#not sure what the implications of that being a normal fish would be

[defaultbyproxy]

DAY TWENTY-THREE Emmet appreciation month (June 2024)

[fishing]

[clockwayswrites]

This is why Moku and I are dangerous to each other:

clockways — Today at 2:01 AM

OKAY Danny/Tim where Danny is either ghost king or working for Clockwork or playing Reaper or something showing up to talk to Tim like "MY DUDE, you have got to stop killing so many people, even if it's in the name of good, esp when they're surrounded by rancid ectoplasm"

And this is now the Bats learn about Tim's LOA kill count

Mokulule — Today at 2:12 AM

Heheheh oh yesss

Does Danny show up in the middle of like a supposedly secure location in the middle of a mission?

Like “dude please, I do not need the assassin influx, you have any idea of the trouble you caused killing so many at once?”

Mokulule — Today at 2:19 AM

I’m kinda imagining these new ghosts still following Ra’s Al Ghul fanatically unless Danny can somehow get them rehabilitated and imagine if they found their way to the living world?! Do you want that madman to have a ghost army?

clockways — Today at 2:19 AM

I think a mission or right in the middle of the cave, yeah

and totally, like the pit waters have a Not Good effect on the ghosts so they're even more off than normal I think

Mokulule — Today at 2:22 AM

Okay but I am liking the implication here that Tim has been having this ongoing crusade against Ra’s in the background of everything where he keeps blowing up LOA bases and somehow managing to keep it secret

Here B thought Ra’s was his nemesis, turns out attention had shifted to Tim years ago

clockways — Today at 2:25 AM

Yes, Tim is 100% the Detective now and Ra's keeps being a creepy obsessed mo-fo and Tim just keeps finding ways to blow shit up. if it started at 17 could say Tim is 20, 21 now so they've been at it three years or so

Mokulule — Today at 2:26 AM

And like Danny has had enough, there’s so many of them they have their own realm in the realms and are stirring up trouble trying to find ways back into the living world

clockways — Today at 2:27 AM

Yeeeees They're basically segregated into a specific area of the realms and are still causing shit

Mokulule — Today at 2:28 AM

Maybe they even have their own pseudo pit from gathering rancid ectoplasm and it’s messing up the ecosystem and they’re hurting the blobs that would otherwise be cleaning that shit up

And the pseudo pit is definitely not helping their mental stability

Just trash assassin baby ghosts

clockways — Today at 2:29 AM

LOL Blob ghost sucker fish! yes xD

Mokulule — Today at 2:29 AM

They need rehabilitation and a bath and like it’s really not helping that Tim keeps sending more

clockways — Today at 2:30 AM

Every time Danny starts to get a handle on it BAM more assassins and more bad juice

And then Danny has to ramp up the blob ghost breeding again

Mokulule — Today at 2:31 AM

Yeah and he can only handle a couple at a time and he also has to make sure they don’t go back once he’s gotten them out and it’s just a mess

clockways — Today at 2:31 AM

OKAY OKAY WAIT. Danny makes an appointment with Tim as Wayne CEO

Shows up in his human guise with Tim as just Tim which sets up all sorts of alarms

Mokulule — Today at 2:32 AM

Ahahahaha yesss this is like a corporate problem 😂

clockways — Today at 2:32 AM

How is this normal seeming dude associated with the LOA?? What does he know about Tim??? Who is he???

Dany is just :) Look at me, using the proper channels!

Mokulule — Today at 2:32 AM

Danny is trying to go about this the right way official like

🤝

clockways — Today at 2:32 AM

🤝

Mokulule — Today at 2:33 AM

😂 everyone is very suspicious of Danny Fenton

clockways — Today at 2:34 AM

It doesn't help that he has officially been missing in the living realm since he graduated high sch9ool

(someone ((lancer)) finally noticed and reported him)

Mokulule — Today at 2:34 AM

Oh yeah even more suspicious for potential LOA connection

The fact that it was an old teacher and not his parents reporting him missing despite having graduated high school is also concerning

clockways — Today at 2:37 AM

mmmmy hum just all these red flags and it's very frustrating for the whole batfam.

Mokulule — Today at 2:38 AM

And like the guy looks like Danny Fenton, but is he really? He’s somehow very careful about not leaving prints and DNA where he goes, they’ve not been able to get any surefire confirmation this is indeed Danny Fenton

clockways — Today at 2:38 AM

AND THEN there is a gala that Ra's also shows up to... as does Danny. Just... to keep an eye on things. (He's worried about ghost assassins.)

But Tim sees Danny out of the corner of his eye and !!!

(Danny just went intangible through the wall, he's totally not on the guest list)

Mokulule — Today at 2:40 AM

Oh yes, he’s dressed up well enough, he’s had to learn that as a king and fits in just fine

clockways — Today at 2:42 AM

Tim can't help but recognize that Danny is handsome.

Mokulule — Today at 2:43 AM

Tim thinking he’s got two enemies at the gala now - has Tim told the other bats about Danny or is he hiding that? Cause then Tim might think the others have Ra’s handled so he has to handle Danny- and yeah okay he is very handsome, now that he’s not busy internally freaking out over what he knows (which he was at the first meeting)

clockways — Today at 2:45 AM

Depends how much the Bats know about Ra's interest in Tim. If they're aware at all, he's told them I think since Danny know is a threat to them all. 🤔

But I do still see him handling Danny either way since Danny hasn't met the family- keep things separate until there is no doubt.

Mokulule — Today at 2:46 AM

Okay but Clock, has Danny in his attempt at going through proper channels and requesting a meeting completely forgotten to mention the word ghost since he thought that was implied when he said the dead assassins were a problem for him?

clockways — Today at 2:47 AM

100%

He is still a disaster at explaining things

And look Tim is damn cute, Danny was a little flustered.

Mokulule — Today at 2:48 AM

So when Tim asks him what he’s doing there at the gala and he tells him that he’s keeping an eye out for assassins - Tim maybe takes that as a threat - like Tim thinks they’re playing 5D mental chess here, but Danny is a disaster and is not even playing chess

clockways — Today at 2:49 AM

!! OH Added bonus, Danny's etiquette training is all be like Dorathea and Pandora and etc, so he has a rather unusual speach pattern in King Mode which makes him seem that maybe common english isn't his first language but if he is Danny Fenton that doesn't track....

Mokulule — Today at 2:50 AM

Oh yesss good

clockways — Today at 2:50 AM

They have to end up on the dance floor, of course.

Mokulule — Today at 2:50 AM

Of course

Obligatory

clockways — Today at 2:51 AM

Danny is just all :) I'm putting my training to use! This is going so well!

Tim >:| What is this man playing at...

Mokulule — Today at 2:51 AM

Yes XD

clockways — Today at 2:52 AM

Ra's takes an instant hatred to Danny because he is Taking Tim's Attention!

Mokulule — Today at 2:52 AM

Eventual reveal is going to be hilarious

clockways — Today at 2:52 AM

Which makes Tim think that Ra's and Danny are old enemies

Mokulule — Today at 2:52 AM

Oh yess hahaha Ra’s now trying to have Danny killed

Now Danny is having to deal with both living and dead assassins he is not amused, but if he gets them away from Ra’s in the living world that will help some problems down the line. Just every assassin Ra’s sends disappears and no bodies turn up

clockways — Today at 2:55 AM

It's driving both Tim and Ra's mad

Things maybe come to a head when some of the ghost assassins try to go after Tim and Phantom shows up?

Mokulule — Today at 2:57 AM

XD Does Tim realize this is Danny or does he now think there’s another player?

Are they aware of Phantom as a ghost hero?

clockways — Today at 2:59 AM

HUM so I kinda want to say Tim does put 2 + 2 together- at least at some point. Maybe just because Phantom's new outfit mirrors what his formal clothing had. Not like perfectly but there's a lot of parallels in color and things

Maybe not till he's safe and- if they know of Phantom- they're back somewhere secure

Tim just holding an ice pack to his head jolting up and pointing a finger at Phantom "You're Danny!!!"

Phantom: Uh, yeah??? Of course I am?

-

And then @mokulule got distracted by fic and I went to sleep cause it was 3am. But my can we go from 'random statement' to 60% of a fic outline in no time. (Not it.)

[cryptidcorners]

Hi! Could I request literally any kind of story with protective Mike (from the FNAF movie). It really doesn't matter in what sort of context it is, I just want some protectiveness. Thank you so much in advance!

~ Mike Schmidt x Reader ~

= Title: Sheild

= Character: Mike Schmidt

= Media: Movie!Five Nights At Freddie's

= Prompt: N/A

= Description: During a coffee break, Mike notices you look more worried than normal. In reality, a former friend of yours is on the same floor as you, and the troubles you faced with them drive you away from Mike. It isn't until they finally approach and you see a different side of him.

= Request: "Hi! Could I request literally any kind of story with protective Mike (from the FNAF movie). It really doesn't matter in what sort of context it is, I just want some protectiveness. Thank you so much in advance!"

= Tags: Fluff ! Small Angst? Mall Setting, Protective Mike, Sweet Talk, Platonic (with Slight Romantic Implications? It's up for you to decide !), Affection, Cute Ending + Reader is !GN

= Warnings: Slight Stalking? (Reader has a Former Friend who approaches them (!GN)), Some Tension + Anxiety/Worry + No Spoilers, Really!

"Is something wrong?" Mike's curious tone had fished you out of your softened paralysis. In a flash, your eyes flicked upwards. You had forgotten where you were due to your gaze being on someone else. "What? Oh, sorry." Your palms sunk around the design of your coffee cup, and with its heat bleeding around your fingertips, you promptly pulled away.

"Sorry," you echoed. "I dozed off."

Even the busy foreground of the mall couldn't hook your mind. You weren't trying to be rude, or ignore Mike on purpose, but you couldn't stop thinking about them. Your lips twisted into a frown.

"Everything okay?" His face softened with concern. Even with that, you still looked around as if you were dazed. That's when he connected the dogs and reluctantly spilled a: "Is somebody bothering you?" Mike's throat strengthened. He didn't even have a set response but his shoulders were already peaking.

"Maybe," you sighed. Your warm hand fell to your cheek. His face fell and you quickly brushed it off. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

Mike was getting antsy in his seat. "You can tell me who they are. I'll tell them to go, I mean, I am a guard. It's what I do, you know?" As if to showcase his title, he sat up, expressing his "security" symbol running across his light uniform. That brought you some ease. Sort of.

Then you felt his hand on yours, grasping it protectively. "Please? Tell me who it is." Mike asked, "I don't want you to feel this way." Would it be wrong to tell him? The character orbiting in your mind had not hurt you per say, but you had history. It hurt too much to see them.

You sighed and gave him a reassuring grin. Your eyes were still on Mike, "It's okay, I know I'll be fine with you here."

Mike pulled away shyly. He could defend you easily, but he still had to make sure he knew. Before you could speak after a sorry sip of your coffee, a dreadful buzz crawled out of Mike's radio. Rapid, low-quality chatter. Mike looked like a lost animal, and hesitated to leave. But, he had a duty. "Damnit, I gotta go. I'll see you later?"

"Right, right. Bye," you awkwardly waved. You felt ridiculous. You were so focused on somebody you used to know while having a brief coffee date with your friend. It was hard to ever grab a seat with Michael, and you managed to mess it up.

Your disappointed expression rested on your face with a soft groan. Stupid.

"Hey there." A familiar voice made you feel like a fish out of water. Your attention flew upwards. You shuttered, "Hey?"

Internally, you were panicking. The same person you were shivering over was now looming over your shoulder. They must have waited until Mike had left. Damnit.

You were trying to pull away from their conversation. You both had left on bad terms, and it felt uncomfortable how sweet they were. There was nothing kind about them at all. And you knew it.

"I should really go," you finally declared. You attempted to pull out of your seat, but a sudden force stopped you. They grabbed your arm.

"But it's only been a few minutes, come on."

"I really want to stay, but I need to go." You said nervously. They didn't budge.

Anxiety began to grow, and your mouth was sewed shut. You completely drowned away everything they were saying until you heard a vicious: "Get off!" from Mike.

He gripped their shoulder and pulled them aside. Mike sucked his teeth and swore under his breath, "They want you to leave. So, fuck off."

"I don't think you understand, sir. We know each other." They protested.

Mike's gaze grew into something stormy, "Leave. Or I'm calling the rest of security." As soon as your follower squirmed out of his grip, Mike walked over and shielded you away. They apologized, making up a silly excuse as to why they were holding on to you. Mike didn't buy it and snapped again. You were left alone, drowning in relief.

"Are you okay? Look at me." Mike quickly discarded his hard expression, his eyes were already calm with longing. "They didn't hurt you right? I'll find them, I have good memory, I-" he was holding you. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"it's okay. It's okay. Mike, I'm fine." You answered. "You protected me, and that's all I can ask for."

He was still worried, so he felt the need to pull you aside, talking to another floor just in case. Mike released a heavy exhale, forbidding himself to let go of your hand. "I can give you a ride home,"

"You don't have to."

"I can pay for a ride,"

"Mike."

"You can stay near me too, I don't-"

"Michael." Your tone hardened. Mike's attention veered towards you once again. "You don't need to worry." Your were hands softly wrapped around his, "I'll be okay as long as you're here."

"Okay." Mike's demeanor relaxed at the sight of you. "Just . . . tell me when someone is wrong. I don't want you to get hurt."

"You got it." It felt strangely intimate. You had never been so close with him. You did have a habit of shielding away your hardships, but now, it felt wrong to hold it away. Especially from Mike. "It won't happen ever again."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

[sighed-the-snake]

I am listening to I'm Afraid of Americans by David Bowie, and one of the lyrics gave me an idea:

God is an American.

And so is Warlock.

In Good Omens, there are the three boys: Adam, Warlock, And Greasy Johnson.

Crowley and Aziraphale think they are raising the antichrist, but there has been a switcheroo: The antichrist is with a normal family, Warlock is raised under occult influences, and Greasy is the spare who grows up having a normal life alongside Adam.

There is some evidence that Greasy Johnson is the Messiah. (thanks to @thesherrinfordfacility for the great meta!)

But, I started thinking about the ways Neil and Terry subvert our expectations, and God's sense of humor in Good Omens, and a thought struck me:

What if Warlock is the Messiah?

Think about it. Greasy Johnson is connected to fish, like Jesus, sure. But also like a red herring. His purpose in the story is to be a bit of a mystery, a distraction from what's staring us in the face.

What if Aziraphale and Crowley were raising exactly the correct child who needed their influence? It just wasn't the antichrist. It was the Messiah.

Kindle page 62:

Warlock now found himself being educated by two tutors. Mr. Harrison taught him about Attila the Hun, Vlad Drakul, and the Darkness Intrinsicate in the Human Spirit. He tried to teach Warlock how to make rabble-rousing political speeches to sway the hearts and minds of multitudes.

Mr. Cortese taught him about Florence Nightingale,* Abraham Lincoln, and the appreciation of art. He tried to teach him about free will, self-denial, and Doing unto Others as You Would Wish Them to Do to You.

Warlock was exposed at a young age to the pain and darkness in human hearts. He was taught by a demon who's very good at temptation (according to Aziraphale) how to sway the hearts and minds of humanity with his words.

He's taught by an angel about compassion, thinking for himself, and doing the right thing.

These are vital lessons if you're going to be the savior of mankind who needs to convince billions of humans to listen to you.

Names have power in this story. Adam Young is named after the very first human and ends up on the side of humanity.

Harriet Dowling looked at her baby and said, yep, this kid looks like a traitor.

Warlock has not yet lived up to his name. What institution is branding him a traitor? Who is he betraying? What oath is he breaking? What responsibility is he refusing?

Could it be that Heaven shows up to tell him he's Jesus reborn and he has a destiny and Warlock firmly gives them a double-dose of middle fingers?

If Adam the Antichrist is a sweet kid so influenced by humanity that he goes against his nature to save them, is Warlock the Messiah going to be such an insufferable rich kid bratty politician's child that he'll refuse to pass judgement on a single soul because no one tells him what to do? Is he going to use his influence to harness humanity against Heaven and Hell? He's already had a demon for a nanny and grew up with an angel in his garden; he's not afraid of occult forces. Occult forces wiped his bum and told him to love slugs.

Some fun implications here. Jesus being American feels very Terry.

[neonmetro]

KALYPTOOOOGSGDHEHSJDHRJSJFJYRHDJD

Wow.....kalypto......what a woma- *Gets hit by ongoing traffic*

Hey guys, so I know a lot of these characters make me look insane but I promise I am very normal ( totally ). It's just that......kalypto is just kalypto okay.....

THEY MAKE ME WANT TO DO BACKFLIPS WHAT. they are so awesome......I would say I would like to know so much more about them, but I'm not sure if you gave additional info, LMAO

I would, however, like to give Uly appreciation 💕💕💕💕 I know I don't talk about this guy often, but it's just so awesome, man. I'm gonna give it headpats, trust 🥰🥰🥰

ANYWAYS, now that I got that tiny rant out the way.....HAVE A GOOD DAY *winks and throws a rose at you

- paris anon

HEH... yeah... kalypto does that to people... smiles and winks

I CAN'T REMEMBER IF I DID GIVE ADDITIONAL INFO EITHER. but here's a basic run down

the founding is more like a mafia family than a biological family, but even then the direct children between members of the founding are considered highly. unless you fuck up your proof of value. i'm thinking both circe and kalypto failed these tests because they were just considered not special enough (mind you, still talented on normal people standards, but below average for the founding.) and so were exiled to aeaea and ogygia respectively. they're still apart of the founding so they deserve nothing less than luxury, but just distant members as not to draw too much embarrassment to the main family.

circe was able to brute force her way through learning magic through desperation and becoming a magical girl on her own, but kalypto remained powerless. the only power that they Do Have, is specifically tied to ogygia (at least that's what they think).

they have no idea whether or not their power is limited to just ogygia, they did try leaving the island at one point and traveled around the nearby islands and met circe at one point outside of the founding's gaze and had a good time for awhile. they got to socialize, they got to drink and feast, but they started seeing signs of aging, scars, wearing and tearing at their skin. all their life they didn't have to worry about the implications of being mortal, they were a lesser deity and was a failure in that regard, but at least they weren't mortal. all the worst, people were after their head for their careless nature apparently breaking a few local laws. so! they decided to retire from fishing and go running back home to ogygia.

in ogygia, they're able to stay young forever. all their scars and wrinkles disappear, and they look barely a year older than ulysses despite being much older than him. and all life on ogygia remains as it were, growing what it needs to, cycling through some brief change, but ultimately remaining the same.

they haven't had human contact in quite some time, so frankly it was a miracle for them that someone washed up their shores just for them! just for them only, it's only proof of their status, and they can be happy together in a state of constant.

and honestly? ulysses shared that sentiment, and that's why it worked for awhile. it literally took a deus ex machina for him to regain the willpower to move on and not be entirely halted in his own self growth (ofc he did this for the most self sabotaging reasons but the point is he does have the willpower to move on he just needs to break his bad habits.)

i do think after ulysses left kalypto just is. in a constant state of wallowing. they really miss it. to the point of becoming suicidal. but also it isn't worth stopping the cycle and hurting themselves. it isn't a good time for them :/

they do genuinely wish for the best for ulysses, hell even penelope, but what they believe is that they're the best ulysses can do now. they're as good as they get without being a straight up god, and ulysses shouldn't be chasing after a woman who couldn't even compare to kalypto. (kalypto is. incredibly insecure, even if they don't think they are. they constantly compare how much better they are against penelope and even circe and they don't realize how alone they are)

some notes for them...

i really like their flowers in their hair though... originally they had such a diff design all bc i was afraid to make them blonde?????? (brother ulysses is blonde idk what the problem here was) but also the color palette was giving me difficulty... but making them a orange was a good choice. imo

originally they were supposed to be a doctor-like character, but if anything they're more of a nurse than a doctor... the glasses were to give them more interest bc originally they didn't have the flowers? but now i just think they're charming so they get to keep them...

i do want to redesign their outfit again so ... back in the designing trenches i go

for some reason i really associate them with the sun even though they're a child of atlas not helios….????? but whatever close enough go my titan children.

obv i'm taking my own liberties w/ kalypto, i really do think they're interesting and i wish there was more done with them (i have to specify kalypto did not sa uly in novaturi)

[katyspersonal]

I am doing something awful

OKAY SO yeah, Dark Souls 1 doesn't use typical color sliders for character creation, so these colors are brought from just zooming screenshots in very much! Black names are canon, grey are "easy to conclude" ones, blue ones are those I had to use my imagination for! This is just a self-reference that I will probably keep editting anyways. I tried to focus on DS1 characters specifically but some characters only introduced in DS2 and DS3 were too hard to exclude for lore reasons!

Some notes:

- Nito is (was) a Grey Giant, we know he is a Giant from his size, his coffin's size and place in the Tomb of the Giants, but proportions match Grey Giants in my opinion! Would also make sense if he was one of the "latest" ones since he evolved enough to be the first to die! Ariamis is a Grey Giant too!

- Like I said, I need to know for sure whether the screenshot I found for Ciaran is legit or fanmade, so just put a pin on that. Same for Darkmoon Soldiers who waded Sen's Fortress only to join Gwyndolin's forces; they seem to have appearances but I never saw screenshot of their mug and hair, nor I know whether they just use placeholder data! Just need to wait for a good look!

- Where coloration is halved I used the 'before'(above) and 'after'(below) colorations as some characters changed significantly from their "real" look! With some characters I forgot tho

- Chester is from Yharnam, he has profound beasthood mutation and strangely yellow and red eye same as what his mask reflects (normally BB beasts have either yellow or red eyes)

- Andre's heterochromia is based off this closeup:

- Nito's (EX) wife, Fina and Flann are same 'type' of Gods who have much weirder features compared to very average 'just large human' Gods! So Nito's Wife, Goddess of Water, has fish scales and horns rather than hair, Fina's skin is literally golden with estus flask liquid-like "blood" showing through transparent spots in some places and literal flowers for eyes and Flann has feathers (you know, like phoenix)!

- I feel like despite there being two Knight Lady NPCs in Forest Guardians, it is safer to assume this is just one character! They are absolutely identical in all except for their idle pose, they both do not respawn, but Japanese book only refers to one character Americus! No other Guardian repeats, but everyone is referred to except for this "second" Knight, but if they were twins or so, would not the second one be mention too....? So I decided it is one character, that is """doubled""" only to make your playing more painful and not out of lore implication!

- I decided that Velka's white hands were not glowed hands but just her skin! Although Gods are creatures of Light, she is associated with the Dark, and I think that is not a natural feature but something she assumed! What was natural though, is being 'night' light (moon and stars) rather than 'day' light (sun and fire)! Ironically, just like Gwyndolin, considering he later does the function in Anore Londo that she used to do!

- I assumed that Pinwheel and other acolytes of Nito have blue skin, like Fenito and Leydia Witches (and Navlaan I guess, that fits since real one was a Necromancer)! Caitha is also literally his daughter, so there is that too.

[astrae4]

nothing changes (except i’m being fr) | k. younghoon

pairings — kim younghoon x reader

genre — full angst, hurt no comfort

warnings — all pain, miscommunication (more like none lmao), idk just trauma dump…

note — Hi everyone, I’m back. I apologize for my long hiatus and coming back in not the best condition too on top of that… but I do hope you enjoyed reading my entry for @deoboyznet’s love letter event. Thank you for waiting for me, I really appreciate it.

more works — navigation | tbz!masterlist

I sat on the frigid cobblestone floor. My satin dress was deemed unimportant as it sweeped the dirt and dust on the floor, its owner without a care in the world about it.

Beside me sat an uninvited, young man, dashing and suited to the nines. He was a stranger, that was for sure.

It was funny—one could even say ironic—however, for once in a memory long locked in my head, ( heaven forbid it resurfaces so long to not disturb my appetite ) I knew everything about this man.

I knew of the way he liked his tea sweet. How he’d pout when annoyed, make a fuss when embarrassed—yet silent when upset. I knew of the way he liked the smell of vanilla because it reminded him of his grandmother’s kitchen, and how he’d never tuck his shirt in because he liked the feeling of the breeze reaching his stomach on warmer days.

I had long kept the memory hidden in my head, detained it to the bottom of my mind as if it were forbidden knowledge so long as to not feel what I had back then.

All for naught, it seems, as the man beside me always had a knack to make himself known to mankind. It was as if he was flaunting how easily he’d moved on—how little he truly cared for me.

I parted my lips to emit my thoughts, yet nothing came out. My mouth opened like a fish in air, only to close it once more like an idiot once I had realized that my thorax failed me.

My pride screamed at me to speak. It seems as if it could not leave me looking like a heartbroken teen, so I reopened it to attempt once more.

Unfortunately, he beat me to it.

”Are you okay?” He asks.

An innocent question, one asked of normal formalities. Yet, it brought me all the way back then. When innocence and naivety ran through, when a question would not have hidden implications.

Back to when I was young, and in love.

Back then, I would have responded with a “yep!” to not worry him, but then spill all my worries not a minute later. Before, I would have had courage because he was my Younghoon.

Now, he has changed. No longer the boy that was mine. No longer my Younghoon, but theirs.

”Why?” I asked.

To onlookers, it seemed like a common reply, especially in the perspective that they are strangers.

But I knew what I was talking about, and he does too.

Why act like you care anymore after you chose opportunities over me? Why rub the wound you know is still bleeding? Why not me?

A pregnant pause befalls before he took a sharp inhale, and muttered, “I’ll excuse myself.”

He walks away, and I let go of the breath I hold.

Strange, I felt relieved.

Perhaps I was mistaken. He did not change much mentally, he was still the Younghoon I knew.

Perhaps I was mistaken. I too did not change much mentally, I was still the me I knew.

Perhaps I was mistaken. We were still us. It was proven so as question met silence.

As bitterness was once more ignored, pushed deeply and squeezed tightly until we could not breath.

It is because we are still us, that communication ceased as it did all those years ago.

It is because we are still us, that we continue to bear this torture, though we know it did not do us good. Though it can be fixed.

We know, we understand. But we are us. By blood and flesh we are us, so we let the torture pain us once more.

It is not favorable, but it is what we prefer. Perhaps, because the truth is too jarring? It would mean that all this bitterness was for nothing. All the tears and curses and pain becomes irrelevant if we accept the truth. It seems that this was not something we could accept yet.

For now, this would be enough.

taglist — @kyusqult @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @lonewolfjinji @teddywonss @taerae-verse

© astrae4 2024 | please don’t copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[orchestrated-haunting]

Some College AU Headcannons

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

A cultural anthropology major with a focus on what the knight archetype implies, and how its changes depending on the cultural implications.

Wore a face mask pre COVID-19 to cover his mole, and thanks to the pandemic it became more normalized for him to so.

He goes to parties if he knows one of his friends will be present, often playing drinking games with Fionn and Cu.

Flirts with his friends quite to the point outside observers can’t tell if it was platonic or romantic.

Cu Chuclainn

As irritating as it can be at times he enjoys being in veterinary school.

He fosters dogs and has had several foster fails. One of them being a small white fluffy dog that is a little bit crusty, (causing his friends to make jokes of him being a rich white mom who owns a yacht).

Tried taking his pals on fishing trips but the only one who would come after a few trips is Fionn.

Iskander

The big man enjoys his maps, so naturally he became a geography major who minored in classics.

He’s a part of the wresting team and his friends joke about burying their faces into his tiddies saying things such as “normalize friend group homoerotism”.

Iskander got very into strategy games, and his not so guilty pleasure game is the Fire Emblem series.

Waver

A freshmen history major who is very out of his element.

Ended up getting adopted by Iskander because he ended up accidently bumping into him checking his phone.

He’s honestly terrified of Iskander’s friends but he keeps getting dragged into their hangouts. He eventually develops a soft spot for all of them, and cried when some of them graduated.

Identifies as a part of the LGBTQ+ community but isn’t sure how to label it, whether in regards to gender or sexuality.

[adelaidedrubman]

59. “You want to come?” “Y-yes, I— please—” “Hm, but do you really deserve to?” and/or 113. “What did I just say?” + for Jestiny x John 👀

[rushing in on literally the last hour of pride month to get the bifails posted and answer a three month old prompt] OMG HIIII CAYMAN THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SENDING AND I’M SORRY AND I DID BOTH

notes: seriously not joking i am scrambling to get this timely posted so it’s really long and sloppy even by my standards and the ending is both rushed and meandering and if you catch me fixing this in a few days with a complete rehaul no you didn’t. anyways also installment three in the failstrap series but this one is the least fail, ig. (by extension, set vaguely in hook, line, and sinker verse)  wordcount: 5k (yeah) warnings: NSFW. nsfw while fishing. outdoor/semipublic (not really bc her fishing spots are secret). pegging. uh. strapwarming? edging. overstimulation. dom/sub type dynamic with implied lack of negotiation. emotional manipulation. there’s a brief joke about strap vs. dick that uses some “real thing” language that could read with uncomfortable implications. (technically it’s about softbait lures vs. worms and bioessentialist language isn’t used for the former comparison but since the double entendre gets us there i wanted to flag.) oh, and egregious fishing sex puns in general. like, that’s most of the fic. really bad

John had the uncanny sense that he was reaching a revelation he’d reached many, many times before, but always failed to internalize. A lesson that had been taught in abundance, without ever once being properly learned. 

Because the sting of tears trickling down cheeks burned bright red from hours of baking beneath the unforgiving midday sun brought with it an unmistakable feeling of déjà vu that told John he’d discovered before the exact undeniable truth he was arriving at now — that any time Jestiny Rook gave him something he wanted without a fight, it meant she was going to find a way to give it to him that would make him regret ever asking. 

“I — I can’t — Can I —” Another broken sob overtook him as a shiver ran through his body — fuck how was he ever supposed to do this when he was shaking like a leaf and unable to even form words? “I can’t fucking take this — Can I — Can I please fucking move, already?”

And he should have realized it had all gone too smoothly, had been far too simple. That it went too perfectly according to plan from the very start. 

From the second Jessie had first called for him to be a good boy and fetch her tackle box as she shuffled out the door. In that fateful, infinitesimal sliver of time the idea first sparked to life to not only pack the box she filled with fishing hooks, bright feathered lures, and glittery plastic worms, but also the more intimate one in which she kept an assortment of expired condoms she’d never once actually offered to use, lube bottles of varying age and brand all uniform in having a slow pouring capful left at most, and an entirely different collection of multicolor, long, rubbery polymer attachments. 

An odd quirk of hers — keeping every sex product she owned in a beaten-up tackle box rather than a discrete designated drawer the way any normal person did. But one he thought he might use to his advantage, for once.

It had seemed easy enough to do so — wait until they were far enough out on the water, give her a feigned apology about how he hadn’t been able to remember which tackle box was which and dared not violate her privacy by opening either. But then, oh, since it was here, perhaps he could try his luck distracting her from fishing with the lure of using the equipment in the other tackle box. 

“Sure you can, baby,” she answered in hot, ragged breaths kissed into his back, the dark laugh she hummed into his skin sending a fresh quiver through every worn raw nerve of his spine. Her hands slid down to grip his hips tight to hold him firmly in place atop her lap as she added in a husky whisper, “As soon as you earn it.”

He should have known not much of anything could truly and completely distract Jestiny from fishing. 

“B-But Jessie —” he gasped out, placing a free hand atop hers in hopes to coax it from its place pinning his hips down. “I-It’s been hours, it’s — it’s too much. I need it, I —” 

“What did I just say?” her tone grew colder and firmer as she cut him off. “You’re the one who decided to pull this little stunt. And you knew what the deal was for me to go along with it,” she chided. “You get it inside you now, but you’re not gonna actually get fucked with it until you manage to reel in something with enough inches it’s legal to keep. Until then, you’re gonna sit nice and still in my lap and keep casting.” 

Another mistake — he hadn’t really thought the proposition through past needing it inside of him, feeling an arrogant certainty she wouldn’t really be able to withhold from him once they were that far.

“I mean, how am I ever gonna make a proper fisherman out of you if I reward you for not catching anything?” She wrapped an arm around his waist, reaching up to tuck a lock of displaced hair behind his ear. “You give a man the strap, he wastes a full day of perfect fishing weather. You teach a man he’s gotta earn the strap by reeling one in…” She brushed a thumb back and forth along his lower lip then pushed past to slip into his mouth. “He never goes hungry again.” 

“But God, Jessie, I can’t —” He paused, allowing his words to fade into a mumble around her thumb as he leaned forward to swallow deeper and give it a hard suck, as if he could gain something from the sensation of suction hollowing his cheeks alone — anything anything anything, what he wouldn’t give at this point just to get his throat fucked, to feel firm silicone thrusting into him somehow, even just to choke on it. “There’s — oh, any chance there ever was of me catching a fish h-has to be gone now. There’s no way — not when I’m on the edge like this. You can’t really expect me to…” 

What had he been thinking? He could barely even do it to her standards when he wasn’t compromised by hours of teasing from her strap resting deep but frustratingly still inside him. 

“I do,” she said firmly. She leaned forward, pressing against his back, breath hot against his neck as she guided his hand towards the cup holder on the left in which a styrofoam cup filled with worms rested. (A cup of bait in one cup holder and a bottle of lube in the other — what kind of person lived like this?) “C’mon. Only one way to start.” She did the faux kindness of handing him a hook with fishing line threaded through it. “Bait your hook.” 

And why the hell had he agreed to handle fishing hooks with his fully exposed cock and balls out?

He did his best to still his trembling fingers as he pinched the eye of the hook between them, other hand dropping all but one of the dirt covered worms he grabbed (— his poor natural teak flooring, too —) to bring it to the hook. 

“Fuck!” he cursed, metal barb piercing through the worm to prick his finger as unsteady hands guided it to slide down the hook. 

He tried to focus on the clarity the pain brought and not the quickening of the drumming of his heart against his ribcage. He raised his arm, thumb readied at the rod’s release button as he swung back and —

“O-Oh,” he whimpered against his will as a shudder ripped through his body, the flexing of his hips to push himself backwards also making the strap inside him press at just the right angle to make that diffuse thrum of pleasure swell to something almost solid, a sudden enough spike to make satisfaction seem more that just a distant dream — and to cause the fishing line he cast to fall impotently into the water just a few feet in front of their boat. 

Sending out a signal to his hands to begin reeling the line in was so far back in his brain’s queue of necessary actions it might as well not have been there, every ounce of his strength and willpower instead directed towards ordering his hips not to begin rocking as his thighs squeezed together to increase that sweet, solid pressure of silicone against his aching insides. 

God, he could cum just like that, he thought — tensing enough to drive himself to a peak from the tightening grip alone, the only means of more more more he could chase. It would take so little to push him over the edge, at this point. 

He thought he would, if he wasn’t so certain any finish he found would be so underwhelming and unsatisfying after all the teasing build up at the promise of being properly fucked. A weak dribble as pleasure overflowed by barely a single drop to leak from his overstimulated body, insides contracting with such a feeble rhythm it could be as easily ignored as a lazy tap-tap of a tambourine drowned out in a symphony. Like expecting to reel in a sturgeon and pulling up a measly bluegill, Jessie might say. 

When did he begin thinking in fishing metaphors? 

“Try again,” Jessie’s whisper found his ear to chase the thought away, placing her hands over his to guide him in reeling the line back in, reeling his awareness back into his body as she did. “You still got your worm on the line and everything,” she said encouragingly as she finished winding the line inward so that the hook dangled just short of the pole. “So just get right back at it. And remember — getting distance is about steadiness, not force. Not so hard, keep it smooth.” 

It didn’t help that she used that same patient coaching voice she did when talking him through his finish; instructed him how to cast his line with the same breathy tone and cadence she would use to tell him where to touch himself and how and when to ‘let go, baby.’

Her forearm adhered itself to the underside of his upper arm, hand cradling his elbow to steady him as he cocked the arm back, hot breath falling against his ear as she whispered, “Let go, baby.”

His thumb jammed against the button obediently, a mechanical fwshhh of the line unwinding and soaring through the air following.

He did his best to blink away the newest film of tears blurring his vision and focus on the candy apple red nestled in bright white bullseye of the bobber — it had landed a respectable distance, far enough he had to squint to see it floating amongst the reeds. 

Maybe there was some hope for him yet, he thought, placing his hand atop the crank to turn, trying to remember to do so slowly, teasingly so as to entice the fish, and not in the jerky, clumsy rush his body wanted to move in. 

It only took a few turns before the low whir of the line spooling around the reel was interrupted with an abrupt click of the crank locking into place and refusing to move. 

 John looked up to see the line pulled tight ( — tight, so fucking tight — ) and the bobber vanished beneath the murky water ( — not exactly the thrill of watching plastic disappear he had in mind, but —) then gave an experimental tug ( — oh, what he wouldn’t give — ) to the line, watching as the pole ( — too easy — ) arced downward with a force matching his. 

“I-I — I have something!” he announced, a wave of cautious hope washing over him as he tested the line with more force, finding it matched by a weight heavier than he could have hoped. “And it feels like a big one, this time!”

He ignored a snickered out ‘that’s what he said’ and tensed his muscles — untensed, rediscovering the way squeezing around silicone thwarted the mission by making him melt, then tried tensing again, this time only from the waist up, and yanking. 

Shit. Steadiness, not force, he lectured himself with Jessie’s previous advice as he found the line refusing to budge, arms flexing at the strength of the fish opposing him, planting his feet just like she’d taught him.  A pleasant burn sank into the muscles of his arms as he tugged, and then — oh —

Then he threw himself back, and a molten gold sun glitter matching the caps of the water erupted upward from the base of his spine to sizzle up to his neck, cheeks flushing fresh with its heat as he tossed his head back to rest atop Jessie’s shoulders. 

“It’s — I almost —” Every single vertebrae seemed to shudder as Jessie ran fingertips along the arch of his back. And the damn line hadn’t even seemed to budge — how much harder did he need to pull? “I’m close, I know it’s —”

He shot trembling eyes to the spider web silken strand of fishing line, pulled taut as could be — how was it even possible, how could it withstand that much tension without finally — 

Snap — the sound cut through the air, followed by a swish-click-click-click of the reel reversing. John lifted his head just in time to make sense of the glint of a knife pressing against the milky transparent glisten of fishing line stretched across the pad of Jessie’s thumb, barely having time to mourn the suggestiveness of the sight before it vanished as she severed the thread. 

“Not to a catch, you weren’t,” she shushed, craning forward to press her lips to the corner of his mouth and kiss away the choked noise of devastation. “You always manage to — heh, to snag the bottom.”

John pouted. 

He blatantly, unabashedly pouted. He pouted with such untamed, untempered impudence he mentally told himself ‘stop acting like a brat, John,’ before Jessie could utter it aloud, and then huffed to the Jessie in his mind that she couldn’t tell him what to do, when she was being so unfair. 

He stuck out his lower lip, he crossed his arms over his chest, he tossed his head to the side. He pouted, and he was determined to keep pouting. 

Her lips tickled from the nape of his neck to the dip beneath his ear with featherlight breaths, and his complaining huffs faded back into needy moans. 

“Jessie, please…” How did she reel him back in to flounder with such shameless deference as soon as he’d made up his mind to sulk? Did he really have so little dignity left? 

“C’mon, you think begging is gonna get you anywhere?” she taunted with a light suck of the skin she teased. 

No, he didn’t. Not when she was in one of these moods. But — 

But, he thought with the sudden clarity of a man with nothing left to lose, there was always one reliable way to bait her. 

No, allowing his own ego to be crushed never got him much of anywhere. But stroking hers, on the other hand… 

“But please, Jessie,” he repeated, raising a clenched fist to his mouth to bite down on knuckles then looking over his shoulder to bat eyelashes dewed with tears at her. “Can you show me again — that special knot you use to tie the line? I can only ever remember a basic overhand — especially now, I can’t even think straight. It is —” He removed the hand from his mouth, sinking teeth into his lower lip as he reached towards the tackle box meant for literal tackle, fingers hesitating and hovering above the rows. “It is hook before bobber, isn’t it?” 

“Well, look at that. Reckon you have almost managed to learn something, after all,” she replied, giving him the cruel reward of a quick flick to his nipple before knocking his hand from the tackle box to retrieve a hook herself.

“Hook first is right,” she cooed as she unspooled a generous length of fishing line. “But don’t worry your pretty little head with any of the too fancy ones yet. We’ll start off with upgrading you to a basic clinch knot, for now,” she hummed with a kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll go reeaaal slow so you can keep up.”

Even appeasing, she was distinctly cruel. He absolutely couldn’t take slow right now. 

He especially couldn’t take it watching those deft, dexterous fingers working their magic slipping through every tight loop she wound, curling and prodding with a careful force that made him envy fishing line, of all things. 

“You think you can be a big boy and bait it all by yourself?” she teased, her lips finding their place at the base of his skull again as she held out a hook woven into plastic thread. 

He prayed his ploy would work, because God knew he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the actual technique. 

“Oh, I’ll try.” He reached towards the cup of bait, paused, then reached once again towards her tackle box. “But perhaps…” He trailed his fingers along the lengths of soft baits piled in one of the center trays. “I could borrow one of your lures? Since the fish don’t seem too tempted by the worms alone.”

He forced out a small huff of laughter in spite of his complete lack of amusement at his situation. 

“After all…” He threw his head back and turned, nuzzling against the underside of her sculpted jaw. “Many find plastic even better than the real thing.” 

John was not quite certain he was among said many. At least not at the moment. Not then and there and acutely aware of how much it might even the playing field if only the phallus inside him were the kind with flesh and blood nerve endings. 

As it were, his partner answered with the cold, unfeeling scoff of someone unphased by how long they’d had someone sitting on their lap and taking them without moving. 

And had he been less devastatingly sensitive to every slight shift, he might not have noticed the way she stiffened beneath him — spine straightening and shoulders squaring with a proud bluster that betrayed the veneer of indifference. 

“Sure, baby,” she answered with a laugh equally choked with artificial irreverence. “Pick yourself out something pretty.” 

John flashed a grateful smile, drumming fingers against tin and pretending to consider for as long as he could stand to let anything hang in limbo, then reaching with purpose for his always intended prize — a chunky blue and black striped minnow body with the distinct sheen of newness coating its deep ridges. 

He caught before she could hide it with another nonchalant laugh the reflexive gulp buried in her throat, and for the first time in hours he felt a sense of victory as he stuck the hook deep into the soft gel of plastic. He’d wagered correctly, it seemed — it was a new and valued lure, one she was looking forward to using herself, and wouldn’t want to lose. Hopefully, she would want to avoid losing it enough she would see to it herself that he would be reeling it back in successfully. 

“It’s —” He lifted the rod in the air, over his head. “Steadiness, not force,” he chanted to himself as a mantra with a particularly choppy cocking back of his casting arm. “Steadiness, not force. Steadiness, not force, steadiness, not —”

“That’s right, baby,” she coughed, drained of usual smugness as she gripped his elbow to pull it back down to a proper casting position. 

“Could you —” Her arm had already moved to cradle his before he could even stick out his lip and finish the question. “Could you help to steady me again? You’re so much better at it than I am.” 

“God, you’re so helpless and needy,” she chided as she covered his hands with hers. “Can’t believe I let myself keep spoiling you like this…” 

Spoiling him. Ha! 

What a rich thing to say when she’d spent hours more or less torturing him. 

The pit of his stomach fluttered, lurched upward so that the devastating ache that had been along the base of his spine now settled in his chest, and it occurred to him as she swung her arm forward with his in tow that this might be what being in love felt like. 

Or perhaps it was just what she’d always promised him fishing felt like, he considered, as she splayed fingers between his to begin turning the crank without hesitation, and he felt the satisfaction of knowing he had his catch on the line. 

“That feels…” He gasped at the sudden, thrilling sensation of a tug of his line, the firm pressure of smaller hand tightening in response even more satisfying as he looked back with eager deference. “It’s a real one on the line this time, isn’t it?” 

As if he had to ask, as if any deficit in fishing instincts impaired his keen ability to read every little movement of hers well enough to know from the twitch of her fingers alone. 

“Maybe you should reel it and find out,” she teased — as if her chin weren’t already resting on his shoulder to gaze at the water in anticipation, as if her fingers didn’t press against his to show him just how to turn and turn and turn. “You’re doing so good, John.” 

Fuck, that — 

Okay, okay. 

God, he needed to fucking finish — he needed to steady his trembling hand so that he could reel so that he could finish. He needed to at least keep up the pretense he was doing this himself well enough that she wouldn’t withdraw.

He needed to remember how the fuck to unhook a fish, because the splash of the water just over a rod’s length away from the hull revealed he definitely had a real one this time. 

Jessie’s breath hitched, a tickle against his neck, and he knew it was time to pull, to hoist his catch up — struggling, nearly faltering as their shifting forward in unison sent a shiver through his entire body that made the weight of the (?)trout(?) feel tremendous enough to break him. It would have, if only Jessie’s sturdy arms hadn’t been there to catch, hold him and support him. 

Which made him want to melt all the more, but somehow he managed to do it — managed to pull it to flop down atop the gunwale, use the last of his strength to hold it down. 

“Is it…” He dug teeth into his lip, looked back with begging eyes. “Please say it’s big enough.” 

“You tell me,” she rasped, uncapping her knife again — this time offering it to him, tapping against the ruler etched into its side. 

He blinked, focusing on the ticks of the inches and praying he was correct about that being a trout. 

“E-Eight inches,” he announced through heavy panting. “Big enough to keep!” 

She tsked. “Barely.” 

She loved exaggerating. 

“But we will,” she said, slipping out her precious bait and dropping the fish into the cooler with expert speed. 

“Does that mean I —” Hot, sweltering summer air stung the insides of his lungs and still left him breathless as he gasped like a fish out of water, falling forward in collapse to grip the side of the boat until his knuckles grew so blanched white from the pressure the black ink atop them looked pale gray. God, he was too close to the finish line to let it all fall apart now, to let it all be for naught. “Do I get to — Can I —” 

Firm hands gripped his hips, a deep laugh vibrating down his spine as finished for him, “You want to come?” 

Even the pressure of her fingertips was becoming too much at this point, sparks dancing across his vision from the touch. “Y-yes, I — please —” 

“Hm, but do you really deserve to?” she nuzzled lightly against his shoulder blade before burying her face beneath the base of his neck, as if they were doing nothing more than chaste spooning. “I mean, it feels like I did most of the actual angling…” 

No no no no. His throat somehow grew even drier. 

“I like when you do all the work,” he hurried out, hoarse beyond hoarse. “Don’t you?” 

Nothing but a noncommittal grunt from her, as the warmth of her skin pressed against his back vanished, hands on his hips staying in place. 

“I know you do,” she deflected, flashing him a smug smirk from her place leaned back in white leather swivel seat. “Mm, I bet you wouldn’t bother to move for yourself even if I did let you.” 

Fighting a fish was a very, very precise artform, indeed. A careful balancing act. It required strength, it required intelligence, it required endurance, it required a touch both delicate and forceful, a perfect combination of brains and brawn.

“W-Would I really have to, Jessie?” he whined, knitting his brow. “You won’t — Don’t you want to fuck me? Don’t you —” 

“I want what I’ve been wanting,” she interrupted, stroking fingers along the ridge of his hip before allowing them to retreat. “For you to earn it.” Fingertips traced back towards his spine, stroking down down down to his tailbone. “You can move.” 

“Fuck —” He pushed himself up tentatively, unsure that wobbly legs wouldn’t give out beneath him, forced to move at the same molasses slow paced she’d subjected him to. 

Still, his tolerance for feeling empty reached its limit before his weakened muscles did, and exhaled and lowered himself even more slowly, stuck between savoring the deeper and deeper stretch and rushing himself for more. 

“Fuck, you do look pretty doing that,” she whistled behind him. “Could lure a girl in.” 

“O-Oh,” he sighed, bobbing up and down at a more deliberate pace now, meeting with rocking of the gentle waves lapping against the boat, each amplifying the other. “Tell me again, won’t you?” he requested, resigning himself to find his finish on his own as he released his grip from the boat and reached to stroke himself. “Tell me I —” 

A low rumble of a growl from behind them, a sudden snap of the fragile push and pull — his arm jerked and pinned to his back before it could reach its destination, finding himself shoved forward as Jessie rose to stand herself, the supportive arm that wrapped around his waist all that kept him from falling from the force.

He’d barely managed to process his new position bent over the side of the boat before silicone was buried to the hilt, its rounded end swiftly hammering just where it needed to, with such an unexpected force and precision he felt the world fade and spin around him as low waves of pleasure began to kick and whip into an all consuming whirlpool, eyes rolling to the back of his head. 

“Look at me,” she ordered in a tone so authoritative, cool, flat, compared to the frantic whimpers he let out as he rocked back to meet every thrust, receive every sensation at full force now that he finally had it. 

He obeyed, eyes he would have thought it nearly impossible to pry to squint shooting wide open in reflex at her mere suggestion, every detail of her face coming into crisp, vivid detail — that firm, sculpted jawline hanging with a surprising lack of tension, plush rosy lips not scrunched into the angry line he might have expected, but rather parted with a gentle bow to pull in quick breaths, auburn brow lax over half-lidded but unblinking eyes. 

“Come for me,” she said, eyes widening with molten gold flare that burned straight through him. 

This time his hand didn’t have time to begin to reach to touch himself — he didn’t even have time to think about the possibility, as one final thrust reverberated through every nerve in his body, making those gentle waves of pleasure finally rise steep enough to bend with a curl as steep as his hunched spine, then finally break, crashing against itself to white-cap in choppy pulses. 

He let out a choked sob of surrender, feeling so lost and thrown about in its tow he was capsizing, spilling over with blazing heat blown away into a cool rush as quickly as it rose, as if struck down by a frigid, stormy breeze. His insides flipped and eddied about with such ferocity, his sense of balance so thoroughly obliterated it felt as if he really was falling, suspended in air and tumbling over himself to a crash at a distance he couldn’t predict, a force he —

John realized with an abrupt splat and a stinging smack of water against his cheek that he had literally been falling, had tumbled straight overboard to belly flop against the surface of the lake and plunge beneath it. 

“Shit!” He heard the shout muffled through pressurized whoosh of water and the blub-blub of bubbles rising from the breath knocked from him. 

He blinked his eyes open in effort to see through murky water what direction the bubbles rose, will sore and aching muscles to kick him towards the surface they foretold — only to be pushed down by another splash as quickly as he started. 

This time he opened his eyes to find bright amber cutting through the murky greenish brown, set in ruddy alabaster framed by warm copper halo. 

And once again, that supportive arm wrapped around his waist, and he was jetting upwards to a breath of air so fresh and relieving it felt like the first he’d ever taken. 

“I got you!” His redheaded savior called through her own hungry gasp for air, keeping him held tight to her as she flailed on a rough path towards the stern of the boat. “Just hang onto me.” 

“I —” He reached a palm towards the boat’s side to brace himself as the other tread through the water, legs joining to bring them to a more stable float with their weights equally supported. “I can swim, Jessie.” 

Her mouth closed tight, nostrils flaring outward with a huffy exhale as she kicked towards him to propel herself gliding backwards towards the ladder, holding to its bar and wedging a foot against its rung. “Well I didn’t fuckin’ know that, now, did I?” 

“No,” he rumbled softly, paddling towards her and grabbing onto the opposite bar, his other hand reaching up to cup her cheek, feeling a dimple sink into his round as she tensed. “You didn’t.” 

With that he craned his neck upwards as he gently pulled her towards him to press their lips together, not caring a bit about the fishy taste of lakewater clinging to them as he savored the delicate warmth so few would ever know, sighing at the subtle tilt of her head to lean into the kiss, allow his hand to stroke along the underside of her jaw. 

He felt the gentle tickle of her eyelids fluttering open before he heard the gruff clearing of her throat, followed by her pulling warmth leaving him in chilly waters as she parted and pulled away. 

“Now can we get back on the boat?” she complained, ascending the ladder midway then turning down to cast a scornful glare at him, then nodding down towards sleek black silicone protruding from her crotch. “This thing isn’t a flotation device, y’know.” 

He gave a breath laugh as he watched her finish her climb, envying every tiny droplet of water that got to trail its way down the curves of toned legs. “Next time we’ll be sure to strap-in to our life jackets as well, hm?” 

“Next time you’re gonna have to reel one in yourself if you want there to be a strap,” she barked back, fidgeting to quickly loosen her harness. “I sure hope you fucking managed to learn something about fishing!” 

He forced his laughter to fade, shaking his head as he climbed to join her. Such sudden fight in her, as if she hadn’t just shown him how deeply his hooks were buried. 

He thought he’d learned quite a lot about fishing, all things considered.

[thehill-rpg]

Episode 2: Whispers on The Hill Part: 1/??

The quiet shuffle of bare feet on the gravel courtyard fills the air, accompanied by the faint squeak of a rusty pool gate reluctantly opening. With a pair of composed steps, a slender figure, tall yet delicate, makes her way towards an ageing pool chair. As she reclines on its worn surface, the chair emits a soft groan of protest, bearing witness to both its own well-worn years and the age of its current resting place: Palm’s Motor Hotel. Donning a pair of Ray Bans, she settles in, clad in a casual ensemble of a Washington Nationals' tank top and a worn pair of denim short shorts. In her hand, she opens a well-read copy of Cosmo, its pages gently fluttering in the breeze. Tucked between them is a torn clipping from yesterday’s issue of The Hill, resting over an article titled ‘The Secret to Finding Your Soulmate: Date Your Alter Ego.’ A good article, offering the kind of advice you could only get out of a drunk best friend, yet not the one currently capturing her attention.

Chelsea Dalton reclines beside a pool that seems questionably operational (was that the smell of an impending bacteria infection?), her gaze fixed on the familiar words. She reads it again, for what feels like the hundredth time, each word etched into her memory. She knows every line by heart. It’s beautiful.

It’s also months of dedication, collaboration, and hopefully, justice. Sure, it’s a departure from her usual flair, and while, yes, she’d normally sell her soul for this kind of traffic on her blog, she knew there was no way her posting this story would get it the attention it deserved. Hence, her email to Violet Shard, almost three months ago. She’d been hesitant at first. Sure, she was a fan, but this was something that needed to be handled with care. She was too close to her own source. She couldn’t risk being named. However, Violet had assured her of anonymity and a series of follow-ups that wouldn’t brush any pertinent details under the proverbial rug of Washington D.C. political justice. That's why she had agreed, and why she now found herself just outside the District, technically in Maryland, waiting for said blonde journalist. 

Where was she?

As she waited for Violet’s late arrival (had her trusty Saab finally coughed its last puff of exhaust?), she let her thoughts drift over to Gray, and the party she would have been at if the news she’d just leaked to The Hill, hadn’t implicated his father. She’d probably have been in some uncomfortable sundress right now, watching as Gray loosened a tie, only for his mother to promptly tighten it again, while she discreetly passed another crab puff to Mac. Of course, she hated every second of it, but even without her mom’s urging, she hadn’t missed one since she’d moved in next door to his family at six. What could she say? She had a thing for fish paste covered Hors d'Oeuvres. And tortured artists… She’d let the last one remain unsaid, stubbornly resisting even her subconscious attempts to divert her down that worn-out, oh so familiar road. Not today, Bucko! 

Just as she was attempting to shift her focus, fate intervened with the unceremonious thud of a bottle of sunscreen hitting her thigh, yanking her back to the realm of the living—or, more accurately, a realm that didn't revolve around pining over her best-friend of twenty-seven years. “Slip, slop, slap…” She glared over her glasses at a man holding a faded beach towel and a copy of The Hill. 

While quick judgments were usually her forte, she decided to withhold hers until he extended his hands to offer assistance. She leaned towards labelling him as the "concerned dad" type rather than a creepy motel lifer. "Uh, thanks, but— Is that the latest copy of The Hill?" She hadn’t been able to pick up a copy before she’d left her house in order to get here in time and she was keen to see how Violet had followed up. “Sure, kiddo. It’s yours.” She dropped her guard, leaning over to take the paper from his outstretched hand, “Are you moving in?” She’d have answered if the headline story hadn’t caught her attention. Violet Shard, facing charges of defamation and harassment, for her latest story on Congressman Whitman and Harris. “Uh, sorry, do you mind if I–” She was already up, picking up her copy of cosmo and hurrying out of the pool area and back towards her day room and her burner. FUCK. Voicemail. “Violet, call me. I— What can I do?” 

Well, she knew one thing she could do…  

She hastily opened her laptop, disregarding the unread emails clamouring for her attention with their requests for her usual freelance work. Instead, she navigated to her blog and swiftly crafted a new post.

Ms. Whisper here, emerging from the shadows with a scoop hotter than the Capitol's political inferno. It appears our esteemed journalist, Violet Shard, finds herself in the clutches of controversy. But this isn't your run-of-the-mill scandal, my darlings—oh no, it's a tale of truth-telling and the ruthless consequences that follow. Violet dared to shine a light on the dark dealings of Congressman Whitlock and Harris, revealing their insidious involvement in the war-torn realm of Matamba. Yet, instead of accolades, she's met with handcuffs and accusations of defamation and harassment. But fear not, dear readers, for Ms. Whisper is always on the case, ready to peel back the layers of deception and hold the powerful to account. In this cutthroat world of political intrigue, even the bravest truth-seekers like Violet Shard aren't safe from the claws of injustice. So, keep your ears to the ground and your eyes peeled, because when it comes to unravelling the truth, there's no hiding from the relentless pursuit of Ms. Whisper. #StandWithViolet

Her phone buzzed—an SOS. She shot a text back that she’d be there soon. Though even with her foot planted to the floor of her beemer she knew she’d never break an hour. Hastily rummaging through her overnight bag, she retrieved a somewhat acceptable dress (she didn’t own many); though the party might've been cancelled, she was certain Gray's mom wouldn't want the reminder. Hastily, she made her way over to the shower, and tried her best to find the password to get the hot water working longer than two seconds.

She did her best to keep her hair from getting wet, as she washed her nervous sweat from under her armpits. Chelsea hadn't seen this coming without a fight, but nabbing a journalist? This wasn't just a hiccup; it was the kind of move that had First Amendment lawyers rubbing their hands with glee.

She gave up trying to tune the shower into submission and let the cold water run down her back, as she wracked her brain for a way to assist Violet beyond mere page views. Nothing. Nothing.

When it came down to taking action, what good was being Ms. Whisper if all she had in her arsenal were a sharp tongue and a quick wit? That certainly didn't grant innocent journalists a Get Out of Jail Free card, did it?

After a quick drying session (as evidenced by her dress clinging to her back and making it a challenge to slide down over her thighs), Chelsea grappled with her wayward curls, victims of the fierce heat akin to the Battle of Waterloo. With her belongings in tow, she checked out of the motel, conceding that, for the time being, there was little she could do for Violet. As for Gray, a sense of obligation stirred within her to mitigate the unintended turmoil she had caused him. Nonetheless, she refrained from assuming full culpability, acknowledging that the root of this mess lay primarily with his father. All she’d done was overhear a phone call, sneak into his office at night, and make a few dozen or so copies of a report that she only wished now had more than just Congressman Harris’ name to it.

Pulling up to Gray’s house, adjacent to her own, Chelsea switched off the ignition and discreetly covered her overnight bag with one of Mac’s car seat covers in the backseat before stepping out and making her way inside. The atmosphere was sullen, with white chairs being shuffled in and out from the patio to a van parked out front. From a distance, Chelsea observed Nora overseeing the operation with an overflowing wine glass in hand. She couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for the sombre mood, knowing she had played a part in it, at least partially.

Following the faint strumming of a bass, Chelsea ascended the stairs, purposefully bypassing Mr. Whitlock’s study. She had been instructed to call him Brody, but it just didn't sit right with her. Instead, she made her way down to Gray’s room at the end of the second floor. Her fingers brushed against the wooden door as she announced herself before slipping inside.

"So, on a scale from six-pack therapy to a spa retreat in the German highlands, how concerned should I be about you?" She offered a tentative smile. However, the instant she caught the strains of "Darn The Dream" by Ron Carter, being plucked, she realised she was entering yodelling territory.

[burning-sol]

u know whats. way ive treated gillion gender and sex in past not too hot. vibe checked self, not a good look.

current status: referring to tritons as explicitly intersex (i hope that term is okay, please correct me if not) as i should have from the beginning because that's what i meant. triton sex is a pretty mixed bag but based on multiple factors, you have "males" and "females" but a majority of tritons whose sex will shift in minor or major ways over the course of their life. ive never drawn too wide a variety of tritons (because there aren't that many as of now) but i do plan to make different family trees of triton be quite unique from each other, so that'd probably imply there's definitely inconsistencies across the board even considering what is normal for tritons. so gillion being an oddball could still exist but all in a very relative to stuff around him kind of way.

anyhow, gillion falls under the category of "this fish keeps changing sex everytime you look away from him for 2 seconds" btw. id probably make it function like ranma 1/2 for no other reason than i think its hilarious. put the fish in cold water for girl mode, put him in hot water for boy mode. i still agree that gillion WOULD refer to himself as genderfluid, but only IF the subject matter got brought up, because the standards of sex and gender are evidently very different between the undersea and oversea. i struggle to imagine that the triton language would have clear terms for girls and boys when that's not something that is important to the culture, so even binary pronouns are beyond the typical scope. gillion sort of just got assigned he/him and it stuck for him, and im sure there's some darker implications there relating to how he was raised and what he has internalised from being exposed to the oversea (gender is very complex for gillion tidestrider).

anyways, another important note is that edyn is a girl who likes being girl and is referred to by girl. she went to the oversea and was like "wow!! this girl mode thing is great!!!" so now she's a girl. always. and i have yet to decide on the gender for the old man but i just know he probably changed pronouns every other day. just looks at em. does that look like someone who won't walk up to you and say "my pronouns are now bubbles" like no fucking way, don't be ridiculous.

so yeah sorry for being ignorant and stuff, i hope these adjustments are clear and appropriate. if not, you can just kill me instantly. i was going to just quietly change stuff but i knew that was just me trying to avoid the shame(tm), and that its probably better im open about when im wrong to be some sort of good example.

[apocalypsewriters]

Not My Magical Destiny part 4

Intro <<previous (part 3) next (part 5)>>

Eager as always, Gabe gets a brilliant idea: bring Kodi along for a typical adventure. Nothing will go wrong, right? How will Kodi cope? Surely they'll be fine. Won't they?

Closing the register on a customer’s order, I heard my phone ring. Fishing it out of my pocket, a chill ran down my spine when I saw it was Gabe. His contact photo smiled at me from the summer after our senior year, wearing an unfortunate tan in the shape of aviator sunglasses. I looked around the bakery. The corners of the walls were still black with smoke since I couldn’t reach them to clean and the owner couldn’t afford to replace them. The tables were refurbished and largely empty of patrons. Once I determined there was no one needing my attention, I picked up. 

“I need your help.” Gabe’s voice was tinny over the line, something I wasn’t used to hearing. We never called each other – it started as a point of nervousness when we first got phones and continued out of principle. I was good at answering the phone now, at least, after helping my dad at his therapy office and taking orders at the bakery.

My heart raced at the implications. I hoped the distortion over the phone would disguise my voice shaking. “What with?”

“The thing” – Gabe hesitated – “I am not allowed to talk about where people can listen in on.”

If my heart was cantering before, it was galloping now. I could barely deal with the attack on the bakery last month, so the thought of being directly involved, of being asked to be part of the living nightmare that was Gabe’s life nearly paralyzed me. I stammered out, “Are you sure I’m the right person for this job?”

“You can hang back!” said Gabe, rushing to reassure me. “I’ll tell you more about the… situation when you get out here.”

“I’m working!”

“Please? For me?”

Gabriel never gave up when he made a plan. And I never bailed on him.

“Fine. I’ll be out in ten.”

“Great! Thank you, Kodi.” It was worth agreeing just to hear the relief in his voice. “Meet us at the edge of town.” He hung up.

“Well that wasn’t ominous or creepy at all,” I muttered to myself.

It didn’t take long to take stock of the shop. I took the generous ten minutes I had given myself to straighten the display of cookie cats, ferret eclairs, and paw-shaped tarts. A sickly sweet stickiness always lingered on my hands whenever I did this, so I normally saved it for the end of the day. Still, no one was as meticulous as I was at Purebread Pastries, so if I was calling my shift in early I had to do it now.

Satisfied with my work, I called out, “Hey, boss? I have a family emergency. Can I go?”

Years of reliable work and covering shifts made the answer easy. With the boss’s approval, I hung up my apron. I ran my thumb over Gabe’s embroidery. It was naive and pointless to wish for that time when it was simpler, safer. It didn’t stop me from wanting a magic-free world.

As I walked to the meeting place, I pondered Gabriel’s words. He wouldn’t put me in danger he couldn’t protect me from. Staying in that world couldn’t have changed him too much from the boy I had grown up with, could it? We had chosen names together, had discovered ourselves together, laughed, cried, screamed together. The boy I knew wasn’t lost, right?

Doubt grew in my mind when I passed the last row of houses. The bags under Gabe’s eyes were dark and prominent, worse than I had ever seen before, and I had helped him through a week without sleep. Despite this, there was a fire in his eyes, vengeful and fierce. It scared me. He had recovered the bulk he had when he reappeared in the bakery what felt like a lifetime ago. Standing tall, his stance was stiff and fragile, filling out a plain grey shirt I had never seen before. A chill ran down my spine, though no wind stirred the sparse trees.

It didn’t help that Envy hovered by his shoulder, resentful and brooding. She had cleaned up since the last time I’d seen her, which made sense. Her faded green sweater vest had holes worn through it, but at least there were no scorch marks this time. She was gripping her biceps, arms crossed, and tapping her fingers impatiently. 

As soon as Gabe caught sight of me, his shoulders released from where they had tensed around his ears. 

“Kodi!” he called. The flannel he wore around his waist, my flannel, flapped as he skipped towards me. He gathered me in a two-second hug. “Thank you, thank you, for coming. I knew you would.”

“Pri- Gabriel. The plan?” prompted Envy. She already looked sick of our affection. 

“Right!” Gabe said, steamrolling ahead as usual. He shoved a handful of throwing stars into my hands. Their reflectiveness blinded me. “Take these.”

“What am I supposed to do with them?” I asked, looking at them closer while holding them like they’d bite me. If they had been used before, they had been cleaned well. 

“You play ultimate frisbee.”

“Played. It’s been a year. I can’t afford to anymore, remember?”

“Still,” Gabe insisted. “You’re equipped, so let’s move!”

As always, I followed Gabriel. “You still haven’t explained anything,” I said, stumbling on a crack in the ground. 

Envy tried to shepherd me through an arch formed by two trees off of the path, but I stood firm. Oblivious and headstrong, Gabe was striding ahead.

“Gabriel,” I said. I still knew the tone to make him stop in his tracks – in that he hadn’t changed. “Tell me what is going on or I’m leaving. I love you, but this is getting to be too much.”

The eagerness in Gabe’s expression crumbled a little. He fiddled with the zippers littering his jacket as he answered, “There’s information we need from one of Diligence’s stashes. The others are too busy with their duties to help, and we need someone to watch our flank as Envy and I break in. We’re supposed to be diplomatic but we already know what Diligence’s answer will be and we don’t have time to waste.”

I could already feel my resolve weakening. “Okay. This won’t be as… intense as the battle you took to the bakery, will it? Because I won’t be able to handle it.”

Gabe shook his head vigorously, safety pin earrings jingling. He was quick to affirm, saying, “Nope! Envy and I are professionals at this, so you shouldn’t have to step in. It’ll be over before you know it. We just need a little bit of backup for Envy’s peace of mind.”

Going off of Envy’s expression, he should not have said that in front of me. Envy’s glare could have melted steel. Her hands twitched irritably where they rested on daggers at her belt.

“So I won’t have to use these?” I asked, barely wiggling the throwing stars.

“I promise you won’t have to do anything but hold them,” said Gabe, tugging me forward. “They’re for my peace of mind.”

Finally satisfied, at least for the time being, I stepped through the trees. Gabe’s hand holding mine was the only thing that stayed consistent, warm and solid. I almost fell as the world shifted under my feet. The air was nauseatingly fresh, cool in the shade of evergreens. My stomach lurched as I tried to find my bearings again.

I watched Gabe’s shoulders drop and set firm; he seemed more comfortable out here, more driven. His steps made no noise as he led me towards the gate he sought to get through. It was situated in a clearing with two figures at the entrance. They were dressed from head to toe in silver plate mail and each held an erect spear. There was no movement as the world seemed to hold its breath.

Realizing we were missing one of our party, I scanned the area for Envy and nearly jumped out of my skin. She had made it around to the other side of the glade and was raising her hands. Light danced between them in a web, growing and strengthening in brightness. Spiderlike, she struck. Her net flew through the air and wrapped around one of the guards. They let out a wheeze and flew backward with the momentum of Envy’s pull. The other guard snapped forward into a defensive stance. Gabe took this as his signal to move. 

He pushed me behind a tree, which I was grateful for. Flitting forward, a purple orb of light gathered in his open hand. He lobbed it towards the second guard. It landed on their face and their hands immediately went to where their eyes were. Or at least, where I hoped they were. 

The battle was almost beautiful in its choreography. Envy incapacitated their opponents, encasing them in woven light and pulling them out of commission. Not a single cast came close to hitting Gabe. He struck with the purple blades I had seen in the bakery. He aimed for gaps in the armor; while not every strike was successful, each one knocked the fighters off balance. I called out as a desperate foot snaked out to try and trip Gabe. The guards barely stood a chance. Even as a routine patrol of two others joined the fray, at my shout Envy and Gabe took them out systematically, easily. One of them landed a lucky hit on Gabe, nicking his forearm with one of the shattered spears. They only had time to let out a single cry. 

The battle was over in two minutes. Gabe looked alive, catching his breath and looking over at me, puppy-like. I smiled my approval, weakly. Practically bouncing from my reaction, Gabe joined Envy in dragging the bodies aside. My insides writhed a little at the carnage, no matter how brief it was. They had just returned to pick up a second guard when the knot in my stomach dropped.

The guard’s shout had alerted someone beyond the gates. They were approaching, armor blinding, from around the corner. Raising their spear to strike, aiming for Gabriel, I knew he wouldn’t have time to react to my warning. Instinctively, I drew a throwing star. Though I was rusty having not handled a frisbee in high stakes for a year, the star felt familiar in my hand. I had never thrown at a person without the intent for them to catch it. I aimed high just in case my muscle memory had faded.

The throwing star soared across the clearing. It was lightning fast, faster than any frisbee I had thrown. It flashed in the sun, glinting directly into my eyes. I swore I could see the air fracturing in its path. It hit before the guard’s arm reached its apex. 

It landed in their neck.

The clearing, the world, went silent. Blackness encroached on my vision. It crept in from the edges and pulsed in the center. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear anything but my thundering heart. My breathing quickened.

Vaguely, I was aware of Gabriel springing to his feet at the sound of the guard collapsing. My head swam from a lack of oxygen, a lack of explanation for what had just happened, for what I had just done. I felt the ground beneath me vibrate a little with Gabe’s approach.

I lost my tentative grip on the world before he reached me.

Intro <<previous (part 3) next (part 5)>>

[uncontrollablesphere]

Here’s a post I forgot about in my drafts for two years on Blame! coelacanth semantics. Keep in mind I haven’t read blame since then so I’m not sure how accurate some of the details are

vvvvvvvv

Follow up to my coelacanth metaphor post: some literal implications of Dhomochevsky having a pet coelacanth

I’m not super sure about the reliability of using it as a time marker, just because the coelacanth is so mysterious, but so are Dhomo and Iko. When those two are first created as provisional safeguards, the fish is already there, flopping on the floor. At the time Blame! was written, coelacanths were thought to live for around 50 years, which is kind of a lot for fish, but not so much for humans (and especially not for safeguards). But coelacanths aren’t born five feet long. That coelacanth is already adult size.

Unless the coelacanth is some kind of silicone coelacanth (silicanth?), this would limit Dhomo and Iko’s careers as provisional safeguards to less than 50 years (or 100, if we take into account modern coelacanth research that Nihei didn’t have access to). The reason I’m kind of iffy about this is just that the coelacanth’s existence this high above “ground level” (when we don’t even know the state of the oceans, and coelacanths usually live far below surface level) is super suspect, and I can’t rule out that it’s not a normal fish.

Who put it there? Did it belong to a former resident of the unofficial stratum and the silicone life attack(s) destroyed its tank, where Dhomo and Iko just happened to get deployed? Was it created along with them for some reason? Coelacanth safeguard?

I had some other thoughts about what it might represent but they flew out of my head as I was typing this. Like other than the individual lifespan of coelacanths, we know that they have existed for about 400 million years. It’s really interesting that this is one of the few nonhuman animals we see in blame. Iirc, we only see bugs, a dog, and a coelacanth. Bugs are known for being resilient and thriving in urban environments*, while dogs have evolved alongside humans and will continue to as long as we value them as companions and/or working partners.

But coelacanths don’t really make sense in this environment at all. They’re naturally found in deep underwater caves, and are poorly suited to living in tanks (growing up to 6 and a half feet). In a megastructure that reaches so high up as to consume neighboring planets, it seems like maintaining a tank for just one coelacanth would be a huge challenge, just in terms of filling it with water, let alone a tank with multiple coelacanths in order to have them breed and keep the species going. (I assume people in upper strata collect rainwater, as pumping water from ground level or below doesn’t seem feasible. And even if they do pump water from below…all for some fish?)

It would be one thing if coelacanths were farmed as a food source, but that’s not really feasible either, as coelacanths take a really long time to reach sexual maturity, have 5 year long gestation periods, and are difficult for people to digest.

Humans have been around a long time in the Blame! universe…Noise adds at least 3000 years to our current 300,000. But in evolutionary time, that’s still infinitesimally small. That’s nothing to the coelacanth’s 400 million. When you juxtapose a living fossil with a relatively young species such as humans, there’s a couple different directions that could take

*I now know this is literally not true, applies to SOME bugs only, many bugs are in fact declining due to habitat loss from urban sprawl + monoculture farmland. Anyways

[midori-laboratories]

Ashes In The Fall - Chapter 27: What We Left Behind IV

Book 2 of the Calendula Chronicles

Resident evil, Wesker X OC

Story Summary: Marigold Ashford escaped the mansion, only to face new incarceration with a familiar jailor. She may yet have to make a deal with the devil, if she can unearth what this Faustian bargain would cost her.

There is always something left to lose.

Chapter summary: Ada Wong gives Marigold a surprising piece of intel. Marigold discovers an unexpected ally, just as time becomes a critical factor.

Ada found Marigold sitting under a tree by a brook near the edge of the property, on a frosty patch of dry moss. She stopped about twenty feet away and looked at her. “The executives up there were too afraid to come roust you out themselves. I’m told you’re supposed to meet them this afternoon?”

Marigold sat out in the late November sun for a moment longer, eyes closed, then turned her head to look at Ada. “Do you normally live on-site?”

“I do when I’m the only pair of eyes available that survived the NEST. The debrief is taking forever.” She watched Marigold fiddle with the maglocked tracker on her wrist. Ada gave the thing a little grimace. “That sort of thing is exactly why I carry an active jammer with me onsite. I hate being recorded. It’ll block yours from transmitting a signal, so we ought to get moving before they realize and send half the security team.”

Marigold blinked. “That implies other people survived whatever the hell Birkin turned himself into.” She stood, and they both started walking back down the trail together.

Ada gave her a speculative look. Finally, she said, “Annette Birkin held out for a while. I’m assuming that’s who you called.” She paused. “Officially, I heard none of that. They know that you temporarily ‘restrained’ him, of course. Somehow. And that I was able to learn it was bad enough to tail some wannabe heroes inside.”

“I was just offering some time to clear a dead zone,” Marigold admitted, quietly. “There were a lot of bodies down there, and they were all infected. G-virus screams.”

Ada stared at her. Marigold caught the look and shrugged with a roll of her eyes. “I know how it sounds, but what part of that situation wasn’t completely insane? Besides, you saw what I could do for yourself.”

It was true. And if Annette hadn’t managed to burn so many of the infected down in the NEST, things would have been even worse. She very well might have missed her deadline, and the last flight out of the city.

“Explain to me again why you owe me a favour? Or her, for that matter.” The building was coming into view in the distance.

“What is it they say about gift horses? Perhaps I simply wanted to punch William Birkin in the face. I expect there would be quite a queue for that.”

“Maybe I just want to be sure the check clears when it’s time to cash it in.” And just how much it’s worth.

Marigold looked at the tracker again, doubtful. Ada smirked. “I seriously doubt there’s a recording device in there. It looks too light, and it seems like the only person who actually comes anywhere near you wouldn’t want to be overheard.”

Marigold wrinkled her nose. “You had to put it that way. I’m fairly certain the entire facility knows that’s not true by now.”

“I did. I really, really did. Don’t dodge the question.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes longer. “They woke me up for a few minutes for questioning after they…after I was found out. Back then. They wanted to know how the hell I tripped over a stable infection in the first place.” Marigold wrapped her arms tightly around her middle at the memory. “They’d already seen how dangerous it was to let me be lucid for any longer - I’d made a fairly strong point of it. Annette translated my responses when Spencer called in. I think he was fishing for a reason to revoke my brother’s holdings. Annette didn’t do anything especially heroic, but she didn’t let the story he wanted to extract stand either, especially after I implicated Marcus for being an incompetent twat.”

Marigold took a breath, and let it out slowly, releasing the venom in her voice. “You mentioned they got married. I figured she’d tell me what the hell I’d gotten into in exchange for a little breathing space.”

Marigold paused, then glanced at Ada. “She didn’t make it out then. Did anyone else get out?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“I…” Marigold paused. “I couldn’t bring myself to ask.”

“Hm.” Ada considered. The other woman was likely running an angle in staying here. That was fine by her. “Annette had a daughter, Sherry. The cop I tailed in and another girl - related to one of the STARS survivors, I think - got out with her through the train tunnels. And Annette’s boyfriend of course.”

Marigold blinked, then smirked. “Good for her,” she said softly.

Ada smirked back. “You actually passed Harman when you first got into my car. The small-world syndrome in that town was incredible. That whole situation alone was a multi-year soap opera.”

Marigold looked off towards the building. The security team was milling about the entrance. Someone had twigged to the jammer. No one was running out yet, but someone was pissed. “In front of the bar,” she said voice oddly soft. “Tall fellow, wore black?”

Ada glanced at her. Ben’s intel had told her that he’d been affiliated with the Ashford family. But from that long ago? “You do have a good memory.”

“That’s true,” Marigold allowed. “It’s not always enough, though.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Marigold grimaced and changed the subject. “I need to get my own things. I didn’t even get shoes before that mission. I’m not used to going into meetings like this without an extra three, four inches of height.”

“They would probably assign you a personal shopper if you asked, unless you want him to keep dressing you. Hell, I’d help if it got me out of briefings for a day.”

Marigold smirked at Ada. “Are you offering to dress me, Miss Wong?”

Ada laughed. “Daniel warned me that you were an ‘incorrigible flirt’. I see old age hasn’t done away with that.” They were almost to the benches laid out facing each other in the small courtyard near the door. Security had ebbed away when they had become visible. Two guards remained, with an older man - a salt-and-pepper type, clean-cut, around fifty. He wore a well-tailored navy suit.

Marigold stopped in her tracks when she saw them. Starred. Ada glanced over at her, but her face was unreadable. Finally, she relaxed and looked back at Ada. “Looks like they’re eager to get this over with. See you around - maybe you can fill me in on the soap opera later.” She smiled a little. “There doesn’t seem to be much else to do around here.”

----------

Ada took off, shooting a curious look over her shoulder as she left Marigold alone with the executive and the two nervous guards. There was no room to consider the bombshell Ada had just dropped on her. Two of the three children that had grown up in Ashford care by the Southern Ocean had survived. No, she corrected herself. All three of them. If her suspicion was correct, only a handful of people alive would know that specific detail.

If Grayson Harman had made it out of the wreck of Raccoon City, he’d likely go home. A lot of time had passed. The last she had seen them all, Scott Harmon’s son had been thirteen, and the twins just barely eleven.

She’d been so sure, back then, that moving down to help Alexander manage the children would help pull them all back from the brink of untold disaster. And then, Arklay had happened.

And HCF would be coming for them.

The executive had a quiet word with the security staff, who stepped back inside the glass doors with only minimal hesitation. He walked toward her, waving toward one of the benches and indicating that she should sit opposite him. A safety measure, packaged as something to make her feel more comfortable. The guards would be worse than useless if things went awry. Marigold felt the cooly polite mask slip back across her face, but on the inside she was cold.

She took the bench. The executive took the one opposite her, about ten feet away.

The man looked a little rueful, but seemed pleased, overall. “Miss Ashford. I hope we’ve been able to make your stay comfortable.” His crisp London accent was still strong, after all these years.

Marigold narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head as she studied the man. “It’s been adequate, as far as accommodations go. I can’t say the same for the manner I came to be here, but it’s hardly a fair world.” She pursed her lips. “I’m at a disadvantage here as to what I should be calling you.”

The man’s face softened slightly. “Ah. I’m going by Alan these days. Alan Greenwich. When you…passed…Lord Spencer tried to purge your department. He seemed to change his mind rather quickly on the matter - no one was sure why - but we were all taken aback. It seemed the smart thing to do, especially once your family began to have their difficulties. Imagine my shock when someone from your old household reached out, around the time when the city was beginning to fall.” He stared back at her with frank interest. His words were sincere. “There were rather a lot of rumours about you back in the day. Not a one in your family ever did things halfway, do they?”

Marigold nodded, but on the inside, she felt a surge of elation. Poppy had gotten the message. Her gamble with Birkin had worked. Moreover, the effects on ‘Alan’ had held over so that he had left a trail Poppy could follow - an old number, still connected, still capable of reaching him. “I supposed that’s true.” ‘Alan’ - previously Alastair Grenwald, one of the first people she had gone after on purpose back in those early days. His cousin had attempted to drug her drink at a party in a fit of pique at how she was mysteriously pulling huge deals and glory out of the woodwork. The cousin had been the only person she’d ever actually bit, until last month. Maxwell’s situation had deteriorated, by all accounts, although he had remained wretchedly alive. Alastair here, on the other hand, seemed the picture of good health and prestige; a living, vibrant Rosencrantz to Maxwell’s Guildenstern.

They’d all been so young then. She’d had years to target the company’s people at every level, tagging key people of influence ready to rise up the ranks. Spencer’s heart must have stopped when he learned she had gotten out alive. If he had learned that yet.

Given how Maxwell and Marcus had reacted- the few she had actually infected to punish - it was little wonder that Arklay’s assumptions about her reach were limited. Spencer must have realized he would do far more damage purging every known contact she’d ever made than simply opting for containing her.

Alastair here - Alan, she would have to start thinking of him as Alan - lacked the sense of fear of her that his colleagues did. He knew, somehow, that he’d be safe here. He didn’t quite understand why though. The reports Wesker had filed had provided them with must have been designed to keep the staff clear.

From what Wesker had told her in his little threat about the Tyrants, they - Umbrella - had been learning to control them. The minds of the hulking creatures themselves had been destroyed and later replaced with parasitic intelligence. They’d been afraid to do that with a working mind, especially with so little margin for error. But they would have tried it one day.

Wesker had chosen coercion and dominance as the levers to control her. They’d worked…for a time. In isolation.

She would have to let that illusion stand just a bit longer. But not too long. She fought to urge to fidget, to make sure the item in her coat pocket was still there.

Marigold looked up at the clear, cloudless sky. “I think it might rain later,” she offered. Under the words, she sent a sharp question at the man before her. He’s going after the paramilitary compound, isn’t he. Aren’t you. While Umbrella is still reeling.

Alan blinked at her words, then glanced around at the perfect fall weather. “Yes? I suppose it might?” He seemed faintly bewildered at the question, unaware that he was answering the one beneath it. She wouldn’t have as easy a time pushing Alan as she did to Irons, but Irons had been topped up with an active infection that had woken the sleeping one that had propagated and slept deep in his lungs. Alan’s had been kept lightly active over her decade of working with him before she’d been captured. A light touch worked best. Even better, he was well used to her eccentric little asides.

She gave a little sigh. “They probably know I’m alive by now. How can I help, Mr. Greenwich?” The wolves are circling and Umbrella’s inner circle was terrified of what I would do to them if I ever got out. Do you really think they’ll sit idle while he strikes their installations? She smiled at ‘Alan’ as the thought sank in. At least one government agency knows specifically where I ended up. Such a large company, so many people. How long do you really believe they can keep a secret? Can you afford to let an asset sit idle?

If Poppy had reached out to this one, the others would have been mobilized as well. Umbrella would have a hell of a time locating George Bailey, but so would Wesker, and HCF; especially now that Bailey was amongst… friends.

Alan was looking at her with a touch of wariness now, mixed with the previous interest. Marigold had almost forgotten how lovely it was to watch a suggestion turn into what must have felt like an organic idea. “I…I think we may have been neglecting your potential while things have been settling down. The…Ms. Wong’s report…suggested that you be used more in the field. There may be an opportunity to pursue that in the next few weeks.” He seemed troubled at the thought. “But in the meantime, perhaps we can make your situation a bit more comfortable?”

----------

They talked for an hour. ‘Alan’ had appeared clearheaded throughout, but the seeds were most certainly planted. She’d managed to keep her hands clean through this exchange. Anyone watching would have observed a clear distance kept between the two. Alan had pushed for more from her, until a picture began to emerge. The Board at HCF wanted Wesker’s intel, the benefit of his experience and training. They were realizing what a prime asset she could turn out to be.

But they were also terrified of the both of them. Wesker’s report of her had been targeted to keep her at HCF, comfortable but under his strict, isolated control. Really, if it weren't for Alan - as well as Ada’s feline irreverence - it might have worked. Without information, she’d been kept on the back foot this entire time. Without contacts, without leverage, there had been no real alternative even if she did attempt to break out. Every time Wesker had left her to her own devices, it had felt like a test - one with yet another trap, yet another snare of explicit and implied threats, ready to drag her back into a secure cell.

Wesker was planning to hit Umbrella’s prime paramilitary installation. Perhaps more. She had given them next to nothing on that front. He was likely planning to use her anyhow, to drive out prey, to get returns on his investment. Alfred had been warned that something was coming. Knowing wouldn’t be enough.

It would happen soon. Perhaps before the year was out. They’d need the best weather the Southern Ocean would give them to drop into that rocky little outpost.

She needed to be placed on that mission. If Alfred could make it through the opening volleys of whatever was coming…she needed to be placed on that mission.

Alan wrapped up the meeting, hesitating only briefly before standing to offer her a hand up. “We can iron out the rest of the details later. Part of this meeting was to show the rest of the Board that it could be done.”

She hesitated, then lightly took the offered hand to stand, stepping quickly back in a way that brought a rueful look of recognition to Alan’s face. “I can’t imagine what they’ve heard. Can you believe I’ve actually missed the boardroom days?”

He laughed, and they parted ways - Alan returning to the building, and Marigold back to walk the grounds. She needed air. She needed the space to think.

She wandered for a while longer. Part of her wished she had brought a book, but she’d never get herself to concentrate on it now. Instead, she let the information of the last few days wash over her.

Marigold didn’t have the capacity to counter something of this scale. She’d always alternated between diplomat and muscle, depending on what the family - or the company - needed of her. She was a scout, a spymaster - but not a general. Her mind wasn’t built for this.

Her own mind wasn’t built for this, she realized, thinking back to that feeling she’d had when reaching out toward what might have become home, thousands of miles to the south. That feeling of one sleeping, deep below the ice. But if she could put those little volumes into the hands of someone who did have the right sort of mind, the right capacity…that would be a very different story.

Eventually, she found herself back at the little tree by the brook. The area held a feeling of seclusion, a quiet little grove where she could pretend she was back at home, in the woods behind the house in England. Out by the moor.

Except here, there was no scent of roses. Not the right kind, anyways. There was only the lingering scent of T-virus clinging to her skin, the bite marks on her shoulders, on her neck, and the threat of her family’s annihilation beyond it.

In here, there were only the shadows of the late November afternoon in a little wood, the bed of drying moss, and the little hole she had dug out underneath it. The stones she had gathered from the brook itself earlier that day, tucked behind the tree, were meant to keep the little cache from being disturbed by the local wildlife.

Marigold was good at burying what she knew. It was practically second nature. But, she thought, as she drew the faintly positive pregnancy test from her coat pocket, not everything would stay buried for long. The small supply of morning-after pills she had taken from the pharmacy had bought her a few scant weeks, but they had run out in early November. If she waited too long, she would be removed from play entirely, leaving her family at the tender mercies of their enemies.

“It won’t go the way you think it will,” she said in a soft voice. Albert Wesker planned to use her to strike at the heart of Umbrella’s operations. But he’d forgotten - she’d warned him to leave her family out of it.

Ready or not, the time for staying her hand was swiftly coming to an end.

[juicywritinghoard]

Setting Prompts

A. Something about this place screams “probably not haunted but don’t stick around to find out”. 

B. Thank you for taking me to the aquarium for my birthday. I am gonna be a freak in the gift shop about it.

C. Nothing at this carnival is going to cheer me up so don’t even try. Except…

D. You cannot keep making secret agent music with your mouth if you don’t want to get us arrested. I can fill golf course holes with cement without you.

E. Admittedly this was a bad place for a picnic, but on the other hand, I’m having a great time and no regrets. 

F. Oh god, oh Jesus, what is that?? Oh, just a bunny. OH NO OH HELP WHAT IS THAT-

G. This real estate is giving mad Hansel and Gretel vibes rn and I will lick the walls if no one stops me?

H. Okay, while they do actual serious errands, our goal is to find a collection of objects under fifty dollars that will definitely, absolutely implicate us in a premeditated murder. And…break!

I. Nothing says “let’s get ice cream” like baseball sized hail. 

J. If you don’t want to get in trouble for playing hide and seek in the fancy department store, you gotta hide better, duh.

K. I’m sorry I spilled nacho cheese in the jewelry store. It might happen again.

L. I’m having a crisis in the craft store. Again.

M. No, I’m not going to sell you this fish. Please leave the store.

N. So it was just supposed to be a little funny ha-ha joke but we put [counts on fingers] like quadruple the appropriate amount of bubble bath in the fountain…

O. I refuse to have some kind of epiphany about this divine experience. I did not ask to be awake at dawn and I would not be awake at dawn if I had a choice about it.

P. So you know how you were like, no way is it possible to fill a pool with Jello? Well,

Q. No, sorry, I’ve been banned from the candy store. Yep. And the bookstore. Uhuh. I’m really sorry, I have also been banned from-

R. Call back later, I’m spending my life savings in the arcade. No, I promise I’m being so normal about it. This has nothing to do with my child enemy. No, no, I promise!

S. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little dumpster diving. Just be less stupid about it maybe?

T. I’m afraid of heights, is the problem? Which I was not aware of until I got up here. 

U. Oh man, I want to join their backyard barbeque so bad. Do you think I can pass for a cousin? Surely they don’t know all their cousins. Look at all the fun they’re having, oh man… 

V. I didn’t expect the world to end in the coffee shop, but here I am…

W. You keep asking why I’m wet and not how was the sea? Was the sea fun? Did you meet a mermaid and join a mermaid party and almost drown? No, I don’t want to talk about it now.

X. Admittedly my coworkers don’t suck, it’s just the job that’s cuckoo banana-nut-muffins bonkers insane. 

Y. Why do I feel like this place is so fancy, they’re gonna hand me a receipt for the air I breathed while I was here? 

Z. Hurry up and figure things out, before I get fired from a second morgue. Please?

[monstrousproductions]

OK so bear with me for adding onto an already giant post but! This ask made me really curious about what is said about Jonah in rabbinic literature. This is all from the wikipedia page 'Jonah in Rabbinic Literature' (thanks, wikipedia!) and the citations are mostly from the Yalkut Shimoni and the Zohar, two collections of Torah commentary. I'm not Jewish and I was never very good at exegesis so I'm mostly just relaying what the wikipedia page told me with some light interpretation, so set your expectations accordingly!

My first favourite thing is that when Jonah ran to Jaffa to get the boat to Tarshish (possibly Tarsus, as vaguely alluded to above), he missed the boat by two days. But God had sent a wind to drive it back into port - a wind which only affected that one particular boat, and no others. Rather than seeing this and thinking, "hm, maybe I shouldn't play games with a god who can do that, maybe actually God is still God even when you're on a boat," Jonah - being what we in theological circles term, "a dumbass" - takes this as vindication of his genius plan!

In his glee, excitement and certainty that everything's coming up Jonah, he goes against normal custom which I assume was a half now, half later kind of deal, and pays for the full journey up front - some even say he paid the whole value of the ship, which, why, Jonah? Why would you do that? Love that he paid that much just to be chucked into the ocean, RIP my best beloved.

My next favourite bit is on the boat. The sailors have woken Jonah from his panic nap and established that yes, this horrendous storm is all his fault, but they're not about to just outright murder a guy without a little sure evidence it's the right thing to do! So they take Jonah and they dangle him over the side of the boat, dunking him up to his knees. And the storm quiets down! and they pull him out and the storm picks up again. And they dunk him again, a bit deeper, and the storm quiets down even more! And they DUNK the prophet of God, they DUNK him like a COOKIE in the name of SCIENCE.

Even then, they're still not wild for the murder thing and as they chuck him overboard they're like, making direct eye contact with the sky like, "You know this isn't on us, right? This is not on us!"

And then we get to my absolute favourite part, which is what the Yalkut Shimoni tells us happened while Jonah was in the fish (or rather, what wikipedia tells me the Yalkut Shimoni tells us happened...)

So first, there's a nice bit in the Zohar that mentions that the fish has eyes like windows, or perhaps has a kind of light-emitting pearl hanging from its ribs so it's not completey dark inside. I think it works better as a Sheol metaphor if it's dark, but also, fish-eye windows is a banging aesthetic.

But then the fish tells Jonah that, originally, he was supposed to be eaten by the Leviathan - the OG sea monster - and not this nice handsome fish. Which I suppose must have the implication that the Leviathan is now still out of Jonah but is going to eat the fish too?? Because Jonah asks to be taken to the Leviathan to try and save both his life, and that of his new friend/house/transport.

Upon meeting the Leviathan, Jonah.... "exhibited the seal of Abraham". Which. Um. OK so this is where my caveat above about not being Jewish and also not having been a very good theologian in my day, it all comes up here. Because I'm like hmm OK so is that uhh.... Is that his dick? Like, the sign of Abraham's covenant with God? Circumcision? It kills me. It kills me. I laughed til I cried. He's just down there flashing his junk at this scary sea monster and it works because the Leviathan sees it and runs two days away.

Which also like, I'm sorry Leviathan but are you worried you'll get smote? Because this guy is already in a fish in the bottom of the sea, I know he's one of God's chosen people and all but let's be honest, that's not a circumstance under which I would assume he was one of God's very favourites.

The fish, meanwhile, is delighted! He's so thrilled at not getting eaten that he takes Jonah on a little tour of all the interesting sights at the bottom of the ocean, like "here's where Moses crossed the Red Sea, here's the big treasure chest that opens every few seconds and squirts out bubbles, here's some crabs that eat wood". And Jonah has three days of... a pretty good time, actually!

But God is like, hey! I did not send you down there for a jolly holiday, young man! And sends another, different fish "where he would be less comfortable". This fish is a lady fish and is pregnant, so Jonah's all squashed and cramped inside her - I imagine him with his knees around his ears as these very annoying little baby fish keep asking him if he has any games on his phone. And that finally pushes him to pray to God and admit that OK yeah maybe he can't "outrun the Almighty" or whatever.

Finally, another thing that really cracked me up while talking to a friend about this all was when we were talking about the people of Ninevah. Like, they repented immediately. They just were like, oh shit, we were doing a sin? My bad, dude. Sackcloth and ashes, posthaste!

(A funny aside - there's a decent argument to be made for Jonah originally being written as a parody or satire, and someone is quoted on the wikipedia page as saying the idea of even the animals of Ninevah fasting in repentance is... "silly".)

Which makes Jonah's fury even funnier, and also his reticence to go in the first place, which these commentaries explain as being about his unwillingness to make God? look bad? I don't really follow it fully, I think it's saying that if he went to Ninevah and everyone repented and then didn't get smote, then nobody would believe God could smite people. Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but I'm a 21st century Quaker so who knows.

Anyway, that's all from today's issue of You Said Ramble, So I Rambled. Now I'm off to write my mid-budget, hyper stylised Jonah film adaptation starring Dev Patel as Jonah and Adjoa Andoh as the Voice of God.

I would listen to a audio drama about "your boy jonah" but also, tell me about your boy! Here is a free space to ramble. Please info-dump.

Free space to ramble?! Don't mind if I do!

So, in case anyone is unfamiliar with the story of Jonah, it begins with Jonah minding his business and suddenly being called upon by God to go to Ninevah [the capital city of the Assyrian empire] to call them out for their sins. Instead, Jonah seals his place in my heart by running away from God.

I just find it so immediately endearing that his reaction to being given a divinely ordained job to do is to absolutely nope the fuck out and run for the hills. It's not just hilarious, but it also feels so honest? Like yeah sometimes we know rightly what we're supposed to do, either because of the leading of the spirit or because of our own morals, and sometimes it's fucking terrifying!!

So he runs away, he gets on a boat to sail off to Far Off Lands (poss. southern Turkey) and obviously... God knows. Because it's God. You can't just duck behind a tree and suddenly God forgets you're there lol And God is big mad and sends a storm that threatens to break the ship into matchsticks. The sailors are terrified - I imagine them as these hardened sea-faring men who are used to all sorts of things, and this storm is so fierce they're absolutely terrified.

And Jonah... is fast asleep. Conked the fuck out on one of the lower decks, like he isn't moments from being smithereened. Running away from God is a tiring business, I guess! Also, as a chronic procastinapper, I can't help feeling like he just felt like he had too much on his plate and decided napping is way less scary that That Whole Mess.

So the captain drags him up and demands that he pray to his god because clearly the gods of the sailors are not paying attention lol But they also want to know where the storm came from and why, so they draw lots to see who's to blame? And of course Jonah draws the short straw.

And then this bit I imagine Jonah being super sheepish about OK. Because in this era and place, it was quite normal to accept that other people's gods were real and powerful, but they just weren't your gods. But different gods have different areas of power, so the sailors ask Jonah who his god is. And very grudgingly, Jonah admits that ummm yeah ok so actually his god is... the one who created the sea and the land.

And I imagine there's this moment of absolute silence as these sailors take in the fact that this guy has pissed his god off and who's his god again? Oh yeah, only the one who MADE THE OCEAN which is currently trying to KILL THEM.

"So they picked up Jonah and hurled him into the sea."

But Jonah doesn't drown! God sends a fish to swallow him up, and he sits in the fish for three days and prays while he's in there, because actually all things considered it was pretty neat of God to send a fish to swallow him instead of letting him drown and he's like "I think maybe I have got close enough to death and I would like to stop having an adventure now and go back to being all the way alive."

Which is very cool having his time in the fish being this sort of pseudo-death? Like he was getting a little taste of it. And he even talks about it as being in Sheol, and being out of sight of God and longing to be alive and back where God can see him.

So God tells the fish to vomit him up and tells Jonah again to go to Ninevah, which this time he does! It's a huge city, it takes three days to walk across it, but Jonah made a promise and he sticks to it. He walks and talks and the city repents and God relents from whatever punishment he was going to send.

Which, in a turn that never fails to touch my heart, makes Jonah... absolutely fucking livid. He is so mad about this decision. He's like, "I fucking knew it!! I knew you weren't going to smite these fuckers!" and God is like ??? excuuuuse me ???

And Jonah - I love him so much - he storms off, he stomps out of Ninevah and builds himself a little hu and he sits in his hut and he stares at the city, wishing hellfire and damnation on everyone in it, and sulking like nobody on earth. He is raging and I love it.

But it's the fucking Assyrian desert, it's hot as balls and even in his wee hut, Jonah's got the sun beating down on him. And God makes this plant grow next to him for shade, which Jonah is pretty pleased about - until the next morning, God sends a worm that attacks the plant and kills it. And also throws in some scorching winds and fiery sun for good measure.

And Jonah's lying there about to pass out and he's like, "I would literally rather be fucking dead" and then we get my favourite exchange in the whole Bible:

But God said to Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry about the plant?”

“It is,” he said. “And I’m so angry I wish I were dead.”

I just love it!! He's having none of it! He is furious and he is feeling more righteous and miserable than any angsty teenager ever could and he's telling God straight out, "You have pissed me off like nobody has ever pissed anyone off before" and I love him so much!!

And God points out that he's that angry about the plant dying, which he didn't even grow or tend to, but somehow it's not fair for God to not be particularly keen on destroying an entire megatropolis full of people and animals who by the way God is responsible for and cares for? Double standards much? And the book ends! It's made its point and off it fucks.

Also there's a bit at the end there where it describes the thousands and thousands of people in Ninevah as "not knowing which is their left hand and which is their right" which I assume is a metaphor for not knowing right from wrong but which I also just love as such a read. Like, "Really? You expect me not to look after these people? Look at them. They're morons, Jonah. They're the kind of morons who would think, oh, I don't know, that they could hide from God in a boat."

I just love how angry Jonah is, and how afraid, and how human! And I love that he has this sassy back and forth with God and that he gets angry at God and argues and has to get put in a fish for a time out. It feels like such a close, bickering sort of relationship and I think the world would be a better place if more people felt like they could look God in the eye and say, "YES! I AM ANGRY!! I AM SO ANGRY I COULD DIE!!!"