#no diminutive words for my dick!

[bisexualgenderfemme]

butch hands on femme skin

🥰🧡💛🤍🩵💙

(it/its femme, she/bug butch)

edited & censored for Tumblr :<

[genderkoolaid]

Tranny. Many people don’t know the history of the word, they assume it was an assigned hate term or slur along the lines of the “n” word. That’s not how it happened. Tranny was invented by us in Sydney, Australia in the 1970s where drag was a big deal, and still the best drag shows ever are in Sydney, Australia – they’re amazing. So a lot of trans-identified women who were assigned male at birth did drag, that’s how you made your living. And so they were transsexuals, transvestites, drag queens, and they were all doing drag to make money. They all bickered amongst each other who is better than who, “Well the drag queens are better,” “No, the transsexuals are better.” “You are all freaks, we’re better.” And on and on and on. But they worked together and they were family together, so they came up with a word that would say family and that was tranny. In Australia they do the diminutive, that’s how they come up with words. So tranny. I learned the word in the mid-1980s, late 1980s from my drag mom in San Francisco, Doris Fish, who was the city’s preeminent drag queen and she’d come from Sydney. And she schooled me in this word tranny, she said, “This way it means we’re family, darling.” “Thank you mama.” [...] So we used it and we were trannies together. And F to M was just beginning to start, the trans men were just beginning to become visible, Lou Sullivan was a neighbor of mine around the corner, and he was the first big out trans man, wrote his book. So trans men and cross dressers . . . cross dressers were also family. Transsexuals, we were all trannies and that felt good. That got into the sex industry and became a genre – there was tranny porn, there were tranny sex workers – chicks with dicks, she-males. [...] And, my only guess is that people who . . . because the only way they would have found out about the word is if they were watching tranny porn or having been with a tranny sex worker and then hated themselves so much that they turned it into a curse word. So it’s not really technically correct to say we’re reclaiming a word – it was always ours. So, many people mistake the word for the hatred behind the word and, in my generation, and I’m sure in future generations of trans people, tranny is going to be a radicalized, sexualized identity of trans in the same way that faggot is a prideful identity in the gay male community – not all gay men are faggots, but those who are are proudly fags and those who are dykes are proudly dykes within the lesbian community, trannies are proudly tranny within the transgender community. Does that mean we can’t call ourselves that because some trans woman does not want to be called a tranny? No. I’m going to keep calling myself a tranny. To the trans woman who gets called tranny, I’m sorry – as soon as . . . you’ve got to look at why you’re getting called tranny and if you don’t pass, you’re going to be read as a transgender person and then you fall back on the cultural view of trans folk which is freak, disgusting, not worth living, we can hurt you. It has nothing to do with the word, it has everything to do with the cultural attitude. So the word has stirred up a shit storm, but it’s not the word.

— Kate Bornstein on the word "tranny" in this oral history from the Digital Transgender Archive

[yeoldenews]

While we’re on the subject of names, is there an explanation for how traditional nicknames came about that are seemingly unrelated to, or have little in common with, the original name?

ie- John/Jack, Richard/Dick, Henry/Harry/Hank, Charles/Chuck, Margaret/Peggy/Daisy, Sarah/Sally, Mary/Molly, Anne/Nan, etc

I am actually over a week into researching a huge follow-up post (probably more than one if I’m being honest) about the history of nickname usage, so I will be going into this in much, much more detail at a hopefully not-so-later date - if I have not lost my mind. (Two days ago I spent three hours chasing down a source lead that turned out to be a typographical error from 1727 that was then quoted in source after source for the next 150 years.)

As a preview though, here’s some info about the names you mentioned:

The origins of a good portion of common English nicknames come down to the simple fact that people really, really like rhyming things. Will 🠞Bill, Rob🠞Bob, Rick🠞Dick, Meg🠞Peg.

It may seem like a weird reason, but how many of you have known an Anna/Hannah-Banana? I exclusively refer to my Mom’s cat as Toes even though her name is Moe (Moesie-Toesies 🠞 Toesies 🠞 Toes).

Jack likely evolved from the use of the Middle English diminutive suffix “-chen” - pronounced (and often spelled) “-kyn” or “kin”. The use of -chen as a diminutive suffix still endures in modern German - as in “liebchen” = sweetheart (lieb “love” + -chen).

John (Jan) 🠞 Jankin 🠞 Jackin 🠞 Jack.

Hank was also originally a nickname for John from the same source. I and J were not distinct letters in English until the 17th Century. “Iankin” would have been nearly indistinguishable in pronunciation from “Hankin” due to H-dropping. It’s believed to have switched over to being a nickname for Henry in early Colonial America due to the English being exposed to the Dutch nickname for Henrik - “Henk”.

Harry is thought to be a remnant of how Henry was pronounced up until the early modern era. The name was introduced to England during the Norman conquest as the French Henri (On-REE). The already muted nasal n was dropped in the English pronunciation. With a lack of standardized spelling, the two names were used interchangeably in records throughout the middle ages. So all the early English King Henrys would have written their name Henry and pronounced it Harry.

Sally and Molly likely developed simply because little kids can’t say R’s or L’s. Mary 🠞 Mawy 🠞 Molly. Sary 🠞 Sawy 🠞 Sally.

Daisy became a nickname for Margaret because in French garden daisies are called marguerites.

Nan for Anne is an example of a very cool linguistic process called rebracketing, where two words that are often said/written together transfer letters/morphemes over time. The English use of “an” instead of “a” before words beginning with vowels is a common cause of rebracketing. For example: the Middle English “an eute” became “a newt”, and “a napron” became “an apron”. In the case of nicknames the use of the archaic possessive “mine” is often the culprit. “Mine Anne” over time became “My Nan” as “mine” fell out of use. Ned and Nell have the same origin.

Oddly enough the word “nickname” is itself a result of rebracketing, from the Middle English “an eke (meaning additional) name”.

I realized earlier this week that my cat (Toe’s sister) also has a rebracketing nickname. Her name is Mina, but I call her Nom Nom - formed by me being very annoying and saying her name a bunch of time in a row - miNAMiNAMiNAM.

Chuck is a very modern (20th century) nickname which I’ll have to get back to you on as I started my research in the 16th century and am only up to the 1810s so far lol.

[bowtiepastabitch]

Deeply Transgender and Vividly Pornographic: a deep dive into what makes a fic queer

This is a response to the wonderful @ineffabildaddy making this post, which it was originally going to just be a reblog to but once I started approaching a thousand words it was a bit unwieldy so we're just going all the way. If second base is reading their fics and third base is actually talking to your mutuals, I have no clue what this is.

Here's the prompt text that started it all:

Alright, well I am nothing if not a scientist (narrator voice: they were, in fact, a humanities major), so I spent several hours of my weekend putting this together because I'm a burnt out academic and this is the enrichment in my enclosure. Readers, this is going to contain experpts of some very spicy stuff, so stop here if you're not interested. Me bringing porn? To your tumblr dash? It's more likely than you think.

All fics and such referenced will be linked at the bottom of the page.

~~~

Heteronormativity and cisnormativity, while unfortunately the dominant norm for mainstream pornography, make little appearance within the fandom writing spaces I myself spend time in. That's not to say I haven't read my fair shair of painfully straight smut in my lifetime, but simply that I have taste and am lucky to be neck deep in a fandom with very little of it. Nonetheless, as a card-carrying queer and writer myself, I consider myself quite familiar with the distinctive traits and patterns of queer and cishet pornographic writing. Beyond merely a focus on non-male pleasure or the subtle presence of queer or trans characters, the characterization of queer fanfiction is distinct and has entirely different mannerisms in dealing with conceptions of the body and pleasure. I'll primarily be citing Ineffabildaddy's work, for the sake of a focused analysis, who I will henceforth be referring to as Sam for the sake of pseudo-academic flow.

There are certain linguistic patterns that tend to distinguish heterosexual and heteronormative depictions of sex from queer ones. For instance, "cunt" is utilized sparingly within heteronormative contexts for its vulgarity and added obscenity, whilst queer writers use it pretty universally and without the same subtext. Throughout his writing, Sam works with this queer-coded vocabulary pretty consistently. In "Strawberry Scripture" (F/M), he describes how "Crowley's cunt... was damn-near swollen" and how Aziraphale has to resist "Bury[ing] his face in it immediately." No cis-het man has ever thought about eating pussy that way, and if you find one I'll eat my fucking hat. Likewise, vocabulary for the phallic tends to veer in the direction of "cock" over anything else. Interestingly, this creates a set of contrasting pairings. Heteronormative slang, from my obvervation, is more likely to use 'dick' and 'pussy', and, especially in conjunction, it creates a very distinctive mouthfeel that separates the two and poses them as opposites. 'Pussy', in particular, has a much more feminized feel when juxtaposed against 'dick', favoring much softer consonants and the english diminutive 'y' ending. 'Cock' and 'cunt', in comparison, have a very similar sound and feeling to them, distancing itself from hetero-cis-normative gender dualism of the language. There is, of course, plenty of nuance to this and the use of a variety of language in subverting cisnormative ideas about the sexed body as well, with phrases like 'boypussy' and 'girldick' being rather essential to the way many trans people describe their own bodies. "Fandom's Pornagraphic Subset," (yes I'm stealing sources from my research paper on monsterfucking, suck my dick) an article published in 2021 by Silja Kukka, describes how the "fleshy, hyperbolic descriptions of sex" that characterize this kind of writing are essential to what she dubs the "[creation of] a new genderqueer place outside of the gender dichotomy"(57). If you read enough smut, you know exactly what this is talking about. For example, in "Despite Knowing Better,"(F/M) we get vivid imagery to describe the way "streaks of her spit oozed from her mouth even as Aziraphale fucked it"(Ch5) and of "her walls quivering and clenching around him."(Ch3) This level of graphic sexual depiction goes beyond what would be considered 'tasteful' or 'sexy' in a heteronormative concept of pornography.

In terms of tropes, let's do a deep dive into "Strawberry Scripture"(F/M) to find what makes it queer beyond it's apparently straight pairing. To preface, this fic involves both foodplay and monsterfucking, but we're only gonna analyze one. The inherent queerness of monsterfucking is actually something I've written an entire academic paper on, so I suppose I'll start there. There's something very queer and often very trans about subverting the standard playbook of sexual acts, and while kink itself can easily be heterosexual, most monsterfucking falls far outside that category no matter what genital configuration those involved have. Monsterfucking tends to reject the phallocentrism of heteronormativity and mainstream kink by subverting the concept of the human body itself, giving inhuman and monstrous qualities to characters usually for sex appeal or general kinky shenanigans. While there's an argument to be made for heteronormativity still being able to creep into certain spaces, that certainly isn't true for this fic. There's something intrinsically transgressive about creating an erogenous zone out of a feature that would largely be considered horror or 'gross' in any other form of media, which is exactly what Sam does here as he describes the "cool, satiny sensation that the plates of her scales against his tip engendered." The scales are not merely called apon for their invocation of the unusual but to give them an eroticism in and of themselves, with Crowley reaching orgasm through their stimulation. We also slide gently into Monsterfucker territory in "Close (well you couldn't get much closer)" (M/M), where an argument could be made that the most trans-coded element isn't even Crowley's T-dick but instead the presence of a magic angel dildo. (sentences I never thought I'd fucking say but here we are.) There's something deeply transgender about the deconstruction of genital purpose in sex that recontextualizes the gendered body's role in pleasure. It falls into the same semiotic revolution and reclaiming of the body as the changes in language used by trans folks to rename and reidentify the literal physicality of the body by ones own standards (ie T-dick).

Another major trademark in departing from heteronormatized porn is the shift in narrative focus away from penetrative sex. That is, even in paragraphs where the main sex event is penetration, it rarely takes up even half the prose. The majority of narration is focused on surrounding or tangential actions: "the flowing movement of ... hips was sedate and wanton and lusciously provocative,"(1) "watching the muscles which resided there tense and relax alternately with pleasure,"(2) "his tongue stole past his teeth and slid over them,"(3) and "he whispered, his voice aching and curling and stretching for her"(4); all excerpts pulled from moments in which penetration is taking place, yet the concentration is anywhere but. Likewise, the act of penetration itself only takes up a small portion of physical sex acts in the grander scheme of Sam's writing. Instead, we as readers are presented with a vast spread of cock-sucking, pussy-eating, fingering, teasing, frottage, kissing, and more. Contrast this with the cis-hetero norm, where penetrative sex is the endgoal, and any other action is shucked aside to play second fiddle as mere foreplay. It's the reason virginity as a concept is directly tied to the mystical hymen and one's experience with penetration; a straight girl can suck dick a thousand times and still consider herself a virgin. As such, in a piece of pornographic writing where I have significant trouble finding lines to pull specifically and exclusively describing penetration (seriously, try it out yourself), the heterosexual influence is negligible. And yes, I'm talking about all of them. I had to restructure an entire argument that focused on comparing lines from different works because it was so difficult to find them.

So, in conclusion, Sam, love, there is not an ounce of heteronormativity in even the "straightest" of your writing. Congratulations.

Links, in order of reference:

Strawberry Scripture (3)

Fandom's Pornographic Subset, article by Silja Kukka and a great read

Despite Knowing Better... (4)

Close (you couldn't be much closer)

Many Different Ways to Eat an Oyster (1)

I'm Beginning to See the Light (2)

Author's notes, and then I promise I'll leave y'all alone: Hi! This started as a short analysis but quickly became a three(?)(maybe more?) hour labor of love analyzing the things I love most about both Sam's writing and the writing in this community as a whole. Please please please ask me questions, I'm an autistic little bitch and I like knowing things. My ask box? Open. Comments? Open. Reblogs? Open. If you've read this far, I fucking love you and I am kissing you on the mouth right now. Don't worry, my gender is just queer so it's gay no matter what. <3<3<3

[onlyinmy-ass]

Rules for a Dumb Toy

For the next week, these are the rules I must follow. You helped me come up with them, and I hope you will help keep me in line and following them like a good, empty headed toy should

1. Turn off auto correct - this will show everyone how stupid I am

2. Capital letters are only for Men, Sir, Cock, Dick etc - after all, that is all that should matter to a desperate fucktoy

3. Use short words, diminutives and lots of emojis - brainless toys don't use big words, they use silly, baby versions like cunnie, titties, icky. They use text speak and um and errrr a lot because their brains are slow

4. Edge twice before getting up/going to bed every day - dumb cunts should always be wet and needy and thinking about Cock, but they havent earned the right to cum

5. No cumming - toys edge, they dont cum. If at the end of each week a Man gives permission then they can cum but otherwise.... Stay wet and horny

6. Don't use I. Use holes, toy, tits etc to refer to myself. That's what I am after all, just empty holes to be filled.

7. No bra/underwear - that should be obvious. There are exceptions to the rule (wear pants during period, bra at the gym or places where it's against the rules not to; real life safety always comes first) but where and when possible, assets should be on show

8. Wear an anal plug to the shops and a toy around the house - training a toy's ass is important as they need to remember it is their most useful hole and they should always be ready to serve Men. Ask a Man every day which size plug/toy to use

9. Watch porn - good horny brainless bimbos watch a lot of porn, and the extra good ones stick their tongues out, rub their clit and hump their pillows as they watch more and more degrading videos. At the end of each day, I will post a list of the videos I've watched

10. Start every day with a mantra post - pick a new mantra each morning and write it out ten times to prove your commitment to being a brainless bimbo doll

At any time you can send an ask and do a check in, send tasks to make it even more difficult or push me even deeper into my bimbo brainless state and I will thank you for it!

Let's do this 😄

[thus-spoke-lo]

What Big Teeth You Have // Freeloader!Toji Fushiguro x afab!reader // NSFW/18+ Written for @bastardblvd's House of Slimy Horrors Collab - prompt "werewolves"

Synopsis: Your freeloading boyfriend is the Big Bad Wolf to your Little Red Riding Hood for tonight's Grimetown Halloween Festival. A shortcut through the woods proves perilous, however--it's a full moon, and danger lurks even closer than you think. CW: slimeball au; afab!reader [no pronouns used to address reader]; reader wears dress/skirt; brief mention of vaginal intercourse; body horror [descriptive steps of werewolf transformation]; vomiting [reader]; werewolf violence [ex. biting with intent to maim/injure/consume]; implied character death WC: 3k // Fictober Masterlist

“Toji, wait up, you’re walking too fast!”

His long strides feel even longer as the heels of your boots sink into the soft ground, smooth soles gliding across damp, grimy leaves, while thin branches in the undergrowth poke and tear at your tights. You wrap your arms around yourself tightly as a brisk wind whips through the darkened forest—you’re not exactly dressed for warmth tonight.

“Weren’t you the one in a hurry to get there?” Toji retorts from a few paces in front of you, the grey wolf tail of his costume swaying against his thighs, lean hips swinging with each step. “Better keep up, Red, or somethin’ spooky’ll get ya in these woods.”

You huff a sigh and grit your teeth, trying to ignore the growing ache in your legs and the way your lungs burn from the stench of dead forest that lingers in the cold air. A feeling of being on edge—of being right on the precipice of something dangerous, something dreadful—blooms inside your chest with every step.

“I still don’t understand why we had to walk. Why couldn’t we call a cab?” you shout after him, swiping away a spiderweb as you stumble over another rock.

“I tried, babe,” he says shrugging his wide shoulders. “The guy said one of their drivers was off tonight so it was gonna be a super long wait. Besides, isn’t this more fun?”

“Not fucking really,” you mutter under your breath, watching the steam puff out of your mouth with each word, sending your vitriol into the night.

The Halloween festival had started hours ago—just before sundown, back when you’d first donned your discount Little Red Riding Hood costume (“Diminutive Crimson Cruising Cap” you’d read aloud to yourself in line at the Halloween shop earlier that week, trying to avoid staring at the large printout of Toji behind the counter with the words “UNWELCOME—DO NOT SERVE THIS MAN” printed across the bottom), and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles in the cheap material.

You stripped Toji of his skintight shirt and sweats as he grumbled about having to attend the festival, and he tried to ply you with messy kisses and large, warm hands wandering over your body as a means of convincing you to stay home with him, to curl up on the sofa and put on some scary movie and watch all of five minutes of it before succumbing to his charms and the lure of his massive dick. You fought your base urges valiantly, trying not to become distracted by his broad, muscled form and the way his fingers felt brushing against your exposed skin, and focused on coaxing him into the Big Bad Wolf (or “Large Deplorable Dog”) costume that you’d purchased.

“Please, Toji? Pretty please?” you pouted, tracing your finger over his bare chest. “Go get ready and put it on for me, won’t you? You’ll look so hot in it.”

“Aw come on, why do I gotta wear that?” he whined as he tore open the package in a way that meant you couldn’t stuff it back in the bag and try to return it tomorrow. “I already have my wolf costume.”

“You mean that fuckin’ bathmat?” you scowled, pointing at the crumpled heap of brown fabric by your front door. “Absolutely not, now go shower and put this on.”

“But that bathmat is convincing, baby,” he said with a pout, gripping you by the waist and pulling you against his bare torso. “I’ve made so much money off that thing.”

“Wait, you what?”

“Huh? Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

After enough cajoling and sweet-talking and promises that you’d definitely help fund his new app idea, he finally trudged off to get ready for the evening, reappearing an hour later smelling like too much Axe body spray and looking like the cover of the kind of supernatural romance novel you could only find in certain pockets of the internet.

“Well, whaddya think, Red?” Toji asked, giving you a little spin as he walked out of your bedroom, throwing on the rubber wolf mask and strolling to the center of the room. Your heart fluttered (as did something else) at the sight of him in a tattered flannel shirt and ripped jeans, giving you hints of the fine musculature underneath. He looked big, and gruff, and dangerous—not all that different from how he looked day-to-day, but now with an irresistible layer of lycanthropy.

“Wow,” you murmured, running your hands over the cheap fur gloves, skin tingling at the way his warm breath huffed out of the open jaws of the mask, “you certainly do make a convincing wolf.”

“I know, huh?” Toji mused, tilting his head like a curious canine. “Like I was born to play it.”

You carefully removed the mask and gloves, tossing them on the couch beside you, and reached up to run your fingers through his mess of dark hair. “My—what big eyes you have, Mister Wolf.”

“All the better to look at that nice ass with, Red.” He reached a wide hand around to grab at the meat of your backside, squeezing you until you yelped.

“And goodness—what big hands you have.”

“Well, all the better to tease you with, sweetheart,” he whispered, his hand trailing over your hip and across your thigh, to settle in the cleft between your legs, pressing against your heat.

“And my, my, my,” you purred as your hand trailed down his chest, down the rock-hard abs barely hidden by his open shirt, down to the thick, heavy hardness that was already beginning to strain the fabric of his jeans. “What a big dick you have, Mister Big…Bad…Wolf.”

He grinned like the predator he was, even without all the furry accoutrements, grabbing you by the nape of your neck as he leaned in, lips barely ghosting yours. “Why, all the better to fuck you with.”

It wasn’t long before you were bent over your couch and Toji bullied his fat cock inside your aching cunt, ruining you over and over again until your legs were jelly and your brain was scrambled and you’d agreed to give him money for…something else, you couldn’t even remember what at that point. It was then you realized that it was dark outside, not even a streak of sunlight left in the sky and the moon hiding behind thick patches of clouds—and that you would likely miss most of the festival’s events if you didn’t pull your panties up your trembling legs and hustle out the door.

As you continue to make your way through the darkened forest, the path ahead barely visible with only Toji’s broad body as a beacon to guide you, something is making your skin crawl—you must still have some leftover cottony spiderweb on you, and you dig your nails dig into your flesh to relieve the sensation, lightly at first, then a little harder. But no matter how you scratch, you’re just itchy, so fucking itchy. It must be the cheap material of your costume, or maybe you brushed against some sort of poison plant—these woods had to be chock-full of them—but regardless of why, it feels like your skin is on fire, and no amount of careful scratching is even beginning to quell the feeling. And it’s hot—why is it so goddamned hot? The chill in the air has been chased away by a sudden and overwhelming fiery sensation, like you’re slowly being boiled from the inside by your own blood. A feeling you know too well starts to wrap around you, a heavy blanket of imending doom you cannot ignore.

It can’t be.

No, no, no—it can’t.

You’d been careful, so careful. It must be something you ate—you did inhale an awful lot of peanut butter cups, maybe it’s a new and extremely unexpected peanut allergy. Yes, that has to be it…

“Hey, babe, what—are you okay?” Toji stops in his tracks, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. He almost looks concerned—almost.

“Why?” you ask, scratching at your skin feverishly and wiping away the sweat the was beginning to drip from your temples. Can he see how your face glistens with moisture? The red marks that line your forearms from your mindless itching? The way your body trembles, vibrating on a frequency that few can hear?

“Uh…it’s nothing.” He furrows his brow and presses his lips together, looking you over another moment before he resumes his trek. “Nevermind.”

You hike after him, trying to match his pace and failing as every piece of clothing feels like it’s suffocating you. “Is it—is it warm? It’s so warm. When did it get warm?”

“You were just complaining how cold it is—what the hell are you talking about?” Toji grunts from up ahead.

“I don’t know. I’m just—I’m running hot tonight, I guess.”

As you amble through the forest, head full of static, body still burning you alive from the inside out, you catch a hint of light shining through the dense clouds. They begin to dissipate for the first time tonight, and your lips part in horror as the moon shines down at its full brightness, no noise coming from your lungs for a moment except for the bleak sounds of your own shivering breaths.

“Toji.” His name leaves your lips quietly, like something akin to a plea. “It’s a full moon.”

“Yeah, ain’t that neat?” he chuckles from up ahead. “A full moon on Halloween.”

“It—I thought it wasn’t supposed to be ‘til tomorrow,” you stutter, tears already starting to form at your lashline as the realization of your grave miscalculation hits you.

“Well, guess you thought wrong, baby.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

If you can just get to the festival—if you can just find a quiet place to ride out this feeling—if you can just talk to Recovery Girl, maybe she has a strain that can mellow you out, you’ll just call her real quick—fuck, your phone doesn’t have any signal, why doesn’t it have any signal in these godforsaken woods? You’re not even that far from town. Could you head back? You should head back. You should just leave him and run—run back home, lock your doors, close the curtains, it’ll all be fine, it’ll—

“Whoa, slow down, Red, what’s your hurry?” Toji’s hands wraps around your wrist and yanks you backwards—somehow you’d managed to eclipse him, your legs moving as fast as your thoughts. “You act like the big, bad wolf is chasing you or something. We got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

With swift movements, Toji pins you to the nearest tree and snakes an arm around your waist, pressing his warmth against you. He growls long and low as he leans in and licks a thick stripe up your neck, kissing back down the trail, biting and sucking along your blazing-hot skin. It’s hard to resist him at first, a deep and painful ache building in your core at his touch—but the way your skin still itches and the way your insides still feel like they’re going to ignite is too distracting, too all-consuming, especially when you know you’re on borrowed time.

“Toji, we need to get going,” you insist, trying and failing to wriggle out of his grasp.

“Aw, but it’s all dark and cold and we’re all alone,” he coos, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “You never wanted to fuck in the woods?”

“Please.” You do, of course, want to fuck in the woods—just not these woods, just not these woods right now, when your body is blazing and your stomach is churning and the direness of your situation is becoming more and more apparent. “I’m—I’m not feeling well.”

And it is true, every quiet word, delivered through shaking breaths—you’re succumbing, moment-by-moment, to a sickness that you could never escape, one that you know defies explanation and rational thought. He’ll never believe you—not unless he sees it for himself, and that would be a step in your so-called relationship you could never, ever take back.

“Well I know just what you need to feel better, baby—a nice big dick from your big, bad wolf.” His hand slides from your waist down to your hips, fingers digging into the plushness beneath your cheap skirt.

“Toji, please…I really don’t feel well.”

Something in the way you plead, the look of utter helplessness that you must be wearing all over your sweat-drenched face, makes him recoil and back away, his hands slipping away from your body to hang loosely at his sides. Before you can stop yourself, bitter acid comes clawing up your throat and you manage to turn your head just in time to vomit on the ground instead of all over Toji.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He sounds more worried than angry, more confused than upset. “Did you eat some of that gas station sushi again?”

You push past him and manage to stagger a few feet away before you bend in half, heaving and emptying yourself of this afternoon’s McNuggets, staying there until you finally feel hollow. As you stand and turn, cheeks puffy and tear-stained, chest tender and ribs creaking with every labored breath, Toji gasps and you know—it’s starting.

“Baby,” he says, the word drawn out and quiet, barely audible over the wind that rustles the remaining leaves still clinging to their branches, “what happened?”

“What do you mean?” you ask as you wipe the bile from your chin, gagging at the acrid taste that remains on your tongue.

“Your eyes.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his skin. “What…what big eyes you have.”

You’ve seen them in the mirror time and time again when you lock yourself in your apartment to wait out the storm that rages inside you once a month: they burn bright like smelted gold. You wonder if the way your pupils grow and bloom in the dark looks the same as when you’re in the throes of lust—or if perhaps it looks altogether inhuman.

“Thank you, Toji,” you murmur, your voice settling into a guttural growl. “You’re just so sweet to me.”

He presses his back against the tree and you sense his heart thundering in his chest, hear the way his fingertips grasp at the bark of the tree. But he doesn’t run—he could still outpace you, at least for the moment, at least until you reach your magnificent final form, and you wonder if he can still sense something human inside you.

You certainly don’t think you can anymore.

“What are you so afraid of, baby?” you ask, the itching sensation growing and growing as long, silver hair envelops your body. Toji cringes and clenches his eyes shut, his chest heaving with short, harsh breaths with every step you take towards him. That awful squelching sound you are so accustomed to must have hit his ears—the sound of your skin stretching, growing, making room for the bones that crack and snap and elongate—and the beginnings of a scream tries to find its way out into the night air, but only finds life as a choked gasp.

It’s strange—this is the first time you’ve seen this man scared of anything other than taxes and accountability.

And it makes your heart pound faster, and your blood run hotter, and your sharpening teeth tingle with an anticipatory exhilaration. This is the first time you’ve seen him scared, and he’s scared of you of all things: you, milquetoast and mediocre, middling and meek—and now he trembles as you press your long, crooked fingers against the brick wall of his chest, your hands flat against him, feeling the heightened tempo of his heart underneath your palm. It’s enough to make you laugh, if you could remember how through the fog of yearning, through the desperate need to consume.

And oh, it feels good. It feels right. It feels like a natural order has at last been restored, with you at the apex of the food chain for once in your life, standing atop the freeloaders and the users and the conmen. Watching him cower like a frightened rabbit is so exquisitely intoxicating, a drug you’d gladly synthesize and microdose every day of your damned life.

Toji alternates between spitting curses at you, vile and desperate, and pleading with sweet words of praise and adoration—he loves you, he adores you, he’d do anything for you if you’ll just let him go. It’s fun for a while, watching him struggle and thrash underneath you, his wide hands grasping weakly at your forearms, as though he could do any real damage to the body that you now inhabit. Toji squeals helplessly as you grab his wrists and force his arms above his head, long claws sinking into his skin. The scent coming off him is luscious, succulent even, and you feel a hunger begin to overtake you—one that will only be satisfied with something warm, something that tastes of iron and sinew.

Your lips curl into something approximating a smile—at least you think it’s a smile, it’s so hard to tell where the thin edges of your lips begin and end around the elongated snout that protrudes from your face, and the look on Toji’s face says you might have settled upon a snarl instead.

“Oh honey,” Toji chokes out, voice cracking as tears run down his chiseled cheeks in delicious rivulets. He whimpers as your wide tongue laps at them—they taste like dread. “W-what big teeth you h-have.”

The words you growl back are obscured by his scream as your canines at last gain purchase in the tendons of his thick neck: “All the better to eat you with.”

[sleptwithinthesun]

hello so welcome to myself and @themiseryandcompany being insane for 4.9K words. basically we went "LMAO what if d/c c/omics" and well here we are. enjoy a lil sickfic :)

note that some characters will use diminutizing nicknames but! everyone is 18+

second part of this fic, posted by kovu, is here !

Jason was planning on making this a quick trip to the Manor. Really. 

He came for a bite to eat—nothing even close to a family dinner, since that wasn’t really his style anymore—but rather to raid Bruce Wayne’s pantry, just to make the old man’s day a little bit worse. What he finds instead is not Bruce, stewing in his inevitable misery as he realizes Jason’s only come home to mooch off of him, but rather Dick, standing in front of the open door to the fridge. He’s gazing vacantly at the nutrition facts label on a gallon of almond milk and swaying slightly, as if he can’t quite keep himself steady. 

“Dickface, what the fuck are you doing?” 

He barely reacts to the insult, slowly turning his head toward the sound of Jason’s voice, and Jason winces. His brother looks like death warmed over, eyes hollow with dark circles underneath them. His nose is pink, too, lips chapped and slightly parted like he’s breathing almost exclusively through his mouth. Which, Jason realizes, he probably is. 

Concern quickly gives way to amusement. Jason’s often seen Dick in a bad way, but today, he’s looking particularly shitty. He snickers under his breath at the sight, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh, you look fantastic,” Jason hums wryly. Dick blinks, then blinks again like he’s finally registered the fact that Jason is standing right in front of him. 

“Sick.” 

He arches an eyebrow in a single, fluid motion. “Sick?” 

Dick shuffles toward him, not even bothering to shut the fridge. Jason reaches past him to give it a helpful push, then starts with surprise as his older brother practically collapses into his arms. “’M sick,” he whines, and if he didn’t look so damn pathetic, Jason would honestly shove the guy off of him right now. It’s not like Jason is especially keen to join in on the party. “I’m pretty sure I’m dying, actually.” 

“You’re not dying,” he huffs. “What is it, a cold? The flu?” 

“Don’t know. It’s bad though: chills, aches, and my stomach—” 

“Spare me the gory details.” Jason interrupts, grimacing. Dick sniffles noisily, as if attempting to fill the silence. Jason grimaces harder. “Where’s B?” 

“Away. With Damian.” He sniffles harder, and Jason’s tempted to punch him with a tissue. Anything to get him to blow his damn nose. “Something to do with father-son bonding. Why didn’t he do that with us?” 

“He did. You got a concussion and he was too scared to do anything else until Timmers came along. Speaking of,” Jason says, glancing around, “where is the kid? Hiding away from your germs?” 

Dick shakes his head. Why is he still burying his face in Jason’s chest? He lifts Dick by the shoulders and pushes his stupid, sick brother upright as Dick explains, “Already shared ’em. Timmy’s in his room.” 

Jason runs a hand down his face. He came by to raid the pantry, not to play nursemaid. He can make a sandwich and leave and no one can make him feel guilty for it. 

“Damn, that sucks.” He sidesteps Dick, heading for the fridge. He’s making his goddamn sandwich and leaving. 

“It’ll be only the two of us until Saturday.” 

Again, Jason says, “Damn, that sucks.”

He keeps his eyes trained on the fridge. He knows if he looks at Dick, even for a moment he will fall victim to those sad blue eyes and he’ll spend his evening tending to Dumb and Dumber (with Dick being Dumber, of course. He wouldn’t do Tim that badly). He’s going to eat and then he’s going to leave. He reaches for the handle…

“hH’ATSSH’h!”

Jason feels a tug at his heart strings. Damn it. 

“Okay, you? To bed. Now.” 

Dick’s expression is surprised when he lifts his face from his elbow, sniffling yet again. God, how is he a detective in Blüdhaven? The idiot can’t even figure out that he’ll give himself a sinus infection if he keeps going on like this. “What? Jason, I’m fine—” 

“You just told me you were dying,” he counters. 

Dick tosses his hands up, stumbling back a step as he somehow manages to throw himself off-balance with the action. “In jest!” 

“Dickhead. Go to bed or I’ll carry your ass up there myself.” Jason starts heading off in the opposite direction, already knowing that Dick is a lost cause. He’s likely to still be here when Jason gets back, and if by some miracle he actually listens, then Jason will at least know where he is. “Now, I’ve got a Timberella to find.” 

Naturally, Jason doesn’t go to Tim’s room first. He doesn’t even go upstairs. If he knows anything at all about his little brother, it’s that he likes to isolate when he’s under the weather, so his bedroom is probably the last place he’s hiding. No, Jason  starts with the library, the massive oak doors creaking open in front of him. Rows of books stare back, but there is no sign of life. He moves quickly toward their family den next. The various couches and seats were empty and the TV was off. 

“Timberly?” His voice reverberates against the walls, designed for the strategic amplification and absorption of sound for movie nights. Nothing. Perhaps the bathroom next. 

Jason’s frustration grows as he takes the stairs two at a time. He heads for the bathroom on the main floor when something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention—the door to the broom closet at the beginning of the hall sits slightly ajar. 

“He wouldn’t…” 

He fucking would. 

Jason genuinely has to search the closet to find him, though, which is almost impressive. Most broom closets aren’t very big to begin with, and this one is even smaller than usual, since the bedrooms are on the third floor, where Alfred keeps most of his supplies. There’s a bucket of cleaning supplies, a dust rag and one of those old feather dusters, an old vacuum cleaner with the bellows and everything, a socked foot poking out from behind it— 

Tim. 

The kid’s curled up behind the vacuum, legs tucked up to his chin, arms wrapped around his knees like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. Jason can’t help the frown that crosses his face at the sight; it’s been a good four years since Bruce officially adopted Tim, and still, the kid retreats like this whenever he’s even remotely unwell. Still tries to be as unobtrusive as possible, even when his breath is rasping in his chest the way it is now and his cheeks are bright with the flush Jason’s come to associate with fever. 

“Aw, kid…” Something close to sympathy rushes up into his throat, and Jason crouches in the doorway. “Timmy, hey.” 

Tim doesn’t rouse the first time he calls his name, nor the second. He doesn’t stir until Jason wraps his hand around his notably warm heel and digs his thumb into the ball of his foot. When he finally cracks open his eyes, he looks almost as confused about his whereabouts as Jason is. 

“Jay?” 

Jason grunts noncommittally. “Yeah, yeah, I’m your guardian angel. It’s your lucky day. Come on, let’s get you out of the closet.” His lips quirk up at the corners. “Again.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jason waves the comment off. Tim scoots around the vacuum and then pushes himself into a sitting position. It looks almost painful, the way Tim winces and digs the heel of his palm into his temple. “How was your nap?” 

“Mmph.” 

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He doesn’t even bother trying to get Tim to stand up, just scoops the kid into his arms, bridal style. It’s telling that Tim doesn’t even try to protest, burying his face into Jason’s chest—what is it with his brothers and doing that today, seriously—and whining softly. “You doing okay?” 

Tim winces against him, like even the sound of Jason’s voice is too much. “Fine. Just… the lights.” 

Oh, Jason forgot about that. Tim’s weird with some of the sensory things already, and being sick makes everything that much more overwhelming for him. 

“We’ll be in Dick’s room soon, it’ll be dark there,” he reassures. Barbara had the nerve to comment on it once, quite a while ago, the difference in his attitude toward Dick and Tim. Jason chalks his gentleness with Tim up to how rocky their relationship was when Tim was first being fostered by Bruce. He doesn’t have the heart to put the kid through that again. 

(Seriously, fuck his siblings and their ability to make him feel things.) 

Tim hums in acknowledgement and goes about getting himself settled. Jason barely makes it to the stairs before Tim shudders in his arms, once, twice, three times with a set of stifled sneezes. 

“hpt’shh! h’tshh’h! hih… hp’TSH’uhh!” 

Jason manages to bite back his laughter. Barely. 

“Stop laughing.” 

“‘M not laughing,” Jason protests. He’s not, at least, not in any way that matters. 

Tim gives him a sleepy, one-eyed glare and only makes his shoulders tremble with more contained laughter. Jason takes the stairs a little slower so he doesn’t jostle his brother too much on their journey towards Dick’s room. Even through his own black t-shirt and Tim’s hoodie, he can feel the heat radiating from his thin frame. There’s no way he doesn’t have a fever, which means Dick is probably running one too. 

Surprisingly, he actually is in his room, though he’s not in bed. Instead, he’s rummaging around under it, and Jason barely pauses as he sweeps into the room and gently deposits Tim on the mattress, watching as the kid (yes, Jason’s aware Tim is nineteen. No, he will not stop thinking of his younger brother as the wide-eyed kid who arrived at the Manor six years ago) immediately curls into a ball, grabbing onto one of Dick’s pillows and squeezing it to his body. The habit is one Bruce frowns at, since he’s pretty sure Tim does it to stimulate the feeling of someone lying next to him, but it’s innocent enough and honestly quite cute. 

“Dick,” he says, a hint of warning in his voice. 

“I know! Just—” There’s more rummaging, things being moved around and something that sounds metallic falling and rolling around before Dick shouts “AHA!” and makes Tim wince, curl in on himself even more, and Jason glare harder. 

“Come on, get in bed and cuddle with the kid. You know he fucking needs it.” 

Dick just pops up with a loopy smile, a plush in his hand. “I had to get Zitka first, Jay.” 

Jason steps closer. “Did you take any medication?” 

“No!” Dick scoffs, then breaks into a splitting smile. “Yes. Just a little. I took—”

“Nyquil, yeah, I can tell.” 

What on earth possessed Dickwad to take Nyquil when doxylamine in any medicine makes him hyper, Jason doesn’t know. 

Dick tucks Zitka under his arm protectively. “In my defense, I was dying, but I feel much better now. I mean, half of the squad was out sick last week with the flu, so it was really only a matter of time before I caught it too.” 

“And then you hand delivered it to Timmy, wrapped in a bow and everything. How sweet of you, Dick.” Jason jerks his chin towards the bed again. “Bed. Cuddle the kid. I’m going to find a thermometer.” 

“Not the ear one, please,” Tim croaks hoarsely from where he’s still tucked into a ball. 

“I’ll do my best, but no promises.” Jason snaps his fingers to grab Dick’s attention where it’s shifted to Zitka and smoothing the matted fuzz of the stuffed elephant. “You. Bed.” 

The search, thankfully, is more normal than the one for Tim. He literally just ducks into the bathroom, grabs a thermometer—one of the tongue ones, since he doesn’t trust the reader on the forehead thermometers—and goes back to Dick’s room. He’s finally in bed, albeit keeping his distance from Tim, who looks absolutely crushed. Glassy eyes, quivering lip, the works. Dick is desperately trying to reassure him, but there’s a panicked look on his face that gives away just how much it isn’t working. 

“What did you do now?” Jason sighs, uncapping the thermometer. He truly doesn’t have the energy to deal with Dick’s Nyquil-fueled hyper-freakout; he’s still hungry and very much in need of his nonexistent sandwich that he didn’t get to make because someone had to be gross and sick and utterly pathetic in his proximity. 

The shit he does for his brothers, really. 

“He’s too hot to cuddle,” Dick complains. 

“You sound like Goldilocks. Fitting for the Golden Boy,” Jason mutters in return. Tim huffs a weak laugh, opening his mouth obediently for the thermometer. He’s really not looking good, face gaining heat by the minute and eyes getting more and more hazy. It’s anyone’s guess as to whether he’ll fall asleep first or start rambling about the acoustic properties of the room or something like that. 

The thermometer beeps after a bit of stillness, and Jason pulls it from between Tim’s lips to glance at the screen. “One-oh-one point one,” he mutters, reading the information aloud. While it isn’t good, he honestly expected worse from him. He wipes the tip of the thermometer on the hem of his T-shirt and then points it at Dick like a weapon. “Your turn.” 

“Ew, you didn’t even go wash it off!” Bruce and Alfred really do a bad job of keeping Grayson humble. He desperately needs to be weaned off of his silver spoon attitude. 

“They’re your germs!” 

Dick doesn’t bother arguing with that logic, and although he doesn’t look happy, he does open his mouth and accept the thermometer under his tongue. For a blissful moment, they wait in silence for the thermometer to beep. It never comes. 

Dick takes one sharp inhale. Jason can tell what it means by the way it’s written all over his face. 

“Don’t—”

“Hz’ATSCHhh!”

The thermometer slips out of his mouth and lands on his lap, face up. 100.4 flashes across the screen in little black letters. 

“Hello? I sneezed!” Dick whines loudly. Nevermind that it’s been three seconds. 

Tim reacts slowly, eyebrows furrowed. He wets his lips in preparation to speak, and manages a soft, “Bless you.” 

Jason narrows his eyes at Dick. “Whatever.”

“You’re rude,” Dick grumbles. 

“Better than being sick,” he snipes back. “Now, go the fuck to sleep.” 

Tim sighs, repositioning himself to shift a tiny bit closer to Dick. “Sleepytime.” 

“First in your life,” Jason agrees, stroking the kid’s hair and pushing the greasy locks out of his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make myself a sandwich.” 

It’s nearing dinnertime—not that it means anything, Jason’s sure their eating schedules have been absolutely fucked over the past couple of days—when Tim shuffles downstairs, wrapped in a blanket and looking miserable. Jason’s been working on a chicken noodle soup, because he’s not a heathen and refuses to use Progresso. The flush on his face is spreading, migrating out from Tim’s cheeks to his cheekbones and down to his neck, which isn’t quite pink, but instead radiating with heat when Jason presses a hand to the back of it. 

“Jesus, Timmers,” Jason murmurs, gentle now that it’s just him and the kid. “Did you take your temperature again?” 

Tim nods sluggishly. His eyes are half-lidded, and what of them Jason can see are glazed with fever. Christ, how bad could he have gotten in the three hours since Jason left him and Dick alone? 

“What did it say?” 

“One-oh-two point one, I think.” 

Jason curses sharply under his breath. Tim sways in the space before him. 

“I feel really sick.” Tim’s voice cracks down the center of his sentence and splits Jason’s heart right alongside it. He imagines that this is how Dick was feeling a day or two ago which compelled him to rush home for comfort, only to return to an empty house aside from Tim. Luckily, he’s on the mend and no longer dealing with this alone. Tim, however, seems to be directly in the thick of it, and with his track record it could go either way. He could wake up in the morning feeling much better or his fever could keep spiking and they’d have to take a fun detour to the doctor’s office. 

Jason isn’t going to let it get any higher. Not if he can help it. 

“That’s a full degree,” he notes. That’s definitely not concern in his voice. “No wonder you’re feeling like shit.” 

Tim just hums softly, and then sits down in one of the chairs on the island, though not without difficulty. His coordination’s been so shot to hell by the fever that it takes him a solid fifteen seconds to pull the seat out, and then another thirty to actually climb onto it. “You makin’ dinner?” he asks, once he’s figured himself out and gotten settled as best he can. 

“Chicken and dumplings,” responds Jason. “Got out the stock and everything.” 

Tim nods tiredly. The blanket is slipping off his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his gaze is slipping idly around the room, seeing things without really taking them in. “Sorry.” 

Jason nearly drops the scooper he’s been using to put the dough for the dumplings into the broth. “For what?” It’s a strategy—walk Tim through what he’s apologizing for to make sure it’s not just reflexive, and then counter him. 

Tim shrugs nonchalantly, but his hands pick at a loose thread at the corner of his blanket. He stares at a water stain on the granite countertop. 

“Dunno. For being sick, I guess.” Tim chances a peek up at Jason, who does his best to school his features into something casual and not open-mouthed gaping at Tim. “I assume you didn’t come here just to play nurse, right?” 

No, he came to make a sandwich. 

Tim definitely doesn’t need to know that. 

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop in and see what’s up. It’s just dumb luck that the two of you are sick as dogs.” He shoots Tim a softer glance. “I’m glad I came.” 

Tim twists a thread around his fingertip, dropping his gaze to the countertop once again. “Still, I’m sorry.”

Jason watches him for a long moment. This is not his area of expertise in the slightest. This is what Dick is good at. He is all heart and mushy, soft, feel-good phrases. He gives the best hugs. Jason will offer a beer and move on with his day. Tim does not need a beer right now. 

Jason opens the fridge and grabs a plastic water bottle off of the door. He uncaps it and sets it in front of Tim. “Drink this.”

“Throat hurts.”

“C’mon, don’t make me fight you.”

A ghost of a smile flashes across Tim’s face. He holds the cool plastic bottle to his warm cheek. It must feel good because he slumps forward in his chair. “I could take you.”

“Please.” It’s the only tactic he hasn’t really tried. Begging. “Just a little.” 

It’s quiet as Tim takes a slow sip. It buys Jason just enough time to think of a proper response. Finally, he says, “I’m not mad at you for getting sick. Nobody is.” 

Tim’s body gives a little shudder, like he’s actively fighting not to protest Jason’s words. “I… know,” he says haltingly. Trying to convince himself. “I can’t—my brain won’t stop telling me that I’m… you know. Doing something wrong.” 

Jason nods in understanding. He gets it, to an extent. He spent his first couple of months with B pushing his buttons, riling him up, seeing how far he could go before the old man got tired of trying and booted him. The difference was, Bruce never gave up on him, and Jason actually had the chance to see that. Tim was raised where any mistake he made was a threat, and thirteen years of that isn’t unlearned overnight. 

“You’re not,” he says. “I promise. And I’ll prove it to you.” 

Tim perks up a bit. “Oh?” 

“Stay here and keep an eye on the soup for me, alright? Nothing should happen to it, we’re just letting the dumplings cook. I’ll get the dick. And keep drinking your water.” 

It’ll keep him busy, make Tim feel useful while Jason goes up the stairs to drag his older brother out of bed and to the kitchen for an actual meal. He’s almost positive he’s been subsisting off of shitty cereal and tea, neither of which make for a good sick person diet. Hence, the chicken and dumplings; Tim has some textural issues with the way chicken is cooked in soups and Dick can’t stand the noodles, since they get soggy, so Jason’s made one of the dishes Alfred made him the first time he was sick in the Manor. It’s not quite a broth, almost like a gumbo in thickness, with cooked carrots and celery and slices of chicken dumped in among Southern-style dumplings, which are pretty much just puffed dough. It’s a substantial meal that should, at the very least, satisfy his siblings without overwhelming them. 

Tim gives him a small nod and takes a small sip of water. Content that Tim is taken care of, Jason heads back up the stairs for Dick’s room. He nudges the door open with his hip and is surprised to find his brother still asleep. Dick is asleep on his stomach, Zitka tucked safely beneath his chin and his chapped lips are parted in stuffed up snores. 

It’s almost cute. 

Jason sits on the edge of the bed, hand settling on Dick’s back. His back rises and falls with each steady breath. 

“Dick,” Jason whispers. He receives no response.

“Dick,” he tries again a little louder. 

Jason sighs. He should just snatch his pillow and smack him with it, but all these years with these losers and he’s gone soft. He reaches up, hand carding through Dick’s sweaty bangs. “C’mon big guy, time to wake up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Dick sniffles and then groans as he comes to. He yawns, and Jason stands up before Dick realizes that he was getting a crumb of kindness and asks for more. 

“How long was I asleep?”

“Three hours, give or take. You needed it. How’re you feeling?” 

Dick rolls onto his back while he takes inventory of his symptoms. He snuffles consideringly, then finally settles on a frown. “Gross.” 

“Yeah, you look gross. Get up so I can feed you.” 

“You made food?” Dick asks, completely ignoring the insult. 

Jason snorts. “I’m the only functional cook out of the three of us, of course I made food.” 

Dick shoots him a grateful look that immediately morphs into a nose scrunch, followed by his face twisting up, a sharp gasp, and him bending forward into his blanket. “h’AZT’shu!” 

“How’s your fever?” 

“You tell me, I’ve been asleep.” 

Fair enough, Jason concedes mentally. “Hang on.” 

The thermometer isn’t lying on the bedside table where he left it. Tim must have taken it to the bathroom and washed it off, which. Well, Jason wouldn’t want more of Dickface’s germs either, and with Tim’s whole… internal situation—Jason still hasn’t gotten the full story on how Tim lost his spleen—washing it off before Tim uses it is probably for the better. Jason snatches it and heads back into Dick’s room, only to find his brother with his face in his elbow again. 

“hiHH’ATSH’h!” 

“Is that the last one?” 

“Probably.” Dick sniffles, and Jason looks around the room for a tissue box. He was tempted to throw one at him earlier, but now, he’s really going to go through with it. Of course, Dick lets himself get smacked by it, but perks up when he registers what he’s been hit with. “Ooh!” 

“Seriously? That’s your reaction?” 

He just shrugs, completely unbothered as he plucks a couple out of the box and presses them to his face. “I forgot they existed.” 

“You sound like Tim when he’s talking about sleep.” 

“You’ve got a terrible bedside manner.” Dick mutters into the folds of the tissue. Luckily for Dick, and everyone else, he does not have the life calling to be a nurse so he’s not really worried about his bedside manner. 

“Stop complaining and come eat,” he sighs. Dick makes a show of getting out of bed, tossing his sheets aside and gripping his head as he sits up and then with a heaving sigh, clambers to his feet. Jason isn’t impressed by his act. At least that’s what he tells himself, even though he holds out a protective hand in case Dickface decides to princess-swoon and faint into his arms, but Dick steadies himself. Finally. 

The walk down the stairs is normal, which is concerning. A healthy Dick (and a sick one, too, given that one time he had a concussion and decided being upside down was somehow less painful than lying down) will at the very least slide down the banister, if not walk down it on his hands. But now, he’s just plodding along in front of Jason, clearly wiped out. 

“Jay,” Tim calls from his seat at the kitchen island, twisting his entire body to see his and Dick’s slow approach. There’s a hint of panic in his gaze, although he’s mostly calm. His tone, when he speaks again, is matter-of-fact. “I fucked it up.” 

“What do you mean, you fucked it up?” 

“I fucked up the chicken and dumplings.” 

“I figured, kid,” he says, rounding the corner. Nothing seems off to his first glance around the room, but at the same time, it’s Tim. “I’m asking how you fucked it up. You literally haven’t moved from your seat.” 

Tim frowns. “Yeah, I did.” 

“Pretty sure you didn’t. You haven’t even changed position.” Dick walks away from Jason and pulls out the stool next to Tim, sitting down next to him and rubbing an absent hand over Tim’s back in an effort to calm him down. His breathing is growing more erratic, and he’s blinking rapidly, like he’s trying to clear his vision. Like he’s going to— 

His face crumples. 

“Shit, don’t cry—” 

“t’zsch! Tshh! iH’SHh!”

“Ah,” he nods sagely, like he’s uncovered some great secret. “Bless you.” 

“Bless you, Timmy.” Dick croaks from Jason’s other side. 

“issch! –t’SCHhu! h’ksSH! hh’TSHh–!” He cuts off with a breathy gasp, shoulders twitching upward as he builds up yet again, only to lose the oncoming sneeze. Jason and Dick patiently watch Tim, waiting for him to lift his face from his elbow. 

“Ble—”

Jason holds up a hand to pause Dick. “Wait.”

“ih’sCHH! ih’tZSCH! Ow.”

Jason nods in finality. He’s done. “Bless.” 

Dick winces, having the heart to look a little guilty. This is his fault after all. “Yeah, fuck, man. Bless you. Like, ten times.” 

Tim sniffles, wiping at his nose with his shirt sleeve and looking miserable. “Id was ondly ndide,” he corrects stuffily, and Jason immediately searches the vicinity for tissues. Of course, they’re nowhere to be found, and he gives Dick a glare his older brother doesn’t notice, too busy staring after Tim. To be fair, the fit was a lot, especially for Tim. Kid doesn’t usually sneeze that many times in those kinds of fits, where there are pauses between sneezes and everything. 

“It’s an extra blessing for the future,” Dick says, and Tim rolls his eyes. 

“Cand I trade?” he deadpans. 

Dick splutters. “What do you mean, can you trade? For what?” 

“I’ll give you all your germbs bagk.” 

“That’s not a trade, you’re not getting anything out of it.” 

“I gedd to nodt be sigk.” 

“He’s got a point,” Jason says, turning back to the stove. “Tim, you didn’t fuck this up. Like, at all. What are you talking about?” 

“I didd’t…” Tim frowns, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. “I thought mbaybe I…I dod’t know.” 

Jason’s flicker of amusement ignites and extinguishes in the same breath. He watches Tim for a moment, the unfocused look in his eyes and then turns to the pot. “No, buddy. You did great. It’s fine.”

He pulls three bowls from the cabinet and generously spoons chicken and dumplings into each. When they’re full, he grabs utensils for the group and moves their food to the island. He slides a bowl in front of Tim and then one in front of Dick. 

“Don’t piss me off. Eat.” 

The loving gesture is wrapped in a thinly veiled threat, because Jason is allergic to love. Or, at least, he pretends to be, for the sake of his sanity. If he had to come to family dinners and do all that bonding shit and listen to Bruce yammer on about how it’d be so nice to have Jason home from college more often, then he’d— 

Well, there’s a reason he acts the way he does. Especially with Bruce. 

He does love his brothers, though. He can’t deny that, not even to himself. Sure, Dickface is annoying every second of the day and Timbalina can’t tell fault from fiction, but they’re both… easy to be around. In the most abstract sense of the word easy, of course. They’re absolute nightmares, but they’re not trying to forge a connection that just isn’t there while refusing to put any of the work in themselves. Jason’s always found that his relationships with the two of them are mutualistic. They reach just as much as he does. 

And looking at them now, he’s glad he stopped by.

[firstprince-ao3feed]

In Dreams

by absoluteaudacity The man in the dream both is and isn’t Alex. The flash of a grin is him, and so are the curls Henry sees himself stroke in stuttering slow motion. He takes the man’s bottom lip between his teeth and it’s the same one he has kissed so many times. -- Fic for the DICKS prompt: "I dreamed of your legs wrapped around my waist.” Words: 2473, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Additional Tags: PWP, Porn Without Plot, RWRB DICKS (Diminutive Immersive Cues for Kinky Stories), Henry has a wet dream, this is very soft, they love each other your honour via https://ift.tt/J4DxyBf

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dark Passenger - Chapter Twelve.

Okay besties, because I just know that this is going to make you all like “WTF is happening??” when you get to the end, I am prepared to release the next chapter as soon as I notice this one pass 40 notes, rather than leave you waiting until after the weekend! You want it? You know what to do!

Previous chapters - One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine  Ten  Eleven

Words - 3,988

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed

“Yeah, look at the way you take it, god damned sexy girl. That’s the best cock in the world, isn’t it? Mmm, no one gives it like I do, do they?”

Slow, slow, quick, quick, quick, slow. With a slight hip rotation on the slow, while holding her leg to his chest, head dipped to kiss her ankle, his thumb dragging sparks at her clit.

Yes. EZ Reyes was the fuck the century to Camille, who he was making a continued huge effort with. That effort mostly consisted of keeping her so damned dick drunk and in a permanent state of love bombed that his need for control flew right under her radar. She did, as she had many times before, mistaken these actions for adoration, rather than manipulation. He also continued this by visiting with her family, making friends with her father, who seemed to adore him, Marge a little cooler, EZ planning to charm her into some warmth.  

For that moment, though, it was her daughter who was his sole focus.

“Yes, yes it is! Ahhh, fuck I love you so much, you and that perfect, big cock.” Her words of confirmation had his self-satisfied grin broadening, leaning to kiss her with ember and honey edged passion, panting hard as he felt the edges of himself catching fire against her. “Tell me I’m your baby, tell me you love me.”

“You’re my baby, and fuck, how I fucking love you.” His body fell to cover hers then, railing her into the bed, the viscid clench of her cunt tightening on him as she wrapped her legs around his waist, crying out as white-hot pleasure crashed over her, her very bones glimmering, EZ filling her with cum as his own release charged through him like wild horses.  

They lay curled around each other, both sleepy with bliss, pleasure ebbing away slowly, wishing they could just lay there and return to slumber. Unfortunately, with it being a Monday morning, Camille had work to get to, and EZ and appointment with Ramona Sanchez, his therapist, whom he’d been visiting for the last month in order to get a hold on his issues.  

The diminutive psychologist was incredibly proficient at her job, but unfortunately for her, she had no clue that the only thing she was facilitating the help of was EZ being able to somewhat keep his darkness more covert, the techniques she was teaching him for getting a hold on his anger being directly applied to his shadow self, to keep it hidden more cleverly.  

One of the things she was teaching him was how to control his reaction to what had triggered him, and whether the triggering stimulus was truly an accurate assessment of reality. “In these moments where you feel yourself losing control from a reactive point of view, it is imperative that you stand back and question the justness of the reaction. In doing so, a calming place can be achieved, which is what you must focus upon, Ezekiel. Finding the calm means that the anger does not win, and you thus regain your control of the situation. Our goal is, as ever, to supress the urge to choose anger.”

She had also been assisting him in finding the root cause of said anger, which, in his more candid moments, he did find honest interest in getting to the bottom of. Well, truly, he knew why he became so angry, it was triggered by his loss of control in a situation, but understanding why he needed that control in the first place was something he found to be beneficial.

When the darkness within him allowed for it.

While he was doing the whole journey of discovery bit, Camille was on one of her own, too, but hers was to do with outward aesthetics rather than inner workings of the mind, and not her own either.  

“Okay, smile really wide for me,” she spoke, Tallulah doing just that. “And keep smiling even though I know this is going to suck!” In the needle went, her friends smile turning to more of a grimace as the botox was syringed into her smile lines, grumbling and gritting through the pain.  

It had been an appointment Camille had been putting off for three weeks, on account of the fact she didn’t want anyone to see her so up close after the damage she’d been left with in the wake of EZ punching her. The bloodshot eye alone had taken four days to calm down and turn back to white, and the rest she’d hid under heavy makeup, taking time away from both jobs so that she wouldn’t be asked any uncomfortable questions, explaining her absence on a sprained ankle. Very few people knew about the incident, just the guys in the club, Amelia and Bella.  

She intended for it to stay that way as well, because she knew only too well what people like Tallulah and Mai would have to say about it. They’d question her sanity in staying with a man who had displayed controlling behaviour over the course of their five-month relationship, and one who had now turned physically abusive as well. She just had to hope that the incident could be chalked up as singular, because if he did it again, she was gone. Her mind was made up there, but shit, how she did not want that ever to be the decision she had to make, hopelessly in love with him that she was.  

He was trying now, though, really trying. He no longer left her hanging on him for one thing, usually always getting back to her quite quickly if she’d called and he hadn’t answered, making more time to see her, being attentive and present. A lot of it was to bring her back under control, although he did acknowledge that some of it was because he did genuinely love her. But, sadly for Camille, there were some bad habits he had absolutely no intention of putting behind him.  

“Missed me, didn’t you?” he asked, Dina bouncing on his cock, having met her back at the clubhouse after a morning of outlaw endeavours.  

She gave him a smouldering look, leaning down to kiss him with filthy heat. “God, yes. You know I always miss you. I dunno why you have that other girl, you know. You could just be with me. I know you like me better.” Because he could, that’s why he did.  

“I don’t, but nice flex, babe.” He was all sarcasm and ego, because again, he knew he could be. Dina wouldn’t say anything about it, because if she did, he’d stop fucking her.  

“Then why do you keep coming back between my legs, EZ? What is it that I have that she doesn’t? I mean, come on. There has to be something. I know I’m better than her.”

He snorted, hands gripping her hips. “Wanna know why I fuck you? Because you let me, that’s why. You’re a means to an end, that’s it. As for being better? Don't kid yourself. You’ve seen Camille. Do you honestly think you’re anywhere close to being in her league? She’s a knockout, and you’re gutter trash with a decent pussy. That’s it. I mean, I can sit here and bounce you on my cock while insulting you to hell and back, because you won’t stop me. Nobody has dick swinging game like I do.”

He grasped her throat when she went to protest, his eyes darkening, chuckling to himself. “You’re a whore, that’s your job, so shut up and do your job.” She did, and it fed his ego beautifully, EZ getting off on the fact he had complete control over her, his hand grasping her throat tighter, pulling her down so she was level with his face. “And if you ever dare tell her, I’ll make you sorry. You’ll only be sorry once, too.”  

Dina gulped, knowing the connotations very, very clearly. He was president of an MC, after all. He could make her disappear with minimal effort. She felt sick at the way he smiled at her all the way through, frightened by him truly for the first time, of what he could do to her, what he would do to her. As soon as he was finished, she was off him and out of there before he’d even had chance to pull the condom off.  

He could have dictated she didn’t get to leave, but he was bored of her by that point. He’d only needed something warm and convenient to blow his load in, his preferred source of that working until late at the salon and then going out with her mom. He had his own affairs to iron out that evening, him and the guys riding out to deal with some further shit thrown at the by the Sons. Meanwhile, Camille was having a lovely time with her mom.

“So, Candie called me this morning, and I don’t know how abreast you are of the situation, but her professors have all stated she’s on track for her PhD once she’s finished her bachelors. How amazing is that?” Marge revealed with pride, her eldest’s eyes widening.

“She was always the smartest, and I’m so thrilled for her. I really am,” Camille enthused, Marge reaching for her hand with a little frown.

“Hey, now listen,” she began, a gentle hand touched to her cheek. “All three of my kids are smart, you hear? Candiace is the academic, you’re the business brains in money making, and Cody is anything relating to tech. I won’t hear you put yourself behind her, just because you chose a different path. Not on my watch, Camille Teresa Smith.”  

She nodded, but still, her inferiority to her younger sister shone through. “Yeah, but Candie is doing it in the way that makes you and daddy proud. I can’t imagine my route has filled you with quite so much of the same.”  

Marge’s frown deepened. “You stop that right now. True, daddy and I were a little concerned when you began dancing at the club, but I’ll tell you this, my girl. You walk out of that place some nights when the going is good with over a thousand dollars in your back pocket, and for what? Giving a few guys a fantasy, a bit of a tease. You hold the power, and that shows you’re smart.  

“So, you flash ‘em a little T and A, so what? It isn’t forever, you have your dream and you’re working towards that. Also, how many other twenty-five-year-olds out there drive such a gorgeous car and only have twenty years left on their mortgage, huh? Pretty soon, you’ll have your salon as well, then your chain, and you’ll be doing all you’ve ever dreamed of.”

Her mom always had a way with her words, to reassure her when Camille felt a little less than. Marge had seen it in her always, though, the way she automatically felt inferior to others, having issues with her confidence. “Speaking of the club, I have to ask. What does the boyfriend think about you working there? Some guys, they can be a little... unenthusiastic, shall we say.”  

“Well, since that’s where he met me, he’s always known what I do for an extra income and been fine with it,” she began, sipping her drink. “We had a, ah... a heated exchange about it once, but that was more because he was upset that I’d decided to go in on a day I’d booked off to spend with him in order to help Martin out.”  

Sharp as she was, Marge detected it, a tiny little play on her daughter’s face that revealed a lot more than her words did. Whatever that heated exchange had consisted of, it had stayed with her. She knew Camille wasn’t a fighter, though, and hated conflict of any kind, so put it to the back of her mind. For then, at least.  

They’d just finished their desserts when Marge suddenly saw her daughter’s face light up, feeling a presence behind her.

“And how are the most gorgeous women in Santo Padre this evening?” EZ questioned with his usual charm, Marge turning with a smile, making the effort. There was still something she felt from that was off, but she knew she had to be friendly for Camille’s sake.

“If I see them, I’ll ask,” she quipped, welcoming him with a little hug, returning his cheek kiss. “How are you?”  

“Tired. I did plan on going home and getting an early night, but I saw Camille’s car outside and quickly remembered the name of the restaurant she said you guys would be at as I was on my way back, so thought I’d show my face.” Sitting down, he greeted Camille with a kiss, stopping a passing waitress and ordering a round of drinks with her. They eventually moved into the bar area when the restaurant needed the table back, all the while with Camille ignoring her persistently ringing phone, not wanting to be rude.  

“Might be important,” her mom nodded, when it rang for the sixth time.  

Camille still looked bad as she pulled it from her bag, polite to a fault as she was. “It’s Martin. I won’t be long.”  

Marge noticed right away, the change in EZ’s demeanour, his chest widening as it stiffened, watching his girlfriend intently.

“Really? God, that much for just a lap dance? And that’s all I have to do, no schmoozing with the party or anything?” Continuing to listen, she nodded, excusing herself to Martin when EZ pressed a hand to her shoulder.  

“What does he want?”  

“Erm, I’m...”

“Camille? We’ve talked about this before, that guy thinking he can call you up at the last minute and make you drop your plans.” Instantly, Marge saw it, her eyes darting between them. Fear.  

“Martin, I’ll call you back.” she hung up quickly, turning to her boyfriend, taking his hand. “There’s a party in tonight, and one of the guys is a regular, a wealthy one too, asking for me specifically. Marting explained that it was my night off, but he’s adamant that he wants me. He’s offering me five hundred for a private dance. I’ll be in and out of there, so it seems like too much of a good offer to pass up on. Mom, do you mind?”

Marge shook her head. “Not at all, chickadee. Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks. You’d be a fool to turn down that kind of quick cash.”  

“I mind,” EZ began, his words delivered emphatically. “You can’t just go running when he whistles for you, Camille. You need to set some boundaries on your free time.”  

“But baby, it’ll only be a short time,” she reasoned, EZ not looking pleased at what her stance was appearing to be.

“I had hoped you’d come back to mine tonight.”  

Marge sat back and viewed it, thinking that the guy who had the problem here wasn’t Martin at all. Camille needed to excuse herself to one person. Her. The person she was out with. EZ had only popped by because he’d happened to be passing.  

“Well, I still can. After I’ve called in at the club,” she spoke fairly, trying hard to placate him. “Don’t be mad at me, baby. Hey, come on. Remember what you’ve been discussing with Ramona.”

His glare made Marge stiffen, her body on high alert. “Do not mention that in front of your mother. Don’t, Camille.”  

“Hey, EZ,” she interjected with, wanting to de-escalate the situation. “I don’t know who Ramona is, or what you’ve been discussing with her, but what I do know is that I won’t sit here idly while you’re being so sharp with my daughter. Now, the only person she needs to excuse herself to is me, since I’m the one she had the plans with, plans that we are more or less at the end of now. She can still go over to your place afterwards, so I fail to see why you’re getting pressed about her taking a few minutes out of her evening to go and earn herself a tidy little wedge of cash.”  

That dark glare was then directed right at her. “Stay out of it.”

“No.”  

He raised his eyebrows. “You really, really should, you know.”  

“EZ, freakin’ cool it!” Camille exclaimed, rubbing his arm. “Don’t talk to my mom like that!”

Marge merely leaned forward in her seat. “Is that a threat? I don’t threaten well.”

He gathered himself then, realising the control he craved was slipping. “I apologise, Marge. I just have your daughter’s best interests at heart, but perhaps I overreacted.” He nodded, turning to Camille with a smile. “Go tell him you’ll be there. I can wait a little longer for you to get to my place, it isn’t a big deal. I’m sorry if I made it out to be.”  

She excused herself to go outside and call Martin, the restaurant loudening as a birthday cake was brought out, the huge group of people beginning to sing to the woman sitting with her hands over her face. As soon as Camille was gone, Marge eyed EZ sharply.  

“I appreciate the apology, but what I do not appreciate is you trying to control my daughter like that. She mentioned earlier to me that you’d gotten upset in the past about her being called in at short notice. I don’t understand why you consider that to be a problem. It doesn’t affect you at all,” she stated, not prepared to leave things where they were.  

Marge Smith never let it go, if someone was hostile with her for no reason. Even if they had a reason, she still defended herself if she knew she wasn’t the one in the wrong. In this case, she was defending her daughter, too.  

He paused for a few seconds, feeling the dark wave within him rising. To his credit, he actually did try and supress it. Not hard enough, though. “My reasons are my reasons. Now, I advised you before to stay out of it. That’s what you need to do here.”

She leaned forward in her chair, her blue eyes staring at him unflinchingly. “Or what? You know when I said I don’t threaten well? I don’t scare easily either. Don’t think you can frighten me into submission like you probably do with my daughter.” A little twitch of his eyebrows gave it away. “Oh yes, that’s right. I’m perceptive. I know control when I see it.”

“You don’t know shit. Back down. And believe me, I should frighten you.” His anger was only inflated more by Marge’s entertainment, laughing softly, completely unshaken.  

“Ezekiel, have you ever heard of the Beneventi crime family?” she put to him, her smile widening.

“Of course, I have.”

“Good. It’ll spare me a long explanation, then, as I know Camille won’t have told you, we don’t advertise it. My father, Vincenzo Randazzo, was underboss for that family. You might have heard of him, then again you might not unless you’re a mafia geek. Anyway, I digress. Tragically, I lost him to that world, it’s the reason why I moved out here, to get away from it all after what we think was his murder. Of course, we’ll never know. Mob hits don’t tend to be publicised. All I know is that one day my dad was there, and then he wasn’t. So yeah, I grew up in that life, and believe me, I know scary.  

“Those guys, they’re the real deal, shoot-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you types of mean, cold, Italian American gangsters. You? You’re a thug with a Harley, a semi-automatic on your hip and a real fucking big chip on your shoulder about showing everyone who the boss is. You ain’t no boss, son, if you think trying to control a naïve twenty-five-year-old with a soft heart is how you go about flexing that authority. And threatening me because I stood up for her? Please. Don’t make me laugh.”

He reciprocated her lean, nearing her, his face twisting into a smirk. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Marge.”

“Incorrect,” she spat quietly, never blinking, never flinching, reaching into her purse beneath the table. “I know exactly who you are, Ezekiel. But you? You have no idea who I am. Wanna know who I am?”  

He scoffed, the gold in his eyes seeming to burn red. “Tell me, other than a bored housewife with a flimsy link to a crime family she ran away from.” That’s the moment he felt the unmistakable press of a gun against his knee.  

“My surname might be Smith now, but buster, I’m Marjorie Randazzo to my very bones, and if you so much as harm a single hair on my daughter’s head, I will find you, and I will finish you. Don’t think I won’t serve serious time for any of my kids, because that’s the kind of mother I am. I’m also my father’s daughter, and you? You’d do very well to remember that.”  

EZ saw it in her eyes, the fact that she had his number, and no, she truly wasn’t afraid. This was somebody he could not control, but Camille? She was different. He was out of his seat without further word, heading outside, making a turning motion with his finger when he saw Camille coming back in.

“EZ, what’s wrong?” He was all agitated vexation; she could see it clearly in the way his jaw muscles flexed and tightened.  

“Your mother just threatened me. I don’t fucking take kindly to anyone poking their nose in my relationship with you, or holding a gun to my knee beneath the table. Go do what you have to do, and I’ll see you back at my place. And tell your mom to keep her goddamned opinions out of our relationship. I fucking apologised, I did right, and she pulls that shit?” Reaching for his face, he wiped a trail of blood from his nose, grumbling to himself. Another stress nosebleed.  

“She what?” Camille yelled, trying to halt him. She knew her mother carried a firearm with her at times, especially in instances like that night where she’d be driving home alone, but honestly, she hadn’t expected her to pull something like that. “EZ, wait.”

“Just go and do what you have to do Camille!” he roared, jogging over to his bike, looking a little shaky on his feet. Just then, her attention was distracted by her mom coming out, her eyes wide and pissed off.  

“That man, Camie? That’s a bad, bad man. I see it in him, and I’m telling you, get away from him now, while you still can.”  

That wasn’t what she did, though. She couldn’t, after turning back to see him suddenly fall to the floor, shaking violently.  

“Oh my god!” She ran as fast as her boots would take her, across the road, dropping to her knees by his side, the horror of seeing him in a full-blown seizure making an Antarctic chill rip right through her. “Mommy! Help me! Call an ambulance!” she screamed, having no clue what to do, stroking his head, remembering somewhere from something that those under the duress of a seizure ran the risk of swallowing their tongue, just about able to turn him onto his side as her mom arrived with her, gently stuffing her jacket under his head while she gave the 911 operator their location.  

“I don’t know if he has epilepsy, but he’s on his side and I just put my jacket under his head,” Marge spoke, looking to Camille.

“He doesn’t, no,” she confirmed, turning back to him. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here, it’s alright.”  

But it wasn’t alright. Before the night was out, they’d all find out just how far from alright it was, too.  

[kingslionheart]

📝(story from your childhood), 📺 (top 5 tv shows; ooops, I saw that you didn’t like make list too late, just name the one you like the most!), 🚀 (where do you wanna visit), 📚 (career goal) and 📅 (favourite time of the year)! (I hope this amount of emojis isn’t overwhelming, xoxo)

LMAO HI THAT'S A FUNNY AMOUNT, I LOVE IT THANK YOUU xx

📝 - story from your childhood

i have no idea how funny this would be in english compared to my native language, but YEAH I WILL TELL IT ANYWAY BECAUSE IT'S MY FAVOURITE.

in fourth grade we had to do an essay on our grandmas, i have only had one so i chose her immediately. my grandma is a sicilian woman who moved to northern italy in her 30s to work in a factory. one of her favourite things to do was giving nicknames to people, she loved it immensely and mine was a diminutive of my name.

at least when i was little i thought it was just a diminutive of my name.

so very innocently i wrote on my fourth grade essay, with a very pretty handwriting too, that my grandma always called me "minchiolina".

"minchiolina" is indeed a diminutive though not of the name "michela", but of the word "minchia" which is sicilian for "dick", so i very charmingly wrote that my grandma always called me "little dick".

i still don't know how my teacher reacted to that, but i do remember how hard my grandma laughed when i made her read the essay and that's a memory i keep very close to my heart

📺 - top 5 tv shows

AHAHAHAAHHA DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT!! my favourite is the last kingdom (predictable of me) but let me tell you that i still don't know if i seriously find it absolutely amazing/perfect because it is or because i spent most of my life watching shows from the cw and therefore my bar is low MFHSJHSHSHA

🚀 - where do you wanna visit

SCOTLAND. i don't know why but it is just so pretty, i thought it was just for edinburgh but it is seriously the whole of scotland, i wanna visit it all i can't

📚 - career goal

i actually have two BUT THEY ARE CONNECTED IN WEIRD WAYS!!

the first and main one is becoming a screenwriter, i have been wanting to do that since i was a child and it's a passion that i just can't get rid off and that i don't want to give up on. i recently started to try to write plays too, but i'm finding the approach to that a bit difficult so i still need to get used to it as well, but it's absolutely interesting and i love it. the genre i prefer to write in though is period drama so to be accurate i decided to study history. YEAH. THAT'S THE MAIN REASON WHY I STUDY HISTORY. do not get me wrong i do love history, but it also works well for my main career goal.

so the second career goal i have is to become a historian and at first i thought that it wouldn't have been the best option ever and it would have been difficult, but seeing that all my professors in uni were able to achieve that has given me so much hope that perhaps i could too so i keep both paths open!!

📅 - favourite time of the year

AUTUMN. i love the colours of it and there's always so much rain, i just love it. it is the season of the soul as they say and it warms my heart so much, BUT ALSO i really like winter but mostly for the christmas vibes which always put me in a good mood and i need that a lot!!

[unkillable-gays]

Mexican-American!Eddie Munson

Okay so I'm becoming less in denial about being in the Steddie fandom. (I don't think I have to cop to being in the ST fandom given that I haven't watched the show since whatever year it was that s2 came out.)

Anyway I wanted to ask why Latino!Eddie Munson hasn't gained more traction? Or have I just not been able to find the content? I found several posts from people expressing excitement at the idea, but then never mentioning it again.

Is it because people think they're not allowed to use that hc bc it'd be racist because he's poor and/or because he deals? I guess I can't exactly say from every possible perspective, but from mine (Mexican-American but grew up thoroughly middle class) it seems fine? Like, it seems like you could easily weave all those elements into his story in a way that's respectful.

Anyway, in the spirit of furthering that agenda, here's some Mexican-American!Eddie hcs that I've been rolling around in my hands like marbles:

I figure he is probably, like, second generation or so? And his dad is regular not-latino white. (Hence the last name.) I'm going with what is either canon or the most widely accepted hc, that his mother died when he was elementary school-aged. I think he knew his Mexican extended family, but only barely; like, saw them every four years or so, kind of deal. Within that family, there's a large variation of levels of assimilation, Spanish language fluency, political views, etc. They are, just about, all poor/working class, though. (It's not stereotypical to acknowledge the systemic structures put in place to keep our people disenfranchised 🙂) and maybe they all live really far from Indiana? I guess I'm putting them in Texas bc that's where I am. They are all excited to see Eddie whenever the occasion rises, and they love him, for as much as that is worth, given they have really no way of knowing him at all. (This leaves open the potential for cousin ocs, if desired.)

(alternately, his mother could have completely split from her family before or soon after his birth, and his ties to that side of his family are completely severed. If we wanna be lonely and angsty about it. Maybe she did it for a good reason, though?)

(also his dad doesn't HAVE to be white, of course. There are infinite ways to be Mexican-American, and one of those ways is an asshole with a white-sounding last name.)

I don't think Eddie speaks Spanish. Even if he knows it. I think he probably understands it at a basic level, and he probably has several handfuls of slang/cuss/diminutive-type words in his vocab. (idk quite how to explain this rn bc I'm tired, but in my tex-mex community, there are certain words that even exclusive English speakers will often sub out, like the words for underwear, hair ties, boogers.) Though I think even Spanish words that are very natural to him, he'd probably keep close to his chest, because:

Being Mexican is a big part of what makes him a Freak. White people LOVE to act like there's just ~something~ weird or off-putting about us while pretending like they don't notice we're a different race than them. If we're pale, they can even pretend they have plausible deniability. Even if Eddie is white-passing, (which he doesn't have to be; it's my hc and I can picture him how I want) the Hawkinsites are obviously gonna know, and be racist dicks about it. It's true that Eddie tends to own his differences and shove them in people's faces, but I don't think he'd do that with Spanish, because it's such a loaded topic for us, and he's been cut off from it. You're either getting shamed by your relatives for not being able to keep up, or by the rest of the world for having an accent or being worse at English. Especially in the 80's, bilingual people speaking Spanish around English speakers (including their own relatives) just wasn't done. Given that Eddie's not fluent and doesn't have anyone to practice with, I don't think the linguistic difference is one that he'd build his identity around. He'd feel the loss of not having community to share that with. I think he wouldn't have confidence in what Spanish he does have, and would avoid speaking it in front of others whenever possible.

I was gonna talk about how he probably has a connection to his culture through food, at least a couple favorite childhood dishes, but I honestly don't think he'd be able to get the necessary ingredients in rural Indiana in the eighties, and, like, I can't see him making tortillas by hand on his own in the trailer, so. Maybe scratch that lol. (I think my mom actually WAS in rural Indiana briefly in the eighties, I should ask her about that.)

I do think he got exposed to your usual roaring heterosexual Mexican machismo growing up, and he is consciously rebelling against that. If we're making his dad Mexican, that'd definitely be a source of friction between them.

Also, in my, admittedly biased and limited, experience, Mexicans and Mexican-Americans are pretty into metal. It'd be cool if his connections to the metal scene outside of Hawkins extended to metalheads of color.

Okay, this one might be stereotypical. But he's loud, chaotic, goofy, and celebratory!! which is what we're like lol. 🇲🇽 Also musically inclined!!

He learned to play guitar from his family pretty young. Maybe not proficiently, but was encouraged to jam along with everyone else at parties. I do think he'd love pulling out mariachi tunes to annoy those he's closest to. Gritos are quicker and more general use than a whole song, but no less effective. (annoying) Like, I think he'd enjoy throwing in some "ay"s, tongue clicks, and rolled rs to embellish his already superfluous way of speaking. And when Gareth groans and tells him to cut it out, Eddie smugly asks him if he's gasp! Insulting his heritage? Gareth tries to tell him, "no, you're just fucking loud", but Eddie just tells him that's also part of his heritage. I think Eddie would be very willing to sing in Spanish to be funny or obnoxious, but rarely does it in other contexts. (I think he probably knows a lot of songs no one else ever hears, though.)

Actually, what if he could also play trumpet, (mariachi style) and would pull that out occasionally just to enjoy the sheer volume of it? Like, he doesn't even own one, he can just play a couple bars if one happens to be nearby. Logically I realize this doesn't make any sense, he'd have no way to maintain an embouchure, but imagine the comedic potential!?!???! Imagine the horror dawning on the faces of Steve and the Corroded Coffin boys when Robin smugly slides her horn over to Eddie, and they realize they're not backing down from the bit. Maybe once he and Robin start getting close, he can start practicing with her in secret? That could be fun. I know this boy's gotta have mad lung capacity. Aww, imagine him teaching Robin to play mariachi-style??!? 🥺

I like imagining his name is Eduardo, just cause I love Hispanic names in any context, and I like the idea of all his white friends getting confused by someone calling him Wardo or Lalo! But he could definitely still be Edward, or whatever Ed- variation y'all prefer. As I said before, there's an infinite number of ways to be Mexican-American! It's super common to give your kids anglicized names in an effort to assimilate. He might also choose to use Edward, even if it's not "actually" his name, for reason of navigating racism. Also, Spanish speakers may give him those nicknames even if his name doesn't quite correspond correctly. Really, everything is on the table here.

Okay, my stance on him speaking Spanish might be evolving, because I think it'd be funny if he cusses people or situations out under his breath when he's frustrated. Not to them; if he's talking shit to someone, he fully intends for them to understand it. But, like, when all his audio cables get tangled together, or when he gets told he has to go fight demons in a hell dimension, or when the cute rich white boy does something completely enticing without even realizing it. For example. 😶 But he still won't speak to people.

I don't think Wayne is Latino, just because he and Eddie already have this dynamic of coexisting on completely different wavelengths, and I think this would add to that.

Spanish lessons with Robin? There might be a non white-savior-y way to do that... Like, he teaches her more colloquial vocab and syntax, and she teaches him more formal stuff?

As he becomes more comfortable with Steve and the party, he does eventually start using Spanish around them more casually; mostly endearments and jokes. Calling Dustin, "pobrecito" when he's complaining, or "mijo" in a loving but condescending tone. (Not to be stereotypical but I LIVE for Mexican endearments; English speakers have nothing on us. And we already know Eddie is a verbally affectionate guy!)

ARGYLE. I saw a post hcing Argyle speaks fluent Spanish, which I can definitely get behind. I don't think he'd push Eddie to speak with him, but I think he'd notice when he understands things he mutters to himself, because Eddie's eyes will quickly flick over to him. So then Argyle will mutter knowing Eddie might understand him, and let Eddie respond however he chooses. That escalates to jokes just for Eddie, or digs at Eddie that the others won't risk overhearing. At first Eddie responds with huffs, chuckles, or eye rolls, but as he gets more comfortable it becomes common for him to snark back in English. Eventually, however, the teasing escalates enough that Eddie bursts out, "Oye! ¿de verdad, guey? Porque recuerdo specificamente una vez cuando tu--" Argyle just breaks down into hysterical giggles, and he never points out when Eddie has to switch back to English to continue their teasing. Sometimes he calls Eddie primo or hermano.

Eddie is delighted to be able to complain about white people and the Midwest to Argyle. Argyle is genuinely baffled as to how he's surviving. Eddie laughs and says, "only barely." Argyle's no instrumentalist, but he's thrilled to sing Mexican folk songs with Eddie, and refresh his memory of lyrics he's forgotten or gotten mixed up. (Alternately: Argyle kicks ass on the accordion, and has had one in his van this whole time.) Argyle starts bringing up whatever food that can make the drive whenever he visits, along with the good California weed.

(if anyone WANTS to talk about racial stereotypes, we can get into how Argyle is giving "token brown comedic relief character with no emotional depth whatsoever, but don't we get credit for not killing him off?!?! 😀" but...I don't wanna get angry about all that, so I usually just try not think about it, and just look at Argyle and say, "what a nice young man! 😊")

(*deep breaths* 😤 this is why we stopped watching the show...)

I do absolutely believe Nancy is the kind of white girl who would put her foot in her mouth and stumble all over her words if she tries to address matters of race/ethnicity. ("Oh, but don't you... Because, you're.... um.") But only, like, once, maybe twice. She catches on fast. Steve generally manages not to embarrass himself just by virtue of the kind of directness borne of not knowing you're supposed to be being delicate. Robin's normal and relatively cultured so she's not a problem. Jonathan knows better from hanging with Argyle, who was probably the only vato patient enough to put up with his white ass in CA.

Huge thanks if you read this, and sorry it's so rambling and inconsistent! 😅 I'd love to know what you think, if this prompted any hc's or ideas, or if I've managed to accidentally say something embarrassing lol. Sorry there wasn't really any Steddie in this; I'm not used to writing romance! And it feels like it'd be super easy to slip into Latin Lover bullshit in that context. Is that why I haven't seen more people embrace this concept? I guess that would make sense... 🤷🏻‍♀️

[genderkoolaid]

The transandrophobia brainrot has hit tiktok hard. There's a sound going around right now that uses the T slur in a reclamatory way, but whenever a transmasc person uses the sound people lose their minds saying it's transmisogynistic for them to use that word. But when cis male drag queens use the audio it's a slay.

My answer to those people is Get Kate Bornstein'd:

Tranny. Many people don’t know the history of the word, they assume it was an assigned hate term or slur along the lines of the “n” word. That’s not how it happened. Tranny was invented by us in Sydney, Australia in the 1970s where drag was a big deal, and still the best drag shows ever are in Sydney, Australia – they’re amazing. So a lot of trans-identified women who were assigned male at birth did drag, that’s how you made your living. And so they were transsexuals, transvestites, drag queens, and they were all doing drag to make money. They all bickered amongst each other who is better than who, “Well the drag queens are better,” “No, the transsexuals are better.” “You are all freaks, we’re better.” And on and on and on. But they worked together and they were family together, so they came up with a word that would say family and that was tranny. In Australia they do the diminutive, that’s how they come up with words. So tranny. I learned the word in the mid-1980s, late 1980s from my drag mom in San Francisco, Doris Fish, who was the city’s preeminent drag queen and she’d come from Sydney. And she schooled me in this word tranny, she said, “This way it means we’re family, darling.” “Thank you mama.” [...] So we used it and we were trannies together. And F to M was just beginning to start, the trans men were just beginning to become visible, Lou Sullivan was a neighbor of mine around the corner, and he was the first big out trans man, wrote his book. So trans men and cross dressers . . . cross dressers were also family. Transsexuals, we were all trannies and that felt good. That got into the sex industry and became a genre – there was tranny porn, there were tranny sex workers – chicks with dicks, she-males. [...] And, my only guess is that people who . . . because the only way they would have found out about the word is if they were watching tranny porn or having been with a tranny sex worker and then hated themselves so much that they turned it into a curse word. So it’s not really technically correct to say we’re reclaiming a word – it was always ours. So, many people mistake the word for the hatred behind the word and, in my generation, and I’m sure in future generations of trans people, tranny is going to be a radicalized, sexualized identity of trans in the same way that faggot is a prideful identity in the gay male community – not all gay men are faggots, but those who are are proudly fags and those who are dykes are proudly dykes within the lesbian community, trannies are proudly tranny within the transgender community. Does that mean we can’t call ourselves that because some trans woman does not want to be called a tranny? No. I’m going to keep calling myself a tranny. To the trans woman who gets called tranny, I’m sorry – as soon as . . . you’ve got to look at why you’re getting called tranny and if you don’t pass, you’re going to be read as a transgender person and then you fall back on the cultural view of trans folk which is freak, disgusting, not worth living, we can hurt you. It has nothing to do with the word, it has everything to do with the cultural attitude. So the word has stirred up a shit storm, but it’s not the word.

^ From this interview

Four weeks ago, Bear posted a call for submissions on his blog. In the interests of keeping the call as open as possible, we agreed to include as many trans-identities as we knew, so we used the word "tranny." And that's where the activist shit hit the postmodern fan base. People have been pissed. Here's their argument: FTMs are co-opting a word that belongs to MTFs. The word "tranny" belongs to MTFs, reason those who were hurt by our use of the word, because it was a denigrating term reclaimed by MTFs—ergo, only MTFs could be known as trannies. I spoke with Bear, and we agree that’s wrong on several counts:

Tranny began as a uniting term amongst ourselves. Of course it’s going to be picked up and used as a denigrating term by mean people in the world. But even if we manage to get them to stop saying tranny like a thrown rock, mean people will come up with another word to wound us with. So, let’s get back to using tranny as a uniting term amongst ourselves. That would make Doris Fish very happy.

It's our first own language word for ourselves that has no medical-legacy. 

Even if (like gay) hate-filled people try to make tranny into a bad word, our most positive response is to own the word (a word invented by the queerest of the queer of their day). We have the opportunity to re-create tranny as a positive in the world.

Saying that FTMs can’t call themselves trannies eerily echoes the 1980s lesbians who said I couldn’t use the word woman to identify myself, and the 1990s lesbians who said I couldn’t use the word dyke. 

At one phase in the evolution of transpeople-as-tribe, it was the male-to-females who were visible and representative of trans to the rest of the world. They were the trannies. Today? Ironically true to the binary we’re in the process of shattering, the pendulum has swung so that it's now female-to-males who are the archetypal trannies of the day. The generation coming up beyond the next generation, i.e. my tribal grandchildren are the young boys who transition to young girls at the age of five or six. They’re the next trannies. None of us can own the word. We can only be grateful that our tribe is so much larger than we had thought it would be. How to come together—now that’s the job of the next generation of gender outlaws.

^ From Who You Calling A Tranny?

We've been having this debate forever and its been stupid forever.

And its an increasingly outdated debate. More people know about trans men&mascs than ever and there are plenty of TM&Ms who have been called tranny by transphobes who don't give a shit about this distinction. And not just people who have been mistaken for transfems, either, but men like Andrew Jonathan Blake-Newton and Saye Skye who were attacked by people who knew them. Do they have more or less of a right to say tranny than a trans girl whose never been called it by a transphobe? (Neither. Because no one owns this word.)

[doublegoblin]

Character Names

As always thank you @toribookworm22 for the tag. Sorry it took me a bit to get to it!

Tag of my own - @asterhaze @stanrendipity @lola-theshowgrl @tisiphonewolfe only do if you feel like it!

Rules: give us your characters' names and definitions and vote whether or not they fit the meaning.

I'll be going over a handful of the Characters that appear in Rituals and Red Tape (and I'll just be honest I'm plugging these into google and taking the big blurb result)

Alex

Alex is a gender-neutral name of Greek origin meaning "defender of humankind." It is derived from the ancient Greek name Alexandros which comes from the Greek alexein meaning "to defend" or "to protect" and aner translating to "man or warrior."

Ya know I had picked this name originally because I wanted something gender neutral to begin with. Given their role as an Auditor I'd actually say this works pretty well 7/10 coincidence

Andrea

In Greek, the name Andrea is a feminine form of Andrew, which means “warrior” or “protector.” In Latin, the name Andrea means “courageous” or “brave.” It was a common name among early Christians, as Andrew was one of the twelve apostles of Jesus.

By virtue of also being an Auditor it kinda fits, but her personality (while yes brave and whatnot) I'd say is more based in confidence and a touch of impulsiveness. 5/10 she is a mess and I love her.

Dave

From the Hebrew Dawid meaning "beloved" or "favourite". Originally used in the Bible, where David was the name of a King of Israel. St. David is the patron saint of Wales.

Tee hee this one I kinda saw coming. Nah. I guess you could maybe spin this favourite as close because he has hailed as the head of The Board for countless cycles, but that's more due to happenstance and reasoning beyond our comprehension. 3/10 he is a stinky bastard.

Peter

The name Peter means Stone (or Stone Man as Spiros Zodhiates proposes) and symbolizes instability. Two Hebrew names that express the same difference are Zur, meaning rock, and Zeror, meaning pebble

So this one I did take from one of the drop down options. The big blurb only talked about how it meant stone. Being they are a fresh Dreamer and are meant to act as a normalcy barometer against the more jaded and desensitized Alex; sure. I won't weight this one to strongly because I chose a biased option. 4/10 this man will piss his pants.

Frank

Meaning:Free. To be frank is to feel free to express yourself and be upfront in life. The name Frank is of German origin and means "free," and is a diminutive of Francis and Franklin. 

Another one where I was purposeful in choosing the name for the character rather than going off a vibe. He speaks in one word sentences that you need to do some mental gymnastics to understand the true meaning behind. Also I learned this name can also mean to be from France...soooo. 9/10 I chose this oui oui.

Greg

Stemming from the Greek name Grēgórios and later the Latin Gregorius, Greg means "watchful" or "vigilant." Most fittingly, the name finds close proximity to the Latin noun grex, and its stem greg, meaning "flock." Such ties grant Greg the stature of a shepherd, faithfully watching over their flock

Okay this one was a shock actually. He is the head Chaperone for the Onboarding department. These are the Dreamers that are tasked with bringing the fresh Dreamers into the society. So um, yeah I guess way to go me for the vibe check. 8/10 this tall lanky man is going to watch over you.

Ishmael

Ishmael is a boy's name of Hebrew origin, meaning “God will hear.” Gifting baby this biblical title is a lovely way to honor one's faith and remind baby of their religious roots. In the Old Testament, Ishmael is the name of Abraham's firstborn son and is also considered the traditional ancestor of the Arab people.

Aight so, I knew this one would be a dud. This dude is the surfer-bro head of the DNR and I wholeheartedly chose the name because of Moby Dick. Despite the name his approach and reverence of the wildlife is more akin to Steve Irwin than the whale hungry fisherman. I thought it was a funny juxtaposition. 1/10 just nah.

[nightsidewrestling]

M.L.B Bios: DJ Deja / Deja Imani Dickson

M.L.B'S Disk Jockey Deja (Jan 1989)

The DJ of the M.L.B (Mega Level Bitches), Deja, is the only member of the group born in Compton, she's also the only member born in California. As a native of Compton, she is used to the criminality and chaos of the neighbourhood. Deja met Aza and Hutch in high school, and then met Kris and Lola when they both moved (separately) moved onto the street.

"He said he wanted to record a song with us."

Name

Full Legal Name: Deja Imani Dickson

First Name: Deja

Meaning: Means 'Already' from the 'Déjà Vu' meaning 'Already Seen'

Pronunciation: DAY-zha

Origin: African-American

Middle Name: Imani

Meaning: Means 'Faith' in Swahili, ultimately of Arabic origin.

Pronunciation: ee-MAH-nee

Origin: Eastern African, Swahili, African-American

Surname: Dickson

Meaning: Means 'Son of Dick' (Dick being a medieval diminutive of 'Richard', which means 'Brave Ruler', derived from the Old German elements 'Rih' 'Ruler, King' and 'Hart' 'Hard, Firm, Brave, Hardy')

Pronunciation: DIK-son

Origin: English

Alias: DJ Deja

Reason: Stage name

Nicknames: Day, Dej, Mani

Titles: Miss

Characteristics

Age: (As of Jan 1988) 19

Gender: Female. She/Her Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: African-American

Birth Date: October 7th 1969

Sexuality: Bisexual

Religion: Christian

Native Language: English

Spoken Languages: English, Spanish

Relationship Status: Single

Astrological Sign: Libra

Voice Actor: Doja Cat

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Compton, Los Angeles County, California, USA

Current Location: Compton, Los Angeles County, California, USA / On Tour

Hometown: Compton, Los Angeles County, California, USA

Appearance

Height: 5'4" / 162 cm

Weight: 127 lbs / 57 kg

Eye Colour: Brown

Hair Colour: Black

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: N/A

Facial Hair: N/A

Tattoos: (As of Jan 1989) 0

Piercings: Double Ear Lobe (Both)

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: (Underage) Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None Diagnosed

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Friends: Azahar Gutiérrez, Dolores Park, Esther Hutchinson, Kristine Cobb, Nālani Kekoa

Colleagues: Azahar Gutiérrez, Dolores Park, Esther Hutchinson, Kristine Cobb, Jessica Henderson, Michael Coleman, Luis Perez, Nālani Kekoa

'Rivals': Andre Young, Antoine Carraby, Eric Wright, Lorenzo Patterson, O'Shea Jackson

Closest Confidant: Aisha Dickson

Mentor: Darnell Dickson

Significant Other: None

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Darnell Dickson (52, Father), Aisha Dickson (53, Mother, Née Ross)

Parents-In-Law: None

Siblings: Jamal Dickson (31, Brother), Zaire Dickson (28, Brother), Marquis Dickson (25, Brother), Taniqua Jenkins (22, Sister, Née Dickson)

Siblings-In-Law: Kenya Dickson (32, Jamal's Wife, Née Barnes), Naya Dickson (29, Zaire's Wife, Née Wood), Quanna Dickson (26, Marquis' Wife, Née Bennett), Daquan Jenkins (23, Taniqua's Husband)

Nieces & Nephews: Aniyah Dickson (11, Niece), Darrell Dickson (8, Nephew), Nia Dickson (5, Niece), Davon Dickson (2, Nephew), Shanika Dickson (8, Niece), Jalen Dickson (5, Nephew), Taniya Dickson (2, Niece), Tyrik Dickson (5, Nephew), Tyra Dickson (2, Niece), LeBron Jenkins (2, Nephew)

Children: None

Children-In-Law: None

Grandkids: None

Great Grandkids: None

Music Career

Debut: 1988

Retired: N/A

Genre: Rap / Hip-Hop

(Fictional) Records, Albums & Singles: 'Mega Level = Major Label' (Album, October 1988), Untitled Work in Progress (Due to Be Released Late 1989)

Songs (Record/Album/Single - Song Title - Track Length): 'Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Fighting Words' - 2:52 'Mega Level = Major Label' - 'In My Feelings' - 2:24 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Twins' - 3:32 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Strong Female Leader' - 3:05 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Use Your Voice' - 3:58 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Booty' - 3:22 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Silence, Please' - 2:27 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Go Away (Come Back)' - 3:18 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Broken Dreams' - 4:20 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Touching You' - 3:20 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'No Other' - 3:48 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'My Man' - 2:50 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Mind Melting' - 3:28 Mega Level = Major Label' - 'Go My Way' - 3:32

[riot-of-robins]

@scarlethood I actually wasn’t aware of this one! Was this common in American usage? I’d love to learn more if so because that’s really cute.

I do have pre-existing feelings about the Dickie-bird nickname for Dick though!

As pointed out in the excellent summary post of canon nicknames by @sohotthateveryonedied , variations on “Dickie-bird” are predominantly used by Jason, something that fanon seems to carry through pretty faithfully, which is really funny for a couple of reasons.

The first is that the oldest and most common (I believe) use is diminutive, specifically a generic term for any little bird to express how small it is. So much so that it also became (predominantly British) slang for any small thing, specifically used to evoke how tiny it is. Jason turning this one around on Dick is a funny and (in my mind) probably intentional way to turn the “little wing” thing back around on Dick, and to generally express “you’re the tiny one now, haha”. Add to that the way Cockney rhyming slang adopted it to mean “a little word” or a chat in general, and the fact that the expression also retains the same or similar euphemistic uses as “dick”, and it’s a nickname with a lot of very fun layers for Jason to use for ribbing his chatty big brother, with variable and deniable levels of sibling affection. (X)

What makes this really funny is that, notably, most of the common use I’ve ever been aware of is predominantly in British English. So, canon confirmed, Jason Todd voted most likely to use British slang terms in his casual everyday speech. A fact that fits beautifully with the fandom’s tendency to explore/lean on both Jason’s childhood love of English lit, and his closeness with Alfred as a kid. You could absolutely make an argument for this little Crime Alley kid picking up especially British expressions (on purpose or accident) from one or both of these things. The nerd.

So go forth! Share my brainworms about this specific nickname for Dick Grayson, too! I am absolutely loving all of the notes on this post. I’m having such a good time seeing all the historic and linguistic knowledge/excitement around here.

Lots of jokes get made in modern comics and fandom about the pejorative double entendre of Dick Grayson’s given/chosen nickname for Richard, and it IS funny, but I want to give a moment of appreciation for the other, kind of brilliant, double meaning that’s unfortunately fallen out of common modern usage, but would have been way more common when he was first named in 1940.

He’s literally named “detective” you guys, there is no way the World’s Greatest Detective’s partner wasn’t named this way on purpose.

Add to this the way the fandom loves to explore the 21st century reveal/retcon of Dick Grayson’s Romani heritage, and the possible etymology of the word, and you have a goldmine of largely untapped, to my knowledge, discussion of thoughts from Dick Grayson and the people around him about the relationship between his identity, the life he chose, the things he chooses to honor/remember, and the persistence of a nickname that has fallen increasingly out of favor in most other modern contexts.

I love when it’s as simple as “it’s his name and there’s no reason to change it”, but I also think there’s just lots of room for him to also have Real Thoughts about it throughout his life.

[hyperfashionist]

A Spoiltastic Journey

through the Entire Space: 1999 Canon

up to "Odysseus Wept"

Story 2: The Touch of Venus (story of past events)

Back to Story 1: Eternity Unleashed

Return to Series Preface

IS IT GOOD?

Yes. This is a well-told and well-paced adventure story, emotionally engaging, and an enjoyable read. There are some good moments of suspense too.

Does it transport me into the storyworld? Heck yes! It’s like I’ve never been away!

WHAT?

"The Touch of Venus" is a short story by John Kenneth Muir in the anthology "Shepherd Moon".

It fleshes out past events briefly recounted in the filmed Y2 episode "The Séance Spectre".

WHEN? 

The story takes us back to Koenig's days as an astronaut cadet. It doesn't say how old he was, or what Earth year the action took place.

The collection "Shepherd Moon" was published in 2010.

The "story of past events", which is chronologically the second story in the Powysverse continuity, is on pages 2-42.

There are 61 more stories in the Powys chronology until the "framing story" (pp. 1-2 and 42-43) of "The Touch of Venus" is told.

WHO?

"The Touch of Venus" is by John Kenneth Muir.

----

The central character is Cadet John Koenig.

The name "Koenig" is probably intended to mean "King", though the real history of the name is more complicated than that. The name is German and/or Ashkenazic in origin.

I said I wasn't doing call forwards, and I said I'd keep spoilers under the cut - but [whispers] qba'g gryy nalbar, ohg Wbua Xbravt vf tbvat gb or va pbzznaq bs Zbbaonfr Nycun ng Oernxnjnl [/whispers].

----

Victor Bergman appears in flashback, interacting with Koenig during a lecture at MIT. Establishes the history Koenig has with Bergman, and the influence of Bergman’s teaching on him.

----

Mission Commander Gorski appears. He is probably meant to be Russian, and although apparently of "Polish and Jewish" origin, the name isn't uncommon in Russia. 

At the very least, Gorski is Eastern European, and this is important because the Cold War was full-on in the 1970s. It was a futuristic dream at the time that astronauts and cosmonauts would one day explore space together in peeeece and harmoneeeee. A major geopolitical shift would be required to achieve this, and Gorski’s presence indicates the shift has happened.

The warm fuzzy thought of teaching the world to sing in perfect harmony, is somewhat chilled by the characterization of Gorski as a bad-faith authoritarian dick.

----

Cadet Sam Burke, Cadet Koenig's "best friend and classmate." We have to take the author’s word for that as there’s no evidence of the bestness of their friendship in the text. However, that's a nitpick on my part. We know there’s no point getting attached to Sam because he’s going straight in the fridge.

Tony Cellini, also a cadet, described as a friend of Koenig. He's Italian because RAI were funding the show in the 1970s and they wanted Italian actors to be cast. The diminutive "Tony" is, however, an English name. His surname rings a bell.

Koenig has way more interaction with Cellini than with Sam, which piques interest because we know we’ll meet Cellini later.

Diana Morris, namedropped by Cellini as "should have been Navigator" on the mission, but she never appears nor is she otherwise mentioned in this story. We know her as a comically negative character so it’s interesting to note that she’s good at something.

Dr Tessa Copeland, another cadet, Sam's fiancée. A medical doctor. Also going nowhere but the fridge, but drives the action more than Sam does.

WHERE?

Around Venus, funnily enough. For more spoily detail, see below the cut.

"Shepherd Moon" is a Heisenbook that appears to have one or two copies available in the universe, but disappears or alters its behaviour when one tries to purchase it.

WHY?

The intended audience for the Powys books is existing fans, who already know what happened in this story: when Koenig was a cadet, there was an outbreak of "Venusian plague" on a spaceship that his friends, Sam and Tessa, were on. Cadet Koenig had no choice but to leave them to their fate, otherwise the disease would have spread. Koenig was traumatized by this incident.

So, why did Powys decide to dedicate 43 pages to telling a story the facts of which we already know?

To Fill In Details

Some of Powys' new and/or expanded stories fill in details that didn't fit into the hour-long TV episodes. 

The TV series was accompanied by novelizations in the 1970s, but the Y2 novelizations were straight conversions of the shooting scripts, with cursory additions for continuity.

To Build Continuity

Part of Powys' motivation was also to unify a complete continuity, so the importance of some of the details in the story may not be apparent on first reading.

To Flesh Out Characterization

The "story of past events" fully recounts a formative experience that shapes Commander Koenig's leadership.

HOW?

As a straightforward adventure story about an incident flashed back to in "The Séance Spectre".

It's spoiler time, folks:

Back to Story 1: Eternity Unleashed

Return to Series Preface

SPOILY WHERE

Koenig, Cellini and Gorski are on board the Evening Star, a ship that works in symbiosis with the smaller Morning Star where Sam and Tessa are docking with the Aphrodite station for a resupply mission, which is a chore cadets have to do.

The Aphrodite is a "wheel-like" station somewhere around Venus.

The Evening Star is in orbit around Aphrodite, 1000km off the docking station, at the time the crisis breaks out.

Muir dedicates just enough time to describing the two ships Morning Star and Evening Star. Text isn’t the medium for dwelling on the "production design" that was the foundation of the filmed episodes; but Space: 1999 fans do love our spaceships, so he can't just skip describing the basics.

SPOILY WHO

Y2 Guest Cast

Sam and Tessa are going to get married very shortly. Like, almost immediately, to the point where Koenig and Cellini are going to have to throw Sam's bachelor party on the Evening Star if they do it at all.

Tessa is a "reserved scientist", a "diminutive redhead" who is "slightly older" than Sam. She outranks Sam. Tessa represents reason and discipline.

Sam is a "blond-headed Californian and freewheeling former surfer". Tessa's perception of Sam as an "overgrown child" is borne out by his actions; he is frivolous and undisciplined at the start of the story. He changes his ways, to the extent he can, by the end of the story.

Short Story Guest Cast

The Aphrodite has a crew of 20 people: "fifteen scientists, one administrator and a support staff of four". These include:

Roberto Sittorio, Chief Administrator of Aphrodite. Greets Sam and Tessa by dying horribly and vomiting blood, in a desperate attempt to board the docked supply ship Morning Star and get home to his family.

Unidentified Aphroditean Corpse I, dead from a novel haemorrhagic virus that has killed three crew members and sickened 14 others at the time that Sam and Tessa board the Aphrodite. The corpse must be either Kellogg or Stanley (see below).

Ivan Tantivy, Aphrodite lab technician. Ivan, of course, is John in Russian.

Тантывый means "tantalizing", and this character is the healthiest crew member available by the time Sam and Tessa manage to restore the comms system, which another crew member has destroyed in a state of fevered dementia.

Tantivy joins the video call back to Gorski on the Evening Star, and Tantivy's relatively healthy condition raises the question that some people might be immune to the novel haemorrhagic virus; it is clear that Gorski is tempted to do a bad-faith flip of this question into an excuse to pretend the virus is less dangerous than it is.

In English, "tantivy" means the sound of galloping horse's hooves. One of the horsemen of the apocalypse, maybe.

The late Prof Kellogg, mentioned by Tantivy, one of the guys who collected the samples that turned out to be contaminated. It was a water sample that spread the virus through the air when the tube broke.

The late Dr Stanley, another of the guys mentioned by Tantivy as having collected the contaminated samples.

10 no-name astronaut cadets, on the Evening Star for this resupply mission.

16 no-name Aphrodite crew, of whom 13 or 14 have symptomatic illness (unless Tantivy is one of the 14 known to be infected, which isn't clear).

SPOILY WHAT

At the start of the story, Koenig is bummed that Venus is "a dead planet" (well, unless there are microbes in its atmosphere) and he's afraid he's never going to have the kind of super fun space adventures you expect when you become an astronaut. He frets that all he'll ever get to do is schlep supplies "from one hermetically-sealed, man-made environment to another". What Koenig wishes is to "encounter something not of Mother Earth, but the Heavens."

Between you and me, I think Koenig is going to get his wish, good and hard.

Formative Moments

There are several formative moments portrayed in this story.

Background

The Morning Star is docked to the Aphrodite space station, and Sam and Tessa are ready to start the resupply. Tessa is puzzled when they get no answer. She then realizes that the Aphrodite are supposed to contact Earth in person every seven days, but they've only heard from them via datalink for longer than that.

Sam is too busy dicking around and anticipating their imminent wedding to take Tessa's concerns seriously, to the point where she has to pull rank and threaten to put him on report if he doesn't behave.

These vital seconds of distraction prevent Tessa from securing the situation before the airlock opens and a crew member (Sittorio) bursts out of the Aphrodite, horribly disfigured and projectile vomiting blood all over both her and Sam, as well as contaminating the air in the Morning Star with whatever caused the Aphrodite's crew to fall silent.

Searching through the dark and silent space station, Tessa stumbles upon the corpse of another crew member whose fate apparently was the same as Sittorio's. She finds her way into a lab where some crew members are sheltering, where they explain the situation. The virus kills within 24 hours, and dementia is one of the late-stage symptoms.

Race Against Time

Tessa goes over the data and analysis left behind by Kellogg and Stanley, in an effort to figure out a cure. At the very least, Tessa believes she can find a way to reduce symptom severity by 50%. She and Sam reroute some of Aphrodite's systems to partially compensate for the damage to life support and restore the external comms. The life support systems now have a few hours before they fail. Tessa estimates that she herself has a few hours before her symptoms make it impossible for her to continue working on the problem. This is the kind of race against time that is typical in the filmed episodes.

The Tipping Point

Tessa is introduced as rationality itself in person, right up until the point when she makes the request for a medical ship, a request which she knows, in the back of her mind, to be ill-judged even as she makes it. Tessa argues that she can work out a treatment to buy time until they can get back to Earth, where they have the best chance of receiving lifesaving care. You don't need me to parse why Tessa's plan is unlikely to succeed. It is emphasized, throughout, that the haemorrhagic fever is altering her thinking.

Bad Cop Koenig Makes A Plan

Koenig examines the data Tessa has transferred to him, and the computer predicts humanity will not survive if the infection spreads to Earth.

Koenig recommends marooning the Aphrodite while nodding along to Tessa's plan. Everyone on Aphrodite will be dead before anyone realizes they're marooned. If perchance the three crew members who weren't showing symptoms are immune, they'll be taken out by the loss of Aphrodite's failing life support system within a few hours.

To make sure the virus can't spread beyond Aphrodite, Koenig also recommends remote-piloting and blowing up the supply ship Morning Star, which is docked to Aphrodite, so it can't be piloted and docked anywhere else.

Gorski's Political Reasoning

Gorski is opposed to blowing up an expensive spaceship, and insists they should take the time to thoroughly study and analyze this novel Venusian 24-hour 100% all-fatal blood-vomiting illness before making any rash decisions.

First formative moment: Gorski washes his hands

Mission Commander Gorski delegates the decision to Cadet Koenig. It should be obvious how grossly irresponsible and politically self-ass-covering this is on Gorski's part. It also underlines that Koenig was making command decisions in disaster long before he would reasonably have been expected to do so.

Second formative moment: Koenig floats alone in space

This isn't a story of moral ambiguity. The actual moral challenge for Koenig is black-and-white, open-and-shut.

Instead, it's the story of how Koenig becomes a hero in the face of bad faith from his officers, bad decisions from his peers, and emotional pressure from those directly affected.

Koenig is right again, or still, or as usual

The decision to maroon Aphrodite is necessary, given that the virus is airborne probably among other transmission modes, has an 18% known case fatality rate so far, and isn't done yet.

If the virus reaches Earth, the population won't have the luxury of indulging in culture wars over it, because everyone will be too busy projectile vomiting and haemorrhaging from the inside out.

Abandoning the sick to their fate is harsh, but there is no possible course of action that will save their lives, and it isn't going to take them very long to die.

The three crew that are not showing symptoms when Sam and Tessa arrive? They *could* be immune, but there's still no way to get them off the contaminated station before the life support systems fail.

Finally, Koenig decides not to tell Tessa that he's not sending help. His reasoning is that Sittorio was driven to try to escape, and Tessa will be too, unless she thinks help is coming.

Cellini objects that this plan is mean and cruel. He really thinks Tessa will find a treatment, while pooh-poohing the computer models that spell DOOM in big letters. This doesn't do anything to make Cellini look rational in my eyes. Whatever the merits of Cellini's argument, though, he is genuinely opposed to the idea of abandoning people to suffer alone.

The courage of Koenig's convictions

Koenig not only has to insist on making the hard moral choice in the face of objections; he has to physically risk throwing his life away in order to save the entire Earth population.

On this subject, Koenig chews Cellini out by telling him that fame costs, and right here's where they start paying. This speech takes up a full paragraph and is less hackneyed than it could have been, though IMO it would have worked better at half the length. Anyway, Koenig's point is, courage != impetuousness, courage is taking the tough decisions and acting on them.

In order to attach an explosive charge to the Morning Star, Koenig has to do a space walk beyond the end of his tether; he then gets confronted and cussed out by a not-in-their-right-minds Sam and Tessa for abandoning them, just to make him feel worse. 

After getting a good look at his dying friends' horribly disfigured faces fixing him with a judgey glare through Aphrodite's porthole, Koenig is left floating in space, with no expectation of rescue:

"Koenig felt like he was spinning through all of eternity […] he knew he was alone on this […] that he had taken a path the other cadets had neither supported nor condoned […] nobody to watch his back […] But if the price of his life was rescuing Earth from the Venusian plague, then Koenig could live with it. At least until he died from oxygen deprivation…"

So the experience is traumatic not only because of the suffering Koenig witnesses, but because of the suffering he himself experiences as a direct result of saving the whole world. This single act makes Koenig a hero, long before he sets foot on Moonbase Alpha.

Third formative moment: the worst of Earth culture

It is Gorski who tries to order Cellini to leave Koenig to die untethered in space after he's saved everyone's ass by blowing up the Morning Star.

Gorski represents the very worst of Earth culture, the kind of political sellout who in 2023 would be given his own show. Muir's portrayal of him, written 13 years ago, never strikes a false note. 

Fourth formative moment: you'll never spacewalk alone

The final defining moment is when Cellini unexpectedly grabs Koenig's leg, having spacewalked out to save him.

"Couldn't let you take all the risks alone, now could I?"

By saying this, Cellini is putting his money where his mouth is, and giving voice to a core value of the storyworld. Cellini's willingness to support Koenig also affirms Koenig's leadership qualities.

THE WTF MOMENTS

Just because I officially don't care about scientific realism, doesn't mean my suspension of disbelief is unbreakable.

It's one thing to speculate that humans can go tromping into a previously unexplored environment, encounter a pathogen, and speculate that the pathogen is engineered. If I didn't know better, that one might have got past my filters.

It's a bit harder to make that case when the previously unexplored environment is THE ATMOSPHERE OF VENUS.

Who would engineer a virus and put it in the atmosphere of Venus? Humans? That's an idea that could be made to work, but it's not what is happening here.

Tantivy says:

"eons ago, the planet would have resembled a global-sized rain forest. Water and plant life could have been abundant."

Sounds reasonable so fa-

"Intelligent creatures, a civilization, may have existed down there..."

To be fair, the beginning of the story includes similar speculation from Koenig, and introduces Bergman's five conditions he thinks are required to support extraterrestrial life. Diegetically, we can assume these are to be taken seriously and will come up again. However, it's not enough to get me to swallow the idea of a Venusian civilization engineering biological warfare as a logic bomb for Earth humans who weren't even thought of at that point.

I know loads of fiction has been set on Venus, but from the perspective of 2010, I don't think you can sell the idea of civilizations on other planets in our solar system, at least not in terms of their coming into conflict with Earth humans in the present. It all just sounds like little green men on Mars.

I suppose it could be an allusion to UFO, which from a production perspective is the prequel to Space: 1999. However, that's a different series entirely, which I haven't seen, and nothing within the storyworld of S99 has conditioned me to swallow this idea.

But hyperfashionist, I Thought You Didn't Care About Scientific Realism?

Fabulizing a two billion year old Venusian civilization of sapient beings who looked "across the stars" (what stars? they're like the next planet over), decided humans were déclassé, and sprinkled hyper-specific viruses throughout their atmosphere as a bioweapon in anticipation of future humans' (wait, hasn't homo erectus only been around half a million years?) developing a space program... that's not a problem with scientific unrealism, it's a problem with basic reasoning.

Koenig doesn't help his case when he uses this argument to try to convince Cellini to maroon the Aphrodite. As Koenig himself points out, this is a real virus that really kills people really dead. He doesn't need to blend in conspiracy theories that make him sound like Fox Mulder after a blow to the head. Maybe it's presented this way to make Cellini's objections look reasonable.

When Tessa tells Koenig he shouldn't abandon her, that she can find an antidote, he rebuts that there is no antidote because the virus was engineered for the sole purpose of wiping out the human race.

Is Hypercompetence At Super-Speed A Liability In This Story?

The race against time by hypercompetent scientists who always win, is such a standard on this show. Does the virus need to be a Venusian bioweapon in order to justify Koenig's decision? If it weren't a Venusian bioweapon, would we say he was giving up on Sam and Tessa too easily?

How Could The "Venusian Plague As Bioweapon" Idea Be Made To Work?

Without the Venusian bioweapon idea, this would be a bulletproof story. Heck, if you want to say there's sapient life on Venus and it's out to get us, you could have the virus itself be the sapient life, acting with intent! That would work!

Can This WTF Be Saved?

Muir does devote substantial effort to justifying the idea. He has several experts taking the idea seriously to some degree:

Kellogg is reported to have believed there was an advanced civilization on Venus that created the bioweapon;

Tantivy endorses the speculation about a past Venusian civilization;

Koenig speculates at the start, based on Bergman's five prerequisites, that Venus once harboured not only life, but sentient life. Later, after examining the data including "various journals", he endorses Kellogg's idea that Venus once harboured a civilization advanced enough to create a bioweapon.

So basically the diegetic evidence is that experts are willing to speculate there could've been a Venusian civilization, two of these experts live(d) in orbit around Venus, and this speculation is supported by data. In the spirit of being a "dedicated planner", Koenig does at least run the numbers before waving his freak flag.

tl;dr Nice try, but the idea of a Venusian civilization anticipating conflict with Earthfolk who didn't exist yet; much less a Venusian bioweapon; doesn't work for me. It's just over-egging the pudding. Sorry.

THE GOOD BITS

Muir's writing is really well crafted, so much so that it's worth holding some things up as examples.

Balancing Showing and Telling

The conventional advice for writers is to "show, don't tell", but Muir gives us an example of how to combine showing with telling.

Telling only becomes problematic when it's used as a substitute for characterization, justification of plot points or relationships, or emotionally engaging narrative.

Over the span of two pages, Cellini and Koenig are bickering about how to handle a situation. Most of those two pages are taken up with mostly-dialogue combined with narration, that shows us how these two characters think:

"'Gorski is an ass," Tony Cellini raged, gulping another spoonful of soup. "I was late once. Once! Heaven forbid he should stay on duty a minute past rotation! Heaven forbid he should actually do anything!' "Koenig smiled at the Italian's tirade [...] Cellini didn't tolerate fools gladly [...] the hot-headed Cellini was a friend and Gorski wasn't. [...] As much as he tried not to take sides, Koenig knew where his loyalties were. "'Drop it,' Koenig urged. 'He's in charge on this run. And Gorski has friends too, you know.' "'I wonder what he's paying them.' "'Tony...'"

After a page-and-a-bit of dialogue-plus-narration, about one-third of one page directly spells out what we're meant to take away from this dialogue:

"Cellini believed the universe would invariably have its way […] the old 'what, me worry?' mentality. By contrast, Koenig was much more proactive in his approach, a dedicated planner." 

The telling works because it's descriptive, and flows well with the story. Comparisons of leadership style and relative approaches to discipline are consistent with what would be foremost in cadets' minds as the action unfolds.

It could have been left out, but the effect of leaving it in is to break up the lengthy exchange of dialogue (through which the showing was done), and underline the main theme of the story. By being descriptive and illustrative, it makes sure we don't miss the author's point, but avoids making the story read like it should've been written on five cardboard pages.

Making Us Care About Red Shirt Characters

We're not meant to care about Sam and Tessa, they're meant to make us care about Koenig.

However, if we don't care about Sam and Tessa for the duration of the story, we won't care as much about Koenig's loss or conflict with them. It's the difference between holding up a cue card KOENIG SAD (which is kind of how it came over in the episode) and actually communicating the grievous experience they all go through.

Pathos

A particularly effective scene is when Sam, beginning to show symptoms, has an Ambrose Bierce imagining of the wedding he and Tessa were about to have. Sam has a moment of relief at getting out of that space station, only for all the wedding guests to liquefy from the haemorrhagic "Venusian plague".

This happens in ascending order of the guests' importance in Sam's life: first, unnamed children sitting in the pews in their Sunday best, liquefying as they bleed out. Then Sam's own mother; then Koenig himself. Finally, Sam unveils Tessa to reveal her disfigured countenance.

This scene is effective in reminding us that it is the whole population of Earth that's at risk - but overcomes the abstraction of the whole world’s being in jeopardy by making it about the individuals closest to one person. It’s not super original, but it doesn’t need to be.

Character Development

Sam redeems the irresponsible attitude he displayed at first (during which, we note, he was preoccupied with thoughts of the wedding) that may have been the difference between Tessa’s securing the scene, and the virus’ breaking containment into their docked ship. Tessa asks him to concede and retreat back into the space station with her to die, even though he’d rather try to escape. Sam makes the decision to die with Tessa, to please her. It’s the only way left to him to show that he has changed for the better, and he takes it.

Metaphor

By having Koenig witness his two friends die together on their wedding day on a station named Aphrodite orbiting Venus, the planet of love, Thanatos wins this round against Eros. That’s space for ya. Merciless, I tell you.

REPRESENTATION

Bechdel score: fail. Tessa can't talk to another female character because she's the only female character.

In itself, her representation isn't terrible: she's the hero of her own part of the story, up until the point the disease causes her to lose her reason. But the story isn't about Tessa, it's about Koenig.

ALPHAN POPULATION DEPLETION RATE

Not applicable, there are no Alphans yet.

The Story So Far

“Eternity Unleashed”, book section from original novel “Eternity Unbound”, 2005 (Y1)

"The Touch of Venus" (story of past events), main section of short story in "Shepherd Moon", 2010 (Y2)

Up Next

"The Astelian Gift", short story in "Shepherd Moon", 2010 (Y2)

Back to Story 1: Eternity Unleashed

Return to Series Preface