She's packing almost everything she owns. It's a sight that worries me, so I look away, deciding to look out of the window instead.

A loud, firm knock on the front door saves me just as Winnie is packing up her last suitcase. We exchange a look before I'm up on my feet, scrambling to answer it. I can't lie, I'm curious to meet John's friends. But I'm also sad. Because there's a strong possibility that they knew Alex too. That they were with him when he died.

When I open the door, there's two men standing in the hallway, just like John said there would be. The first has short brown hair styled into a mohawk, the sides cropped close to his scalp but the top and back left longer. He's broad-chested, muscular too; built like a grizzly bear. And, even though his complexion has a slightly pallid hue under the overhead lights, it's not hard to imagine that he's usually quite tan.

And then there's his friend. Standing next to the grizzly bear and at least half-a-foot taller than him, he has the expression of a man who wants to break me apart with his bare hands just to see what's inside. I fight to meet his intense gaze, taking catalogue of the features visible under the dark hood of his black sweatshirt. His eyes are hazel - I think - skin tanned from what I'd assume are long hours spent out in the sun, and I can't quite make out his hair colour. He's equally if not more muscular than his friendlier-looking counterpart. My eyes trail down to his mouth, drawn to the scar bisecting his bottom lip. It doesn't draw away from his attractiveness though; just adds to the sense of rugged charm that I'm getting from him.

Not that it should matter. It doesn't. They're here because they need help; not because they want to be ogled by a complete stranger.

"Are you John's friends?" I ask stupidly, as if they could be anyone else.

The grizzly bear nods. "Aye. And you are?"

Scottish. Nice. I've always loved the accent, but his is even better. There's a humour there; something uniquely his. It makes me want to keep him talking just so I can hear it more.

"Tali." I step back so that they can come inside. They hesitate for a second before following me into the living room, the tall, silent one closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Also John's friend."

The grizzly bear plops straight down onto the couch, stretching out with no hesitation and making himself at home. His arms drape over the backrest, a lazy grin forming on his lips as he watches me take a seat on my armchair. The tall one gives him a reprimanding look, hovering beside the window behind him. His light eyes are always alert; darting around the room like something's going to jump out at any second.

"You army?" he asks, expression wary. His voice is all gravel with a Manchester accent.

I offer him a small smile. "Nope." I don't think anyone could mistake me for a soldier. I'm small - short and slender - and skittish at the best of times. "So... what should I call you?"

Hazel eyes narrow at me. "Ghost."

The grizzly bear rolls his eyes dramatically, offering me a wide, disarming grin. It's blatantly obvious that he's overcompensating for him. "Callsign is Soap, but a pretty lass like you can call me Johnny."

My heart flutters.

It takes a second to remember what John had said on the phone. Sharing a bed won't be an issue for them. The awkward, implying tone he'd said it in. In other words, neither of them are meant for me.

Ghost eases away from the window to stand just behind the sofa, drawing closer to Johnny. Johnny, on the other hand, moves so that he's leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees as he cocks his head at me. "A friend of Captain Price, are ye?"

I nod softly. "Yes."

"Funny that," Ghost barks, tilting his head to one side. "He's never mentioned you." Thinly veiled suspicion drifts off of him in waves, and it makes me feel endlessly uncomfortable. His harsh gaze melts through my skin and bones, boring deep into my soul.

I shift in my seat. "He never mentioned either of you to me, so I don't think that counts for much."

Johnny lets out a loud laugh. "I think I'm gonna like ye, Tali. Not many people talk back to 'im."

It's in that moment - as I'm silently praying for the floor to open up and swallow me whole - that Winnie steps out of her room, suitcases in tow. She walks into the living room, depositing them by the front door before coming over to introduce herself, a sceptical look on her face.

She levels Ghost with an icy glare, not looking away from him as she asks me, "Everything all okay here, Tali?"

"Yeah, it's alright Winnie." I gesture to each of John's friends in turn. "Winnie, this is Johnny." He raises his hand and waves, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "And that is Ghost." I point to looming, ominous figure behind him.

"Ghost?" she repeats slowly. I nod. "Okay, well I'm leaving now. Tali, I love you and I'll miss you. Remember to call me." She bends at the waist to hug me, wrapping me up in her warm, vanilla-scented embrace. As she straightens, she glares at each of the men in turn. "And you two - don't give her any shit. If I find out you've made her feel uncomfortable even once, not even John will be able to save you. Got it?"

Johnny stares up at my friend, mystified. His blue eyes are bright as he nods. "Don't worry. We won't be any trouble."

Winnie turns back to face me. "Right, I've got to go or I'll miss my ride to the airport. I'll be back before you even know I'm gone, okay?"

"I know," I say, my voice soft. "I love you. Be safe and text me when you land."

With a nod, Winnie presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head then gets her last few bits together. And then she leaves. Leaving me alone with two complete strangers. Yay.

"So," I grumble, struggling against the urge to shy away from their intense gazes in the safety of my room, "do you want to see where you'll be staying?"

Later that night, the three of us gather in the living room to watch TV.

The guys didn't have much to unpack. They travelled light so I'm going to have to go shopping sometime soon to buy them some essentials; more clothes and toiletries. Definitely food too. If dinner tonight was any indication, they eat a lot.

I'm curled up in my armchair again, watching something that Johnny chose on Netflix. Every once and a while, I glance across at them. Ghost is sitting upright, legs stretched out in front of him. His legs are so long that his feet are tucked under the coffee table. And then there's Johnny. He's laying on his side on the sofa, his head resting on Ghost's muscular thighs. Every now and then, Ghost's hand runs down the length of Johnny's side, stroking him in soothing, rhythmic motions.

Looking at them, I can't help but feel a sense of longing. Jealousy that they're together and obviously quite happy. That they're comfortable enough around one another for these subconscious displays of affection.

I'll never have that. It's something that I've come to accept. I'm twenty-five now and I've never had a serious relationship. I don't even think I want one. For a period of time in my late teens, I thought that I might be aro-ace, but over time I've gathered that I do feel romantic and sexual attraction. It's just different.

The sad truth is that I don't trust anyone enough to believe that they'd stay with me. Love me. Make me feel safe enough for displays of casual affection. There would always be that looming sense of dread that they'd leave me sooner or later.

In my head, I've justified it. If I don't get into relationships, no one can leave me. Alex's death all but solidified that for me.

The rom-com Johnny picked out gets to a comedic scene - a naked beach fight - and he starts to chuckle. I join him and I swear even Ghost lets out a little snort. We're all laughing until...

"Fuck. Johnny, you're bleeding."

My heart crawls up into my throat. My eyes snap across to them, blatantly looking now. The white t-shirt Johnny is wearing is plastered to his side, a red patch seeping through the fabric, spreading across his ribs.

He sits upright, holding it with one large hand. "Ah fuck. Didn't get any on the sofa, did ah'?"

"Fuck the sofa," I splutter out in a panic. "Are you okay? Why are you bleeding? Should I call an ambulance?"

Johnny looks back at me with a quizzical expression while Ghost just sighs, standing up. He walks towards the bedrooms at an unhurried pace, stopping along the way to press a chaste kiss to Johnny's forehead, placing a loving hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, darling, I'll get the bag." Hazel eyes swing towards me, where I'm still panicking in my armchair. "His dressing just needs changing, and I'll check his stitches. He's fine, love."

I ease back into my seat, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Oh."

Ghost leaves the room, heading into my bedroom to get the aforementioned bag. I've decided to give them my room for the duration of their stay because it has an en-suite. It eliminates the risk of me accidentally stumbling in on them in the shared bathroom that doesn't have a working lock. Overall, it's safer for everyone that I'm staying in Winnie's room.

Feeling more than a little foolish for my outburst, I offer Johnny a weak smile. "I'm going to go to bed now. Goodnight, Johnny."

"Ye sure?" he asks, blue eyes tinted with a hint of... something. Maybe disappointment? I don't know. "The movie isn't over yet. You seemed like ye were enjoying it." His brow furrows. "We could watch something else."

"I'm sure. It's fine; I'm just tired. We can watch another movie tomorrow night if you want."

His eyes light up at that. "Yeah, sounds perfect."

I'm back in Winnie's room by the time Ghost leaves mine. I can hear his footsteps padding down the hallway. Hear their muffled conversation and muted laughter.

As I fall asleep, I can't help but feel a different kind of loneliness. And, as I drift off, my heart aches for what Ghost and Johnny have.

a/n: guess who's back! so Tali has finally met the boys :) sorry if this part is a little short, just wanted to get something out in time for christmas for you guys - merry christmas and take care of yourselves, lapetitelapin

[koreanbibliophilegirl]

Idk if this is too out of nowhere, but I imagine c!Wilbur with silver hair these days.

Like, I picture c!Phil with long golden hair, genuinely golden, not straw-colored or whatever, and royal midnight blue eyes, to match c!Kristin having star-speckled black space colored eyes. His skin is pale and clear, like he's a doll made of the finest porcelain and the richest materials. I mean, it's not too far off. I headcanon that c!Phil was made by the other gods to serve the Goddess of Death- since Death couldn't create life of any sort, even to serve as her Angels.

c!Wilbur is human because he's not exactly of godly descent, because again, Death can't create life. He's half angel at most, so he ends uo mortal. He'd have a longer life than is typical for humans, but that’s about it. Doesn't manifest any Death Angel Powers either, unless you count persuasive speech a Death Angel Power. (Spoiler alert: it is, in fact, an Angel Power. He makes ppl fear death less, for better or worse. c!Wilbur just has low self-esteem AND was dense enough to not notice.)

c!Kristin plans for c!Wilbur and his descendants to become Angels of Death too. She wants them to live human lives to their fullest beforehand though, because the cycle of life and death is beautiful, and even though her domain is a whole half of that cycle, she still wants her children to experience everything that life can give them before they join her domain.

c!Wilbur has silver hair and violet eyes. They look like a dark dusk sky- but he always claims his eyes are purple, not violet. Purple is the color of emperors after all, should he not have eyes fitting of an emperor? c!Tommy, as a result, canNOT distinguish purple and violet, he keeps calling violet 'purple' and vice versa. (He initially annoys c!Purpled bc he was constantly messing up & calling the guy 'Violeted'.)

c!Wilbur cares about c!Tommy, but he's also jealous, because this random kid, unrelated to any Angels(as far as they know), has bright blonde hair and clear sky blue eyes. He looks more Angel than c!Wilbur, the son of the Angel of Death(he doesn't really count Kristin as a parent bc she didn't actually have any part in siring him).

So he sort of encourages c!Tommy acting childish and pulling pranks, because then, at the very least, HE will be the one acting properly between the two of them. Hard to look like an Angel child when you're acting like a demon child, yknow?

c!Tommy doesn't think much of it though, and once comments that he and c!Wil look a lot alike, because they both have light-colored hair and their eye colors are similar too, from c!Tommy's childish perspective. This fuels both the loving brotherly instincts AND the jealousy.

The jealousy and low self-esteem also affects c!Wil's treatment of c!Fundy, who has bronze hair. Neither think c!Fundy will develop Angel Powers bc surely the DNA is all watered-down by now? So c!Wil subconsciously treats c!Fundy as someone who will never amount to anything, because no powers mean not many viable achievements- and c!Fundy is definitely not a politician like himself.

BUT turns out the Angelic genes (seemingly) skipped a generation, and c!Fundy starts dreaming of future deaths. He doesn't tell c!Wil bc not only will he not be able to help, he will also, most likely, be jealous. c!Fundy doesn't want to navigate that kind of change in their relationship, because what they have now kinda sucks, but c!Fundy fears it'll get even worse if c!Wil finds out about him having a power. AND, he wants to be seen for who he is and what he can achieve, not just for the random Death Angel Power he can't even control. Wanting to be seen as a whole rather than one aspect only, basically.

I also imagine c!Fundy, after he dies, will become the Angel who's most loved by mortals.

c!Phil never went through death, never understood the fear and uncertainty that people feel when faced with death. For him, Death is his beloved wife, and eternal rest with her, and that's all there is. Even after everything from DSMP, he only begins to gain a faint glimmer of understanding.

c!Wilbur's got a glib tongue and he lessens the newly-dead souls' fears easily- but he's not an easy Angel to approach, he still has subconscious habits, wanting to rise above the people, create some sort of superiority so he doesn't fade into a nameless nobody, unworthy of being the son of the Angel of Death- or being an Angel of Death.

c!Fundy though, saw things from the crowd. He's relatable. Spiderman is popular bc his life is so relatable to everyone, same thing here. He knows the hopes and fears and uncertainty of people, because he's been there before. He comforts the dead, and the dead know he understands.

c!Philza was and is the Reaping Angel, he reaps souls like a farmer gathering his produce, just another day's work and nothing more.

c!Wilbur becomes the Rising Angel, he rises above all others, hands out pain and mercy like a brutally efficient royal whose words are inevitable.

c!Fundy becomes the Remembering Angel, he remembers his mortal days and strives to bring peace and rest to every soul, weeping with them, assuring them, sometimes giving them just one more moment for the temporary goodbyes that feel so permanent. He guarantees illnesses will fade, promises you will see them again, and swears on his honor for peaceful sleeps.

The story of the Remembering Angel are told and retold, always with more being added. The angel of eternal peace and rest, with red gold hair like warm fire, and beautiful golden eyes.

Yeah anyways it's nearly 2 AM and I should probably sleep. Or write something I guess. The creativity juices are very clearly flowing like rivers rn. I actually have no idea what I wrote above this paragraph, I usually read over posts before posting but none of that tonight. I will POST and GO, either to sleep or write. I have no idea if I even said what I wanted to said. If I don't like this post in the morning I can just private it or delete it or whatever.

Yeah Lilly OUT peace and love yall

[wil-dearest]

Anonymous asked: ok 🫣🫣 reader reading a * spicy * book and wilbur seeing them…. hehe

Mhm mhm, i see your point. Enjoy

trigger warning: the book you are reading has explicit smut in it and well its a little filthy at the end. but 18+.

brought to you by wil-dearest, may i present absolute horseshit

Kiss the Cook

In your defense, the book had been gifted to you by an older cousin who gave you a sly wink, telling you to enjoy. Your love for reading wasn't private information and had this been any other occasion and not your birthday, you most likely would've never read it. (Somehow, your relatives never get what you like. So they sit on a bookshelf as they collect dust and you sit on the idea of donating them.) And also because your cousin texted you saying the main lead was your type. And so if he was?

Here we are, three months after your birthday and you're sitting on at the dining table, reading. Your boyfriend, Wilbur, had been sweet enough that he wanted to make dinner by himself. And with the free time that's been so generously given, you give the book a shot.

Big mistake, after the first two chapters, it gets steamy.

Her head tipped back, with Jeremy's mouth teasing her skin, every touch and every bite he leaves spins her vision. "You understand now, what you do to me is torture." Even his voice, vibrating against the column of her throat, her mouth parts with a gasp. She does understand now.

She can't focus clearly but with the way his hands burn as they grip her thighs, wrapping them around his waist and his cock bumping against her entrance, it's as if her nerves had been lit on fire. The first push drives her nails into his skin and he smooths her hair down, hardly biting his moans back. "Ever since I met you," he gasps, interrupting himself as his hips twitch, "I couldn't get you out of my head. You consumed my being, every waking second." Maybe it'd been the wine, maybe it'd been the careless flirting because why would it ever be more than flirting remarks, it doesn't matter. All Nikki knows right now is how good it feels with him inside her.

You had to put the book down for a moment and cover your face, giggling a little bit to yourself. What the fuck had that been? You peek through fingers and eye the book, biting down on a bottom lip. You'll continue, you decided. Picking up the book, though, Wilbur came out to greet you, his hair a little run-through, like he was pulling the edges again. "How's the book?" He asks, smiling as he leaned in for a quick kiss. Your eyes closed as you hummed, not at all hiding your blush and your smile.

"It's not what I thought it was going to be." You answer, not at all wanting to admit that you just found out the book you're reading leans more into the erotic genre.

"Different?" He asks, his hand coming up and cupping the back of your head as he kissed your cheek. You nod. "And not a bad different?" He kisses your other cheek, drinking up your soft laughter. "Good, then you know where to find me," he pulls back, smiling at you. His thumb comes up to graze your cheek, where he kissed it. He kisses you one last time before heading back inside the kitchen.

You sigh dreamily, wondering how you ever managed to charm him with your tendencies to be a hermit. It cannot be helped, you'll just have to accept you've accidentally cursed him or something. Moving on from real life romance, you turn your eyes back down to the inconspicuous novel. It couldn't hurt to read a little more.

About thirty minutes later, Wilbur decides he's taken long enough and serves two bowls, taking the steaming meals and finding you so engrossed into the novel, you hadn't even noticed him. Now he's not one to be jealous of a book, but just how good can it be when it wasn't your taste? (Yes, he'd been privy to that lovely rant with relatives and their gifting habits.)

He comes around and he had to double-check his eyes were working before he came to terms with the truth. You've been reading erotica.

He starts to mumble the words, "Nikki sobs as she tries to clenches her thighs," you gasp, your head looks over your shoulder, unable to move too much to avoid hitting his head, "overwhelmed by the constant pleasure. His tongue was simply too much, circling her clit and sucking on it before moving the two fingers inside of her again-" you drop the book, covering his mouth even as he tries to read it still, and you had little doubt you look flustered beyond all reason.

"What are you doing!?" You shriek, turning in your seat as you hid your face in his neck, trying to strangle and simultaneously hug him. His laughter is a deep vibration that tickles you while you held onto him, your own nerves lit on fire as his arms circle around your waist.

"Well I came to tell you dinner was ready," he nods to the steaming bowls and then his teasing eyes turned back to you and you dive your head back into his collarbones, "but you didn't even see me. I could see why now."

"Hush." Your voice comes out muffled and you do nothing to make yourself clearer.

"Dinner could always wait and we can recreate the scene in your book." He says pulling away from you and before you can say anything, he's dropped to his knees, his hair falling into his big eyes that stare into you as he nudges his face between your legs. You could hardly breathe with how he gets so close to your crotch, how his smile widens when he kisses your thigh and grips the other one with his- his fingers and you curse yourself for being so sensitive because all you want to do is moan his name. You cover your mouth even when he licks a stripe down the crotch of your jeans. You feel yourself trembling.

"Actually," he says, getting up a dizzying fashion, "I'll make sure to get dessert after dinner." His smile is downright predatory. How are you supposed to eat after all that?

[eldritch-spouse]

How would Belo be with a cult leader s/o?

She already has followers consisting of both monsters and humans who rave about how perfect she is, and they think Belo is a testament to that.

I mean, not just anyone can receive the affection of an angel; she must be akin to a god!

There is a hierarchy in the cult, and Belo is at the top of it. He can rest his head on her lap and watch as the others worship the very ground his lady walks on (he doesn't have a choice; the leader demands it this physical contact, otherwise she will be unhappy the whole day).

They validate Belo in every thought he has of his lady and also obey him as he is basically the leader's right hand (or so he believes, but in reality, they respect him so much because he is their leader's precious).

And what if more angels started coming out of the woodwork to serve his lady? If he was able to handle the cultists, surely this would be a stretch.

I can just imagine the cultists praising Belo as they dress him up in lingerie fitting to their leader's taste, then tie him up, mindful of his wings, and leave him in his lady's quarters. His lady comes in and gets on top of him, caressing his wings and whispering something about being her 'pretty little canary' and 'give yourself to me, show me your devotion.'.

This is the ideal situation for Belo.

Unlike most angels, who tend to have a mindset favorable to sharing with other celestials, Belo gets intoxicated when he realizes he's the only holy entity in a location, that he no longer has to share, that his tier hardly matters because he's the only celestial present and automatically the authority in a plethora of matters. He feels special in a way he never has before and his ego swells almost incomprehensibly.

Which is exactly why he's living his best life in this situation. Not only are you a sacred being, your generosity blinds you to the misdeeds of your own following. My Lady they are clumsy, obliviously disrespectful, they hold no discipline! Someone who is built to serve and protect needs to teach them how to behave, how to conduct themselves before you and how to make sure that your love is not for naught.

It's only right that Belo be the only one allowed to touch you. His holy nature makes him incapable of corrupting you, and others live through him their own lecherous, selfish fantasies of being your favored.

With him at the helm of many secondary areas and tasks, your cult blossoms like the loveliest lotus and gains a level of steadfast efficiency previously unforeseen.

The arrival of other angels... Complicates things. They're immediately perceived as threats to Belo's position.

You may not know this, but he's only a power. If there's a dominion, throne or, Eden forbid, a seraphim... By their own laws, Belo could have to step down and allow the worshiper-tiers to overrule him in the hierarchy.

And he goes half-mad at the idea.

That's not happening.

No tier can understand and service you better than him, and Belo will personally confront the more powerful celestials about this. There is a very special balance here, in your wonderful garden of light, where the rank of an angel is not what makes them worthy of your love and guidance. Belo may be just a power outside of these blessed grounds, but in them, he is your second in command, your favored, your fighter, your whorshiper, your guardian. He's your everything.

And though he may celebrate the arrival of more angels beside you, he makes sure they always remember their place.

He's determined to keep this perfect balance.

In your name, he thinks as he placidly remains in position, bottom eye counting the patterns on his service gown and the jewelry on his spread wings, everything in your name.

This won't be like before. He's doing so much better now, the cultists are behaving perfectly, the workflow is stable and satisfactory, the other angels are impeccable. You wouldn't leave them. Not when everything is immaculate, when mistakes are non-existent. This time will he different.

You enter the room, and his thoughts vanish.

[barzfrommarz]

c!wilbur headcanons for @dynamitedarlingg

-during a breakdown in pogtopia, he went to go burn the original lmanburg flag but stopped himself. Opted for burning pieces of paper with the lmanburg flag drawn on instead

-(aroace c!wil propaganda incoming) after revival he tried to force himself to feel romantic/sexual attraction because he wanted to feel like a normal human again and that is how everything with c!quackity started. He only snapped out of it when they got drunk and hooked up and woke up in his bed like “wait a minute…”

-Favorite snack is goldfish crackers (i’m eating some while writing this)

-Has a tic where he throws his head back and brings his arms into like a “rawrrrr” position like he’s trying to scare someone. Think during the dance scene in the wendnesday show where wednesday is dancing and looks up to the ceiling and her arms are moving side to side kinda in that position. Everyone thinks he’s either joking or making a piss poor attempt to scare them and it’s really embarrassing for Wilbur

-Had a major goth phase as a teen to rebel against phil. He doesn’t dress the part but he still considers himself a goth and the Lmanburg uniform was somewhat inspired by gothic aesthetics 

-Used to hate halloween but it’s now his favorite after revival because he doesn’t have to try as hard to look presentable to others 

-Pretends to hate asmr but actually loves it. Sometimes if he exhausts all his other options to try and fall asleep he will use asmr and it always works

-Hates his crow wings because he feels like they make him look like his father. Purposely got them clipped some point during lmanburg and excused it by saying it would make him less of a target in war

-He can somewhat shapeshift. Mostly stays human/a crow but sometimes will give himself fox ears and a tail because he secretly wishes he was one instead of a crow. Could also explain why c!fundy is a fox 

-He explores all art mediums. Drawing has always been a way for him to visualize his emotions since he sometimes has a hard time identifying them

-Ashamed of his scars and stitches. tries to use foundation to cover them up but it never works and everyone can tell he’s wearing it

-Was a huge theater and band kid in middle-high school. Wished he went for a career in acting or music first instead of the president of a random country on a random secluded island in the middle of the ocean

-Burned all the music he wrote and recorded during his days on the smp on cds. He plans to one day release some of them in an ep but he’s saving it for when he truly feels he has healed enough to handle it

-He struggles with pain seeking stims. He picks at his skin, bites his hands and fingers and pulls out hair 

-He never cries infront of others. He only did once infront of Tommy and Quackity when he was told people use his name as a way to imply someone is being crazy/irrational. (this was inspired by a comic I saw basically doing that I forgot who drew it) ((he also swears up and down it doesn’t upset him after the fact)) (((Idk I just think something like that would really get to him esp since he tries so hard not to be like how he was in pogtopia)))

-I like to think c!wilbur is an empathetic person but he struggles with showing it especially after he was revived. He thinks it makes him look weak or vulnerable so he keeps it to himself and this makes him look more like a major asshole than he already does 

-When no one is around, he will do childish activities like hop scotch or watching cartoons because it strangely helps him calm down and unwind 

-His diet after revival consists of. Mac and cheese, instant mashed potatoes, all meat besides ham or bacon with a stupid amount of seasoning, plain white rice (sometimes with soy sauce), whatever fast food he serves (but only as a treat). Mostly just simple things because he can’t be arsed to make himself a good meal like phil did for him when he lived with him before starting the burger van

-He sleeps in the burger van on the floor with one pillow and a scratchy blanket. No one knew this until he forgot his coat at last nevadas and Quackity saw him like that when he went to bring it back to him. He ended up offering Wilbur a hotel room to sleep in for the night because he felt bad. Wilbur declined because he felt like he was being mocked 

-If the game WEBFISHING existed in the dsmp universe, you would not see Wilbur for days because all he wants to do is fish and forget about life

-Actively goes out of his way to cook and eat every salmon he catches. It makes him feel empowered 

-Either rides a bike to get around or drives a motorcycle. He doesn’t wear a helmet when riding either 

YIPPEE THATS IT KEEP THE ASKS COMING PEOPLE (but give me a bit to get back in my thinking chamber)

[lmanburgseulogy]

this is a very specific detail, but when you mention headcanons for wil/lmanburg/dsmp you often mention redwoods and crickets? could you talk abt the redwood a little because i just think redwoods are cool bc i live like an hours drive away from the forest. theyre so tall and gorgeous and imposing

op this ask made me so happy I’m literally so grateful. everytime someone asks me about l’manburg my heart does the grinch thing

so redwoods were canonically the trees in l’manburg, and they were clearly very important to them. they were mentioned in their decree of independance, and it was also a huge rule in l’manburg to never burn down the trees. something about that is so important to me. it may be the way in the midst of war, they still cared about their land so much. I’m obsessed with nature and healing metaphors. So I often think about c!wilbur standing at the base of a giant redwood tree, and being reminded that maybe his mistakes are smaller than they seem to be. Maybe the trees serve as a reminder that something will always be more powerful than him, no matter how hard he works. It’s not his fault, yk?

They also climbed the trees in l’manburg a lot and it seems so cool to me that they did. Like I think about tubbo and Tommy being kids again, digging their nails into the bark and growing closer and closer to being able to see the entire smp. I think about c!Niki smiling at them.

I think about the l’mancrew hiding behind the trees in the war, and the stumps being so much higher than them. Maybe they cared about it so much because the land seemed to care about them too.

Also redwoods lifespans being for thousands of years, and being cut short because of the l’manburg explosion.

a bunch of creatures tend to live in redwoods, so I like to think c!fundy and c!tommy would go around checking out the little ecosystems being held inside another one. l’manburg being their own system inside of the smp. defiance of man and nature or whatever

C!niki also burning the l’mantree to the very ground…do you think a little bit of it remained. A stump covered in ash. maybe she wasn’t so different from the trees herself.

I don’t know why I bring it up so much, really. I wish I had better answers for you but it’s just something about it pulls at my heart. These were just the first thoughts in my head

[darimurtales]

TO BE NEEDED | divergence act one

"Can't sleep?" Wil jumped, swinging towards Beridin, who was wrapped tightly in her robes by a small fire. "You scared me half to death." Wil breathed. Beridin giggled. He sighed. "—Yeah, tonight's been rough." "No rest for the wicked." "Aye." He rested his hands on his hips. A silence greeted them. "Come." She held her hand out to the other side of the dwindling flame. He blushed. Clearing his throat, he went to sit down. "I know that canal is taking ages, but in other good news, one of the recon crews found a wild heard of Blurrgs." She started. "Well, that's something." He replied as he got comfortable. "Mm. Once we've restored a bit of agriculture I think we can take withdrawal plans more seriously." "Then there's the fear that once we're gone they'll just move back in." He added. Beridin's brow lowered. "We can't stay forever." "Where would we be re-assigned?" He asked curiously. "I don't know..." She drifted. "I guess that's for the future, what's the plan tomorrow?" She hesitated, then lifted her head. "With all do respect Captain, I don't want to talk about the front this evening."  She rested her chin on her knees, blinking slowly. "...Instead, what do you want?" Wil raised an eyebrow. "What do I want?" Beridin nodded. "This war isn't forever. What comes next? What are your dreams?" Wiltshire blinked. He took his time to respond, seeming nervous, or maybe even shy to share. "Well... Before being deployed, we sat in a waystation on Coruscant. Some'ove the guys said they did it on purpose, to let us see what it is we're fighting for;People. On about in their everyday lives. Happy, not a care in the world, children laughing. Freedom. I was watching people enter and leave the waypoint, and a father walked up to his daughter. He handed her icecream, she was so excited— then behind him, an old man got stuck, couldn't push through. He turned to help him, and while he was doing that, the little girl dropped her icecream. Her face got red and puffy, and before she could start to cry, he was already back to scoop her up..." He drifted. "He got her another icecream too... Anyways. I guess I want to be needed. To hold a door open or a shoulder to cry on. I want to have a purpose still..." Beridin stared at him. She had only known her clones for a short time, and looking at them all, it was easy to forget that they were more than just a batch of soldiers. Easier than she liked. But Wil— and the time she'd spend with the Captain— he reminded her that they were whole. Jedi and Clones, they were the same... The difference between them being, Beridin had never thought about purpose beyond serving. Serving Ryloth, the Jedi Order, the force. Who was she beyond that? What was...Her purpose?

instagram | wattpad

[sn0w-games]

Meister + Weapons Head canons TWST EDITION ✨

I heard the opening to the intro of the anime in 2024 and was like "omg" I used to be so hyper fixated (but never read the manga, I think I might this year) But now of recently I am highly fixated onto Twisted Wonderland! And I wanted to combine the two and give out my personal head canons of the characters either being meisters or weapons if they went to DWMA than NRC!

Heartslabyul

Riddle - Riddle would definitely be a meister! With being the dorm leader and all, he was definitely raised to be a fitted meister and the best of the academy! He would definitely probably be the type to try and follow in his mother's steps due to his past with her. But even though he trips up, he doesn't give up.

Trey - Trey seems like he would be a weapon. Just the vibes he gives off, he seems like the type who would try and support his meister (this case being Riddle) to the best of his ability. Trey weapons form would definitely be some sort of scythe. Something fitting for Riddle to hold of course.

Ace - 100% a weapon. I just want to see someone use him to whack someone. And he would be used as some sort of sword. There ain't much I can add onto this about him.

Deuce - He would at first be a rebel and refuse to become a meister. But knowing how his mother was worried about him, he promised to become the best meister that there is and maybe become one to protect his mother. He studies hard to become the best and will train whenever he can get his weapon to train with him! (Looking at you Ace!)

Cater - He is the only one in his family that is probably a weapon. But he masked himself as a meister so others couldn't tell about it.

Savanaclaw

Leona - He is a meister, his whole family is meisters in the Kingscholar family. Their weapons are paid well for serving them. He isn't one who will fight duels, but he does when it is important and when needed.

Ruggie - I'll keep this one brief! Ruggie would be a weapon, he tries to say he was a meister right ar orientation but Leona was quick to call his bluff. He is Leona's weapon for the money, and also, didn't we all play twst? We know how close the two are so I have no doubt that Ruggie would be Leona's weapon.

Jack - He would be some type of meister. He watched Leona's spelldrive tournament and if, a hard IF, Leona ended up competing (maybe against Malleus if anything) It would have sparked Jack to be like Leona. But after chapter 2 , he will work on being a meister that is good for him.

Octavinelle

Since the three are pretty much paired up together! I'm going to keep both Azul and the twins into this one to make it easy on me to type!

Azul would be a meister and the twins would be weapons.

I wanted to keep the thought of the meme "mafia fishes" in thoughts when thinking of them. That being said, I can only imagine Jade and Floyd being some type of weapons of guns!

Why do I think this? Come on!

Death the Kid and the Thompson's sisters!? The trio of them and the trio for Twst should be fitting!

Jade and Floyd being weapons for their meister, Azul!

Definitely might be a strange way to find out when swimming in the water and suddenly your find turned into some sort of weapon!

Scarabia

Kalim - Kalim would be a meister, but it isn't something he would take seriously, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know when to get serious. In all honesty, he might be the one you wouldn't want to cross due to the fact that his family is full of meisters and the Viper family is filled with weapons.

Jamil - Unfortunately for him, he would still have to serve Kalim even after moving away from home and into the school. He is willing to fulfill his duties in his family to protect the Al-Asim's (Kalim's family) son and will go as far to using his own body. Also, he is the only yelling at Kalim if he doesn't take using him seriously! I would like to see him be some sort of magic staff!

Pomefiore

Vil - Meister. Hands down, he would be so beautiful while fighting. He will move so gracefully! I actually had a hard time thinking about this, because I didn't want to make it obvious about him being a meister and Rook a weapon! But also, he will definitely try and model Epel into being a meister like him, while also fully supporting his style of using his weapon.

Rook - He is Vil's weapon like said before. I also like to think before they realized they were each other's meister and weapon, when Rook was in Savanaclsw he wanted to try and be used by Vil first hand. He transformed into a weapon best suited for Vil, I am not so sure what kind of weapon he would be and what would Vil use.

Epel - He fights back so hard when Vil tries to model him to be like him. He is thankful for the few sons but he wishes to fight in his own style. He does well, but he hasn't figured out his fighting form yet which causes him to trip up often.

Ignihyde

So like what I did for Octavinelle, I am going to put Idia and Ortno together.

It all started when they were younger and found out that Idia was a meister and his weapon being Ortho, they were best of friends, best brothers ever! More than just bonding over video games... However, it led to an incident where Ortho died while the two fought the monsters who had escaped after trying to sneak out.

With guilt, Idia made O. R. T. H. O, an AI weapon that is like the robot we see of Ortho now, his body can transform without magic, and while he still feels the connection of being his brother's weapon, Idia has guilt about what happened that day, and refuses to ever use O. R. T. H. O to fight his battles ever again.

It causes damage for them being meister / weapon but it's a bit of an angst idea for thinking of them!

Diasomnia

Malleus - A meister, one of the strongest from his family. He trained under Lilia for many reasons. He uses both Silver and Sebek to keep his guards close

Sebek and Silver - Both being guards for Malleus, they are his weapons too to protect the young prince. Both sworn to even use their bodies off needed to protect him.

Lilia - A meister, he fought in a war and definitely used Baul to become victorious!

Bonus: I wouldn't get descriptive here! I am just going to say if I think the Staff, RSA, and Rollo are weapons and meisters

Crowley - Meister

Crewel - Meister

Trein - Meister

Sam - Weapon

Vargas - Weapon

Neige - Meister

Chenya - Weapon - used by Neige 100%

Rollo - Meister

[thevalleyisjolly]

Something about how the finale of Shōgun (2024) subverts and resists the posthumous objectification of Mariko in defiance of Orientalist tropes. I don't think it's a coincidence that "A Dream of a Dream" opens with Blackthorne dreaming of a future in which he returns to England and lives to be an old man with grandchildren clamouring for stories of his adventures. After all, that's how these things usually go, isn't it? The intrepid sailor returns home and publishes adventure diaries about his fantastical experiences in a far and strange land. Visitors to his house gawk at the extraordinary mementos from his travels and nudge and beg for romantic tales of his travels, especially the exciting character of the foreign love interest, the intelligent yet submissive exotic woman who elicits sympathy for her unusual Christian piety and who helps Blackthorne navigate an unknown culture, ultimately sacrificing herself out of loyalty and love.

That's not the story. There won't be a story. Like the moment Blackthorne steps up to be Mariko's second -a moment where he respects her decision and both puts aside his own feelings to be there for her when she most needs it while also being there for her because he loves her- Blackthorne's decision to let Mariko's memory go serves the same significance. Mariko once told him, "We live and we die. We control nothing beyond that" and Blackthorne ultimately honours that by respecting her death. Mariko's final days were a purposeful, powerful assertion of her choice, her death was a significant and wilful act that reshapes her country forever. And no more. She will not become a ghost haunting the narrative, a wistful dream of a lost love cut short too soon. She lived and she died and it was her own decisions which gave her life (and her death) meaning, not any story or memory that Blackthorne or anyone else will hold.

Though she does not appear in "A Dream of a Dream," the narrative nonetheless centres Mariko by showing us the effects -both immediate and far-reaching- of her decisions upon the story and the other characters, while refusing to mythologize or objectify her into a sacrificial icon. And this in turn also empowers Blackthorne, who has been effectively powerless throughout the entire story, to finally make a decision that matters. He chooses to let go -of Mariko, of his dreams and ambitions, of everything that he thought had motivated him and everything he was meant to do- and live in the now. There are innocent villagers being punished for no reason. He can do something about that. There is a wrecked ship that needs rebuilding. He knows how to do that. He no longer tries to scheme, to plan, to pilot his way through the dangers and the forces that brought him here and keep him here. Instead, he embraces the winds to take his life where they will. And in a story where nearly everyone struggles for power and control, constantly trying to think two steps or ten steps ahead of everyone else, spilling blood and ink and courtesies in pursuit of the dream of a life that's always just beyond reach and true understanding...though he will never leave Japan, Blackthorne is free.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Picks and Shovels Chapter One (Part 2)

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

This week, I'm serializing the first chapter of my next novel, Picks and Shovels, a standalone Martin Hench novel that drops on Feb 15:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865908/picksandshovels

The book is up for presale on a Kickstarter that features the whole series as print books (with the option of personalized inscriptions), DRM-free ebooks, and a DRM-free audiobook read by Wil Wheaton:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/picks-and-shovels-marty-hench-at-the-dawn-of-enshittification

It's a story of how the first seeds of enshittification were planted in Silicon Valley, just as the first PCs were being born.

Here's part one:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/09/the-reverend-sirs/#fidelity-computing

And now, onto part two!

Rivka Goldman was the only woman in Sales Group One, this being the group that serviced and supported synagogues and their worshippers. She’d traveled all around the country, sitting down with men who owned garment factories, grocery stores, jewelry stores, delis, and other small businesses, training their “girls” in the use of the Fidelity system. It could handle business correspondence, company books, payroll, and other functions that used to be handled by four or five “girls”—who could all be replaced with just one.

Rivka was the only woman, and often it wasn’t she who made the sale, because the men who owned these businesses talked to other men. It was her male colleagues in Sales Group One who closed those sales and pocketed the commissions, but Rivka never complained.

“She was very good at it,” the rabbi told me. “She had a knack for computers, and for explaining them. The girls she trained, they learned. When they had troubles, they wanted to talk to her.”

Sister Maria-Eva Fernandez led a very large, all-woman team that ran mostly autonomously within Sales Group Two, a group that exclusively serviced parochial schools across the U.S., with a few customers in Central America. She was a product of these schools—she’d graduated from Christ the King in Denver and gone straight from there into the order, doing some student teaching before finding her way to Fidelity Computing via an internal talent search that filtered down to the convent from the archdiocese.

Like Rivka, Sister Maria-Eva was a natural: she could patiently train school administrators, their secretaries, department heads, and even individual teachers on the use of the Fidelity system. A couple of schools—fat with money from wealthy patrons—had bought entire classrooms’ worth of machines, creating programming labs for ambitious high-schoolers, and they were universally a success.

“We valued her, we praised her, we sent her to the national sales conference to lead workshops and share her expertise,” Father Marek said. “She was a star.” He spat the word.

Elizabeth Amelia Shepard Taylor didn’t have to go on a mission, but there was never any question but that she would. Her family had been prominent in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for over a century, and, as the eldest of eleven kids, she had a familial duty to set an example.

She had hoped for a posting in Asia—she’d studied Cantonese and Japanese in high school—but instead she drew San Jose, California. She staffed the Mission House, helping the boys who knocked on doors all day, serving as den mother, big sister, and the object of innumerable crushes.

She’d found a women’s computing club via a notice at the local library and had taken turns with four other women—two her age, and two retirees—prodding at a pair of Commodore PET computers, learning BASIC. Her letters home to her family were filled with the excitement of discovery and mastery, the esoteric world of assembly language that she’d dived into with the help of books and magazines from the library.

When her father heard that Fidelity was recruiting, he wrote her a letter. The same day she’d received it, she’d written a letter to Fidelity Computing Ltd., typing it up on the used ZX80 she’d bought at a swap meet (“for the Mission House”). It arrived at Fidelity in a #10 envelope, three neatly printed pages with the rough edges of fanfold paper that had had its perforations separated. The last page was all code examples.

She was promised a job by return post, starting the day she finished her mission, and she never ended up going back to Salt Lake City—just got a Caltrain train to the Daly City station and met with a Bishop Clarke’s personal assistant, a young man named John Garn who had done his mission in Taipei and chatted with her the whole way to the office in Taiwanese, which she laboriously parsed into Cantonese.

“She whipped Sales Group Three into a powerhouse,” Bishop Clarke said, with a sad shake of his head. “We went from last to first in under a year. Outsold the other two divisions combined, and we were on track to doubling this year.”

The three women had met at the annual sales conference, a huge event that took over the Fort Mason Center for a long weekend. Most of the event was segregated by sales group, but there were plenary sessions, mixers, and keynote addresses from leading sales staff that helped diffuse the winningest tactics across the whole business.

“We think they met in a women’s interfaith prayer circle,” Rabbi Finkel said. Father Marek made another of his disgusted grunts, which were his principal contributions to the conversation. Rabbi Finkel inclined his head a little in the priest’s direction and said, “Not everyone agreed that they were a good idea at first, but the girls loved them, and they created bonds of comity that served them well.”

“We don’t have a lot of turnover,” Rabbi Finkel said. “People like working here. They do well, and they do good. People from our faith communities sometimes feel like the future is passing them by, like their religion is an anchor around their necks, keeping them stuck in the past. A job here is a way to be faithful and modern, without sacrificing your faith.”

The bishop nodded. “When they turned in their resignation notices, of course we took notice. As Rabbi Finkel says, we just don’t get a lot of turnover. And of course, these three girls were special to us. So we took notice. I met with Elizabeth myself and asked her if there was anything wrong, and she refused to discuss it. I asked her what she did want to discuss and she went off on these wild tangents, not making any sense. I wrote a letter to her father, but I never heard back.”

“Rivka is a good girl,” the rabbi said. “She told me that she still loved God and wanted to live a pious, modest life, but that she had ‘differences’ with the teachings. I asked her about these ‘differences,’ but that was all she could say: ‘differences, differences.’ What’s a difference? She wants to uncover her hair? Eat a cheeseburger? Pray with men? She wouldn’t say.”

Father Marek cleared his throat, made a face, glared. “When Sister Maria-Eva ignored my memo asking her to come see me, I called her Mother Superior and that’s when I discovered that she’d left the order. Left the order! Of course, I assumed there was a man involved, but that wasn’t it, not according to her Mother Superior. She had taken new orders with a . . . fringe sect. It seemed she was lost to us.”

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/10/smoke-filled-room-where-it-happens/#computing-freedom

[typicalarkhamknight]

MK11 intros

warning: sexually implied, curse words, violence mentioned.

Doing a little Mortal kombat writing heheh.. also this is just fanfiction, not canon lol. You can drop Y/N ocs suggestions if you like!

character: Y/N is another Lin Kuei of the clan. Well, a samurai Lin Kuei. Before he were born, a Lin Kuei ninja married a female samurai from japan. The mother d!ed in childbirth, so the father used her katana as his own weapon, to serve Lin Kuei and to protect his son. When he fell in battle, the young Y/N inherited the blade. Kuai Liang raised Y/N as his own son, making him a better warrior fit to be the first Lin Kuei samurai in history. Y/N also has a deep connection with the katana, he always hears his mother's voice while wielding the blade. He has cryomancer abilties.. just not the same as everyone in his clan. Without his mother's katana, he can't do cryomancing abilities. When he does, the katana inherits cryomancing abilties, can be turned into a frost weapon much like Kuai Liang's frost sword in MKX. (He and Takeda also had a friendly rivalry. Like a resemblance of Sub-Zero vs Scorpion, but kombat kids).

PART 1.

CASSIE CAGE

Cassie Cage: I know you're useless without that magical sword of yours.

Y/N: (Smirked cockily) For me, it is quite the opposite.

Cassie Cage: Well run it, B*tch.

—

Y/N: Has anyone ever tell you you're a great leader?

Cassie Cage: (Chuckles) Well am I?

Y/N: No.

—

Cassie Cage: Aren't you the guy who's heart's supposed to be.. "cold"?

Y/N: Yet my heart burns when I see you.

Cassie Cage: Oh get a load of this guy..

—

Y/N: I seek Takeda Takahashi for a rematch with him.

Cassie Cage: Aw, couldn't you just spar with me instead?

Y/N: Later, woman.

—

Cassie Cage: Say hi to your mom for me!

Y/N: She says hi, mother. (The katana glows and makes a noise of appreciation)

Cassie Cage: Aw..

—

Y/N: You're father is getting a wrong idea of us, Cassandra.

Cassie Cage: Oh. Wait— so who are we, exactly?

Y/N: That's a question you must answer.

—

Y/N: Your mother told me about bob.

Cassie Cage: Ugh. First, tell her it's Dylan. And second, why do you care?

Y/N: I can treat you better..

JOHNNY CAGE

Johnny Cage: Are you sure you and Cassie aren't.. keeping a secret from us? (Raised brow and smirked)

Y/N: You've kept many of your porn tapes secret.

Johnny Cage: Ah. (nodded) Soooo.. does that mean you have a secret with her too?

—

Y/N: Look.. whatever you think it was, it's NOT what you think, Mr Cage.

Johnny Cage: You two are like Harry and Sally, brings a tear in my eye.

Y/N: ... Fucking cold winds of hell.

—

Johnny Cage: Marry Cassie and be hollywood royalty.

Y/N: I love the offer, but I don't need becoming "royalty" to prove I am the greatest.

Johnny Cage: Just trust me bro.

—

Y/N: Making new movies, Mr. Cage?

Johnny Cage: When I'm done with the sequel.. you, my friend, are V.I.P.

Y/N: That isn't so bad..

—

Johnny Cage: Y'know you remind me of Sonya. (Chuckles) you got her grumpiness.

Y/N: Is that good or bad..?

Johnny Cage: Well friend.. you tell me.

—

Y/N: Earthrealm's mightiest champion.

Johnny Cage: Mini-Blueberry ice.

Y/N: Another disgrace.

—

Johnny Cage: Tell your mom I said hi.

Y/N: He says hi, mother. (Katana glows a bit of energy, just not the same energy with Cassie)

Johnny Cage: Ah, she loves me.

SONYA BLADE

Sonya Blade: Johnny's having theories about you.

Y/N: And all of them aren't true.

Sonya Blade: I'll find out.

—

Y/N: You're the mother I never had.

Sonya Blade: I don't mind adopting a grown man.

Y/N: I know that meant "recruiting more young blood".

—

Sonya Blade: You fight your mother in your dreams?

Y/N: It is called "training".

Sonya Blade: Sounds like she and I are the same.

—

Y/N: You know, I have never felt so intimidated by a woman before..

Sonya Blade: Maybe because you haven't met one until now.

Y/N: A deservedly low blow, Mrs Blade.

—

Sonya Blade: You have potential of being a part of Special Forces.

Y/N: I belong to the Lin Kuei, they're my family.

Sonya Blade: Special Forces will be your family when you suck it up.

—

Y/N: Let me tell you, I've never had any mutual connections with your daughter.

Sonya Blade: She spends time with you more than she did with others, including her friends!

Y/N: To be fair, I AM far more superior than them.

—

Sonya Blade: Kuai Liang didn't teach you hard enough.

Y/N: What makes you think you're better than him?

Sonya Blade: Here's your first lesson, Y/N.

[kagamicyan]

Wilson seems very depressed and doesn't want to see anyone , he shut himself on his apartment

I am some selfish moron? I know he wants to be alone yet i want to be there with him taking some of his pain away and be the one that puts a smile on his face

It's now or never I knock his door

-what do you want ? The voice came so distant , tired and more husky than usual

I hesitate and shyly ask him , if he is up to some cereal night

-No but it would be fun if we can watch old cartons and just be there in silence - mmm fine I just take a shower .

While he is taking his shower I decided to do the same nothing more refreshing than eating cereal with cold milk that is in the freezer for like half an hour to ease my soul.

And there we are in his room I ask him if he is ready to eat he nods I serve two perfect cold cereal bowls a perfect mixture of cold holy grail of sugar and carbs nothing more perfect to bring memories of better times .

Just two grown up men on their jammies eating cereal

I know we are not speaking at all we are just there

Eating together in the company of the other we have all we need right now.

I'm just taking all the stuff and I was ready to leave

- you don't need to go it's ok if you stay a little longer

He proceeded to lay on his bed and make space for me to jump in , not literally that would break the bed

I just lay there when suddenly Wilson just put his legs and all his weight on me I froze a little but don't say nothing after some time in silence I just say:

can we watch something while you are crushing me ?

-But I'm sure you love being crushed

-im autistic you know ? Of course I love it

But you corrupted my flower who will marry me now?

- don't be a dramatic house everybody leaves , remember?

But not him that's why even when he don't want to be with anyone he push himself in his life.

They just lay there in the bed in each other company house shyly hug Wilson and spoon him he feels Wilson hug him with their legs and feels warm so warm almost like crying, he has done so much for me I just want to do the same i was so ungrateful with him still in not doing any of this out pity it's hard to admit it but I know now without a doubt I want to be with him for the rest of our lives and if they are more than this one I want that to be reunited again and again in different worlds places and times always meeting each other like the first time , he may not know I'm me and wil not know it's him but still feel like we know each other and again just laugh together, kiss for the first time again maybe this time under the rain and just embrace each other

a simple word take me to reality - Thanks I had a lot fun I just simply nod and we fall sleep.

Disclaimer

This is my first attempt to write a short scene

English is not my first language and I was supposed to sleep early I have to work in like half an hour but I was just scrolling the hilson tag and thought I always say I'm gonna write so I write something

[theknightmarket]

Act 1 | Scene 3 - Pick Your Poison

Your hand swept across the counter as you opened up the bar. It wasn’t dusty or cluttered or holding a single speck of something to be removed, but you liked doing it. It made you feel accomplished. Proud of yourself. Over the last week, you’d taken the first hour after opening to think about where you were. It helped to ground you, you thought. It was never busy at one o’clock, so it was just you and the music in the front room of the Astral. You felt giddy, maybe too much for a fully grown adult, but you definitely enjoyed the feeling flowing through your veins. You didn’t think it would ever wear off. The early stage of an addict’s high.

You peeled back from the counter just as your first group of the day pushed through the doors, all of them stepping on the human behavior plank – your cherished pet that had you stifling a chuckle – and making their way over to you. You smiled as you took their orders, smiled as you directed them to a booth, smiled as you turned to get the various bottles that held the alcohols. Another good thing about it being early was that you got nearly no troublemakers. Of course, there was once or twice when someone came in looking for the hardest thing you could legally make them, but they would never stay long, and you learned over a few conversations that it was the brutality of a nightshift that drove them to it, not a brawler personality. 

The people who came in for the early hours had one thing in common; they were tired. You ended up investing in a coffee machine for the number of people who requested the caffeine mixed with bourbon or vodka. It always made you grimace as you combined the drinks, but business was business, and you wouldn’t reject a customer over a moral disagreement, no matter how much the smell made you want to. 

The similar tiredness of your patrons let you take everything slow. You served a couple who quickly shuffled over to a double seat table, and then you took to people watching.

Red flannel shirt, trucker cap, varsity high school jacket that was well past its prime – that was the first group. The second pairing had a flowery dress and a purple cardigan, probably on a date if their lovesick stares were anything to go by. Aside from that, just in time for your inspection, another three people walked through the doors. White vest, sunglasses, and—

Wilford?

Or was it Dark?

One seemed as impossible as the other. The former had come in three times since he’d introduced you to Dark, and he never wore anything less fanciful than the first time he had come in. A simple shirt and leather jacket didn’t fit his aesthetic, but neither did it Dark’s. Once was he dragged through the doors with Wil and he wore the exact same suit before, not to mention his skin was as gray as a corpse.

As the group came closer, you realized the not-Wilford-not-Dark guy wasn’t associated with the pair. The one in the vest ordered two gin-and-tonics and then settled themselves in a booth. You expected to see that familiar face behind them, but he had seemingly disappeared into thin air after you typed in the drinks. Were you hallucinating?

Your gaze shifted slightly to the left.

Nope, he was just sitting down at a table. You almost kicked yourself for jumping to that conclusion so quickly, but you distracted the impulse by making those orders.

It didn’t take long, the simple request that it was, but you stuttered over pouring the gin into the glasses. The man caught your eye again. If he didn’t look like something straight out of a certain 1950s youth subculture musical, you would have guessed he was nervous. His hands were splayed out in front of him, exposing the myriad of boxy tattoos he had, while he pulled back his fingers in turn. The fiddling only stopped when he looked up at you, an expression of shock splattering over his face.

You waved him over after you placed the glasses on the counter. Both him and the man who ordered them arrived at the bar, but only the lookalike remained.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

Your thoughts almost drifted back to that hallucination theory. He looked surprised, but that couldn’t have been right. You had a bad habit of judging books by their covers, you recognized that, but it didn’t stop you from wondering how a guy with muscles big enough to throw an ox also managed to put up the front of a deer in headlights.

He scrambled to reply, “Oh, uh- what do youse have?”

Ah. You knew that tone well. The nervousness made sense if he’d never been out before. From your days working at other bars, you were no stranger to, well, strangers to bars. Your mind was made up within the next few seconds that you would give him a helping hand for his first experience.

“Well,” you started, “what are you in the mood for? It’s pretty early, so I wouldn’t recommend a heavy alcohol content.” You thought for a moment. Tattoos, leather jacket, what you recognised as a box of cigarettes tucked under one of his sleeves. Everything pointed to classics. “You could go for a beer or a vodka-and-soda?”

“Yeah, a beer sounds good.” Inwardly, you congratulated yourself, even if the guess was obvious. Outwardly, you waited for him to tell you what kind, but he didn’t continue. He just stared at you, a light blush struggling to show on his face under the red lights.

You kick-started him with, “I have Budweiser, Coors Light, Corona…?”

His uncertainty wasn’t clearing up. If anything, he looked worse than when he’d sat down. “The first one?” He sounded like a game show contestant who hadn’t even been told the question.

Gently, you chuckled. More blood rushed to his face, but you didn’t dwell on it, for his sake. “Okay, Budweiser it is.”

If you hadn’t already figured he wasn’t used to bars, his standing and staring straight ahead would have given it away. His eyes were locked on the rows of wine bottles on the shelf while you fixed him a pint glass from the tap. Once it was all done, you slid it to the stool he was next to.

“Tell me if you like it.”

“Will do.”

Gently, as someone would when taking a piece of meat from a wild cat, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. If you were being honest, you had never liked the taste of beer. It was always so overwhelming, and you could smell it as much as you could taste it, but a lot of people used it as their drink of choice. Like you said, it was a classic.

Yancy seemed to be one of those people, though. He coughed once, thought for a second, and then took another swig of it. You guessed it being cold made it better, that had been your mistake the first time you’d tried it and the memory stuck with you every time you tasted that bitterness. You also guessed that he would sit down when he decided he liked it.

Which he did not.

He liked it, yes, but he stayed standing as he took another sip. You stared blankly at him, waiting for him to take a seat, but he didn’t, he just met your gaze.

He was somehow confusing you more than Wilford had.

To quench some of that confusion, you gestured to the row of stools in front of him. His eyes widened as he realized the awkwardness of the situation, and he quickly slipped onto one with a hesitant, little chuckle. “Right,” he muttered into the glass.

To give him some space, and also because you were still working, you went to ask the original tables if they wanted refills. It would give him time to destress himself and to hopefully stop him from bowing his head like he was committing some crime just by sitting there.

There were two trains of thought that streamed through your head: on one hand, military. The straight back, the adherence to orders, the out-of-place demeanor despite his outward experience. They pointed towards him having been kicked out of the army. You assumed a fight from his tattoos and his youth. If that theory were right, he wouldn’t have been there long enough to be broken in.

But, on the other hand, there was prison. It made the most sense out of the two, and that displacement added to this one, too. But he didn’t have the school of life quality to him. You’d had your fair share of ex-criminals and convicts, and none of them would have sat down with a wave of your hand. With them, you were more likely to lose it.

In fact, both of the ideas you had were negated by his sheer awkwardness. Being unused to public life was one thing, but he looked like he was going to implode if someone brushed against his back. It didn’t suit a prisoner or a soldier, and it didn’t suit him.

You were back behind the bar, after serving another tray of drinks, when you struck up another conversation. Maybe it would help him relax, and, more selfishly, maybe it would get you some answers.

“For someone who looks how you do, I’m surprised you’ve never been in a bar before.”

You briefly thought about going in subtly, but direct confrontation was a recent freedom for you, and you were getting your money’s worth, or lack thereof.

“What do youse mean?” Luckily, he didn’t sound offended, just interested, with his head cocked like a puppy’s.

“The tattoos, the hair, the scratches. I’d think you’d been in your fair share of bar fights, but you seem nervous.”

“Ain’t the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’?”

You put your hands up in the air for a placating, if joking, gesture. “You got me there. I apologize.”

“Nah, nah, youse’s good—” A question about that accent floated to the forefront of your mind, but you weren’t going to stop him when his shoulders were lowering and his tiny grin was widening, “—They weren’t bar fights, but I’ve tousled with guys before.”

That was to be expected. That damage on his arms wasn’t from a cat, after all. “Oh, yeah?”

“Prison.”

In the space of the next few seconds, you could only blink. You tried to be a straight-forward person now, even if some considered it a new bad habit, but it was still slightly flustering to meet someone that up front, and he was the first to openly tell you of their conviction. Despite that, you still inwardly applauded yourself for getting it semi-right. Military was the weaker of the two options.

When you recovered from the surprise, you nodded. “How long?”

“Huh?”

It felt good to confuse him as well. Eye for an eye, and all that jazz.

“I know what you said about judging, but you don’t look that old to me. I’ve met people who’ve been in and out of prison for years, and they’ve definitely been to at least one bar before.”

“Oh, well, I… uh…” he trailed off. One of his fingers trailed around the rim of his glass, and you were suddenly aware of how invasive that question was. Damn it, and you had just gotten him out of his shell. You were terrible at this.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” It didn’t matter how much you tried to keep your composure; your words flooded out of your mouth anyway. “All my questions are completely optional. I won’t take offence if you don’t tell me.”

“No, it’s just- well,” he replied, that jovial tone gone, “I think I’ve spent more time in prison than I have out.”

He didn’t look that old. Of course, skin care routines and plastic surgery existed, and some people just tended to hold onto their youth, but you would guess he was sometime in his early thirties. And, if he was, that was troubling.

He cleared your suspicions up soon after seeing your furrowed eyebrows. “Got put in when I was sixteen,” he explained, “and just got out a couple months ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank youse.”

Your smile returned, the quiet conversation returned, and the easy-going atmosphere, thankfully, returned. Surprisingly, you were having fun talking to the ex-prisoner, but you were still on shift. Between his questions of your favorite drinks and what else you would recommend, you flitted to other patrons who arrived. An hour had passed with your chatter, and it was high time for the bar to start filling up. It was a curious detail you noticed that very few people liked to sit at the actual counter. It wasn’t only because of the guy who looked very capable of punching their lights out; it happened on other days, as well, but you never questioned it. If people squished themselves into booths or that couch near the bathrooms, you didn’t mind, as long as they paid for their drinks.

Still, when you returned to the bar from someone finalizing their bill, your ex-prisoner was the only one sitting there. Not that you thought it was a bad thing. With you being the only bartender, you had very few people to talk to in the interim of serving drinks and closing tabs. This was a nice turn of events.

“How are you finding it so far?” you asked, placing an empty glass into the sink.

“Stressful.” His answer was immediate but that diminished none of its truth. “I mean, in prison, youse got everything sorted out for you. You don’t gotta think about bills, or working, or what youse’s eating during the day. You focus on what’s right in front of youse—” He gestured around the bar with a wide sweep of his arm, “—but out ‘ere? Everything matters so much, all the damn time.” His head dropped to the counter on his folded arms. “It’s exhausting.”

It was a sad fact of life that it was tiring. Expending energy on every little detail wasn’t a nightmare only because it was reality. You could get away from it in dreams, no matter the nature of them, but you’d eventually wake up and rise and repeat and rinse and repeat.

But you didn’t want to dampen his spirits too much. “If life weren’t exhausting, I wouldn’t be standing here serving everybody drinks,” you joked, as one of your hands reached for his glass and another patted the beer tap. Wearily, he nodded, though you were happy to say it was with a smile.

“Nah, guess not.”

He seemed easy to cheer up, although you knew his background. That was good for someone new to society. There were a lot of bad parts to it, you had experience in so many of them, but it was helpful when someone could see the bright side of it all.

You returned his glass to him, filled to the top without a spill you might add, never mind that it was just for your ego. He picked it up soon but didn’t drink. Instead, he tilted his head towards you. “But what ‘bout youse?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, youse.”

“I’ve been in custody four times.” If he had held off on drinking for another two seconds, he could have avoided spluttering, coughing and nearly choking on the beer. But his timing was poor, and you watched him helplessly try to cover his mouth in the midst of liquid seeping over his fingers. You couldn’t do much more than offer him a napkin when he had collected himself.

“That,” he managed to groan out, “that was not what I was thinkin’ of, but now I’m interested.”

You snapped your fingers underneath the counter. “Damn, I shot myself in the foot there, didn’t I?” You didn’t really mind sharing the story. After all, it was the part of your life that you chose. Your actions had consequences, and you were so glad that they did. That, and you were a firm believer in exchange, no matter what it was; being on unequal footing never sat right with you, and if this guy was nice enough, or uncaring enough, to offer up a story, who were you to leave him hanging?

“Well, I was fifteen, I think, the first time I got caught…”

It was a weird sensation to spin a yarn, as you’d heard members of your family call it. You weren’t much of an entertainer, nature or nurture, you had steered clear of that scene altogether. The closest you’d ever come was the few guitarists and singers who played in the old bars you once worked in, and the classical music from your jukebox. Nothing close to writing or acting, anyway. That was why you found it so confusing to be excited by your own words. 

The story you told this practical stranger – of how you and your cousin had snuck out with a group of friends to neighbors’ pools, eventually getting shot at by a father with a gun and scattering like thrown dice or rats in the cellar – was fun. You knew the events, you knew the details, the ones you didn’t let slip, so you were certain that the actual content wasn’t what amused you. No, it was definitely his expressions. They rolled around his face, appearing at each turn of the plot. He laughed with you about your cousin flopping over the fence, as stiff as a rake, and matched your grimace when you described getting bailed out by your parents. It was a roller-coaster of emotions that you watched. From an outsider’s perspective, you might have thought the story more interesting than it actually was, considering his reactions.

When you came to a stop, you finished the tale with, “It was the start of my teenage rebellion, y’know. Hasn’t ended yet.” The glass was empty once again, but you didn’t jump to refill it this time. He looked distracted enough to not need another one quite yet.

“But youse’s never been to jail,” he asked. That motion from before, where he trailed a finger around the rim, returned. He seemed to be thinking.

You shrugged. “My parents always paid my way out. Sometimes I’d pretend I was an orphan just so that cops wouldn’t call them.”

“But it never worked?”

“But it never worked.” And it happened over and over again, until the police decided it wasn’t worth the effort and just stopped arresting you altogether. “By the third time, they knew what the number was, so it was off to the naughty step for me.”

This time, his laugh was full-bellied, deep and gravelly. It burned a blush onto your cheeks, though you were unsure whether it was from the sound or from the embarrassment. When he started trailing off, still with a few giggles, you decided it was both.

“Naughty step,” he repeated. He made it sound, strangely, more childish.

“Better than isolation, or whatever it’s called.”

You couldn’t figure out whether you liked his laugh or not – it was a nice sound, of course, like a bell echoing in a monastery, but it was beginning to mean you had a poor choice of words. This time, he corrected, “Solitary.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“I don’t know, the naughty step was pretty bad when I was growing up. I’d take solitary over it any day.”

“You’ve been?”

“Only a couple’a times.” He paused as if to collect his thoughts, or to decide what he was going to tell you. You understood that. On your first day working, you would have never expected to get this far into conversations with patrons, especially when it was his first time there. Exchanging more than one word with him was a feat in and of itself.

You waited patiently as he milled it over in his head. Eventually, he came to a conclusion, and you barely noticed your body instinctively leaning closer in interest. 

“Actually, there was this one time,” he started, “I, uh, really messed up. Started one of ‘dose fights I were talking about with a newbie. Got knocked straight onto my ass in the first two minutes. The Warden, the guy who ran the place, he stormed out and chucked me in solitary. I didn’t see what he did with the one I hit after that, but they were back in their cell like nothing had happened the next time I saw ‘em.”

“What was the fight about?”

That made him freeze. His hand stopped and his eyes darted away from you, as far as his skull would let him.

“Nothin’. Nothin’ important, anyways.”

And that was the end of that. He brought the beer glass to his lips, made to take another sip, and then realized that it was still empty. Ever so subtly, he put it back on the counter, the clink only slightly deafened against the surface.

“Sorry, I’m treatin’ youse like a therapist, ain’t I?”

“No need to apologize.” You avoided telling him that this was the most conversation you’d had for the last three days. “I’m a bartender. That’s what we do. The only other people who get spoken to like this are hairdressers, and I would not trust myself with scissors near somebody’s eyes.”

The expression on his face made clear that he doubted you, his words solidifying that notion, “Dangerous, are youse?”

It happened more often than you’d like, people underestimating you for the outfits you wore and the aesthetic you perpetuated. You liked the finer things in life, obviously, given the surroundings you cultivated for yourself, but that didn’t make you any less hesitant to put up a fight. Hell, if he knew about that situation when you first met Dark… well, now that you thought about it, you could do with a little boasting. 

You turned around to grab some more glasses at the sight of another group of patrons coming through the front doors, but you spoke vaguely over your shoulder, “I put a guy in a headlock until he nearly passed out a week ago, so you tell me.”

One, two, three, four – that should have been enough, and it was all that you could carry. With them all stable in your grip, you called back, “Another beer?”

No answer.

For a brief moment, you thought he had left, or he was stifling a laugh at some other mistake you made, but, when you shot a glance over your shoulder, you only saw him staring intently at you. Not a threatening one, as you might have expected, but just curiosity. That was becoming a theme with this guy.

You barely had time to take a step closer to the new customers before he was pointing a finger towards you with a shocked opening of his mouth. “I know who youse is!” he announced, as if he’d found the final piece of the puzzle that had fallen underneath the couch, “youse’s the- uh, the bartender!”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. In the midst of your own confusion, you took the group orders and let them sit down in one of the booths – of course, where else would they sit – while you started preparing them and tried to prepare an answer to that strange declaration.

The words fumbled around in your throat, you tried to imagine him wearing a suit but came up short without your brain automatically adding that ashen skin, before you gave up and replied, “Was that not obvious?”

“No, I mean… Wilford called you somethin’ – damn, what’d he call youse?”

Oh. Oh. That made too much sense now. You wiped all suspicions from your mind, clean slate, complete do-over. He knew Wilford, that explained it all.

“Dionysus?” you offered.

“Dionysus, yeah!” Of course he called you that. “This is the Astral, then?” And, of course, he only told him your nickname and not the name of the place you owned. You hadn’t known the guy for more than two weeks, even less if you factored in that he was a patron at your bar and the most conversation you’d had was over a martini, but this seemed par for the course. Important or helpful information, pfft, what was that? Oh, but the dumb name he’d assigned to you as a joke was the best thing to use to recognize you. 

Though, you couldn’t be too annoyed with him. In fact, you had to try hard to ignore the swelling of pride that Wilford was telling people about you.

With a tired smile, you asked, “Did you not look at the name before you walked in?”

“Nah.”

“Okay, sure.” Weird guy with weird friends, you reminded yourself.

“Wilford took Dark here a couple’a days ago, didn’t he?”

And by extension, he knew Dark.

“Oh, yeah, that was the bar fight that interrupted it all.”

“Wil told us about it. Said the guy didn’t even get to call uncle.”

You were distracted by three things – one, that group came up to grab their drinks and give you a card, which was the tamer of them all – two, he sounded almost entertained by the image he had made for himself, but that made some kind of sense given the whole prison thing – and three was what you proceeded to ask him.

“Us?”

“The rest of the guys, and, uh, speaking of which…” His trailing off was punctuated by him rolling up his jacket’s sleeve and checking the watch on his wrist. Your bar didn’t actually have a clock in clear view, but you could assume enough time had passed for whatever break he was taking to run out.

“You need to go,” you filled in for him.

Sheepish was not a word you thought would fit him, but it did in that moment. A tilt of the corner of his mouth and a squinting of his eyes did wonders for making him appear shy to answer.

“Yeah, kinda—” He pushed the beer glass closer to you, which you then took to the sink, “—but I’ll definitely be back later.”

“I look forward to it.”

And you were. Genuinely. All three of the men you had met so far were ones you were hoping to see in the near future. If nothing else, they were useful to pass the time behind the bar.

He pushed back from the counter, the stool dragging along the wooden floorboards until he was able to slip out again. You had gotten used to tilting your head down to talk to him, so you hoped your glance up and down wasn’t taken in the wrong way. He brought one hand up in a wave as he turned to head towards the front door.

“Hold on.”

While he’d missed the human behavior plank by half a step, he wasn’t getting out of the rest of his bill.

“First of all, you need to pay—”

Your words were cut off before you could finish as he rushed to get his wallet from his pocket. “Oh, shoot, yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”

Understandable from his lack of experience out and about, and you would have liked to give him a drink on the house to celebrate his first bar experience, but you had these terrible things called taxes and your alcohols didn’t pay for themselves.

Well, technically…

A pile of crumpled up notes appeared on the counter before he went, again, to waltz out, and you, again, started to speak, and he, again, spun in a circle, like a penny on its side.

“And second of all,” you spoke, eliciting a hum from him, “what’s your name?”

It was a habit of yours to forget to ask people’s names, and you wanted a level playing field if this man was going to call you Dionysus while you could only latch onto ‘that greaser from the 1950s’.

But his laugh was just as shocked that he forgot to introduce himself.

He acquiesced with his arm leaning against the counter, oddly soft in his introduction compared to his prior words, “Yancy.”

“Have a good afternoon, Yancy.”

This time, he was able to make it more than a step forward towards the door, but he didn’t forget to call over his shoulder his own, “You too, Dion!”

A warmth spread in your chest with the click he left behind. Relaxation, amusement, a little bit of pride remaining from being a topic of conversation that you weren’t going to actively dissuade. Even though the nickname of a nickname was slightly cheap, you didn’t mind it. You didn’t mind it at all.

You ended up wiping down the counter again – with all the other patrons nestled in their booths or at their tables, you had space and time to yourself, which you used to come up with your own little theories as to why your most recent odd-ball customers were looking eerily similar.

But, hey, it was all probably just a coincidence, right?

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