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nb-octopus-writes · 2 months ago

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once you’re in the hive, the other bees assume you’re supposed to be there

[Masterpost]

Chapter 7: How They Kept Him Very Well

Wordcount: 1.1K

~~~~

“You know, if you keep feeding me like this, I’m going to gain weight,” Virgil says, settling back in his chair with immense satisfaction.

“No offense, but you look like you could use it, Jack Skellington,” Roman tells him.

“Hey!” Virgil protests, though he isn’t actually particularly offended. Roman’s not wrong, for one thing. Virgil certainly doesn’t have the time and energy—or skill, honestly—to make as good food as Patton does. These last couple days have been the most well-fed he’s been since he moved out to be an independent adult.

Roman pushes his chair back and hops up. “Ready for movies?” he asks eagerly, already heading for the doorway.

“Roman Augustus Sanders, do not leave your plate on the table,” Logan says tiredly, but without heat. Roman freezes mid-step, shoulders raising guiltily. Slowly, cartoonishly stiffly, he spins back around.

“Oops.”

“I can’t stay anyway, remember?” Virgil asks. “I gotta get going so I can bike home before it gets dark.”

Roman's eyes go wide. “I. Forgot,” he says with a grimace.

“It is well past sunset,” Logan informs Virgil. “I am afraid that ‘before it gets dark’ is no longer possible tonight.”

“Oh.” Well, fuck. What's he supposed to do now!?

“Sorry,” Roman says. “I did not take the passage of time into consideration. I'll make it up to you. Do you want me to drive you home? I'll drive you home right away. Or you could spend the night again, and I'll take you to work in the morning?”

“I have tomorrow off, actually,” Virgil says, which is the first thing he can think of in response to that extremely generous offer. Roman brightens.

“Oh, perfect!” he says. “That means you can stay the night and then take your bike home tomorrow when it's light out!”

Virgil hesitates, glancing at the others. “Are… you sure that's okay?” he asks.

Logan shrugs. “Unless you have plans for your day off and would prefer to be taken home tonight, that would seem to be the most expedient method,” he says.

“No, I… No, no plans,” Virgil says.

“So you’ll stay?” Roman asks. Virgil hesitates, then nods. Roman whoops, bouncing. “So can we watch Unfortunate Events then?” he asks hopefully.

Virgil can’t help smiling, Roman’s excitement contagious. “Sure, soon as you take care of your dishes,” he says.

Roman sticks his tongue out at him, coming back to gather them up and take them into the kitchen.

Virgil takes care of his own, and Logan puts the leftovers away tonight. The instant their dishes are rinsed and in the dishwasher, Roman whisks Virgil off to the theater again.

One episode follows another, as they eagerly discuss, theorize, and refuse to stop on cliffhangers. They pause, once, because Roman wants to make popcorn, and once more a few episodes later for a bathroom break, but otherwise they continue watching episodes back to back.

Eventually, Patton interrupts their marathon. He’s wearing his grey cat onesie again, and yawns as he opens the door.

“Are you coming to bed soon?” he asks.

Roman pauses the episode and glances at his wrist, on which he is not wearing a watch. “What time is it?” he asks.

“Midnight-thirty,” Calico says, and yawns again. “Logan’s already asleep.”

Roman catches Virgil’s eyes and makes a wide-eyed whoops expression at him. “Stop after this one?” he suggests, and glances at the screen again. “I think we’re almost done.” He presses a button on the remote and pulls up the time bar thing. “Yeah, ten minutes left,” he says.

“Sounds doable,” Virgil says, glad that he doesn’t have to get up for work tomorrow. It’s going to take him a while to wind down enough to fall asleep, and if it’s already past midnight, he would have had no chance of getting anywhere near enough sleep. Hopefully they won’t mind him sleeping in, because otherwise they're going to have to literally drag him out of bed in the morning, and that might spoil their weirdly good opinions of him. “Probably another cliffhanger though.”

“Probably,” Roman agrees. He sucks in a breath, drawing himself up. “We shall have to be strong and resist the siren’s call of another episode.”

“Ten minutes?” Patton asks.

“Ten minutes, beloved,” Roman promises.

“Okay,” Patton says sleepily, and closes the door again.

Ten minutes later, they are indeed left on a cliffhanger. It takes real effort not to continue despite their promise, but Roman visibly gathers his strength, screws up his face, and points the remote at the tv. “For love and cuddles,” he says, pressing the power button.

“Where should I sleep tonight?” Virgil asks as Roman leads him tiredly up the stairs.

Roman shrugs. “Same room as last time unless you’d rather join us,” he says. “We can share Paddy Bear.”

That’s… that’s a joke, right? Roman didn’t just seriously invite Virgil into his bed, invite him to cuddle with his boyfriend. Right? Virgil chuckles uncertainly. He’s even tireder than he thought, to not catch the jesting tone. Or maybe Roman’s too tired and deadpanned too hard.

Probably a combination of both, Virgil decides. It is late. “I think I’d better not,” he says, trying to match Princey’s levity. “I don’t know if you snore.”

Roman gasps in pretend offense, pressing his hand to his chest. Then he leans forward and relates in a conspiratorial tone, “You didn’t hear this from me, but Logan snores like the most adorable rumbly kitten purr.”

“Does he?” Virgil says, grinning. Roman nods happily.

“He does,” he says. “It is adorable, but it does take some getting used to, so I can’t blame you for wanting your own room.” Roman yawns, then reaches up to pat Virgil’s shoulder. “Night, Spoops,” he says. “See you in… I dunno, prolly not the morning. See you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Princey,” Virgil answers. “Sleep well.”

Roman pats Virgil on the shoulder again, then shuffles off into his bedroom.

The room they had put Virgil in last time is nearly as he left it, except that the pajamas have been moved to the nightstand. Virgil carefully does not touch the bed as he changes, knowing that if he had been unwilling to leave it the first night, the exhaustion he can feel in his bones will make it a veritable black hole of comfort tonight.

Pajama-clad, Virgil turns off the light and climbs into bed. He sinks into the softness, comfort claiming him, and is asleep faster than he knew was humanly possible.

~~~~

Chapter 8: One Could Get Used to This

#sanders sides #nb octopus writes #polyamory #7 #accidental polycule infiltration fic #multichapter

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filthyguts · 1 year ago

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it’s 1 am and I’m having a brain blast so here’s the moriohpsycho (aka insano crossover ship bateman x yoshikage kira) au plot line…

So in dis post kira is a new hire @ pierce&pierce cuz he had to flee morioh on acct of almost being found out and Patrick literally almost had an panic attack simply from looking at him at a meeting (Kira’s awful lilac suit gives him hives.)

Basic au plot:

IDK if kira is gonna have killer queen in this au I shall see where the wind takes me…. Anyways so later on they have a meetcute at a dumpster in an alley- both dumping a body 😭😭they get into a scuffle here(aka about to try and kill eachother)☠️ but then kira is like wait aren’t u Patrick Bateman and Patrick is like FUCK bc he cant remember Kira’s name😭 they hear police sirens close by(unrelated to them lol) and flee.

at this point patrick is spiraling and is wondering if kira is even real since his coworkers hardly talk about him- and going to work the next day they see eachother and kira doesnt say anything about the night before😭😭 anyways- so during all this kira is quietly freaking out about being found out and having to run away AGAIN and finds Patricks addy - breaks into his apartment - is hiding under his bed about to try and get Bateman reimi sugimoto style, Bateman wakes up to take a piss- kira slices his leg- bateman freaks out (heavily due to the fact about wounding his perfect skin), sees kira, remembers his name this time, and then they start to struggle fight AGAIN.

During the fight Patrick throws Kira into the fridge, causing it to open and all the ziploc baggies of body parts Patrick has in there spill out onto the floor and onto Kira (also some hands too) and Kira takes a moment to be like . Ok wait so you really are doing this shit too huh ☠️ and then they have a weird…very thick air tense moment before kira goes back to trying to kill him bc oh ur a threat to my quiet life blah blah I’m not gonna let this happen again like in morioh (he accidentally admits that he fled the country bc he’s an idiot) and now uh oh they have incriminating blackmail against eachother!

Another reason kira is pissed at Patrick is because he’s taking all the people HE wanted to get to first and just in general being really sloppy and attention seeking abt it 😭😭 so kira tells him and Batemans like wtf are you gonna do about it I do what I want LOL and Kira’s like ERMM then I’ll tell the police and Batemans like ERMM uno reverse I’ll do that to you so now they’re in another weird spot and begrudging compromise somehow to “share” as long as they try not to hurt or ruin the other. And then from there they get Real Weird with it

#my art #moriohpsycho #moriohpsycho au #sorry I’m crazy #but I’m right #jjba #jojos bizarre adventure #diu #diamond is unbreakable #American psycho #crossover #crossover ship #patrick bateman #kira yoshikage #yoshikage kira #Patrick bateman x yoshikage kira #yoshikage kira x patrick bateman #LOL

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princessleechan · 11 months ago

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“Choi Seungcheol must die” Chapter 14 + [BONUS WRITTEN SCENE]

Masterlist

📌chapter tags: SMAU, inspired by “John tucker must die”, John tucker!seungcheol, college au, revenge fic, insecure!reader, more kissing, mingyu being a sneak, boo being him again, we love dillemmas

taglist: @mhlsymlysn @silvsie @christinewithluv @stayinhellevator @aiforyuu @2youngsworld @justcruisingalonguntilbamkpop @asyre @simpxxstan @anzellll @hipsdofangirl @plskillme22 @lirtha97 @lixiel0ver @notevenheretbh1 @leah-rose03 @woozarts @expensive-idiot @doveblackboat @the-boy-meets-evil @tamakis-bbyy @freshdetectivenight @mrsdacherry @smilechannie @alltheshineofthestars-blog @ocyeanicc @horanghaezone @wonuqrtz @leewonkyeom @horangboosadan @kkooongie @myghobi @wonunuwoo @hyuk4ngel @wonwootakemyheart @shuasunshine @dinonuguaegi @ckline35 @miriamxsworld @itsokaytobedumb00 @seokgyuu @nishloves @bmkgemz @conwunder @kawaiimusiccollection @humankimbap @90s-belladonna @huening-kawaii

You couldn’t help the itching feeling of knowing there was Mingyu in the the trunk of Seungcheol’s jeep as he’s driving you home. Nothing could compare to the stage fright you are experiencing acting like you’re interested in Seungcheol while Mingyu was close and personal listening to every leading word. You could literally feel yourself break out into hives, rocked to your core of the predicament you’re currently in.

You were already nervous pretending to be interested in Seungcheol, but not to this extent. Why did it feel worse that Mingyu is there?

Maybe because you were scared of getting caught with him here. A loser used as a social pawn to seduce a highly acclaimed jock with the sex drive of a jackrabbit. Especially since that could mean for this plan to be over and what’s the left for you? Social pariahism? Social unaliving? Nothing good you’re thinking.

Maybe because you’re afraid of Mingyu’s judgement, seeing how pathetic your acting is, thinking lowly of you because of it and because maybe there’s a little of his respect that you want. That you think you’re deserving of and that kind of feeds of a sense of validation for you that you can’t help but crave.

Or maybe for the fact you were making out for a while in the said driver’s car and maybe you felt something, something you were so not ready to address right now while shoving compliments down Seungcheol’s ears.

“We’re here!” Seungcheol turns off the engine of his car before turning to you with a smile on his face. “Your place right?”

“Yep, GPS hasn’t failed us yet,” you awkwardly respond.

“Yeah, couldn’t get anywhere without it…so…”

You bat your lashes at him. “So…”

“I had a really great time with you tonight. Sorry my friends are such guys,” he chuckles making the dimple of his cheek more prominent.

You softly laugh back, shaking your head. “No, not at all it was fun.”

And you weren’t lying. Throughout the night, you kind of got to experience the things you never did in high school and first few years of college that you should have. You didn’t party, you didn’t drink, you didn’t watch a guy shove several kegs down his ass while he chugged (that maybe you still shouldn’t have), and for the first time you did and it wasn’t so bad. You felt out of place but a little normal for once.

“I’m glad. I wasn’t sure how to take you out at first. Maybe you don’t know me all the well but I’m not really all that smart or creative—“ he taps his temple with his finger, “—in here. I just thought it’d be a nice way to break the ice since I don’t really see you in places like this.”

“For a guy that did the whole flower ambush, that was pretty creative. And I’m glad you took me out, it wasn’t so bad. Maybe because you were the one who gave me the tour.”

A gaze in his eye shift, a small sly smile briefing on his face before it melts into one of gratitude, and he reaches out for your hand. “I’m glad I could make it fun for you.”

You sense the start of something, something coming closer to your personal space and for some reason you couldn’t stand it happening with another person mere feet away with panic in his eyes.

Before Seungcheol can plant a big wet one, your hands land on his shoulders to interfere. He big doll eyes stare back you in confusion, curious if he sensed the wrong vibe and wonders why you are holding him back.

“Walk me to my door?” You suggest, perking up your cheekbones.

Anything to get Mingyu out now while he can or Seungcheol will have to wonder why there’s a grown man in his damn car.

“Uh sure.”

You get out of the passenger seat, waiting for Seungcheol to join your side, and together you walk side by side to the front entrance to give Mingyu the diversion he urgently needs. You turn parallel to Seungcheol, facing the direction of the jeep and seeing the discreet opening of the trunk.

“I was wondering since you didn’t entirely hate it, maybe we can do this again. If you’re up for it.” His smile looks so sweet, almost sincere if you hadn’t been religiously profiling his background via ‘Must Die’ team.

“Maybe I am,” you playfully imply, “Just that…”

“That?” He wonders, grinning.

“What are you looking to get out of this? Out of me?”

“Well, I’d like to get to know you. Maybe get through this thick exterior and see the you no one else knows.”

You slyly smile, watching Mingyu breach out of the car and taking his first step. “What makes you think this isn’t the real me?”

Seungcheol steps forward, his eyes piercing through you in determination, and he locks you in an intense gaze. One admittedly difficult to stray from. “Intuition. And in return, I’ll let you know how I operate.”

“And I’d care, why?” You jester, chuckling.

He shrugs. “Curiousity. Nothing more interesting than a person who’s interested in you.”

The man that making his escape lands both his feet safely and discreetly on the ground, reaching up for head of the trunk door.

“There are more other things I could think about.”

“I can change that.”

And like an amateur, Mingyu closes the trunk a little too loudly, alerting its owner. Just about the moment Seungcheol is averting his attention to the noise, you cup his face quickly, training his eyes back on you.

You, who had an expression of panic briefly, smoothe out your features in a soft look with the dip of your eyes, drawing close to him. “I bet you can.”

Confidently, your crash yourself into his lips, long enough to getting Mingyu away and unwanted eyes.

Seungcheol’s lips are soft, although taken aback, but fall seamlessly into rhythm, just as his hands find your hips. You tenderly grasp his face, feeling that familiar sensation of mustering heat gradually enveloping you. He presses you closer against him, molding you his lips to the shape of yours.

You don’t mind this. You like it. You enjoy kissing. Even with Seungcheol, who actually is quite good at it.

His finger thread through your hair, deepening your union until his tongue surrounded yours. You feel the tips of his finger graze your cheek, making you vulnerable to his attention. You’re desperate to follow his lead—thinking how you could get used to a sensation like this—and before you knew it, you two forged an unspoken bond in that moment. The moment lingers and you forget it’s not just you two on a street outside your apartment building, until he’s the one who pulls away, touching the bridge of your nose with the tip of his. You hear a little sigh—so brief, so delicate—and you meet eyes.

“I thought I wouldn’t get to do that tonight,” he says in obvious relief.

You softly chuckle, glancing over at the jeep to see no other person in sight. “Neither did I.”

“Glad we’re both surprising each other today.”

And since that moment you were starting to get it. And that should’ve scared you more than it does.

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romione-trope-fest · 9 months ago

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How to Parent Gryffindors

Fic Title: How to Parent Gryffindors

Author Name: Voldemorts-tap-shoes/smjl

Selected Trope: OOTP Missing Moment

Brief Summary: Ron and Hermione are the parents of Gryffindor Tower.

Word Count: 1436

Rating: T

Any Trigger Warnings: none

***

Gryffindor Tower is its usual hive of activity, despite Hermione’s best efforts otherwise. Fanged Frisbees are flying about, a number of students seem to be suffering from different effects of Fred and George’s Skiving Snackboxes—though the twins are conspicuously absent from the chaos—a stench of Firewhiskey hangs in the air from an untraceable source, and one first-year is hanging from the overhead light by his toes.

It’s not even the weekend yet.

Hermione feels as if she’s running on a hamster wheel, lap after lap around the common room. For every fire she puts out—mostly figurative, one literal—it seems that three more crop up. Not to mention she’s got loads of homework piled up waiting for her, and she hasn’t even begun her OWL revisions yet. The term has barely started and she’s already behind. She almost longs for the days of her Time Turner. Almost.

And of course she’s going it alone, much to her chagrin. Ron went straight down to the pitch with Harry after dinner, hoping to get some practice in before tryouts. She knows how important this is to him, but it would be nice if he could make time for other things, too, and not leave her to wrangle the insanity by herself.

Despite the stress of it all, it’s not terrible being Prefect. Not that she thought it would be; she was delighted to get the badge after working so hard for the past four years. But she was a bit worried that the other students wouldn’t respect her or would give her a hard time. Fortunately, that hasn’t been the case. They all listen to her—well, mostly all of them, Ron’s brothers being a notable exception—but the thing about Gryffindors is that they aren’t very good at policing themselves. They’ll break every rule in the book until they’re instructed not to. She envies Hannah and Padma, who surely aren’t dealing with this type of three-ring-circus in their own common rooms.

Her fellow students are starting to trickle up to their bedrooms, though the continued noise from above tells her there isn’t much sleep going on yet, and Hermione finally decides to take a breather and start on her Ancient Runes assignment. Fortunately, her favorite spot by the fire has opened up, and she settles in with her textbook and a fresh sheaf of parchment.

Between the commotion in the room and her focus on the translation assignment in front of her, Hermione doesn’t even hear Ron and Harry return until they’ve flopped down on either side of her. “How was practice?” she asks as she turns over to the next page.

“Well—it wasn’t a real practice,” Ron says sheepishly, leading Hermione to wonder if it’s a good or bad thing that it wasn’t a real practice.

“Rubbish,” Harry counters. “Ron did great.”

“Harry’s just a bloody terrible chaser, is all.” Ron traces a finger down the edge of her book cover and changes the subject. “Runes?”

“Yes, I’m taking a break.”

“What is Ancient Runes a break from?” Harry asks, his lips curling in disgust. “Breeding blast-ended skrewts?”

Hermione shoots a glare at him before turning her eyes back to her work. “Actually, I’ve been running around this common room like a wild niffler trying to keep everyone in order. Just because I’m not on rounds tonight doesn’t mean I don’t still have responsibilities as a Prefect.”

“Honestly, Hermione, you’re going to work yourself to death,” Ron scolds. “You can take a night off, you know.”

“Maybe I could if I had help,” she snaps back before she can think better of it.

It’s not really a fair critique—she wasn’t officially on duty tonight, and nor was Ron—but once the words are out there, she knows she can’t take them back. They’ll have to be dealt with. Ron shifts against the sofa to face her fully, his jaw clenched as he ponders his response. Hermione is vaguely aware of Harry slipping away with a muttered excuse about needing to send a letter to Sirius, but she knows he’s just escaping the row that’s brewing. The tension ripples between them, both refusing to break eye contact, until Ron quirks an eyebrow at her and speaks.

“You don’t think I’m taking this seriously.” It’s an accusation, not a question, and it puts Hermione on the defensive.

“I don’t think you take it as seriously as some of your other pursuits,” she replies, then adds with a pointed look at the broom propped against the wall behind him, “Quidditch, for instance.”

“Just because Quidditch isn’t important to you—“

“I just think, with everything else going on, it shouldn’t be a priority.”

“You’re acting like I skived off on you on rounds or something,” Ron argues, his voice rising. “I didn’t have Prefect duties tonight, so there was nothing to prioritize. Oi!” His focus shifts suddenly to a cluster of third-years, watching their argument from behind the cover of a chess set. “Haven’t you lot got homework or something?”

“Finished it,” one of them says with a shrug.

“Find some more,” Ron snaps, and the younger students scatter as Seamus laughs from nearby.

“Can’t blame ‘em for wanting to see the show, now can you?” he jokes while Dean tries to hide his own laughter behind his hand.

Ron huffs as he gets to his feet, standing up to his full, towering height. His sweeping gaze around the room sends a few more students scampering off up the staircase to the dorms or out the portrait hole. Lee Jordan helps the first-year down from the chandelier without provocation, and then they both disappear, too. Dean and Seamus turn their attention back to a game of Exploding Snap, and the few other students that remain are paying them no mind.

With a satisfied nod, Ron resumes his seat on the sofa and turns back to Hermione, who has watched this sequence of events unfold in wonder. Ron just got the entire common room in order without a word, and she can’t help but voice her confusion. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You just—” Hermione gestures broadly around the room, indicating the suddenly calm state of things. “It took me all evening to get things even half this sorted.”

“I dunno. They just respect me, I guess. Not—” Ron’s cheeks begin to glow as he hurries to correct himself. “Not that they don’t respect you, it’s just—you know—we have different parenting styles.”

That cannot be what Ron just said. Hermione must have misheard him. Except that Ron’s face is now rapidly darkening to a shade of red that matches the Gryffindor-colored couch they’re sharing. “Different what?” she croaks.

“Well—you know—you’re—and I—” Ron flounders for a moment before finally deciding to just barrel on with it. “It’s like how Mum is always on us about every little thing, and Dad’s more big-picture. But then when he does get involved, you just know you’re in trouble.”

Hermione’s face is on fire, and Ron looks like he’s hoping for a hole to open up in the floor and drop him all the way down to the dungeons. She understands what he means—he’s not wrong in his assessment, really, and they do sort of “parent” Harry in the same way he’s describing. But suddenly, the idea of co-parenting with Ron is all she can think about. Not that she hasn’t thought about it before. Ron and her, that is. Together. But not—as parents. To the same children. About—Merlin’s pants—what leads to children.

Has Ron thought about it? About any of it? He won’t even fully look at her right now, his attention dedicated to the fraying spine of her textbook as he fiddles with a loose thread.

“That’s one way to put it, I suppose,” Hermione whispers, not trusting her voice. “We’re just—different.”

“Right.” Ron swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat. “And a good team.”

“Yes. That too.” Hermione can’t take the tension anymore, and if she sits here any longer, she might embarrass both of them further by snogging Ron senseless. “Well, I think that’s enough Runes for one night,” she says as she stands up and gathers her things. “See you at breakfast?”

“Yeah. Brilliant. See you at breakfast,” Ron echoes.

Hermione can’t resist one last glance at Ron as she reaches the staircase to the dorms. When she turns around, she finds Ron looking right back at her. Their gazes meet for only an instant before they both hurry to look away again. Somehow, though, Hermione finds she doesn’t mind the heat in her cheeks so much this time.

#submission

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ms-scarletwings · 1 year ago

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On Defective Irkens

“It is theorized that Tak may also be an Irken defect because-“

“Say guys do you think Skoodge is defective? He did a thing he wasn’t told to do once do you suppose-“

“Service Drone Bob's contempt for the Tallest is extremely abnormal, even for most defective Irkens…”

“Hints of the comms officer being a defective are seen when-“

Ohhh mauling the fan wiki writers grr biting biting thrashing and then turning around to the rest of you before I’m done, you bet, for I have sat and listened for over 12 years of leaps and speculations of this sort and now I’m now one of the ones who gets to have what the cool kids these days call a hot take on the matter.

By the end of this I’M going to bring up and expose who I actually think may be the only other defective Irken(s) in the show besides Zim, whom I’m aghast I haven’t seen anyone suggest before.

But before anything else, I want to front one preassumption center and loud.

It took me a long time to guess at why very few people can ever seem to get on the same page of what it actually means to call an Irken defective. Implicitly, the bulk of what we are given is that something can be wrong with a member of this species, and Zim is our prime and singular clear example of that. So there’s a ton of trying to find patterns between Zim’s behavior and that of other Irken characters. Weirdly (to me), a lot of people have, in their efforts, chalked the status up to a sense of rebelliousness or insubordination- a defectiveness in the manner of D&D illithids, stomping out disloyal break-aways from the collective hive mind with punitive wrath. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a cool concept, and it’s definitely closer to my opinion at least than the comparisons to real life mental disorders or disabilities. Not knocking the comfort or the enthusiasm, obviously.

From my view of the canon, I hope it’s at least apparent to other fans that “defective” isn’t some empirical measurement or status to Irkens. Look at the way they determine the defects from normal society. IRL, if I have a faulty device on my hands, there’s some way out there to tell me in a clear cut fashion if there’s a problem and what exactly it is. If it’s code, it can be scanned and debugged. If it’s mechanical, something can be seen, fixed physically. Most organic health problems are only different in the complexity of the matter, but the entire purpose of medical research is to come close as we can to bridging that gap. In Irk’s people, that line is rapidly becoming one long smear of wet chalk. I’m going on like this because if defective paks were akin to hardware actually being damaged, as Purple had put it, it doesn’t make as much sense that they are neither “fixed” nor given real, concrete diagnostics. The only way we know of that the aliens are tested in a since on this merit is by existence evaluations. And existence evaluations are anything but empirical, impartial events. They’re worlds more political and cultural than clinical.

Digest the terms we keep seeing all around the concept: Innocent, justice, trial/evaluation, Judgementia, these are terms of judicial courts and moral weight and sentencing. In effective practice,

Irk labels defects by what one does, not by what one is.

Yet, defection is presented as if that’s not the case, and there are reasons for that. Reasons that reinforce the current power structures and promote what its leadership has decided is healthy for the broader society. When Zim was merely re-encoded from invader status to food service work, it was a more secluded evaluation, presumably done on Irk. His only seen witnesses then were the Tallests and the single control brain dishing the judgement. His existence evaluation, on the other hand, rings more similarly to the IRL historical practice of literal “show trials”. Show trials were something that existed way less for the actual crimes of the accused and so much more for their audience, which, show trials are always for an audience. Three main points about them off the Wikipedia cuff:

• Typically, the defendant of such has already been determined to be guilty (oftentimes of completely fabricated transgressions), and the trial serves mostly to make a massive public spectacle and warning of the accused.

• They tend to focus on retributive punishment over correction. The disproportional brutality and lack of mercy is often the point.

• Their goals are propagandistic in nature, and there’s many notable examples to be found in the history of Nazi Germany, the USSR, and in witch trials across the world (because it was never just Salem).

A formality? Well, that much they couldn’t have more brazenly admitted to. Retribution? There’s hardly a more absolute punitive sentence I could craft up over obliteration PLUS Damnatio Memoariae. And as for the degree of spectacle, I will let you make your own observation here.

Believe it or not, the part where my comparisons along this line end with Existence Evaluations is that their standard for taking place isn’t actually this cartoonishly oppressive one that some fans try to make it out to be. In “The Trial”, Zim was not having his data read for some binary is/is not determination… he was having his experiences and actions interpreted by how much damage he has done against the Armada. He said it himself, that hotseat is reserved for criminals. Likely outright traitors and maniacs. Those who have given cause to alert the brains to a genuine existential threat to their civilization and who have repeatedly failed every opportunity given to redeem themselves.

Defective doesn’t just mean “different” to Irk. We’ve hardly seen an exploration of what the median Irken example even is, because the more we see of any one of these characters, the more they show us their eccentric uniqueness and will. Yes, Irkens are authoritarian; yes they’re over-militarized; yes, they’re a supremacist breed aligned under one ruling military… but listen, they are not literally The Borg, or illithids.

The biggest victims of this government itself are those races it colonizes. Average civilians on the other hand, they get to largely enjoy all the vices and pains and indulgences of hyper-space-capitalism. The height-ocracy may limit their opportunities, but even the lowest drones among them are supposedly hired into their positions in return for wages. Irkens are pretty selfish, but in a rugged individualism sense. It’s a dystopia of atomization instead of collectivization. If everyone had agreed that “defective” had anything to do with arrogance, free will, or an ability to feel one’s sense of self worth, no one would ever be pointing to Skoodge as a possible example. That guy’s the poster boy for what it means to be a “tool” in the derogatory sense. I’m not forgetting that he technically never even left his job. He was fired and more or less forced into hiding, and he’s still not even that perturbed over the whole thing.

Moreover, it also takes some extreme acts of harm to justify such a trial. Real harm- not rebellious attitude or even disrespect to authority. The control brains and the tallests alone get to define that threshold, and neither Tak’s/Zim’s insubordination nor Bob’s audacity concerned them enough for a ticket to Judgementia. In fact, they really don’t seem that bothered at all by deserters and those that abandon their encoded function. Tak is likely to be merely the responsibility of her janitorial squadron, the same way that enforcing Zim’s banishment was the responsibility of his Frylord. Because Irk actually does have standards of justice and layers of bureaucracy to work within when it comes to dealing with true malice. Small fry problems are for the lower rungs of the ladder to handle, until they become a higher priority by necessity. Incompetency alone isn’t a crime, either. The go-to punishment for failure in one function is demotion to a lower position. These are the only Irkens formally not allowed to change jobs, making what they do a kind of communal service or forced labor sentencing. Remember how Tak’s motivation for leaving Dirt wasn’t solely dissatisfaction with the grunt labor? Remember how she kept justifying her actions by the logic of fairness and setting things right? Not to mention how she fully made the Tallest aware of what she was up to and how her plan was well crafted enough to probably work out exactly like she wanted. Tak is utterly as loyal to the empire and competent as any invader. She was genuinely just dealt a shitty hand, and her response to it is at least understandable.

She even went to great lengths to identify and specifically target Zim and to use a planet that otherwise had less than no value to the armada’s operations. She is a great foil to Zim, but I can’t see how she’s any bit defective, only full of rage that she was screwed over by the actions of a real disgrace to their species. Genuinely destructive cases like Zim are an incredible rarity. Such a rarity that I can only guess it took this long for him to go to Judgementia because his degree of dysfunction outright baffles the system. It also would appear that it’s an event of such significance that it can only be set into motion by the command of the ruling Tallest. By murdering a couple of them, and then being a clown show for a couple more, he inadvertently bought himself some time.

And the crazy thing to remember here is that Zim doesn’t even understand that his actions are an existential threat to the Empire- that he IS a whole supervillain to his planet. This is how effective Irken programming and the education plugs are. They’re supposed to do 99% of the work of setting up the population, even the lowest drones, for not turning out like traitors to their kin in the first place. ALL of them grew up on a steady diet of the same drip-fed propaganda and essentialist ideology as their most militant soldiers. So I can see the logic behind the conclusion that the only explanation for criminals in their society must be outright brain damage or corrupted data… and I’m not gonna lie I do openly headcanon that the latter case is exactly what happened to bad egg Zim.

The limits of only having the one example in him notwithstanding, I’m anything but against theorizing about who else could be “worthy” in the Irken sense to also stand before those brains, playing sweaty advocate for the worth of their continued existence and all. I just don’t see it in Bob, or the Comms officer, or any other invader. Tak, there may be some hypothetical ramp to that end, in her future, but as things are right now, I only see a candidate that has become comfortable right in the control brains’ biggest blind spot of all. See, eggs don’t always have to crack in order to go bad. Sometimes, maybe they just spoil. Sometimes, I believe just the right conditions and time can turn them downright rotten.

Dramatic musical flourish, please.

I forget whoever said the quote “Power doesn’t corrupt, It just exposes who people really are”, but I’m a huge fan of the fact that they did. In my opinion, it’s less about power itself and more about a complete lack of accountability that allows the weakest and most toxic seeds to really fester in a seat of authority. Indeed, we all know that there is something pathetic, and vapid, and cruel floating around The Massive’s bridge. I am saying I’d call Red defective, but I couldn’t be certain enough with myself to say that Purple’s largely the one carrying a lot of fault. His greatest sin is his negligence and enabling his companion. whoever we can say shoulders more of the blame, they have been running this horror show as a joint unit, so they will both bear the guilt. Without a doubt, these two are terrible- popular maybe, but terrible leaders. Like, more responsible for the near ruin of their home world and species than I can even pin on Zim at this point. By almost every measure once you hold them up to Miyuki’s and Spork’s barely few moments of would-be screen time, they’re the worst Tallests for the Empire we’ve ever known. It’s too bad that they have no one over them we know of to flag them for an existence evaluation, because I am assured that the real orchestrators of the Armada would be disgusted to look over their track records since they took power.

I mean, what can I remember just off the top of my head?

- Full awareness of Zim’s blackout-causing history before the beginning of Operation Impending Doom I and not keeping a close eye on him, removing him from his position, or keeping him away from the homeworld’s WoMDs

- Overseeing the shipment of faulty equipment to Invader Tenn (even if the packages had not been switched, the Megadoomer still had a potentially fatal flaw), and then presumably NOT giving her urgent guidance/assistance to avoid being captured by native hostiles

- Showing an egregious amount of immaturity and frivolity when making logistical decisions, such as the flight path of the Armada or how conquered planets are utilized

- Repeated abuses of their standing, trying to extra-judicially get rid of subjects over the pettiest reasons (if they had the formal authority to just vaporize Skoodge, Bob, OR Zim on the spot, they wouldn’t need to come up with convoluted and indirect methods that they only hope kill said targets)

- Upon Zim returning to them from his banishment: not sending him back to Foodcourtia and not refusing to humor his wishes to larp as an invader

- Oh yeah, also granting Zim at least some invader tech and allowing him to leave Conventia in what I assume is a ship he could have only stolen

- Still not dealing with Zim with extreme prejudice in a timely fashion after the events of Backseat Drivers from Beyond the stars, or investigating enough to find out and deal with prisoner 777

- HAVING WAITED THROUGH ALL OF THE ABOVE BEFORE SENDING FOR ZIM’S EXISTENCE EVALUATION

- Spending the bulk of their reign so far dicking around in space and gorging themselves. Seriously, Red showed us one act of proactive competence… and it was in order to fix a mess that they allowed Zim to get them into. Not to mention, the Resisty got away from that scrap after thoroughly humiliating their flagship.

Red, and by extension, Purple, are the almighty, Tallest threats to the entire Irken project of galactic conquest, as much as Zim would have loved all the credit in the universe. By what they’ve done, and who they are. He might be damaged, but them? There’s some defective moral character if I’ve ever seen.

#invader zim #iz #iz theory #iz headcanons #tallest red #tallest purple #iz tallest #iz the trial #defective Irkens #long post #scarlet talks about things #Tallest slander

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vroomian · 6 months ago

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Thinking about vox oc and his powers. I think I’m gonna lean waaaay into the network aspect of them. All his contracts are essentially microchipped and he has a routine in the back of his mind constantly monitoring them for any changes. This is a vital part of being one of his contracts btw. No chip no deal. They break contract they lose the chip. He’s got zero interest in tracking people who don’t already belong to him lol. He doesn’t really do anything with this surveillance besides interfere when his contracts need protection. What people do outside work hours is their business.

But the main aspect of his powers are actually related to him being essentially a robot. He can literally have as many bodies as he wants. He’s absentminded because he’s running like four billion subroutines and piloting ten other “vox” bodies and hundreds of drones. His only limitation is hardware and that’s only going to get better and better as time goes on. He’s his own hive mind, his own network of selves.

His demon form is very plant based, with cables as roots and connections that span the entire pride ring. Probably beyond the pride ring tbh, and maybe even to heaven as time passes. So long as one of his bodies is safe and he’s got a connection he’s essentially immortal.

I think vox is so so afraid of waisting his death the same way he wasted his life. A person who was missed by no one and left nothing behind. He doesn’t want to die with all those stories inside him again.

(Drawbacks: it took him a long long time to use even two bodies, he can suffer overloads of information and crashes. He gets lost in his own information stream sometimes and he might not make it out. It’s a coin flip for every body he adds to the network. Also he has to actually make the bodies from scratch and it’s fucking expensive and painful. I’m thinking he has to literally carve bits of himself up to plant them likes seeds in the new bodies. Each body has a fully functional pain and sensory system system so he also has to deal with that lol. He never really rests because there’s always a few parts of him that are up and awake.)

#the body electric #vrrm vrrm #I just like the idea of a character who’s his own hive mind #give alastor a vox and angel a vox why not #also leaning into the Alexander Hamilton vibe #how do you write like you’re running out of time!!

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sheppardsmckay · 1 year ago

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I’ve finally finished the incredible show that is Stargate Atlantis and I. Have. Thoughts.

I watched Vegas and Enemy at the Gates together (on the advice of my sga leader @lightthewaybackhome) and I’m so happy I did.

So Vegas feels like a different show entirely, from the filming to the characters. Sheppard does not seem like Sheppard nor does anyone else. They’re all darker, more broken versions. My heart was just broken the whole time, but I didn’t cry until I saw Rodney though. This is the Rodney without his Sheppard to guide him and help him. This is the Rodney who lets Keller pass him by. This is the Rodney that lets Sheppard go alone. This is Rodney without a Sheppard that lit up Atlantis (this is honestly worse than last man but it’s a good parallel).

This is the Sheppard that goes alone on yet another suicide mission because he’s lost everything anyway…and then he dies. While Johnny Cash’s “Solitary Man” plays. Because that’s who Sheppard is, not the man in black saving the world with his people, but the solitary man who is alone without a home and no chance to be healed. And yet still he sacrifices himself and is brave and dies saving the world. Sheppard becomes the action hero at the end of the movie that goes out guns blazing and, while it’s usually cool to see, this one just breaks our hearts.

And then we move to the finale and…oh! Sheppard is Sheppard again, and Rodney is Rodney and everyone is okay.

And we see the parallels between the Vegas world and ours throughout the episode. Sheppard about to go on a suicide mission stops right at the last moment because Rodney’s voice breaks through the radio. The team is about to die blowing up the hive ship but stops because Atlantis is there in time to save them. Atlantis is lit up because of Sheppard. And then we see them all at the end. They’re happy, and alive and not broken.

And even though they aren’t fully healed, cause who ever is in this life, they’re on the path to healing. There’s hope, there’s light that has broken through the darkness (the way the show ends with the light piercing through the clouds is so beautiful in a literal and metaphorical sense like I’m sobbing).

There’s a couple lines from songs that my Sheppard told me about that is forever linked with SGA now. Ghosts That We Knew has a beautiful line, “So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light”. Throughout the show there’s so much darkness and pain, but we stick through it with the team because there’s hope that it’ll be okay. There’s hope because John is there, because they’re all there right where they should be. It’s a beautiful metaphor for life.

And then there’s a song called Hospital for Souls. It’s mainly a Sheppard song, as he lets himself burn for his family, but it’s also how Atlantis is a hospital for all the broken souls and brings them together. It’s why Sam didn’t stay there long and Woolsey came on board. It’s why Ronon says at the end that he is home. It’s why Teyla chooses to stay and raise her son in Atlantis instead of her home world. Why Rodney waits 48000 years for Sheppard and why Sheppard realizes finally that he doesn’t have to die to be redeemed, that living and healing is possible for even him.

It’s been a wonderful journey watching this show, it’s changed me, helped me grow and made me realize that healing is possible for even me. That a family is what you make it and they can be your hospital for your soul no matter how weary, broken or hurt.

I just love this show. I’m immediately gonna start rewatching it from the beginning because this. This is my family, my home. I’ve found myself in the darkness of Sheppard and the outlierness of Rodney. In the fierce love of Ronon and sisterly bond of Teyla.

I’m ever so grateful my friend got me to watch this, so happy that I went through the darkness into the light with my team, through tears and shouts of joy. I always said Supernatural would be the only show with this kind of life-changing, life-saving impact. But Stargate Atlantis now holds that honor too, this little, cheesy, ridiculously funny and terribly sad series has changed my life, helped me be the person I wanted to be for so many years but always struggled with (yeah I’m louder, complain more and am maybe a bit more annoying but gosh it’s more fun) and just generally helped me with so many endless things. And I’ve found some great friends and got closer to one of my best friends, aka my Sheppard lol.

Anyway, all this to say that this show is beautiful and incredible and please do yourself the honor of watching it but definitely bring tissues. Don’t worry too much about why they wear sneakers for like two seasons or their military tactics are off, but just enjoy the friendship, the humor, and how wonderful it shows that it doesn’t matter how messed up you are. How dark you’ve gotten or how many pieces of your soul you’ve sacrificed for others. You can be redeemed and healed and made whole. You can find people who love you despite your flaws and shortcomings. And you can find the light no matter how dark the world has become. You too can be home.

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faebug-underscore · 2 years ago

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I need to stop thinking about the game with the sword wielding magic bugs in terms of real life biology. It is slowly breaking my brain

So for context, this quarter I’m taking a class on honey bee (Apis mellifera) biology & ecology. Which prompted. So many thoughts.

(I’m also gonna talk about non-bees in this later but a lot of it is bees). Without further ado:

an Entomology student rambles about Hollow Knight’s Biology. Some spoilers ahead.

Now, about 10 minutes ago I got out of a lecture specifically focusing on the waggle dance. To summarize, when a foraging bee finds a particularly good food source, she’ll return to the hive and perform the waggle dance. The dance is a figure 8 movement, with the “waggle run” down the center—which communicates the angle and distance of the food source’s location. Here’s a gif for reference:

Keep in mind, bee hives are built vertically. So how do they communicate the angle of the food source?

They use the sun, or at the very least a patch of sky (and the angle they communicate is directly proportional to the sun’s current position!)

Now, if we take a look at Hollow Knight’s map…

The hive is in the BOTTOM CORNER of a map that’s already underground.

My professor did mention that in the absence of sunlight, the bees can use landmarks to navigate, but even still, in my opinion it would’ve made more sense for the bees to have built their hive towards an area like the Howling Cliffs, as it’s near the top of the map, and more importantly, the closest area to Greenpath and the Queen’s Gardens—the 2 locations in the game that actually have flowers.

Now, the reason for this might be that the Hive’s queen is literally a WASP.

Which are NOT honey bees. Plus real life hives have guard bees that can sense differences in pheromones, so I’m not even sure how she got IN there let alone become their queen; it also doesn’t make sense that there’s as many bees as there are, considering the queen is a hive’s only reproductive female, and again: a wasp. Cannot. Lay honey bee eggs. Physiologically. (I say this fully aware of the canon fact that a worm and a tree had millions of children, who have a third parent that is literally sentient darkness. And that said worm also had a kid with a spider.)

The aforementioned guard bees are a group of worker bees as well, and all worker bees are female. Male bees, or drones, essentially exist to fond a new hive, mate with a new queen, and die. Hive Knight is trans!!

Anyways though, it’s not like they could do the waggle dance even if the wanted to, because

They are almost completely round

There is no abdomen to waggle

And they probably wouldn’t need to anyways! Because the bugs in this game can speak! And there are voice lines! THEY HAVE VOCAL CHORDS! Which real life bugs simply do not have.

That’s not to say that bugs don’t make noises, because they do! Crickets have little tines on their wings that they rub together quickly, making a chirping noise to attract mates; Hissing cockroaches can rapidly force the air out of their spiracles (entrances/exits to their tracheal respiratory system) to deter predators. I personally don’t know much on how cicadas make their sounds, but they make them! And not with vocal chords! Insect mouths are built for feeding; speaking? Not so much.

We also have eusocial mantises (well, pretty much ALL bugs in this game are eusocial, but mantises are known for being incredibly solitary and WILL kill each other if given the opportunity. Including in mating. After mating the female eats the male, and sometimes eats his head BEFORE mating. Also, based on their designs, all 4 mantis lords are trans!)

Lastly, it’s never explicitly confirmed what species Quirrel is, but he’s frequently portrayed as an isopod in the fandom.

GUYS. QUIRREL IS BLUE.

In nature, there is only one instance in which blue pillbugs exist: Isopod Iridovirus.

The last 2 times we see Quirrel, after giving up Monomon’s mask, he mentions “feeling his age”, and generally seems a lot weaker and more tired. Isopod Iridovirus is fatal, killing the affected individual within a few weeks. So he probably would’ve been gone soon anyways, as upsetting as the implications of Blue Lake are.

Anyways, that’s all I got for now. Bug biology is incredibly fascinating, and considering Hollow Knight is one of my favorite games figured I’d share some thoughts :)

#entomology #hollow knight #bug biology #hk hive #hk vespa #mantis lords #hk quirrel #hk spoilers

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 1 year ago

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Cry Wolf (m, cold)

Buckle up, y’all, it’s 5k words of ~pure drama~. Lmao, but for real this one is long, dramatic, and a little snz-light (apologies). Also, there isn’t a sneeze until like 2500 words in (oops). Greyson fakes a cold to try to get out of trouble with Elijah, and is instant-karma’d, as one would hope lol. It’s a little more flowery, there’s a lot of snarky dialogue and inner monologuing... idk. I like this one, even though it’s not super snz-heavy. I hope you guys do, too. Let me know what you think :)

cw: male, cold, coughing, fever

Cry Wolf

“Not to be dramatic, but that sounds like literally the worst event on planet earth and I think I would rather be entirely consumed in flames than do it.”

Elijah turned around slowly in his chair and gave Greyson an incredulous look. “‘Not to be dramatic’? What would being dramatic sound like if not that?”

Greyson shrugged and reached around his boss to click out of the email displaying the event details. “Probably me saying, ‘If you make me do that event, I will cut off my own arms and legs and feed them to you’,” he said, sliding back into his own rolling chair. “But that seemed a bit much, even for me.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit much,” Elijah said, grabbing his mouse back and reopening the email. “Consumed in flames is so much more chill.”

“Agreed.”

Elijah snorted. “Grey, I’m sorry but this isn’t an event we can turn down. I know it’s a lot of work, but the press it gets is unparalleled.”

Greyson groaned and threw his head back theatrically. “Liiiiiij,” he moaned, “c’mon, dude. A ten-course dinner for a bunch of blowhard millionaires throwing pocket change at kids with cancer? Seriously? It sounds like my literal definition of hell. Plus, you know anytime I step into one of those stuffy, soulless banquet halls I break out in hives.”

“Genuinely, and I mean this with all the love in my heart, I have never met anyone as dramatic as you are. And I have a twelve-year-old niece, so that’s saying something,” Elijah said, placing a faux-caring hand on Greyson’s arm. The chef shook it off, annoyed, and Elijah laughed. “Grey, I get that the people who pay to go to these things are assholes, but it really is a good cause. Plus, the American Pediatric Cancer Society seriously has the crème de la crème of social media teams. They promote you for months before and after the event.”

Greyson bit his cheek to keep from laughing. “Creme de la crème?” he asked. “Seriously?”

“Oh, fuck you, Chef.” Elijah said, shaking his head. “You’re doing the damn event. Get used to it.”

***

“Chef?”

Elijah looked around the corner, behind the line, and in the prep kitchen, but Greyson was nowhere to be found.

“Greyson!” Elijah called, pushing through the swinging doors to the dining room, and running directly into the chef, who was innocently making coffee in the server’s station.

“Yes…?” Greyson asked, putting a lid on his coffee and making his way past Elijah, back into the kitchen. The GM followed behind him, annoyed.

“Have you ordered anything for the dinner this Friday yet?”

Greyson raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were closed Friday?”

Elijah gave Greyson a look of complete exasperation. “Yes, we’re closed, Grey, but you remember why we’re closed, right?”

“Uh…” Greyson said, eyes darting towards the calendar. “...winter break for the staff?”

Elijah pursed his lips and closed his eyes; he took a deep breath, pressed his hands together, and readdressed the chef in an entirely too-calm tone. “Greyson. No. Not winter break for the staff.”

Greyson rubbed the back of his neck, nervous. “You’re… out of town?”

“The cancer awareness dinner, Greyson, oh my fucking god,” Elijah slapped a hand on the desk beside them and Greyson cringed. “How could you forget this? The fuck is your problem? We’ve had it on the calendar for months.”

“Dude, I’m really sorry, it just slipped my mind! I’ll be ready, it’s only Monday, this shindig is in four days, I’ll order the stuff now,” Greyson said. He turned towards the desk and started rummaging through the mess of papers by his computer, before looking up at Elijah again, guiltily. “...did we send them a menu?”

“Jesus fucking christ, Greyson, yes we sent them a menu in September. Seriously, are you okay? How in the ever-living fuck could you forget such a huge event? I know you don’t want to do it, but fuck, Greyson, this is my restaurant and my reputation on the line!” Elijah couldn’t seem to ebb the anger now that it had started flowing. He slammed himself into his chair and pounded the computer keys until a PDF popped up – the menu they’d had approved three months earlier. Greyson visibly shrunk back.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I… now I remember. Shit, Lij, I’m so sorry, man.”

Elijah pulled a hand down his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes before addressing the chef. “I’m asking in earnest this time,” he said, his voice small and controlled. “Are. You. Okay. Because you never forget shit like this.”

In hindsight, Greyson knew he shouldn’t have said it; he should’ve told Elijah that he’d put the dinner out of his head the moment he’d halfheartedly slapped together a menu and hoped that Elijah would do the same. He should’ve said that he’d hoped Matt would want to take it over, even though he knew Elijah would never let the sous chef take care of such a high-touch dinner. He should’ve said fucking aliens had abducted him and stolen that one piece of information from his mind, for fuck’s sake, anything other than what actually came out of his mouth.

“Actually, I uh… I haven’t been feeling great. Maybe I’m like, coming down with something?”

In what universe, a tiny voice in Greyson’s head whispered, is this a good idea?

Elijah’s face softened at the false admission. “Shit, Greyson, really? Why didn’t you tell me? What’s wrong?”

Greyson felt the guilt pool in his stomach the moment Elijah’s voice turned to one of concern. Shit. “Uh, I mean, it’s probably nothing. Just like a, uh…sore throat and headache. Just not feeling 100% myself. I’ll be good, just, y’know… a little foggy. But I promise, I’ll order the stuff now and make sure I have cooks for this weekend, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget.” At least only half of that was a lie, Greyson thought to himself, grimacing. He and Elijah never lied to each other – as a rule.

Elijah sighed. “I’m sorry for yelling,” he said, “and I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. Did you take something?” Greyson nodded, the guilt pool in his gut growing larger. “Okay,” Elijah said. “Just… I mean, let me know if it gets worse, okay? Take it easy today. I’ll close the books.”

Greyson nodded as his boss stood and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. He swallowed hard, a swallow that probably looked painful, and Elijah winced in sympathy. You fucking asshole, Greyson chastised himself. “I’m good, boss. Thanks, though.”

Elijah gave the chef a small smile and headed out to the dining room to talk to the host. Greyson let out a little ‘fuck’ and sat down to call purveyors. Why would he say that? If there was one thing Elijah was sympathetic of, it was illness. Greyson had essentially phoned in sympathy points because he didn’t want to be yelled at. What was he, a child?

Greyson tried to shake it off; maybe Elijah would forget the fake-sickness in lieu of the big event this weekend. Maybe this wasn’t a big deal at all. The chef put his head down and called the first purveyor, made an excel sheet, began preparing for the dinner he desperately did not want to do.

He was so wrapped up in preparations, he didn’t see Elijah sneak in to the office; didn’t see him stealthily switch out his coffee cup, or leave just as quick as he’d come in. He didn’t notice until he lifted the cup, took a big swig – and swallowed down a hard lump of guilt with the lemon tea Elijah had brought him. Oh, fuck, Greyson thought, placing his head in his hand. This is not going to end well.

***

The shift felt long.

“Get some rest, okay?” Elijah said to Greyson as the chef packed up his bag. “We need you at 100% for Friday.”

Greyson nodded, somber, and hiked his backpack onto his back. “You got it, boss,” he said; he’d been a man of very few words tonight, which didn’t help the long shift feel any shorter. “I’ll be all good tomorrow. Promise.”

Elijah gave his friend a small smile and nodded back. “See you in the morning,” he said, and Greyson gave a wave behind his head as he walked out the door. Once the chef was out of earshot, Elijah sighed.

He wouldn’t deny the fact that he was worried. Greyson was the king of pushing through illness, but he had a tendency to push himself too hard too quickly, and end up absolutely destroyed a few days into whatever ailment he was fighting. Elijah wanted to make sure that didn’t happen this time; all day, he’d tried to keep Greyson seated if possible, to keep him hydrated, to bring him lozenges and Dayquil and make him ingest them. Care-taking was far from his strong suit, but today he’d really tried; not only to keep Greyson from careening into a worse illness, but to make up for the fact that he’d yelled at him. That had been uncalled for, and he felt like an ass.

An hour or so after the kitchen staff had departed, the final server closed out her check and brought Elijah her paperwork. He finished filling everything out, filed the daily report, and shut off the harsh kitchen light. As he waved the last server goodbye, he found himself thinking, I need a drink. It wasn’t something he did often, but occasionally he’d stop by the club three doors down for a beer and the possibility of spending the night with a real person instead of a glass of whiskey and late-night talk shows. Tonight, when he didn’t have the option of grabbing a burger with Greyson – his only real friend, if he was being honest – at the dive bar, felt like a perfect night to scout for some booze and a warm body to fall asleep next to.

Elijah pulled his jacket on, locked the back door of the restaurant, and set out for the club. The air was frigid this evening; he huddled further into his jacket and upped his pace, reaching the front door of Zed in record-time. He was practically salivating at the thought of a neat whiskey as he yanked open the heavy door – fuck the beer. Let’s get right to the good stuff.

The club was full, but not packed, and Elijah managed to get a seat at the bar – rare here, especially since the club’s bar was tiny by design. They wanted you on the dance floor, mingling, sweating, working up a thirst for another, and another, and -

“Can I get another double Maker’s?” Elijah’s ears perked up at the sound of someone ordering over his head; if there was one voice he knew for certain, it was that one. The GM turned slowly around and to his left – oh, you mother fucker.

“Greyson?” Elijah called over the thump of electronic music. From about a yard away, Greyson’s head snapped around, searching for the voice that said his name. When he and Elijah locked eyes, Elijah noticed he was sweating and panting – and certainly not from any feigned fever.

“Oh… fuck,” Greyson said, obviously too drunk to realize how loud he was being. “Oh, shit. Fuck. Lij, I -”

Elijah shook his head. “I see you’re… feeling better,” he called over the heads of the people seated next to him. “Asshole.”

Greyson couldn’t seem to form words after that, and the bartender interrupted him anyway by placing a full glass of whiskey on the bartop. “Name on the card?” the bartender asked. Before Greyson could answer, Elijah called out to the bartender.

“Put it on me,” he said, and the bartender nodded before moving to help another guest. Greyson stood, seemingly stuck in place, before taking a tentative step towards his boss. Elijah put a hand up, as though to say stop right there. “No need to thank me, chef,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your… medicine.”

Elijah slapped a fifty on the bartop in front of him. He drained his whiskey, slammed down the glass, and breezed past Greyson, his face flaming with embarrassment. What an ass he was, not realizing he’d been played. What a complete moron.

“Elijah, wait -” he heard Greyson call behind him – but he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Without looking back, Elijah pushed open the door and immediately hailed a cab outside. When Greyson finally made it past the throngs of people and into the street, Elijah was long gone.

***

To say the next few days were awkward would be the understatement of the century.

The morning after the club, Greyson had barreled into the office, spewing apology after apology before Elijah could even say hello. The GM had accepted, albeit coldly, and hadn’t mentioned it for the remainder of the day. He hadn’t mentioned much of anything, truly, and when the shift ended Elijah walked out without saying goodbye, leaving Mark to close the restaurant down.

“What did you do?” Mark had asked Greyson when their boss had departed. Greyson just shook his head.

“I fucked up,” he said. Mark snorted.

“Clearly.”

The next day had continued in the same fashion; Elijah giving Greyson the cold shoulder, Greyson attempting to apologize in every way he could think of. They barely spoke Thursday, as well – and by then, Greyson was starting to worry that they’d never speak again.

“He’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Mark promised when Elijah walked out for the third night in a row without saying goodbye. “He can only hold a grudge for seventy-two hours, max.”

Greyson wasn’t so sure. He’d never seen Elijah this mad before, not even when Greyson had fucked up and only bought two tenderloins for a party that requested nothing but steak in his first month of working together. Plus, Greyson was dealing with a bit of a sticky situation – a situation that he was sure would make Elijah ten times angrier at him. A situation that literally could not have arisen at a worse time.

“Hhh...hhNGTSH-zue! HTSHH-ue! NGTZSHUE!”

“Bless,” Mark said, distractedly, his eyes trained on the computer monitor in front of him. “You feeling okay?”

He wasn’t. He’d woken up that morning with his throat sticky, and his head pounding. Instant karma, he’d thought as he chugged tea in place of his usual coffee. When he remembered the tea Elijah made for him a few days before – a gentle kindness, a peace offering, a showing of care for someone who’d blatantly lied to his face – his stomach soured. Greyson had dumped the tea down the drain and forced himself to chug an energy drink instead; the bubbles made him cough until his ribs were sore.

“I’m good,” Greyson said, stealthily managing to keep the congestion out of his voice. “Allergies.”

Mark turned to the chef, an eyebrow raised. “It’s December,” he said.

“Right,” Greyson answered, though it wasn’t an answer at all. “Yeah, it is.”

The event was tomorrow; Elijah had spoken to Greyson long enough to remind him that they needed to be in the van by three PM for a six PM call time at the banquet hall. Greyson had said he knew, had said he’d be in at ten to get everything finished and packed and make sure Matt was well-versed on their menu, as he was the second set of hands Greyson would need to plate up. Elijah had nodded, obviously done with the conversation, and that had been that.

“Alright, Chef, I’m out of here,” Mark said, snapping Greyson back to reality. “You need anything before I go?”

Greyson shook his head. “Thangks, Mark,” he said, internally cursing the congestion that had wormed its way into his voice. Mark pursed his lips.

“Yeah,” he said. “Get some sleep, Chef.”

A parroting of Elijah’s sentiment at the beginning of the week; a mockery. One that Greyson most certainly deserved.

***

When Elijah got in the morning of the event, Greyson was already in the prep kitchen tightly wrapping his food for the evening and briefing Matt on the menu. The GM sighed; it was finally time.

“Chef,” Elijah said, knocking politely on the wall. Matt and Greyson looked up, surprised, and gave their boss matching smiles.

“Morning, boss,” Greyson said, his voice low. Something seemed… off, but Elijah couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I just wanted to say, I accept your apology,” Elijah said. “Thanks for letting me sulk the past few days.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Thanks, boss,” he said, simply. “I appreciate it. Sorry againd.”

Elijah nodded back and made his way towards the dining room to begin packing up dishware for the dinner. Something was weird about Greyson today; he’d really expected a bit more fanfare when he’d announced his acceptance. A bit more gushing, maybe a signature Greyson pick-you-up-off-the-ground hug – but he got none of it. If anything, Greyson seemed more reserved than Elijah had been in the days leading up to the dinner. Maybe he was angry that Elijah had held the grudge for so long – though that didn’t seem like Greyson in the slightest.

He decided to drop it; most likely, he was putting weight on a situation that required none. Elijah finished packing the dishes into milk crates, and headed back into the kitchen to ask Greyson and Matt for help loading them in the van.

“Grey?” Elijah called into the kitchen. “Matt? Can you guys come give me a ha -”

“HNGTSSHHH-ue! HTSHZUE! NGTSH! Huh-! Huhh...HUHESTZHUE!”

He wasn’t cut off, because Greyson clearly hadn’t heard him speaking before unleashing a seemingly-unending volley of sneezes. Elijah’s heart first sunk deep into the pit that was his stomach – and then his face flamed with an anger he hadn’t expected.

“Oh, you’re shitting me,” he muttered, stomping his way into the back kitchen. “You are absolutely fucking kidding.”

Greyson, who was posted up at the sink blowing his nose, nearly jumped when he saw Elijah storm into the prep kitchen. “Christ,” he said, trying to nonchalantly throw the paper towel he was holding away, “give a guy a heart attack.”

“Is this some kind of joke to you, Greyson?” Elijah asked, crossing his arms. Greyson sniffled, rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, and raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for Elijah to continue his diatribe.

“Is… what a joke?” Greyson asked when he realized he wasn’t getting any more context clues from his boss. Elijah huffed out an angry laugh.

“You’re trying to fuck with me. Right? You’re trying to make me look like an ass, see if I’ll once again feed into your weird little game.” Elijah was practically snorting with anger; he couldn’t help it. Fool me once, and all that.

“Lij,” Greyson said, holding his hands up as though to surrender, “I… I don’t kndow what you’re talking about.” Elijah laughed – a mean, ringing sound.

“I get it; you’re making a point. You don’t want to do this event and you never have. Well, Greyson, it’s too fucking late now, so just stop. I’m not in the mood for whatever fucking ruse you and your little minion have up your sleeves. So get rid of whatever it is you’re using to make yourself sneeze – we get it, ha ha, Elijah’s a moron, so goddamn funny – and cut it out. In fact, hand it over. Clearly you’re too much of a fucking child to know when enough is enough.” Elijah held out his hand, waiting on Greyson or Matt to fess up and slap a pepper mill or something into his hand, but neither of them stirred. After an awkward moment of the three of them standing, all waiting for something to happen, Matt cleared his throat.

“Um…” he said, “I… I don’t know what’s going on here, but we don’t, like… have anything.”

Elijah threw the sous chef a dirty look, then looked back to Greyson. “You’ve got him trained well,” he said, not giving it up. Greyson opened his mouth to say something, but his face collapsed before the words could make it to his mouth. He crumpled to the side and used an elbow to cover his mouth.

“HRRTSHH-uh! Huh...huhhNGTSHH-ue! ITZSCHUE! Huh! Hhh…” Greyson didn’t allow himself the luxury of waiting on the last sneeze to make its appearance; instead, he pinched his nose to ebb the fit and coughed into his palm – a hacking, congested sound. Elijah’s anger dried as quickly as rain in the Sahara desert – oh, fuck.

“Oh… fuck,” Elijah muttered as Greyson grabbed another handful of paper towels to blow his nose into. “You’re… you’re not actually sick, are you?”

Matt started to answer for him, but Greyson cut his sous off. “Ndo,” he said, curtly. “Allergies or sombething. Ndot tryigg to fuck with you. Sorry, Lij.” He finished with another painful-sounding cough, while behind him Matt shook his head, eyes wide; a silent miming of he’s sick as a dog.

Before Elijah could say anything else, Greyson tossed the paper towels and headed out towards the dining room. “Were you sayigg you ndeed help with plates?” he asked, wiping a hand under his nose and swallowing painfully. Elijah, unsure of how to handle this situation, simply deflated, a balloon in the harsh summer sun.

“Um. Yes,” he said, following behind Greyson. “Yeah, I… help would be great.”

Greyson nodded, turned, and headed to grab the plates. Elijah held back, and turned to Matt.

“He actually has a cold now, doesn’t he?” he asked, though it was soft enough to not know if it was to Matt or himself. Matt shook his head.

“No,” he said, giving Elijah a disapproving look. “It’s definitely not a cold.”

With that, the sous followed behind his boss, side chosen – leaving Elijah standing stalwart in the back of the kitchen. This, he thought to himself, is not going to end well.

***

If he was being honest, Greyson wasn’t sure how he was going to make it through this dinner.

At the beginning of the day, he’d been fairly sure he could hold it together; sure, his throat was on fire, and he couldn’t stop coughing. Yes, he was stuffed up to the gills and every little movement triggered another sneeze fit. But he hadn’t had a fever, and he’d been plying himself with cold meds, so everything had been fine.

...that is, until the Elijah-explosion.

Things had gone downhill quickly after Elijah’s screaming fit. Greyson started attempting to hold back all of his sneezes and coughs, resulting in a headache that made his eyes feel like two swollen golf balls lodged inside a too-small head. He’d stopped pounding ibuprofen, cough syrup, and dayquil after Elijah’s freak-out, too; didn’t want to seem like he was egging his boss on. Now that they had arrived at the event, he had a new problem: it was incredibly difficult to medicate in a banquet hall filled with stuffy, old assholes.

“Mbatt, is that everythi – NGTSH! TSH! HTSH! Huh - ! HRSSH-uhh!” Greyson tried desperately to hold back yet another string of sneezes, to no avail. Whatever shit he’d picked up was persistent; persistent and fucking annoying.

“Yes, Chef,” Matt said, giving his boss a pointed look. Greyson meant to return the look, but instead sunk down below their prep station to cough into his sleeve. From the ground, he heard Matt sigh – then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bottle of cough syrup in his sous’ hand. Without thinking, Greyson snatched it and chugged.

“Chef,” Matt said, quietly, “we’re all set here. Just waiting on people to arrive – why don’t you go have a cigarette or something?”

The last thing Greyson wanted with this bitch of a cough was a cigarette, but he nodded anyway; he knew Matt. He knew what he meant was go outside and collect yourself, you’re in for a long night.

“Thanks,” Greyson muttered, standing. “I’ll be back ind ten.”

“Take your time,” Matt insisted.

Greyson stumbled out of the building, clutching his chef’s coat close to his body; he’d left his jacket in the car, but he desperately needed some air. Fortunately or unfortunately, he’d already caught his death; no need to worry about the cold infecting him further.

Whether it was luck or just the fact that it was too cold for anyone else to dare venture outside, he couldn’t be sure, but either way he was glad to see that no one else was in the courtyard when he pushed through the heavy banquet doors. Greyson sat heavily on a bench arms wrapped around his middle, and took a few deep breaths. On second thought, he found himself thinking, maybe a cigarette does sound nice.

The chef pulled his pack and lighter out of his jeans and brought the cigarette to his mouth with a shaking hand. It took a few clicks to light it; once it was finally lit, he only got one good pull before he heard the door open noisily behind him.

“Are you seriously smoking?”

Elijah.

Greyson turned around, sluggish, and gave his boss a coy you-caught-me smile. “Addiction’s a hell of a thigg,” he said, turning to cough once again. “You wandt one?”

Elijah sighed, clearly thinking twice, but ultimately nodded and sat next to Greyson. The chef handed him the pack and the lighter.

“If you wandt it today, trust mbe you don’t wandt mbe lighting it,” Greyson joked, holding up a shaking hand as proof. Elijah bit his cheek, then slid out of his heavy outer coat and placed it over Greyson’s shoulders. Greyson went to protest, but Elijah held up his hand.

“You need it,” he said, taking the lighter and producing a flame immediately. “Just as much as you don’t need that,” he pointed to the stick between his friend’s fingers, but didn’t go to grab it.

“Yeah,” Greyson said, “you’re probably right.”

They sat in an awkward silence after that, punctuated only by Greyson’s coughs and sniffles; a game of chicken neither of them seemed keen on losing. Finally, Elijah finished his cigarette and stomped it out beneath his foot. He stood, and turned to regard Greyson.

“Thank you,” he said, holding out a hand. Greyson gave his boss a look, then took his hand and allowed the other man to pull him to his feet.

“Dond’t mbention it,” Greyson said, sniffling. He tried to hold the eye contact Elijah was giving him, but his nose seemed to have other plans. “Huh! HuhhhETSHHZUE!” Greyson sneezed, hard, into the sleeve of Elijah’s coat, then groaned when he realized what he’d done.

“Bless,” Elijah said, apparently unfazed by the coat’s untimely demise. Greyson nodded, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and sniffled. “Grey, I’m -”

“Please dond’t say it,” Greyson said, holding a hand up. “Please. I’mb the boy who cried wolf, y’kndow? Instant karma. I did this to mbyself.” He rubbed a tired eye, attempted a light cough, then dissolved into a full-on coughing fit.

“Christ, Greyson,” Elijah said, patting the chef on the back. “That sounds fucking awful.”

“Weird,” Greyson said once he’d composed himself. “Because it honestly feel ambazigg.”

“Seriously?”

“Ndo. Ndo, I feel like I’mb going to keel over at any second.”

Elijah couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. Greyson laughed, too; tension broken. They caught each other’s eyes, and burst out laughing once again; friends once more.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Elijah said. “And I’m sorry about this event. You’re right; these people suck ass.”

“Mbost people do,” Greyson said, chuckling. “I’mb sorry for being such a dick about this dinner, though. And forgetting. And pretending to be sick.”

“And then actually getting sick,” Elijah finished for him. Greyson smiled.

“And that,” he said. Elijah shrugged, gave a short little laugh.

“Very typical ‘us’,” he said, looking through the window into the banquet hall. Greyson nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, sighing. “You ready to get this shit over with?”

Elijah smiled. “Yes, Chef,” he said. Greyson laughed, which dissolved once more into a crackly cough. “Then let’s get you to bed.”

Greyson nodded, a hand pressed into one of his aching eyes. “Boss,” he said, “You read mby mbind.”

The two men headed back inside and took their places. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d do an event with one of them on the brink of death, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last; that was the way of this industry. Greyson sucked down some more cold medicine, Elijah fixed the table settings, and Matt gleaned that all had somehow been forgiven and visibly relaxed. Just another night. The show must go on.

#snz #snzfic #sickfic #coldfic #male snz #male sneeze #whiskeyswriting #sick #coughing #illness #if you made it to the end of this behemoth i bestow upon you all the gratefulness in my heart and a single gold star

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