#making this instead of working on my fic

[aelswiths]

Alfred & Aelswith & Mildrith in 1x04

[izzystizzys]

Ever since touching down on Triple Zero, both a military and quality marker for the planet in his mind, Marshall Commander Fox had become intimately acquainted with the biting pain of headaches and migraines.

This, however, feels like it’s going to make his skull cave inside out.

“I can hear voices, Thorn”, Fox hisses, wide-eyed, breathing harshly through his nose. His bucket sadly lolls around on the pavement from where he ripped it off in a panic, unable to breathe all of a sudden. But even exposure to the open air hasn’t helped much - now, Fox just feels like a fish drowning in water, desperately breathing in the air but unable to keep it in his lungs.

“I mean, we all hear voices, ori’vod, that’s really less concerning than if you couldn’t -“, Thorn begins, hands stretched out towards Fox like he’s trying to approach a rabid beast. “Voices, Thorn!”, Fox repeats, whisper-screaming over the strange sensation of all his blood pooling in his head and ears popping. “In my kriffing head!”

Thorn’s mouth opens to gape, then closes again immediately, countenance turning decidedly more alarmed than before. Fox crumbles to the ground, head clutched in his hands, moaning in painpainpainpain-

The only thing like this he’s felt before is after one of his private meetings with the Chancellor, the one he never lets anyone else have and Fox never remembers. It feels like there’s something else in his head, worming around his thoughts and bouncing off the insides of his skull-

“- is kriffing losing it, Thire, I don’t know what to do -“

“- keep position, help is -“

“- kriffing RED ALERT, what the -“

“- do you mean a karking Venator exploded over Coruscant?!”

“- call it the Zillo Beast - it caved in the side of the ship, apparently, and is making for the surface -“

The pressure inside Fox’s head increases, warmth dripping over his cheeks and from his noise, swelling until he thinks his head really will explode, and then - stops-

Fox looks up, gasping, at the shadow that has fallen across his and Thorn’s patrol, into two massive, glowing eyes. The thing tilts its head, and chirps. It sounds like a greeting.

Silence. Then -

“You’re right”, Fox says, in a daze, “we should kill the Chancellor.”

“WHAT”, Thorn screeches.

———————————

Fox wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to a gentle breeze and nebulous feeling in his head. This is strange for several reasons - one, Guard HQ are both insulated and airconditioned like ass, thus the temperature is always wrong and the air constantly stuffy, and two - he hasn’t woken up not in pain since touching down two years ago.

“Stabby gave you the good shit”, his own voice says, and yeah, that would explain that.

“Stabby is a little bitch”, Fox tries to say, which comes out more like a warbled gurgle. “You’re welcome”, a third voice replies, sarcastically. Fox pries open his eyes with great difficulty. Ah, yes, that’s Stabby looming across the room - and Stone, next to his bedside, lounging in a chair next to a passed-out Thorn, whose head is tilted across the back of his chair at an angle that will definitely put a crick in it.

And, behind them, where the medbay wall used to be, two gigantic, glowing green eyes, tilting along with the rest of the eldritch face floating next to Fox’s bed.

“Hgngndndnsndnfnfffhhh”, he vocalizes, and Stone shrugs. “Yeah, been there the whole time. Do you remember anything?” Fox frowns. Stabby snickers somewhere from his far corner, quietly bustling around and probably concocting something nefarious to make Fox sleep or “take a break”.

Stone’s eyebrows rise incrementally. “Really? Not even when you mounted the space monster, took a joyride through half of Coruscant, crashed through the Senate Dome and battled a lightning-launching Chancellor?”

Fox blinks. The Zillo Beast chirps cheerfully. “Huh.” A sense of strange, deep satisfaction spreads through Fox’s chest, raising goosebumps. “Did we bite his head off? I think we bit his head off.”

Stone chokes, and Stabby races over to thump him on his back, Fox watching warily for any sharp objects. You never know on that one - one second he’s checking your pupils for dilation, then you’ve got a needle sticking out of you and boom, ten hours gone. Or suddenly you’re spitting out decaf - ew - at five kriffing in the morning, being lectured about heart health and some other banthashit.

Something that feels strangely like a chuckle titters across Fox’s mind, and when he looks over, the Zillo Beast is blinking innocently at him.

“Yeah, your little friend did actually bite off the Chancellor’s head” Stone confirms, once he can breathe again. Thorn slowly stirs, until he jackknifes to awareness all at once, and then Fox has a lap full of hugging vod’ika.

“ - took twenty years off my kriffing life, goddamn, ori’vod, you’re giving me grey hair -“

“It’ll match your old man bones”, Stabby murmurs, making Thorn screech indignantly into the top of Fox’s head. The Zillo Beast trills mournfully, aiming a sad look at the medic, who shakes his head and brandishes a hypo at the thing. Fox wonders if he’ll have to intervene - he would try to hypo an eldritch space monster, the absolute lunatic. “Absolutely not - we talked about this, no scritchies until we can be sure it won’t bust more of Fox’s ribs!”

Fox’s mouth opens, and Thorn snickers mercilessly. Stone, far too dignified for it, buries a grin in a datapad. “It’s imprinted on you, Fox’ika”, he says instead, the traitor. “Tried to gte to you in the Jedi temple, but it wouldn’t fit - which is when we brought you here. The interior design was so butt-kriffing ugly it wouldn’t matter much to tear it out.”

“Imprinted?”, Fox asks, not even willing to touch on anything else that’s been said yet. An image flashes across the inside of his skull - him, tossing a space-tennis-ball into the air, and the Zillo Beast slithering off after it. In reality, it perks up and mrows hopefully at Fox God, he wishes he was still insensate. Thorn snickers again, and the desire increases tenfold.

“Yeah, like in that one holoshow, whatchacallit - with that one blonde chick, the Mother of Krayts - you know, the one that made Hound cry when they killed the loth wolves so we had to ban it in barracks?” Thorn’s eyes light up. “Wait, does that make you the mother of Zillos?!”

“Oooh, mummy Fox!”, Stabby screeches, the absolute traitor. Stone breaks out into barking laughter, and Thorn sounds like he’s actively asphyxiating. Fox hates them. Fox turns to the Zillo Beast.

“Please, please eat them.”

[choccy-milky]

Hey just wanted to say how much I adore the Raven and The Snake! It kept me sane during some hard times last year screaming at Seb distracted me from my real problems LOL! In fact I love it so much I would love to print the fic and turn it into a book for my own personal enjoyment of course, would it be okay with you if I did that and posted the final product on Twitter? I'd tag you of course! Don't know if it's a dumb question but I wanted to check. Anyways love your work you are SUPER talented!

YES YES YES??? OMG PLSSS I WOULD DIE!!!!!!!

IM HONOURED YOU LIKED IT ENOUGH TO WANT TO BIND IT!!! AND PLS, TAG ME EVERYWHERE WHEN/IF YOU DO IT😭😭 ive considered commissioning someone to bind it myself just to have as a memento bc im the author, but omg the fact that someone else would wanna do it too......im glad sebs dumbassery (and lets be real, clora's too. if not MOSTLY cloras) could distract you from your irl problems by yelling at those two idiots🥰🥰 THANK YOU AGAIN IM HONOURED ARGHHH🧎‍♀️💖💖

LMFAOOO THE WAY I THOUGHT THIS WAS ANON HATE AT FIRST LMAOOO i mean i guess it kinda could still be considered it??? but i love your love for clora BAHAH bc you are so right, let seb drown, this aint about him✋😔...to satiate you heres a wip of her ive had for a while, and maybe ill finally finish it soon JUST FOR YOU🫵🫵💖

[reineydraws]

i have this fic series i'm still working on where mihawk sort of becomes rayleigh's kid and spends ages 11-17ish on the oro jackson.

shanks and buggy imprint on him (bugs considers him a sort of older brother figure/sparring inspiration and shanks has a crush that eventually turns into full-blown love) and this is how i imagine they're like on the day mihawk sets off on his own haha.

[asliceofzosan]

i've seen figure skater sanji and hockey player zoro before. idk if its been explored but i'd love to put it out there:

hockey player sanji (specifically goalie bc he desperately wants to avoid being checked) and then pairs skater zoro.

pairs skater zoro's long time partner has been nami. though many people ship them together a Lot, they just know each other super well. Well enough to try dating and both of them realized they don't swing that way. in fact, it makes them a really good team. they fought long and hard to claim top spots in competitions because they portray a chemistry that's separate from the rest. plus zoro can carry nami like she weighs fucking nothing. so their lifts are so much more dynamic. they even have a whole next to impossible combination that they're trying to get the ISU to name after them officially.

sanji plays for the East Blue Straw Hats in the Grand Line Hockey League – a formidable rookie group that took down lots of big names in the preseason. they want to make it all the way to the postseason playoff finals but always seem to fall short. but theyre so determined. they reignited a lot of old sparks that were no longer there for old fans and brought in new and curious fans. sanji is the starter goalie and a damn good one at that. it makes sense bc goalies are often doing splits on the ice just to make a save. he's perfected the technique that utilizes just his legs to make saves that make the crowd go fuckin insane.

we have the usual "i booked the rink to practice before you did" trope but a little more spice. in actuality, sanji loves watching pairs skating competitions. his favorite pair rn is franky and robin (mostly for robin). and he adamantly does not want to admit to anyone that he watches zoro and nami's routines much more frequently. (and if anyone asks, he always says its bc of nami. its never just bc of nami.) and zoro's besties with luffy so he always watches their matches even if he barely understands the rules. and he definitely does not stare at a certain blond starter goalie most of the match thats fucking ridiculous

one day zoro and sanji are invited to do one of those comparison videos between hockey players and figure skaters. both get to laugh at the other even Attempting to do their sport. zoro frankly looks ridiculous in all of sanji's usual goalie get-up. and sanji couldn't land an euler to save his life. the video producer suggests they try a simple pairs skating routine. sanji is like "oh i couldn't do that–hEY WHAT THE FUCK MOSSHEAD PUT ME DOWN" because zoro lifted sanji and had him sat on his shoulder like it was normal.

zoro smirks, "you might be lighter than nami, actually. wanna be my new partner?"

sanji knees him in the stomach before skating away while blushing so hard he could melt the ice beneath him.

[spicyet]

Victorian Fantasy AU

Crown Prince of Wa, Nakamoto Toshiro; Still struggles to make allies, even after learning Western customs and changed his way of dress... But, his western teacher, Laios, doesn't give him much room, nor time to feel like a failure. So things aren't too bad.

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Cas stitching up his trench coat in one of the motel chairs while Sam and Dean are asleep and quietly talking to Jack about how to him the coat feels as part of himself now as his blade is. That it reminds him that he wasn't always aware of just how deeply humans could feel. How deeply angels could feel. How putting care into something can make it meaningful. The stars were mere pricks of light before humans decided to name them. The more he cares for his coat, the more of his perspective and memory gets sewn into it. The more it becomes his.

"And the pockets," he confides with a deep wink, "Are good for keeping snacks in."

Later, when Dean is asleep again, drooling over an open book of research in the bunker, Jack watches as Cas tucks his coat over Dean's shoulders and sees how he hesitates for a moment before brushing his hand softly through Dean's hair. Dean is transformed, through Cas’s careful attention, from the man who was the gatekeeper of acceptance and goodness to just a man, vulnerable and in need of care.

Jack wonders whether Castiel cares for everyone like they are a precious object. And he wonders what Castiel would transform him into, if he had to be repaired. Jack isn't sure that he likes the idea. He already has a hard time understanding his own morality, how can he also be expected live up to the idea of himself in Castiel's head? The object that Castiel loves? Does he need to be changed in order to become his?

"I could get him my pillow?" Jack suggests, swallowing against the cold mass in his throat when Cas smiles gently at that. He does like it, then, when Jack acts against his own interest.

"That might wake him. We should let him rest."

"He's precious to you."

"He is." Castiel reaches out and puts a hand on Jack's sleeve, expression sincere, "And so are you."

"Right," Jack says, then, "thanks," and holds his smile until Cas wanders back to sit perpendicular to Dean, to watch him until just before he stirred. Castiel and Jack, both, were good at pretending not to feel what they felt.

Watching the angel watch the man, Jack feels like a star. Immense and powerful but also distant, removed. Not special until a real person decides that he is. He is between angel and human. Person and object. Precious and disregarded. He is the blade and the coat, and Jack doesn't know which is worse.

[an-eldritch-peredhel]

You are the daughter of an angelic faerie and an elven king. You have grown up inside the only magical safe-haven of an increasingly apocalyptic land outside. You have wanted for nothing, essentially leading the perfect life, suffering and death playing little role beyond the abstract. Your father will never die, and your mother will never leave, but for tradition you are still crown princess and are educated as such. You love to dance and to sing.

You meet some kind of monster inside your mother's borders, a monster not of her or your making. It stumbled across you, dancing in the forest, bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as it stares. You are stronger than it, but you run rather than lunge for the kill. You feel pity, more than fear. And something about him makes the part of you that you inherited from your mother sing.

He tries to follow you, for a year and a day. You are stronger, and faster, and stealthier, and you let him see you sometimes anyways. You are not convinced that he is not a monster, but nor are you convinced that he is.

Spring blooms again to the tune of your song, and you let him get closer than before until you run.

But you hear him speak for the first time. He is a speaker, and perhaps to him you are the monster. You do not run, and you do not kill.

He calls you "Tinuviel"

He calls you nightingale- a little songbird, plain and brown, with a lovely voice. They are your mother's creation, but he does not know this.

He calls you daughter of twilight- perhaps for your skin and eyes and hair, but perhaps because that is when he has seen you most.

He calls you singer- creator of the very fabric of the universe, skilled enough to deserve the title.

You are the most beautiful creature the world will ever see, the daughter of an angel and a king. He does not call you beautiful, or angelic, or princess. He calls you a singer, plain and brown, dark and distant as the approaching night.

He is bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as you dare to step closer.

He called you nightingale.

You don't know what to call him, but you hope to find out.

[doctorcurdlejr]

honey!! it's time for your dose of beautiful butch firefighter!!

[khaleesiofalicante]

Only Fools Rush In: Meet the Boys

[its-all-papaya]

landoscar + 41? 🧡 maybe fake/pr-dating-turned-real-dating coded, so maybe even + 56? like, they realize the fake wasn't that fake anymore 🙈 (insert i am in love are you in love audio here)

they are both in love, anon.

(because i found it kind of impossible to explain without adding sooo much exposition... oscar is not a driver. he's just... a guy. that mclaren found. to date lando. suspend your disbelief, idk)

send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss

41. to pretend (or is it?) | landoscar | 1.2k

Lando is in over his head. His aching, pounding, hurts-so-bad-it’s-making-him nauseous head. If he’d known one throw-away trip to the club in Miami was going to complicate his life so irreparably, he would have tucked his P1 trophy into bed next to him and gone straight to sleep like a good, boring boy. Instead, he’d gotten catastrophically fucked-up on any number of things he doesn’t remember and tossed himself dick-first into an entire publicity nightmare. That’s the worst part, probably: Lando doesn’t even remember. He remembers taking shots with Max and Danny and he remembers – barely – stumbling to the bathroom, and the next discernable point on that mental timeline comes at approximately 6:45 a.m., when he’d woken up to go vomit and found his lock screen so full of notifications that it’d made him forget to wonder where the man he’d gone to bed next to had pissed off to so early.

Since then, every minute of Lando’s life not spent in the car has felt full wall-to-wall with interviews, and meetings with crisis management, and saying “I’d prefer not to comment on that” so many times he hears it on repeat like an ear worm when he’s falling asleep at night. And also Oscar. There’s been a lot of Oscar.

He’s waiting in the lobby of McLaren’s hospitality when Lando arrives down from his driver’s room after qualifying in Brazil. Lando wonders how he got in, if their bosses have finally decided he’s trustworthy enough to walk around unchaperoned. It’s funny that he ever didn’t have a pass, actually; he is technically a McLaren employee. Probably. Lando thinks he gets paid. They’ve never talked about the specifics.

Either way, however he got there, Oscar is by himself in the lobby, leaned back in a chair, thumbing at his phone. He looks up when he senses Lando’s arrival, and Lando must look even more pathetic than he even thought, because Oscar’s face immediately goes soft with concern and he leaps up to take Lando’s bag off his hands.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks. He slides the backpack onto his own shoulders and then steadies a hand in the middle of Lando’s back, thumb tracing comforting little circles near his spine.

Lando could lie, but there’s not really any point to that, so he lets his face fold into the grimace it wants to be in and presses his thumb between his eyebrows.

“Head’s killing me,” he says. It comes out weak.

Oscar makes a sad little sound in sympathy, and the palm on Lando’s back shifts to his side so Oscar can tug him closer. Lando doesn’t have the energy to fight Oscar on these things at the best of times lately, so he’s definitely not going to when he’s exhausted and sick with the pain behind his eyes. Even though there’s really nobody around to see them.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel, then,” Oscar says, and Lando has never agreed to anything faster.

Oscar leads the way out of hospitality and through the paddock, fingers linked securely between Lando’s own. It’s baffling that he’s already been around this circus long enough to know the way without help. Nice, though, because Lando’s not really in a state to be of any.

They run into a few people along the way – fans or sponsors or employees. Lando doesn’t get the chance to tell which are which, because every time somebody new greets them, Oscar’s fingers tighten around his own and he talks the both of them cleverly out of the conversation before Lando can even consider what he would say if he was left to his own devices. It feels nearly impossible that less than six months ago, Oscar could barely say two words to Lando without being directly asked to.

“Oscar!” he hears as they’re nearing the exit, and they’re so close to relative quiet that Lando can’t help but groan about it. Oscar squeezes his hand again like an apology as he turns to address whoever it is.

"What’s up?” Oscar asks. When Lando lifts his eyes from the pavement, it’s Max stood before them. Both of his hands are hooked in the straps of his backpack and his chest is heaving just a little, like he’d jogged to catch them up.

“You’ll of course be at the race tomorrow?” Max asks. Lando’s not sure where this conversation is going, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t have to happen right now. He hopes the look he’s giving Max is sufficiently irritated.

It must do the job, because Max’s eyes brighten and he says “Not pleased about that, Lando?”

Oscar’s hand goes from Lando’s palm to his back again, quick, and before Lando can open his mouth, Oscar’s saying, “He doesn’t feel good.”

“Ah,” Max says. Lando can’t figure out the look he’s being given.

“The race tomorrow?” Lando presses. If they’re going to chat about whatever it was right now, they could at least get to the point.

Max nods, shifting his gaze back to Oscar, “You are staying, yeah?”

“Yeah," Oscar says, "Why?”

It’s taking too long. Lando squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against Oscar’s shoulder, hoping the counterpressure might do anything at all for the hot ache in his brain. Oscar’s hand goes immediately to the back of Lando’s neck, like it’s habit, and his thumb starts drawing firm lines down the muscle there, hairline to nape. It feels…really, really nice, actually.

“You’ll fly back with us after,” he can make out Max saying, “to Monaco. Lando and I and a few others.”

That doesn’t really make sense. Oscar’s been planning to go home for a bit over the mini break, Lando knows, they talked about it nearly right away when the agreement was drawn up. Far be it from him to argue that point, though, not when Oscar’s saying “Yeah, thanks, mate,” and his thumb’s still easing the pain in Lando’s skull. Lando would blame it on the headache, but it’s not like he’ll mind the extra time with Oscar, either. Which Max knows.

Lando cracks his eyes open and shifts enough to squint suspiciously at his friend, but Max is just grinning happily at the pair of them.

“Very good,” Max says. Sure.

“That’s all?” Oscar asks. His thumb finally stills. Lando does not whine about it, but it’s a close thing.

“Yes,” Max says, “you can take grumpy home now.”

Then, before Lando can decide whether that’s worth getting upset over, Oscar squeezes the back of his neck and nudges him up off his shoulder. His eyes are apologetic when Lando meets them, and he kisses Lando once on the forehead as he slides their palms back together.

It’s nice. Domestic. Very convincing, probably. Oscar’s gotten really good at his job.

“We’ll see you, mate,” Oscar says.

Max clasps Oscar’s hand for a second, then squeezes Lando’s shoulder on his way by.

When he's a few steps off, Oscar says, “Ready?” like Lando hasn’t been begging to go this whole time.

Lando says yes, please and he can tell it's a little whiny, because Oscar says "Hey, okay love, I'm sorry" and brushes a gentle kiss against his lips. Lando thinks Max is probably too far away to see it, but Oscar would know better.

It’s not until they’re finally settled into the back of the car, sides pressed together, that Lando remembers:

“Max knows about everything. You didn’t have to… he knows.”

Oscar’s gaze is soft and maybe a little sad, for some reason, but he smiles past it and combs his fingers through Lando’s hair until he settles.

“Yeah,” Oscar says as Lando’s head falls back against his shoulder, “He does.”

[marcelineuntitled]

fanart for The Great Miyagi Prefectural Cherry Blossom Viewing by @kings-highway (on ao3)

[hauntingofhouses]

yeah taimizu IS toxic and off putting actually ‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🗣️

EDIT: TO BE CLEAR THIS IS A POST IN FAVOUR OF TAIMIZU!!! I AM A DIRTY TAIMIZU SHIPPER!!!!!

[polaroidcats]

Ugly crying & the marauders generation - a pseudo-scientific approach (my marauders crying PhD abstract)

Abstract

In recent days, there have been a variety of claims as to who the prettiest and ugliest crier in the marauders generation could be. This paper aims to address the recent surge in opinions on the matter, and categorize different approaches as well as add a new approach to the scientific examination of ugliness/prettiness when it comes to crying. I hope to provide readers with an overview of the current state of research and encourage all marauders scholars to add their own and I intend to make a contribution to the discourse by committing to the bit and writing a pseudo-academic paper about it instead of actually working on my thesis.

Introduction

In the following paper, the discourse about 5 marauders era characters will be examined in regards to their various levels of perceived ugliness whilst crying. Scholars who may ask why Peter [Pettigrew] is not included in this analysis are advised to refer to acclaimed marauders ugly crying scholar @lynxindisguise's (2023) original poll on the popular blogging website "tumblr.com" which did not include Peter, but rather two non-marauders characters named Lily and Regulus. This paper will follow that approach, since Peter is the nastiest skank bitch I have ever met, I do not trust him and he is a fugly slut. The characters included in this approach are as follows: James Potter, Lily Evans, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Regulus Black.

Following the scientific criteria for ugly crying, as stated by lynxindisguise et. al (2023), the question of the ugliest crier can be answered by observing the crying person and assessing their ugly-levels on the following parameters: (1) unbecoming facial expressions, (2) facial swelling/blotching, (3) unsettling noises, (4) snot factor, (5) tear volume, (6) general loss of dignity, (7) glistening eyes/lashes, (8) Victorian heroine factor, (9) elegant tear-wiping, (10) post-cry glow (ibid).

Criteria (1)-(6) can be categorized as the ugly crying parameters whereas (7)-(10) are pretty crying parameters, creating a false binary between ugly and pretty crying, which may be problematised and addressed in another the paper. In contrast to lynxindisguise’s original 10 criteria to measure the aesthetics of crying, this paper proposes to add (11) explosiveness of cry as another ugly crying parameter, in order to get a more clear assessment of where on the ugly-pretty crying scale a character falls.

The ugly crying parameters

(1) Unbecoming facial expressions

James Potter is mentioned in this category by several marauders scholars: @jaylienpotter talks about his red face and ugly sobbing, @artbyace mentions his “scrunched up cry face” and @sectoren claimes “james (…) is that one handsome guy that when the waterworks get going becomes like. Cartoonishly ugly”, raising the question of upkeeping toxic masculinity in order to avoid having to witness more of James Potter’s crying “mug”.

Though James Potter features heavily in this category, another character who is also mentioned just as often is Remus Lupin: @kaaaaaaarf, @appreciatedmoron and @http-starboy all emphasise that Remus Lupin is the one with a red and blotchy face.

(2) facial swelling/blotching

While there is a definitive overlap between the categories of facial swelling/blotching, unbecoming facial expressions and snot factor, Sirius’ and Regulus’ victorian heroine complexions, which give them an advantage in the homonymous category, may be to their disadvantage in the “blotching” category. This will require further research by other scholars.

(3) unsettling noises

James Potter is mentioned in this category by Jaylienpotter (2023), claiming he not only hiccups when crying but also that “his cries are one of the most heartbreaking things you’ll ever hear” and similarly, artbyace states that “James loves and feels so loudly”, whereas “Sirius is silent”, both sentiments are reminiscent of znelda’s (2023) statements that James “was allowed to feel his emotions freely in a loving household” and “Sirius (…) [is] used to hide [his] feelings and [has] become stoic”.

With several other scholars, among them also @jamesunderwater (2023) raising the point that James may be the ugliest crier due to him being “the only one well adjusted enough to have access to his feelings” this raises the question of possibly introducing another category, maybe of emotional awareness/stability to be able to measure this parameter more efficiently, though emotional vulnerability may also just be a part of the unsettling noises parameter, suggesting that there is a correlation between noisiness and the existing environment being welcoming to and accepting of various expressions of emotions.

(4) snot factor

The most popular winner in the snot factor category seems to be Remus Lupin, with several scholars agreeing that his sobs are the dampest and snottiest out of all the candidates. kaaaaaaarf (2023) writes “he turnes all red and blochty and snot drips out of his nose (…) he cant (sic) not cry with his mouth open as well so there is a lot of spit”, and appreciatedmoron (2023) agrees with kaaaaaaarf on this.

It only seems right to me to include spit in the snot category as well, seeing as they’re both crying-related bodily fluids that add to the ugly-cry factor. http-starboy (2023) also mentions snot in regards to Remus Lupin, which compared to both their comments in (1) opens up the question of how unbecoming facial expressions, more particularly redness of the face and snot factor may be related, as several authors seem to write about both specifically in relation to each other. Whether this is just pure coincidence or not would need further research, for which we currently do not have enough funding. This is only one of the many research gaps in the relatively new field of marauder’s ugly crying studies, which cannot fully be addressed in this paper.

James Potter is also mentioned in the snot category, namely by the marauders scholar artbyace (2023).

(5) tear volume

Artbyace (2023) claims James Potter is “full on bawling” which can only be assumed to refer to tear volume, but the most convincing argument for tear volume comes from the acclaimed marauders scholar @fruityindividual (2023), stating that “tsunami warning tones go off in sirius’ brain anytime remus is close 2 (sic) tears” which already indicates high levels of tear volumes. The author then goes on to specify the volume by claiming that “indeed the ocean wishes rj lupin would jump in and help contribute 2 (sic) rising sea levels”, further emphasizing the volume of Remus's tears.

(6) general loss of dignity

@pastaplatypus (2023) writes about James Potter not being able to do a Melodramatic Bollywood Cry, which is perceived as inherently racist by the crier.

I would like to argue that Sirius Black also deserves to be mentioned in this category. While as of today, with less than 1 hour left to vote, 15.5% of voters agree that Sirius is the ugliest crier, the more outspoken voices all argue for different ugly criers. Due to their upbringing, I am tempted to name both Black brothers in the “loss of dignity” category and look forward to reading future contributions to this discussion.

The pretty crying parameters

(7) glistening eyes/lashes

Undoubtedly Sirius Black deserves to be mentioned in this category. I believe his dark lashes and glimmering eyes are part of what makes him the prettiest crier. Whereas Remus’s eyes also sometimes glisten or appear red, and it is usually attributed to be caused by drug consumption, which more often than not is a wrong assumption, but he happily goes along with the pretense of being a weed-smoking bad boy in order to hide his ugly crying damp tendencies.

(8) Victorian heroine factor

It almost seems superfluous to even mention Sirius (and, to a lesser degree, Regulus) Black in this category. This category was made for Sirius, as is apparent when reading lynxindisguises (2023) description of the victorian heroine factor, in response to a question by the scholar @plecotusauritus:

“the Victorian Heroine Factor is a deeply scientific assessment of the Vibes. Is this person giving tragically beautiful, windswept Victorian Heroine, sobbing gently into their hands while sprawled across a boulder or a well or a fountain of some sort? When they look up at you, do their tear-plumped lips part elegantly as a single tear slides down their cheek?”

(9) elegant tear-wiping

There hasn't been a lot of research in this area, but I would like to propose handkerchiefs with embroidered initials and family crests as another potential factor in favor of the Black brothers scoring high marks in this category as well as the Victorian heroine factor.

(10) post-cry glow

Artbyace (2023) claims “lily is always beautiful (…) even when crying”, which is echoed by znelda’s (2023) earlier claim that “Lily (…) [is] a woman and no woman is ugly when crying.”

Sirius is the other popular choice by marauders scholars for this category, with @in-flvx (2023) stating that he “handsomely handsomes while dying after 12 years of torture hell and another year in shackles”, which would mean that “a few tears would[n’t] stop him from being the hottest person in the room at all times” (ibid).

Additional parameters

I am suggesting to introduce an additional metric in order to further specify and better assess the ugly-crying levels:

(11) explosiveness of cry

@felixantares (2023) introduces the idea that Remus “is the type that very few people have been seen cry because he ignores every difficult emotion hes (sic) ever had (…) and it all explodes at once and its horrible to watch when he breaks down”, a sentiment shared by several of the other authors mentioned above in various other categories.

Further opinions & conclusions

The most popular consensus seems to be that Sirius cannot be the ugliest crier, sometimes also in direct comparison to his brother: @spindrifters (2023) answers the question of the ugliest crier with “obviously it’s regulus”, elaborating that “at least [it’s] definitely not sirius bc (sic) reg is canonically less handsome in all ways” which brings up the question if regular beauty plays into ugly crying. This is contrasted by lynxindisguises argument, that Sirius may be an ugly crier because he’s so gorgeous, and his ugly crying subverts the expectations of beauty:

“the most beautiful man alive looks hideous while crying, and his deeply awkward and perpetually damp bf (sic) is literally in his element while crying – dampness becomes him, you might say.”

This statement raises yet another question – does regular crying make the crier more or less ugly? Can an ugly crier become a pretty crier by practice or are we all born either ugly or pretty criers, condemned to this fate for life?

While this paper has given an overview of the current state of research to ugly crying/pretty crying, it has also raised many more questions. Other topics which may be addressed in future papers also include the philosophical question whether ugly crying is in the eye of the beholder and if it is possible to ugly cry without being perceived, and if it is possible to ugly cry if the person perceiving you doesn’t find it ugly. Since the research field of ugly crying is a relatively new one, we can only hope to read many more opinions on these and other topics in the future, and I look forward to reading different scholar’s approaches to these highly relevant topics.

[24-05txt]

He spits in the vicinity of the guy's face and immediately braces when he sees a gloved hand raise. It's not a flinch—its not—but he needs to be ready when they hit him.

"Hey, Soap," says the man looking over him, quiet and even and casual, and Soap's mind is sent reeling, suddenly, because the last time he heard this voice in that tone was in a shitty kitchenette at three in the morning. Must've been days ago now (at least).

"Ghost?" He tilts his chin up, trying to look down his nose and under the blindfold. If he's hallucinating, he at least wants to see it.

"Yeah. I've got you." A rough, leather-clad hand comes to rest on the side of his head and the blindfold lifts and it's Ghost on the other side. Ghost is crouched over him. Ghost tosses the blindfold away and makes eye-contact with Soap for a long few seconds.

"...Ghost?" He asks again, and hates how plaintive it sounds. He desperately wants to say something funny, even curse a little bit, have a witty quip to kickstart some banter; something to say 'I'm alright, Lt.' But he can't think of a single thing.

Thankfully, Ghost covers for him (as usual) when he says, “that's my name, don't wear it out,” and shifts the hand on Soap’s cheek, taking a more firm hold. “Give us a sit-rep, Johnny, are you injured?”

His thoughts stutter a little, like a car struggling to shift into gear.

"Dunno what time it is," he rasps. His voice is hoarse from alternating between stubborn silence and full-volume yelling with very little between. "Estimate about two days here. Taken a few blows to the head, spotty circulation to my left hand, got me drunk off something a while back—"

"I can smell that much," Ghost grumbles, and Soap can't help but laugh—dry and brittle—at the offense in his tone.

"That bad, is it?"

"Certainly didn't waste the good stuff on you, Sergeant."

Ghost knows what it's like; laying flat on your back, helpless, unable to think anything other than 'it hurts, I'm in pain, I want someone with me. Anyone. Please, God, someone. I dont want to be alone.'

Nobody had come for him—the eldest son of an eldest son—not since his mother was killed. Even then, sparingly (though it pained him to admit any fault on her part. Heavy weight in his chest. Tight throat.) Even after Price came along to play at a guardian, Simon had already been convinced of his place with others. He knew he'd never be able to depend on anyone ever again, not really. Couldn't expect them to come looking for him. Couldn't expect his little brother or his mom to step up when his father put hands on him.

He doesn't know what Johnny's home situation is like; doesn't know if he has siblings, how many, what his place in the pecking order is, if he likes his mum. It's easy to imagine Johnny as someone constantly surrounded by family, but Ghost is all too aware of the things he hasn't heard his Sergeant talk about.

He doesn’t know who comes to bat for John MacTavish, but he isn't shy to count himself among their numbers (however many or few it may be). Simon's had a long time to wish for someone to depend on—has had even longer to give up on it—and he knows what he'd want, in this situation. What he'd want in a Lieutenant. A brother. A friend.

So he gives Johnny a gentle voice, firm hands. Moves quick and efficient and withholds every apology he tries to give for the obvious overwhelm. He treats Johnny himself, lets him shy away from the medics, and is quietly relieved at the lack of serious injury.

The line gets a little blurrier when he wants to tuck Johnny up under his chin, hold him tight against his chest and listen to him breathe. Is that something he wanted, at some point? Does he want that for Johnny or himself?

The fact that he lets Simon do that—curls up against him and sheds quiet, exhausted tears—is... fucking hell it's something all of its own.

[wraithsoutlaws]

TITLE: The Dirt I'm Buried In CHAPTER ONE: Smells Like a Freakshow WORD COUNT: 5,828 PAIRING: Dagger/Dum Dum (AU) CW: Drug use, light violence, mentions of child abuse

THE TRUE STORY OF THE WORST BAND YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF: Punk rock degenerate and blood soaked disaster, Dagger is the frontman of RATTUS RATTUS, a band known more for its failures than anything else, but one in which he'll do anything to hold onto.

Ash teetered at the edge of his smoke. Sometime between his last inhale and the chime of the bass guitar beside him, the taste of the cigarette had gone flat. He spun the inhaler between shaking fingers. Gear pushed past him with the edge of his guitar, and if he spared any muttered words, Dagger didn’t hear them.  He didn’t hear much of anything at all.

The room dissipated as he watched smoke dance to stilted warm-up notes and idle chatter from the bar beyond the curtains of backstage. His leg bounced eagerly, anxiously as he sat. Since when did a show make him nervous? He scratched at his neck like a noose was tightening. The black threading that concealed the scars felt smooth beneath his fingertips, but the hard edges of the reconstructed voicebox pressed out against them. Six months since surgery and it still filled him with dread. The taste of blood never left either. 

He brought the inhaler to his lips and breathed deep and as the chemical kiss sank into his lungs, the world froze around him like the broken frames of an old television set. All his fear seeped away in the space between the pictures. 

Red lights pulsed at the corner of his eyes. He realized they were only half open.

“You good?”

The sound was an echo. He watched Dum Dum’s lips move. The chrome edges of his mouth caught the light like glitter. Dagger couldn’t feel his smile.

“Hey–” It was louder now. Accompanied with a heavy hand on his shoulder that left an electric shock across his skin. He could see the sparks like they were real, dancing through the hazey air. “We’re goin’ on. You fuckin’ good?”

“Nova,” Dagger said. His voice tasted like candy. He took another hit and realized the inhaler was spent, though he hadn’t intended to empty it. He tucked his cigarette between his lips like a lifeline and stood, catching his balance on the wall. The ground felt foreign beneath his feet, like he were stepping over clouds. Or sinking. 

Gear glared at him from the other side of the room. He never hid his discontentment for drugs. Dagger blew him a taunting kiss as he stepped onto the stage in silence.

The bar was small. Not much different from the basements they’d been booking, but the takehome was bigger. Dagger didn’t do it for the eddies either way. He stumbled toward his microphone and took one last drag of his smoke as the others filled their spaces. Gear to his left, and Moe on his right–stick thin beneath her bulky bass. He couldn’t see Dum Dum but he felt the weight of his steps as he found his drums at the back.

A hundred restless eyes bore into him from the crowd, their static energy causing the hair on his neck to stand tall. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, clutching the mic stand to keep himself from floating away. He spared a single glance to Dum Dum and nodded.

Sound exploded all around them. A cacophony of ear-splitting passion as their first song began. Dagger had a hard time keeping track of it, his mind grappling with lights and music and the faceless crowd spinning ahead of him. The broken frames of of the tv set stuttered. Everything was delayed. He came in late, words slurred through the cracking growl of his voice. It sounded wrong. It was wrong. He knew he missed a few and stopped to curse even as the music played on without him.

He almost had it figured when he pulled the mic free and lost his balance, narrowly catching himself on the nearest ledge. Only when he hit the stage hard did he realize it was Gear’s guitar. He dragged him down alongside him, spitting and cursing. The music stalled, fractured like a car crash. 

Gear shoved him sideways, knocking him with a knee, and on instinct born of streetfights and bar brawls, Dagger sent his knuckles flying into his face without question. Blood spurted up like a busted fountain. Gear yelped and slammed into him again with a fist and Dagger fell backwards, the world slipping out from under him. Lights and faces and stars circled around him. The world rushed past in a blur of fading color. He tried, in vain, to hold onto it, but he was floating far away. 

Somebody screamed at him. He couldn’t make out the voices. He wanted to shake the dizziness from his head but the moment he tried to stand, he doubled over and retched instead. A beer bottle crashed beside him, thrown from the side of the room. Dagger wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pulled himself up despite his body’s protest. Light burned into his eyes and blinded him.

“Which one of you fuckin’—”

He took one step forward and crashed off the edge of the stage.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He woke to the scratch of a pen. Short, curved strokes along his arm. He didn’t open his eyes yet, he didn’t need to. It wasn’t unusual for Moe to vandalize whichever fresh surface became available if she didn’t have her bass in hand to keep busy, and it wouldn’t be the last time he came to after a bender with a dozen fresh cocks crudely drawn inbetween his tattoos.

He didn’t move. The cracked leather cushion beneath him was cool and sticky and he knew it belonged to the sofa backstage, though he had no recollection of how he got there. Last he remembered was concrete and the burn of acid in his throat. The taste was still there, alongside a knot in his skull that drummed with pain. The monotone blur of voices from the bar came through the thin plaster walls like white noise. There was no music.

But there were words.

“—Bullshit!” Gear’s anger came in a burst. He sounded like a mewling cat and Dagger realized he had broken his nose. It took most of his restraint not to laugh. He kept his eye closed because he wanted to listen, and if Moe noticed the curve at the corner of his lips, she didn’t mention it. “Fucking skezzhead can’t even get through a single song anymore, let alone a set!”

Footsteps circled around the couch where he lied. Heavy-set, dragging like dead weight over the floor. He recognized them instantly.

“Calm the fuck down,” Dum Dum told him, the rasp of irritation apparent in each word.

Gear snorted, or tried to through clotting blood. “When you gonna stop defending him? Don’t you have a spine under all that fucking chrome?”

Dagger almost cracked an eye open at the passing silence until the unmistakable crash of metal into flesh broke through it. Moe’s pen froze as her attention was finally drawn elsewhere in the room. Whatever it was ended fast. He heard Gear grunt as his back hit against the brick wall of the club. Dum Dum gave him a warning shot.

“And when are you gonna get through a show without bitching?”

“Next time he fucking plays one! The gonk’s fried and you know it. He can’t take a piss without you holding him up.”

Dagger’s muscles tensed. Moe resumed her drawing as if she didn’t notice. 

“You’re just mad ‘cause he broke your nose,” she added.

He could hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m mad because my rent’s past due and this asshole’s having a nap.” He shuffled across the room and threw something down. A moment later his guitar case shut with a click. 

Dum Dum’s laugh sounded like a hammer over rusty nails. Short. Metallic. Violent.  “It’s all about the scratch with you.”

“No,” Gear said, his tone surprisingly steady. “It’s about self-respect. And if you got any left, you’ll ditch him too.”

His footsteps faded into the noise of the club. Dum Dum didn’t bother going after him. A minute later, Moe moved her pen to Dagger’s face and he finally swatted her hand away.

Dum Dum walked over to the sofa and stood over him, red optics glaring down, fading into a hellish blur as he finally opened his eyes. He had a hard time differentiating between each lens, or making out the rigid line of his frown beneath them. He blinked to clear his vision but it didn’t help.

“Gear’s out.” His voice was flat. It took Dagger a long time to learn how to read him. He still wasn’t sure he always got it right, but now it was unmistakable. He could feel the heat of his anger beneath his skin.

“Yeah, well…” He paused, surprised at the harshness of his own throat. Bile burned at the back of his tongue. He pushed himself onto his elbows and the sudden movement made the room spin. He wanted to puke again. He lit a cigarette to stifle the urge. “Fuck him.”

Dum Dum stood motionless above him. He didn’t like how long the silence stretched, or the look he felt behind the indiscernible veil of red that masked his face. Moe turned around and began packing up her bass, instinctively keeping her own distance from whatever was happening between the two of them. 

“What’s eatin’ you?” Dagger asked after another pull but Dum Dum didn’t respond. It seemed obvious, but he wondered if he’d say it. Instead, a cool metal hand stretched out and grasped Dagger’s hair, turning his head left and right, and if he didn’t feel like he might hurl any second Dagger would’ve shoved him off. But Dum Dum leaned down and only then did his vision finally focus and the details came into view. There was a softness in his expression, against the steel alloy etched along his lips. It wasn’t anger. It was something else.

“You look like shit.” A finger swiped over the side of his forehead and it’s the first time Dagger realized he had been bleeding. A drying, itching stain stung against his skin, but there was something pleasant in the dull ache now. “Could bring you by HeavenMed–”

Dagger pulled back and shoved him away. “Don’t think so. Your boys ain’t getting my guts that easy.” He had mostly avoided Maelstrom despite the drummer’s allegiance to the gang, and he intended to keep it that way. Even after the incident–after tearing his vocal chords to shreds–when he needed the help most, he refused the proffered hand. He knew the chromed up ‘borgs wouldn’t stop at the voicebox. 

“Whatever. What do I care if you flatline?” Dum Dum shrugged, a stiff movement. He wasn’t very good at pretending. “Least get some fresh air.” He looked over his shoulder where Moe was packing her things, then gestured toward the back door. Dagger knew he wanted him to follow, and after a moment, he did, despite the unwillingness of his legs to carry him. He nearly stumbled over the concrete, catching himself on the edge of the door before it shut behind them. The back lot was nearly empty, but the city beyond surged with life. Distant music echoed on the wind of passing traffic. The sky glittered in neon light. There weren’t any stars in Night City. He always found the name ironic. 

There wasn’t any night either.

Dum Dum kept his back to him, gesturing to the empty lane where they had parked when they arrived. 

“Gear took the van.”

“So you’ll give me a ride home.”

Dum Dum turned to look at him. “You hit your head too hard. We still have five cases stashed in the back.”

His fingers curled at his sides. Five cases.

Five shipments of hot gear stolen off Arasaka freights at the shipyard and illegally modified by juiced up tech heads, waiting for delivery up North. A couple thousand worth of eddies sitting in a van owned by a bitch. He knew now why Dum Dum led him outside. They never told Moe about their side biz. Never told Gear either, or Maelstrom. It was a secret they shared alone. 

He threw down his cigarette. Embers scattered over the concrete and burned out like the missing stars from the sky.

“Let’s go get it,” Dagger said, trying to keep himself steady.

“Look like a gust of wind will knock you down. We’ll pick it up tomorrow, after you get some rest.”

“Thought you didn’t care if I flatline,” he said. “We’ll pick it up tonight.”

“Dag–” Dum Dum stepped toward him.

The concern was starting to make him sick. He backed away.

“What? You agree with Gear?” It wasn’t so much a question. It came from the depths of his throat, stinging with acid and hate. “I’m some worthless skezzhead? Need you to hold my fucking hand?”

Dum Dum’s expression twisted. There it was, that anger he had first anticipated. It was a welcome sight from the pity. His voice came out like a rumble of static.

“Is that what I fucking said?”

“Well you didn’t tell him he was wrong.” He pulled out another cigarette. His fingers were starting to shake. Was it the anger, the drugs, or the nausea? It didn’t matter. Something was crawling beneath his skin, burrowing down to the marrow. 

“You’re bent,” Dum Dum said. His eyes fell on him heavy. “Get some fucking sleep.”

His thumb slipped off his lighter and it fell onto the street along with the cigarette. Dagger cursed beneath his breath and when he leaned down to pick them up, the world spun backwards on its axis. His balance went with it, sending him sideways before he could find it again. This time, Dum Dum braced his fall, heavy chrome fingers tightening on his arm to steady him. It was enough to keep him upright but it only lasted a moment. He shoved Dum Dum back, barely recovering his footing and only saving himself on the brick wall of the bar. 

His eyes rose beneath the black veil of his hair, fixing on Dum Dum with a narrow glare. He was met with the same look as before–that soft thing. He was suddenly grateful for the blank state of those red lenses. He couldn’t bear to see that look in flesh. 

The door flew open and his gaze snapped sideways. Moe shuffled out, carrying her bass on her back. She hardly paid them any attention as a pink Archer screeched to a stop at the curb. A purple haired woman waved from behind the wheel. Moe had a laundry list of Mox girls in rotation. Dagger didn’t recognize this one, but he had no doubt he’d see her again eventually. If the band lasted that long anyway. 

As Moe slid into the passenger’s seat he asked for a ride to his apartment. The driver regarded him with a raised brow and agreed on Moe’s insistence. He laid down in the back and tried to ignore the ache in his chest, but the feeling persisted all the way home. 

He was nearly asleep when the car pulled up. He half expected to find a fresh array of genitals drawn in between the old ones, but Moe was transfixed in conversation with other woman. He rarely heard her talk so much. When he got to his door he saw the two of them swapping spit behind the windshield, idling in the parking lot for another minute. He didn’t linger to see what else they wanted to do. 

His apartment was nestled between the empty rooms of an old motel in Northside. The last tenant, a netrunner, had it paid up for another year before their brain was fried by Netwatch. It was small, almost claustrophobic but Dagger didn’t need much for himself, and nobody complained about the volume of his music. He didn’t mind it. Dum Dum’s megabuilding was only a few minutes up the road and that made things easy, too. He wondered if he was home yet, and then he tried not to wonder about it at all.

Cockroach heard the door open and came running from his space on the bed. Dagger held his hand out for the rat and scooped him up quick.

“‘Lo friend.” He brought him close and smiled, letting the animal sniff at him in greeting. He was Dagger’s oldest friend and the face of the band. Even it’s namesake–Rattus Rattus. He’d always had a respect for the rodent. It’s authenticity. It’s honesty. It knew who it was and lived without shame even as the world stepped over it. And one day, he knew–and the rat knew, too–when the world crumbled and the rich fell, it would still be here. And it would feast on its bones. “I hope your night was better than mine.”

“Well, it couldn’t be worse by the look of it.” 

The voice came from the next room, filling the apartment with a boom.

Dagger’s hand snapped down to the switchblade in his pocket. He set Cockroach back onto the bed and let the knife swing open with warning.

The man who sauntered out wore a stiff black suit. Pinstripes made it look nicer than it was. His hair was thinning, and greased back with pomade that left a smell of teakwood all around them. Dagger’s lip curled at the sight of him. He recognized the man, but he kept his knife out nonetheless.

“That how you greet an associate?” Lazlo asked, feigning offense at the blade. He nodded down at Cockroach with a sudden look of disgust that mirrored Dagger’s. “You should take that thing back to the sewer.”

Dagger’s smile was sharper than his knife.

 “Ain’t that funny? He said the same about you.”

Lazlo laughed, but the sound lingered like a flat note and there wasn’t any humor in it. He reached into his breast pocket as if he were waiting for the opportunity all along, and slid out his phone. The not-quite-amusement was still present in his voice when he spoke.

“Hell of a show tonight,” he said.

The video was already primed by the time he turned his screen around so Dagger could see it. He recognized the sight immediately–it was the bar from the show, and he was on stage, viewed from the eyes of someone standing at the back of the room. The video shook and blurred as the sound started, clawing its way from the cheap speakers unapologetically. There were only a few notes before he watched himself stumble and collapse onto Gear. He might have laughed at the sight of the broken nose but his jaw was clenched tight. He tasted the vomit again as he retched on screen. Someone in the crowd yelled. He hadn’t heard them the first time but it was unmistakable from the phone. 

“Fuckin’ loser.” Their voice carried disappointment, matched with a chorus of similar jeers all around them.

Dagger’s teeth ached from the pressure. He saw the bottle hurled toward him much clearer than he had beneath the bright lights. His fingers stiffened around the knife bearing witness to himself–blood covered and puke stained and fucking pathetic–falling gracelessly off the stage. The crowd grew restless and before the video cut to black he could see Dum Dum pick him up.

Lazlo returned the phone to its proper place and patted down the wrinkles in his stupid suit. Dagger wanted to carve the smile off his face, but he bit back on his snarl, hoping to betray the shame that threatened to rip him in half. 

“Well,” he started with forced casualty. “That’s punk rock for you.”

“Well,” Lazlo repeated with a mocking cadence, poorly imitating the southern drawl that tinged Dagger’s words. “Punk rock don’t pay the bills, does it?”

He brought a hand up to his throat, scratching at the stubble that he hadn’t shaved. A pointed gesture. His beady eyes followed down to Dagger’s neck, to the thick lines that insulated his surgically reconstructed larynx and the artificial cartilage that kept everything in tact. As if on command, Dagger could feel his throat tighten, itch, burn beneath those black eyes. He spun the knife in his hands, considering. Lazlo didn’t bother looking down, but his nose pointed toward the blade.

“I would advise against violence. It would only complicate your situation.”

“My situation?” 

“You aren’t the first little rat to be guided by a wedge of cheddar. God knows you won’t be the last. This city is full of them, and they all think they can cheat the maze. But they can’t see past the wall ahead of them. You understand what I’m saying, Anson Wade?”

He felt himself flinch at the name. He wasn’t used to hearing it anymore. The knife stopped moving but he didn’t realize he had stilled.

Lazlo stepped sideways, pretending to examine the meager home decor around them. A few crooked posters with knives poking from the walls like a giant corkboard. Overflowing ashtrays. His mother’s vintage paperback bible tucked halfway beneath a pile of dirty clothes–he picked it up, ran his fingers over the spine. Dagger’s whole body tensed. 

Lazlo continued unperturbed. 

“See, the rat lacks the foresight to know he’s being watched; that his whole little world is just a cage, carefully constructed by those who’s deft hands control the maze–people who can add a wall as simply as they can knock one down.” He cracked the bible open, but he didn’t peer down at the pages. His gaze fixed on Dagger, the smile beneath which looked carved by wax. “How’s the farm, by the way? How’s your mother?”

The question tore the air from his lungs. 

The bible slammed shut and Lazlo threw it aside. He wasn’t interested in the answer, and in fact, he probably knew it better than Dagger did. The non-threat settled between them heavy, but the man wasn’t done. His face dropped, twisted, the mask of politeness discarded as quickly and as easily as the bible on the floor. He hulked forward before Dagger could blink, eyebrows knitted in rage.

“Don’t forget who this belongs to–” His hand clasped tight around the seams of Dagger’s throat, choking the rest of his breath away. He clawed at the meaty wrist holding him in place, but a gold watch kept him from drawing blood. He wanted to use the knife. He wanted to drive it into his skull. He wanted to skin him into ribbons. But he couldn’t. “Get me my fucking money or I’ll rip that voice back out.”

As soon as the words left his mouth he pushed Dagger back and released him, immediately smoothing down his suit and straightening his jacket across his shoulders. He cleared his throat, and the mask reappeared as if it had never left. He smiled, self-assured.

“Hell, the music scene would probably thank me.”

Dagger choked out a cough, grasping at his reconstructed throat. It felt too tight, like something had shifted, snapped. His chest heaved, panic flooding through him the same way it had the first time he felt blood fill his throat, his vocal chords torn, voice gravel. His knees nearly buckled, but he managed to find the edge of the sofa before he crashed. Cockroach scurried over to him, narrowly avoiding Lazlo’s shoes as he made his way out the door.

“Your next payment is due in a week,” he said plainly. Dagger almost didn’t hear him over the sound of his own ragged cough. “I trust it won’t be late again.”

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he took a full breath, but Lazlo was long gone. He leaned back on the sofa, gently kneading the black lines on his neck. He wasn’t certain something hadn’t broken, but when he opened his mouth he could still speak. 

“Fuckin’ asshole.”

Cockroach forced himself beneath his hand and Dagger scratched his head in kind. He was grateful for the distraction, for the company. For the eyes that regarded him without judgment. His heartbeat began to slow as he lit a cigarette. The smoke burned on the way down. Smoke, vapor, rage. It eroded him from the inside out. He was lost when he learned of his condition. The vocal hemorrhage was only the start. He pushed through it for too long, until the damage festered in his throat and something inside of him finally gave up.

Even his own voice had had enough of him.

Lazlo was a last resort. A self-proclaimed pawnbroker out of Watson. He wanted the surgery fast, without the scratch to pay for it. 

A rat in a maze.

The walls towered over him now. 

Cockroach flattened himself on his chest. 

“They don't understand,” Dagger told him. And they didn't–nobody did. Not Gear. Not Lazlo. Dum Dum…He ran his hand over the rat's fur. He found him in an empty lab in the Badlands. He was almost naked then, skinny and covered in scabs. A mess just to look at, and alone. But in spite of that, he had freed himself of his cage. And when Dagger picked him up he saw a man in a lab coat lying on the floor, deft hands stiff at his sides and his face chewed clean from his skull.

There was a way out. He just had to find it.

Cockroach squeaked in contentment. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He parked two blocks down and walked the rest of the way. He was familiar with Arroyo, but had a hard time distinguishing the streets from each other. The neighborhood was far from the meat and glamor of the city and it’s beige monotony reminded him more of his days riding roughshod through desert hills with the nomads than suffocating beneath the neon skies of Night City, but the sameness always confused him. Identical houses, cars, broken windows. If he squinted he could see the promise of suburban life, but it looked more like a postcard that fell into the mud, boot prints marring the image. 

If he was honest, it felt a little bit like home. 

He turned a corner and saw the van parked down the road, bathed beneath the orange glow of a streetlight. Gear’s house was dark. They used to play in the garage. He didn’t know where they’d set up now, but he wasn’t about to let Gear take any more from him. 

The van was a glorified junker. It barely ran, coughed smoke like tar, and bore a paint job of the band’s signature iconography: the black rat. But it was one of Gear’s more important contributions–big enough to lug their kit and still house the cases for delivery.

Dagger approached slowly, keeping his eyes trained on the house. After a moment he lifted the hood and ripped a choice wire out from the side with well practiced fingers. He learned when he was young which ones to pull and which ones not to touch. When he jimmied the door open the alarm didn’t sound and he slid into the back without hesitation. The second floor he’d built six months earlier creaked almost imperceptibly beneath his weight. He was certain that Gear was oblivious to it, but he wanted to check just in case. He kicked a pile of garbage out of the way and pulled up the stained carpet to reveal a layer of sheet metal. It didn’t match the rusted body of the van, but it sat perfectly in its place. Beneath it he found the guns. Their armored cases untouched, and much more adequate security than their surroundings. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. 

On his way back to the front seat, he glanced up at the house from the windshield. It wasn’t all bad with Gear, but Dagger wouldn’t miss him. A sellout posing punk, walls lined with Kerry Eurodyne. More concerned with how many eddies a song is worth than what it means to sing it. 

Dagger’s throat burned as he lit a cigarette.

It all comes back to scratch.

If there was a point there, he didn’t dwell on it. 

Gear was a dick, that’s what mattered. In the flickering street light his eyes scanned over the artwork that Moe had left on his arms and he smiled. Without another thought, he rummaged through the discarded trash in the back until he found a half empty can of spray paint. He jumped out of the van and crept onto the steps of the house. His optics illuminated the night as he drew the paint longways over the door, across a front window, and back around again until the lines connected. 

A cock to rival all others.

Dagger smiled, appreciating his work with the smug arrogance of a toddler before retreating.

The van started with a backfire but he didn’t stick around long enough to know if Gear heard it as he sped down the street back toward Northside. 

He should’ve gone home. 

By the time he realized he missed the turn to his apartment he was already standing outside of Dum Dum’s door. The megabuilding moved around him like a living beast, loud and feral. His head still hurt, and he knocked impatiently.

Dum Dum didn’t look entirely surprised to see him when he opened the door, but he didn’t much look happy either. Dagger pushed past him all the same.

“Wanna smoke?” he asked in what he hoped would be seen as an apology. To anyone else it might’ve missed its target, but Dum Dum knew him better than that, and when offered one from his pack, he took it with a nod. Dagger fell back into a threadbare chair and swung a leg over the armrest. “Got the van back.”

“That was quick.”

“And I didn’t need you to hold my hand neither.”

“I didn’t say–”

“I know. I’m fucking with you.”

Dum Dum groaned and lit his cigarette. “The guns?”

“They’re in the back.” Dagger leaned his head back, painfully aware of all the shifting pieces within his neck. His gaze followed Dum Dum as he sat on a busted coffee table in front of him. His apartment was bigger than Dagger’s but not by much. Not enough to keep their knees from lightly touching as they sat across from one another. They had spent many nights here, like this, writing songs and smoking. It was here where they made the band. And here where Dagger told him wordlessly with a bleeding throat that it might have to end.

“We can run ‘em tomorrow,” Dum Dum said. “I got a few days free from biz.”

Dagger nodded. Smoke painted the room in a blueish haze. His eyes felt heavy and in the brief moment he let them close he could see the video from the bar in his mind again. He forced it away quickly and focused on Dum Dum’s optics, watching the color bleed into the room.

“You know the first time I ever went to a show?” 

Dum Dum hunched forward, inviting the answer. Dagger let the memory replace the one behind his eyes as he recalled it. 

“I was thirteen years old. Snuck off the farm with a passing caravan that took me far as the city. I weaseled my way into a bar and caught some no nothing band I never heard of before. The sound was shit but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that my whole body hurt from a black eye and a broken rib ‘cause my daddy caught me smoking his cigarettes the night before. Didn’t matter I lost my boot in the pit or that I hadn’t eat for a day and a half. It was the first time in my life I wanted something to last forever.” He fumbled with a fresh cigarette, rifling through his pockets in search of a light. Dum Dum came closer and lit his smoke with the end of his cigarette. The smell of burnt wires lingered when he moved away. “I got clocked for a minor and the cops took me home. Got another shiner after that. I looked like a goddam raccoon, but it was worth it. My god, it was worth it.”

Dum Dum laughed through smoke. “You remember the band?”

“Nah. Never seen ‘em again either, but it’s the feeling that mattered.”

The feeling that stayed with him for the rest of his life, even now, nestled so deep in his chest he could no longer detach it from himself. If he ever made someone feel the way he did back then, maybe the bitter taste in his throat wouldn’t burn so strong. His fingers met his neck again, cigarette burning idly. 

“Y’know, ever since this–” he tapped the threading along his skin and paused. “I thought it was over. The band. The music. It hasn’t felt the same since. If my last show was the one tonight I couldn’t live with myself but maybe Gear’s right.”

He felt suddenly raw. Dum Dum was quiet for too long. He expected the same look of pity he had gotten before. Expected to hate it. To feel the sick rise up like fire in his chest. 

Dum Dum took one more pull from his cigarette then snuffed it out on the scarred surface of the coffee table.

“Fuck that,” he said with the same rush of a gunshot. “And fuck Gear.”

Dagger straightened in his chair from the unexpected ferocity. Whatever fire that spread through him wasn’t born of anger or shame. It was different. It was kinder.

“First time I saw you on stage was that night at Totentanz, remember? You were fronting for–what were they called? Corroded Cannibal or whatever the fuck.”

“Corroded Corpse,” Dagger corrected. There were plenty of bands before this one. None of them stuck around. The show at Totentanz had been their last. 

“Yeah, yeah. My head was splitting. Had Brick on my ass and a new recruit turning psycho. Gang split halfway down the middle. Then you came in. You blew the amps early and the mic kept cutting out. Couldn’t understand a word you were saying. Hell, they almost chased you outta the club but you climbed up the rafters and finished the set on the skywalk. It should’ve been shit, but it’s like you said…” He stood and towered over Dagger as the smoke cleared between them and a smile spread over his lips. “It didn’t matter. I was hooked.”

The words came down on him like a salve. Heavy in their simplicity.

He thought back to that day when he was thirteen. Young and rabid and lost. To that music he didn’t remember but which etched itself onto his soul. A song that led him forward, through ghost towns and Night City. To the bands that didn’t last and the one that finally did.

To here. Blood covered and puke stained and fucking pathetic.

Warm beneath red spotlights.

And he smiled.