#only the really meaningful work and assessments

[yippeecahier]

ID under cut

ID: Joker meme where the comedian is asking, "Let me get this straight, you think math is easy with the right teachers?"

Next panel is the Joker with the response, "I do. And I'm tired of pretending it's not."

[crystaltoa]

I’m going to go the second one because I believe there’s a difference between ‘a robot could do this job’ and ‘a robot SHOULD do this job’. Even in a world where robots can emulate almost any human behaviour or skill.

(Content warning: I discuss some pretty heavy hypotheticals relating to medical abuse, eugenics, racism and ableism)

You know the rule that “a computer can never be held accountable. Therefore a robot should never make a management decision” Well, these days, people do delegate management decisions to robots. But the robot lacks human values and understanding of nuance. It is still impacted by biases, sometimes to an even greater extent than a human. And our understanding of bias, equality and equity is constantly evolving and is driven by human values. If you take humans out of the equation, who is checking the AI for biases and reasonable behaviour? Another AI?

Look at politics. Like it or not, a sufficiently powerful politician is going to have to make difficult decisions that will ultimately impact who lives and who dies (decisions on health, war, crime and the justice system, etc.) And a robot politician is going to face the same problems. An AI politician programmed with the objective of letting nobody die is going to fail horribly, since such a thing is likely impossible, even for the most advanced AI of the distant future. So, it will always have to act on the logic that a certain number of humans may die as a consequence of its actions, but that it should keep that number as low as possible using the information that it is given.

An AI is going to boil this down to a system of logic. If the goal is to use the available resources to minimise the number of lives lost, and no human life is inherently more valuable than any other, then it is going to spend the bulk of its resources on areas where it will have the greatest impact and save the greatest number of lives.

Now that sounds good on paper, doesn’t it? But there is a problem: if you reduce the issues down to a multiple choice game, it allows no space for inspiration, creativity, and nuanced discussion of ethics.

if you gave our robo-politician the trolley problem, it would quickly tell you that pulling the lever was the correct option as it minimises the number of lives lost. Okay, you might think. Sounds reasonable. Lots of humans who engage with the problem reach the same conclusion.

But the thing is, the robo-politician will pull that lever again and again and again without ever considering that perhaps it’s possible to change the system so that there aren’t so many people stuck on the tracks in the path of an oncoming train in the first place. If the robo-politician already thinks it has enough information to solve the problem, it won’t seek new information. It won’t try to come up with a better system. It will always be a two-choice logic problem that it already has an adequate solution to.

It’s theoretically possible that a robot politician might actually do an adequate job (at least compared to some human politicians) simply by playing this numbers game and emulating actions of past politicians that have produced good results before.

BUT

If you want meaningful systemic change driven by new ideas, you need human involvement. AI’s ability to at least simulate creativity probably will improve in the coming years, but balancing the new AI-generated solutions with a respect for human values and quality of life is a very complex thing.

Furthermore, there’s a need for nuance that AI may not ever be able to fully grasp. If the goal is only to minimise number of lives lost, in the most economically viable way, you could wind up with dystopian scenarios like the following:

“We want to reduce the number of people who die when receiving medical treatment. Therefore, euthanasia/medically assisted dying is now illegal, because that results in human deaths” (ignoring human bodily autonomy and quality of life needs)

Or conversely, “Keeping some disabled and chronically ill people alive takes resources that could be used for other purposes. Therefore, it makes economic sense to euthanise some of the higher-care needs patients so that those resources can be used to save other lives at a more cost-effective rate.” (Horrendously ableist)

“We want medical resources and funding to go where they will help the most people. No human life is inherently worth more or less than any other. This country has a lot more white people than black people. Therefore, it makes economic sense to focus funding, research, and training of future medical practitioners primarily on the care and treatment of white patients” (Perpetuating or even amplifying existing societal inequalities, dismissing helping minorities as not economically viable)

“We want to reduce the number of people affected by serious health conditions, which puts a drain on medical resources and reduces the number of lives we can save. Therefore, people who carry genes for certain conditions will be deterred or outright prevented from reproducing” (again, horrendously ableist and robs people of bodily autonomy)

“We want to reduce deaths from vehicle and other types of accidents that occur primarily outside the home. Therefore, there are now stricter regulations regarding when humans should be allowed to leave their homes.” (Authoritarian police state).

(Note: The intent here is not to imply that dedicating resources to vulnerable minorities is “objectively” illogical or wasteful. The point is that logic is only as good as the goals and principles behind it, and having overly simplistic success criteria without strong ethical considerations will result in those vulnerable groups suffering further mistreatment and neglect)

Humans have a wide range of needs, values and priorities that vary between individuals. Safety vs Autonomy, Privacy vs Protection, etc. And a politician must be compassionate and responsive to those values, even with all their contradictions, but to do so, human input and participation is required. No one politician, human or otherwise, is going to get it exactly right and please everybody. But a human is still going to have more success in trying than a robot, as it is near impossible to reduce the balance of these issues down to mere numbers and algorithms.

So while I’ll entertain the idea that a robot maybe could run a country, I don’t think anything would ever convince me that they should do so.

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[regonold]

Ok hmm so idea

So danny he has a bad reveal, and instead of escaping or retreating into his core or any of tge numerous numerous other ways he has or could escape he dies on the vivisection table

Now halfa's they due to being paradoxes of living and dead have a wierd death if they are human while they die they would turn ghost and need to basically regrow their human boddy so staying spirit for a couple years (depending on age the younger the body the less time ot takes)

However when their ghostly half dies it is much different for starters if it was just a random out in the wild something somehow kills them they'd transform back to human die due to not having half a soul and immediately reform their ghost half

They way pantom is dieing tho makes a difference so danny is dieing on a vivisection table from both blood loss ectoplasm loss organ loss and numerous other things at a certin point it no lomger becomes worth it to revive a body

So phantom instead or repossimg his body and re awakening his other hlaf of a soul searches for a different anchor to safeguard hi. Whilst he regrows his body

Their a few checklists he needs to do first of course to make sure that it is most suitable and to be clear it is not phantom or danny doing it it is the base part that made him a ghost the part screaming i want to live

Theres only really two boxes that need to be checked one really by the second is an added clause due to how danny died

Does it have access to ectoplasm

Does it have defences

Now you know what has abundant assess to ectoplasm and defences the fenton works building so Danny's spirit anchors to that instead of his body

Now it you were a spirit that has just been killed over and over and over and over agian by your parents and you just took over the house literally you'd absolutely force them out right? And adf the fact that due to having a portal to the realms means the house is very much not as connected to this universe in a meaningful way anymore well I'd fucking run as well

So danny now a house with a mad scientist basement filled with his own corpse his organs detached form his own universe and bound to this house till he can find out how to regrow his body whats he to do but move around the multiverse and change shape to blend in more

Maybe he becomes known Maybe he gets bet in a card game Maybe he becomes the house of mysteries and maybe just maybe one john Constantine can actually help him finally finally get his body back

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️ Ranking Richonne

#12: Kiss Of Life (S7E05)

Ooh it’s called the Kiss of Life for a reason. 🤩 No one does passion like Richonne. ❤️‍🔥 This marvelous scene seriously has a hold on me and features my absolute favorite Richonne kiss (thus far 😏). The moment is just so good and mesmerizes me like no other. It's legitimately hypnotic. And that’s why, even tho Rick and Michonne barely speak in this scene, it absolutely makes my top 12. And you know the kiss is good when you have multiple favorite parts of it lol...

First, it’s important to note that it’s not just the kiss that makes me adore and appreciate this scene but how extremely meaningful this exchange is based on where Rick and Michonne are at during this part of the story.

This was one of the hardest and most depressing seasons for them as they wrestled with losing people they loved and then being expected to be Negan’s servants indefinitely. 

And during this Negan era, it’s one of the rare times when Rick and Michonne are on notably different pages about how to approach the situation. And while Michonne told Rick she’d try to accept this way of "life," it’s clearly eating away at her to just sit and let Negan torment her family.

It’s eating away at Rick too, but with the love he has for tf, and especially for Michonne and his children, at this stage in the show he really feels like he’d rather suffer like this with them than fight and lose them.

This was such a tough time for them, and yet Rick and Michonne's love so heartily prevails with this special kiss. It's the definition of true love's kiss, if you ask me. 🤩

So first, I always feel for Rick at the top of 7.05 when he’s talking to Carl, who is understandably frustrated and behaving coldly to his dad. All Rick wants is for his family to be okay, and they’re so clearly not okay right now, which you know weighs on him.

And I’m not the only one who feels for him because Michonne is of course also in the room for this Grimes family moment, and she seems to be really empathizing with Rick as well. 

So then Rick and Aaron walk out of the room, and Michonne follows and, again, shoutout Aaron for leaving to give Rick and Michonne a private moment lol. Cuz the moment was perfection. 😍 Like for real tens across the board...

Rick and Michonne stand in front of each other, and Rick invites her to join them if she changes her mind. I love that he always wants her with him.

I remember even watching live, I could tell that Michonne wanted to go with him too, cuz magnets don’t part. But she’s of the mindset that she has to try and go out on her own to fight this for the both of them if he’s not ready to fight back yet.

Michonne quietly and compassionately says, "good luck" and even tho Rick is clearly sad and knows this could be a moment of distancing, he still wants to close the gap and at least hug her goodbye, which I appreciate. 🥰

So he goes in for this hug, and whenever I think back to when I first watched this scene live, I just smile because I remember how excited I was that Rick was simply going to hug Michonne and maybe kiss her on the cheek or whatever it looked like he was about to do. But little did I know we were in for something...

Because as he goes in for this cute husband-off-to-work hug, Michonne stops him by gently placing her hand on his face. And I will forever love the choreography of this whole moment.

I love that it’s this moment of Michonne redirecting to let Rick know she wants to send him off right and make it crystal clear to him that even tho they’re going different ways right now, she is not upset with him, disappointed in him, or pulling away from him.

So she warmly takes his face, and then there's this subtle moment where Rick does that signature Rick Grimes head tilt in her hands as he tries to assess what this moment is about.

You can see a heartbreaking split second of Rick seemingly wondering if this is her literally and figuratively pushing him away. And what most pains me is knowing Rick thinks he deserves whatever disappointment or distance Michonne might potentially feel toward him. 😭

His past relationship saw his former wife push him away during a very vulnerable time after he had to kill his best friend for trying to kill him, so it's like he's briefly expecting something like that again.

But one thing that wonderful woman Michonne is always going to do is let Rick know, this is different. 🙌🏽

It's the very thing Rick told Carl the literal morning after he and Michonne first got together - where homeboy didn't even want to wait a few hours before reassuring his son that he and Michonne are gonna be long-term. (which I always am just fully amused by that whole 6.11 scene btw. from rick lowkey forgetting he's talking to his son by emphasizing, "it just happened," carl's reaction to seeing his dad in a tizzy, and judith's 'office' look in the camera. gold 😂. michonne's fam is the cutest, y'all)

And "this is different" has remained an accurate way to describe the elevated love Richonne has with each other.

Because see, now Rick isn't with a love in his life, he's with the love of his life. He's with the one (& only 👑). This is his unequivocal soulmate who will be by his side through any and everything. And I love that Michonne always manages to show Rick that he's met his match in a way he's never experienced before.

So thankfully Rick doesn’t have to ponder what this moment is about for long because Michonne quells any and all of those fears when she proceeds to kiss him with passion in an abundance. It’s utterly perfect. 😍😍😍

No words needed, and she still manages to say everything. I still love you. I still crave you. And I’m still with you was expressed loud and clear. 👏🏽

And Michonne really is such a commendable queen for doing this and making sure no wedge was created between her and her husband. This kiss really made any distance they had prior disappear, and it so beautifully let Rick know he is still cherished and appreciated by his wife.

He needed this moment more than he could probably even express. But of course, without even having to say it, Michonne knew this was needed because she always knows her man. 😊

This moment also feels like something she's been wanting to do since that fateful and scary night in the line-up where there were several times she could've lost him.

Like you know the fact that Rick is still with her and they're still alive, is something she's grateful for and doesn't take for granted. So she needed this moment too. And this kiss lets everyone know that while Negan may have nearly broken their spirits, he can never break their love.

The level of passion in this kiss is great for many reasons, but especially because you know after the lineup Rick and Michonne are now both so much more aware of how quickly things can go fatally wrong and how whenever you leave home and part ways you really could not make it back home to each other. It makes me think about how Glenn left ASZ just to quickly retrieve Daryl, but then he never returned to their home again. 😢

So as Rick prepares to go off on this run with Aaron, he and Michonne really kiss like it could be their last because that's an unfortunate possibility. (even though not too much of a possibility since they're the ones who live, amen. 😌)

And then my absolute favorite part of this kiss is when Rick so clearly gets fully immersed in this moment with Michonne and pulls her closer to him. I freaking LOVE that little gesture of him pulling her into him. 😍 It felt like it was Rick's turn to also let Michonne know - I still love you. I still crave you. I’m still with you.

Rick and Michonne just fit so perfectly together and I love the way they can always get lost in each other. Truly, in that moment for them, it felt like they were the only two in the world and all the other stuff didn’t matter. Their ability to be so present with each other is so special. 🥹

And she was already so close to him but the fact that he pulled her even closer...Magnets. And then whoever pointed out that Michonne kisses his top and bottom lip is a real one because I never noticed it before, but now it’s my other favorite part of this moment. 😋

They were really wild for this whole kiss, y'all. It feels great to be so spoiled. And we're Blessed with a capital B that this ship is literally everything we could dream of. 😌

This kiss is of course steamy and heavenly, but also it is just so powerful. For Rick and Michonne to be going through what they’re going through and feeling so differently about their current circumstances, it is so powerful that they close the gap rather than widen it. That they express authentic love for each other more than opposition.

This moment solidified that Richonne has what it takes to rise above anything and that even when they have entirely different opinions on a subject as big and serious as how to approach fighting for their lives and their people, they will still always be with each other. Wholly, Deeply, & Forever.

Again, I so appreciate that Richonne always chooses each other. And also this kiss was only our second time seeing them kiss like this since their canon ep, and man did they deliver. Like...

I’ve always felt that something so special about Richonne is that they are not like some TV couples who are more interesting in their pre-canon "Will They/Won't They" phase, and then when they finally do get together it doesn’t quite live up to all the steamy passion of their build-up.

With Rick and Michonne it’s a whole different story cuz moments like this kiss let us know that all that steamy passion and build-up was not only matched but topped when they were finally able to express the love they felt romantically. 

Also, when they lost Carl the following season, it was this kiss of life in s7 that I’d think about because I believe this is an illustration of what Michonne and Rick ultimately land on even amidst the toughest adversity. They land on love, which has proven true time and time again.

And as always their moments after the kiss are also profoundly passionate as they look into each other's eyes and then do their signature thing of leaning their heads against each other, truly almost as if finding their center with each other.

I love that they stay in this moment awhile, again with no words necessary to communicate how much they love and are with each other. 

They are the epitome of soulmates, and the way their love shined through in this quiet moment made that clear.

And then I love that Rick can’t help but express gratitude to Michonne for giving him his entire life with that kiss, so he fittingly says what he always finds a way to say to her, "thank you." The absolute cutest. 😊 You know Rick ain't been kissed like that ever before lol. Michonne has that man forever entranced, and I love to see it.

And the thing is, Rick has a special effect on Michonne too, cuz you can clearly see it in the way she looks at him as well.

In one kiss Michonne and Rick were able to breathe life into each other and quiet all the worry of them being on the rocks. They might still have big differences at this point, but nothing will ever be strong enough to divide them.

(that's why when I hear lines like say, "we are the strongest military on the planet" or "we're the last light of the world," or whatever, my only thought is - and yet you're still no match for Richonne. 💅🏽 Rick and Michonne Grimes prove they're the ones who live and the ones whose love is unstoppable every time. 👌🏽)

So it was a big deal for Richonne to have this moment in 7A. I appreciate that Michonne knew her man needed to be lifted up and reminded just who he is to her, and she did just that like only she can. And as the kiss went on, Rick let her know he felt just as strongly about her.

This important kiss shows that Rick and Michonne’s love is unbreakable, and I treasure this scene as such an undeniably powerful moment between them. I love their love, and I will adore this Kiss of Life for life. 😌

[howtofightwrite]

I have character A whose born female, small in stature and well trained in hand to hand combat and character B whose born male, a few feet taller, fucking huge and has had to rely on strength his whole life. Realistically how can two people like this fight and for how long? what kind of qualifications could character A have to help her beat character B in hand to hand combat? at what point does strength win over strategy or vice versa in a fight? does any of this make sense lol

Nope.

Okay, so, how long can Character A fight? As long as she needs to, which based on your assessment, shouldn't be too long.

Character B cannot fight. Unless they have training that you're not disclosing, they won't be effective.

“My relies on strength to fight,” is a bit like saying, “my character drives their car via their sheer physical strength.” It's not how this works.

Unarmed combat isn't about strength, it's about a precise understanding of human physiology, and exploiting the limitations of it.

For example: You may have noticed your knees only bend in one direction, however, this is a lie, your knees can bend in any direction they want to, provided a small application of force in the correct point which will permanently expand your knee's ability to move in this new direction. It's not strength, or at least, not a meaningful amount, it's about looking at your opponent's body as a mechanical system, and then selectively breaking it until it stops trying to break yours. The funny thing about this is, if you don't know what to do humans are obnoxiously durable. Unless you get lucky, you can literally rip limbs off and still fail to kill them.

A lot of the philosophy of strength fighting is built off a misunderstanding. Force is important. However, when it comes to weapons, the weapon itself amplifies and delivers that force. For example: hammers are often portrayed as strength weapon. You'll see them being carried around by huge bulky bruiser types (when it's not played for laughs, anyway.) However, real sledges are not extremely heavy. A real sledge can get as heavy as ~20lbs (~9kg) (normal ones are less than half that), which is extraordinarily heavy for a weapon, but getting it swinging isn't that hard. It's designed to be swung. Once it's at speed, it will connect with a lot more force than you could generate based on raw physical strength. The basic physics are that you get the hammer's head moving significantly faster than the haft where you're holding it. The basic woodcutters strike where you start with one hand at the bottom of the haft and one near the head, then slide it down the haft as you swing makes it even easier to get it moving.

(Worth noting, there are sledgehammers designed for exercise, rather than as tools, and these get a lot heavier, but they're for building up muscles. Which, to be fair, there's nothing wrong with a character who's absolutely ripped, and there are ways they can use that to their advantage, but it doesn't help them fight, just like it doesn't help them drive.)

Beyond that, as we've mentioned a lot recently, swords really are not a strength weapon. It's a long razor blade, which needs to be carefully applied to your opponent's soft screamy parts, not their armor.

The one weapon that really is a strength weapon is the bow. If you're a professional archer (using historically authentic weapons, rather than mechanical compounds bows) there's a very real potential you'll be ripped. You're pulling a lot of weight in your shoulders. Of course, bows are also very high maintenance weapons, which isn't often reflected, but weapon maintenance is often an underrepresented in general.

When talking about unarmed combat, the amount of force necessary is shockingly low. Again, it's about exploiting the body's limitations. Knowing where to put pressure lets you use your opponent's body against them. Most people, “normal people,” don't look at other human beings as 100-200lbs of ambulatory meat stretched across a pulley system. When you start learning anatomy for the purposes of combat, the ability to break another human being starts to become frighteningly simple.

So what happens? She quickly neutralizes her opponent.

How long does that take? Depending on training? Could be less than five seconds. Certainly less than a minute.

What does neutralize mean in this context? I dunno. It could mean that he's subdued and gradually losing consciousness. It could mean that he'll never dance or play piano again. It could mean his next date is with the coroner. All of these are reasonable potential outcomes depending on who she is, and what she trained to do.

Remember what I said near the beginning. (Assuming she has a practical combat background) her job is to break his body before he does the same to hers. If he's a big bruiser type with no context of violence outside of John Wayne films and high school scuffles, she could kill him. In a lot of cases, she needs to, because she doesn't know what his background is, and the faster he is permanently scratched off her threats column the better. From her perspective, leaving him on the board poses an immediate and critical threat to her life.

This is the other thing about violence, you don't know what your opponent can or will do. When you're assessing a threat like this, you need to have a plan to remove them. “Do unto them before they can do unto you.” That doesn't always mean, “kill them,” but we're talking about a walking mountain who's at least seven feet tall. At that point, life altering injuries start to sound a lot like reasonable force, and justifiable lethal force is just around the corner. Depending on his behavior, it may already have arrived.

So, how long does this take? Not long.

Strength only wins out over strategy if the strategies are poor or poorly implemented, if she has combat training, that shouldn't be a consideration. Beyond that, people are far more predictable than we like to see ourselves as. Good combat training includes a surprising amount of practical insight into how people behave. Realistically, he's not going to be able to do anything she hasn't trained to counter, at least not if he doesn't have some training of his own. And, again, even if he was to have training, his strength wouldn't be the deciding factor, his training would be the important consideration.

-Starke

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[sjsmith56]

The Recruit

Summary: A former special forces operative is recruited by Bucky and Sam, who have to get past her trust issues first.

Length: 4.6 K

Characters: Named OFC, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Yelena Belova

Warnings: PTSD, abandonment issues, anger issues, trust issues, reference to capture and sexual assault, alcohol abuse.

Author notes: I’m not sure where this came from but I wanted to explore Bucky trying to help someone with similar issues to his. The name of the OFC is a deliberate choice as it establishes that she has had a chip on her shoulder for a long time. Takes place after Thunderbolts* and Captain America: Brave New World.

It had been two days since I brought the woman and her daughter, victims of domestic abuse by her mobster husband, to the safe house. Two days since I was ordered to keep going while the Avengers confronted his posse of men who were tracking us. Two days since I last wondered how I ended up as an agent with the Avengers. It certainly wasn't something I set out to do when I answered a cryptic ad that persistently showed up on my cell phone, asking only three questions.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR JOB?

IS IT FULFILLING?

DO YOU WISH YOU WERE DOING SOMETHING MEANINGFUL?

IF YOU ANSWERED NO, NO, AND YES, YOU MAY BE THE PERSON WE NEED!

CLICK HERE IF YOU WISH TO KNOW MORE.

Yeah, stupid drunk me clicked on the hyperlink and two days later (is there something about two days that just follows me?) Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes showed up at my door. Even that wasn't technically true, as I was outside my apartment, had just put the key into the lock and opened the door when I realized that something wasn't right. As a single woman I was pretty aware of my surroundings, so the sight of a pair of black, scuffed combat boots and a pair of pull-on work boots lined up neatly on the mat inside my door led me to believe I wasn't alone. I didn't feel like I was in danger, because honestly, what thief or murderer would take his footwear off and put it on the mat? But, living alone, I also knew not to take any chances, so I reached inside the closet to get my aluminum baseball bat so that I had a weapon handy, except, it wasn't there.

"I have your bat," said a man's voice, coloured by a Brooklyn accent. "We're not here to hurt you but we also don't want you to hurt us."

I stayed in the doorway, not answering and definitely not moving.

"Told you we should have called first," said another voice, also male, but warmer in tone, with a hint of the south in his accent. "You have to admit that breaking into the apartment of a single woman sets off all sorts of warning bells."

"So, sue me," answered the first man. "I want to know how she reacts to a strange situation. Will she threaten us with calling the police without assessing the scene first? Or will she walk in, prepared to react if she must, and find out why two strange men have broken into her apartment, taken their boots off and left them on the mat inside her door?"

"What if she's armed?" asked the second man. "I know you can dodge the bullets."

"You brought the shield, so you're safe, too," said the first. "If she shoots first and asks questions later then she hasn't passed the test. You have to change things up, Sam. This isn't a typical job interview."

Shield? Sam? Job interview? What the actual ...? I stepped out of the doorway to at least see who was talking.

"Do you two argue like this all the time?"

I looked at the one man who I recognized as Sam Wilson, the new Captain America. Which meant the tall dark-haired man with him was Bucky Barnes, the famous (and infamous) Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. They both stood up from where they had been sitting on my couch. After my question they looked at each other.

"It's not really arguing," said Barnes. "It's more like exploring alternative possibilities. You know, hypotheticals." He tossed me the bat, watching how I caught it with one hand, my left one. "Ambidextrous. Nice." He checked his phone and said my name, not even making fun of it. "You are her, right? Former special forces, forced to quit after you broke the nose of your asshole of a commander. Could have got a dishonourable discharge for hitting a superior officer but you managed to get an honourable discharge and a written apology from the guy."

He looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

"What do you want?" I wasn't going to dance around the issue. "Why are you here?"

Barnes held his phone up. "You answered the ad." I looked blankly at him. "The three questions that you answered No, No, and Yes, then clicked on the hyperlink."

"Which didn't work," I replied.

"Oh, it worked," smirked Barnes. "Gave us access to your phone, your records, your whole life really. Which is why we're here right now giving you this job interview."

He was really getting on my nerves, and I flipped the bat, catching it again in my left hand. Wilson looked at him then put his hands out, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Look, I admit that this is unusual," he said, in a tone that I recognized.

It was the same kind of voice that counsellors at the VA used when they were trying to show they had your best interests at heart. I didn't buy it when I had to go see them after my discharge and I wasn't buying it now. Once again, I flipped my bat, only this time I attacked as soon as it hit my hand. It wasn't the best move to make as I ended up on my back, with a metal hand on my chest, holding me down and a pair of the bluest eyes I had ever seen gazing down at me.

"I thought you said you weren't going to hurt me," I wheezed, when my breath came back.

"You attacked," shrugged Barnes, then he lifted his hand off my chest and offered it to me.

I took it and stood up.

"Job interview, huh? For what?"

"Avengers," said Wilson. "We're starting it up again. We have several of the previous Avengers coming back, and some new ones, but we're searching out uniquely qualified individuals whose skill set matches our requirements."

"Aren't you all enhanced, or something?" I asked, looking intently at him.

"No." He shook his head. "It's not a pre-requisite. We're looking for people who can defend themselves, adapt to a situation, and can work with a team. We don't think you got a fair chance with the special forces."

Fair chance. He would have to use those words because he was right. I did everything I was supposed to, knocked myself out to prove that I belonged then had to fend off my commanding officer, six inches taller and 65 lbs heavier than me, when he tried to hurt me in front of witnesses who were on my side. They did try to bust me, but my CO was stupid enough to try it in a place with a security camera. I still got discharged and last I heard he was booted up to be a lackey for some general in Washington. That's how it goes, sometimes.

With a sigh, I went to the kitchen, leaving the bat on the counter and opened the cupboard above the fridge, taking out a bottle of scotch, and grabbing three glasses. By then Barnes and Wilson joined me and I poured out half a glass for each of us. I downed half of mine, then looked at both.

"What's the catch?"

They looked at each other again; a habit that was becoming tiresome.

"No catch," said Sam, "except that you kind of have to leave your current life behind. We're not exactly official or authorized."

"Covert operations?" It was what I trained for.

"Sort of." I shook my head. These guys weren't exactly filling me with confidence.

"Look," said Barnes, finishing his drink. "We were ready to do this a year ago, after the Flag Smashers. Then we both faced some unique challenges. I got press ganged into being in a secret ops team that was so shady it was practically underground, and we weren't being given the truth about our real purpose. Sam was called to Washington to head up the new Avengers, but the President wanted them to be more like his personal hit squad. We were being manipulated left, right, and centre and none of it was for a noble purpose. That's not who we are and before you point out that I was the Winter Soldier ...."

I held up my hand. "I know your story. You don't have to convince me that you were forced into it. So, you're basically starting up the Avengers but on your terms. No shady government agency or government interference, but no government funding either. No Sokovia Accords binding your hands as well. Who is funding it?"

Once again, they looked at each other and I huffed as it was getting really irritating when they did that.

"Stark Foundation but it's buried under layers and layers of non-profits so that they can't be accused of running a private black op." Wilson looked at me earnestly. "The funding is all hands off. We get it and what we do with it is our business. We promised to keep that on the down low, and we don't do anything too illegal, like murder or bank robbery or piracy, stuff like that."

"You interested?"

Barnes was looking directly at me, those blue eyes piercing right into my soul. Working in a warehouse since my discharge hadn't exactly been fulfilling but it was honest work, and it kept my mind from brooding on how my life was unfolding. If anyone knew how much I was really floundering it was this man.

"Alright, I'm in," I said. "I know you're not military, but I want my rank back. I worked hard for that."

"As long as you know that I'm your superior," said Barnes. "In the field, Sam and I are in command." I nodded. Most sergeants ran the units anyway. "Alright, welcome to the Avengers Lieutenant Ripley. I'll be back tomorrow to pick you up and take you to the compound. We all live there." He glanced at my place. "You should be able to sublet this flat easily enough."

I smirked. "I'm surprised your research didn't tell you I'm a squatter. There is no lease. I found the key the owner left in a hiding place. You tell me where the compound is, and I'll be there tomorrow."

Wilson looked uncomfortable but Barnes' face was inscrutable. He texted me a map with a pin dropped on it, then walked past me to the door, stopping long enough to lower his face to my ear and whisper. His warm breath caressed my neck, bringing up goose pimples on my forearm.

"I knew but I was trying to help you save face. I've been where you are, Ellen. You're a badass but you're still a fuckup. Fortunately for you a lot of the Avengers are. It's why we work well together." He straightened up and kept going to the door, stopping only to put his boots on. "You be there by 15:00 or I'll come looking for you."

Then he was gone, and Sam Wilson smiled apologetically at me before following him. I poured myself more scotch, drinking it in three separate gulps. Another fresh start: that's what I had to tell myself. Maybe this time I would believe it.

I showed up at the compound on my motorcycle at 14:55. All of my worldly possessions, my clothing, a few books, a small photo album of my only living relatives, my sister and her family, and my trusty aluminum baseball bat were packed into the saddlebags of the motorcycle, or into the large backpack I wore. The guard at the gate gave a glimmer of a smile when I gave him my name, but at least he didn't say anything and directed me to the building. When I pulled up, Barnes and Wilson were standing there, waiting.

"I'm here," I stated, after I turned off the ignition and stepped off, removing my helmet.

"Didn't doubt it for a minute," replied Barnes, eyeing my ride. "Nice bike."

"It is," I agreed. "Can I leave it here?"

"There's a garage. I can show it to you later. Let's get you set up with your access privileges."

It took about 30 minutes to get me squared away and I dropped my things off in my quarters, then they gave me a brief tour of the facilities. The residences were nice, better than military but more spartan than where I had been living. Sam said I was free to personalize it in any way. Since I wasn't sure how long I would be here until they kicked me out, I planned to leave everything in my bags. Back out in front of the building I got on my motorcycle, prepared for them to give me directions to the garage. Instead, Barnes got on behind me, his hands lightly on my waist.

"Let's see what you've got on this," he said.

"You don't have a helmet," I noted.

"I trust you not to kill me." I almost laughed at that.

"Alright, Sergeant. Remember, you asked for it."

I gunned the throttle, pealing out with the smell of burnt rubber enveloping us. Barnes didn't panic. Instead, he leaned into me, wrapping his arms around me, and moving as I did as I took the corners way too fast. I became aware of a heat radiating from him, even through our leather jackets, making me wonder if it was a super soldier thing. At some point, he patted my stomach then pointed in a direction and I turned that way. We were behind the building where we started, and I slowed up as he pointed to a garage door.

"Thumbprint access," he said loud enough for me to hear. "You're in the system now."

Pulling up, I removed my glove and pressed my thumb on the sensor. The door opened and I drove into the cavernous garage. He directed me to an area where several motorcycles were parked and I pulled into an empty space. We both got off and I nodded my head at the others.

"Whose are these?"

"Mine," he said.

"All four of them?"

He nodded. "Harley-Davidson WL(A) just like one I drove in World War II. I restored that one myself. Triumph Bonneville T120, Norton Commando 961 and for everyday driving a Honda Gold Wing. There's a workspace through that door over there, where you can work on your bike if that's what you like to do in your downtime. Keeps me sane."

We said nothing in the elevator up. Barnes got off at the main floor, nodding at me as he left, while I continued to the top floor where the residences were. When I got inside my quarters, I sat there, wondering what I should do, seeing as how I didn't plan to unpack just yet. Since I wasn't hungry, I figured a workout would drum up my appetite. Changing into my gear, I walked to the fitness centre, remembering where it was from my brief tour. Several people were in there, including a blonde woman, who was practising her kicks and punches on a heavy bag. For a smaller woman she had a lot of power in her and I realized I was watching her more than I was paying attention to my own workout.

"You bothered with something?" she asked, with a distinct Russian accent.

"No, just admiring your skills," I said, "although you're going to hurt your hands if you don't hit it properly."

"I've been doing this for a long time," she smirked. "I think I know how to hit a heavy bag."

I shrugged and turned away from her, continuing my leg work. A few minutes later she stood beside me and gestured to the mat.

"Show me what you've got, rookie," she said, trilling the "r" in rookie.

"I don't want to hurt you," I replied, not knowing her background.

She said something in Russian then challenged me again. With a sigh, I looked at her and got up from the leg lift machine I was on. I was several inches taller than her and at least 20 lbs heavier but she moved towards the mat and gestured to me. Well shit, it was my first day and I already was being called to prove myself. Rolling my neck and shoulders to loosen up I approached her and got into a crouch, as we circled each other, trying to get the other to make the first move. Then she attacked and damn, she was fast, pinning me in no time at all. Letting go of me, she resumed her position, and we circled again, only this time I attacked first, except she climbed upon me and did a move that encircled me before bringing me down hard. The third time, she moved but I was ready for her and sidestepped, clipping her in the face before taking her in a choke hold, while wrapping my legs around hers. The more she struggled the harder I squeezed.

"Ripley, let Yelena go," said a voice and I looked up to see Barnes there, a pissed off expression on his face.

I released her, then stood and offered her a hand up.

"Red Room, aren't you?"

"Da, how did you know?" she asked, wiping her bloody nose with the back of her hand.

"Squared off against a couple of you a few times," I replied. "You're lethal but the man who trained you also trained his own weaknesses into you. I would like to work with you on those, if you help me with mine. If you're going to have my back, I want to know that you're up to it and vice versa."

"Yasha, I like her," said Yelena. "Alright, Ripley. You have a first name?"

"Ripley's fine," I answered. "We good?"

"Da."

She walked past Barnes into the women's locker room, while the others who had gathered dispersed. He didn't move, just stood there glaring at me.

"Don't hurt your teammates," he finally said. "Save it for the missions."

"I would have released her before she passed out."

He turned around and left without a word. I called to him, but he didn't react, and stupid me, I ran after him, pulling him by the arm. His metal hand was on my throat in an instant, pinning me to the wall. Then he just as suddenly released me and turned away. I watched him walk away until he was out of sight.

"He worries about hurting us," said Yelena, who was now standing next to me, her bleeding nose taken care of. "His reactions are so ingrained that he is afraid of the force he uses being lethal. Killing is something he tries to avoid but sometimes it is just how the mission goes. It affects him deeply when that happens."

After I showered and changed, I went to Barnes' quarters, knocking on his door. There was no answer then the door suddenly opened, and I pushed it further open, stepping into the darkened interior. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust but I saw him on his couch, with a glass of amber liquid in his hand, and an open bottle of the same colour liquid on the coffee table. The TV was on but he had the sound off. Closing the door, I approached the table and picked up the bottle, smelling it ... scotch.

"There's a glass in the cupboard," he said, waving towards a small kitchen.

I came back and poured myself some, then sat next to him.

"She started it," I said.

"I ended it," he answered, taking a swallow. "You can't be using your full abilities on your teammates. Train, yes, but hurt them, no."

"We're the same level," I answered. "Now, she knows that I have her back, and I know the same about her. I know the drill, Sergeant. Didn't take you to be queasy about a little bit of blood."

"I'm not but I know what you're capable of," he said, looking straight ahead. "You were captured by ISIS, sexually assaulted by several of them, and your team did nothing to rescue you, figuring you were as good as dead. Then you killed your captors, using whatever you could get your hands on, and walked for two nights in the desert, hiding wherever you could during sunlight hours. When you reunited with your unit your commanding officer tried to justify why he didn't try to find you, and you almost killed him. I know the record says you only broke his nose, but you did a lot more than that. You have severe untreated PTSD and you're a bomb waiting to go off."

I could feel my insides freezing as he listed off what really happened to me, wondering how he found out. When I found my voice, it cracked.

"Why did you offer me a job then, if I'm so dangerous to your obviously well-qualified teammates?"

He put his glass down and looked at me, and I saw it then, the same look I often woke up with, that often stared back at me in the mirror after I slept like shit for weeks in a row. Of course, he had been there, in worse circumstances than I had and for years instead of days.

"Because we can help you," he said quietly. "We can redirect your rage and your anger towards something that will make a difference. You won't be getting by on dead-end jobs and living wherever you can find a place to hole up in. Healing isn't linear. I've been free of HYDRA for over ten years and there are still times when I wonder if I deserve to live. Shit happens but I can control how I react to people, especially those who need me to have their back. I will always have your back, Ellen, and if you are ever taken by the enemy, I will find you, even if it takes years. But you must meet me halfway. Are you going to challenge every single person who is an Avenger? Because I can tell you right now that I won't stand for it. They've all survived their own crucibles, have faced their own battles and setbacks. They don't have to prove themselves to you just as you don't have to prove yourself to them. You either decide you belong, or you don't. It's as simple as that."

We drank in the dimness of his quarters, not speaking to each other, while I considered his words. Everything he said was all true and he knew it because he had been there, right where I was. For too long, I had avoided dealing with a lot of things, not just what happened to me when I was in the army. It went back further than that, to when my parents were killed in a car accident, leaving me in the care of my barely legal sister. I never felt like I belonged because I had been abandoned more than once. Now, this man, the longest serving PoW in history had offered me a choice to go on and live my life in a downward spiral or accept the support and help of being part of something good. Everything in me ached to find a place to call home but I was afraid of facing despair again if I let my guard down and let these people in.

A motion to the side caught my attention. It was Barnes' hand, moving to the space between us, palm up. It was an offering, of friendship, of trust, of hope. All I had to do was place my hand in his and it would seal something between us, a promise to be there for me when I needed it most. With a shaky breath I placed my hand on his, noticing once more how warm he was, and we intertwined our fingers. He squeezed my hand and sat there for some time, in the quiet.

That was six months ago, and I haven't been disappointed in placing my trust in Bucky, and the others. It wasn't always smooth sailing, but no grudges were held, and any disputes were dealt with by various methods that didn't involve drawing blood. This mission, where I continued on with this mother and child, desperately trying to escape the life of misery they had, tested our capabilities. As we got into a shootout with the "associates" of her husband sent to take the daughter back to her father, Bucky pulled me aside.

"Go, take them to a safe house," he said, putting a new set of keys into my hand. "It doesn't matter which one because I'll find you. There are extra vehicles at each place so if you just go to change vehicles that works, too. Just don't try to call or text us." I wasn't going to lie. I was afraid and I told him I didn't know if I could do this. "I have faith in you, Ellen. It's why I wanted to recruit you."

With a nod, I herded the pair out the back door of the safe house we were in. There was a garage in the back yard, and I opened the door, unlocking the car doors with the remote on the key chain. Pressing the garage door remote I sped out of there, with the woman and child huddled on the floor of the back seat. We drove to another safe house, its location in the countryside memorized. For two days, we stayed there, and I almost reached the point where I was done waiting. Then a vehicle pulled up to where the access road came off the highway and I sent my charges into a safe room in the basement, telling them to unlock it only for me. I turned off the lights and watched as the car approached, parking some distance away. A man got out of the driver's seat and stood in front of the car, studying the house. I couldn't see his face as the headlights blinded me. Then he pulled out a cell phone and texted something. My phone pinged and I read the screen.

Bucky: It's okay. It's me. I found you.

Ellen: Prove it's you.

Bucky: You're named after a badass woman, Ellen Ripley, from the Alien movie franchise. I didn't know about the character until you brought it up when you got drunk and came onto me. I turned you down because I don't have sex with drunk women, especially those with PTSD.  After I saw the movies, I made a pass at you, and we've been seeing each other ever since but we haven’t gone all the way, because you’re not ready. Satisfied?

I opened the door, and Bucky Barnes strode towards me, the man who had my back from the beginning, the man who found me and is helping me find myself. Allowing ourselves a moment to embrace, we went down to the safe room and retrieved the woman and her daughter. Leaving my car there, we all got into Bucky's car and drove to where the Federal Marshals were waiting to put the pair into witness protection. After we watched them drive away, Bucky lifted me onto the hood of the car, and stood between my legs, kissing me passionately for several long glorious moments. Tonight, we would spend together at the safe house, then we would drive back home tomorrow. Home, what a wonderful way to describe my new extended family, and the man who would search to the ends of the earth to find me if I ever went missing. All because I answered what I thought was a spam ad but was really an invitation to become an Avenger.

One Shots Masterlist

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[flyingpurplepeopleprogrammer]

Hypnotic Susceptibility and Other Myths

OK so every now and then I see some of us amateur hypnotists cite that nonsense that happens in a laboratory environment and y'all need some context.

So, like, there are a few ancient and oft-repeated ways that sciencehumans will assess a given study participant's (we don't call them research subjects anymore) hypnotisability. This measurement is basically one of several flavors of "if one of our grad students reads a relatively boring hypnosis script to the participant, what happens?" Also, the grad student might be on a tape recorder.

Don't get me wrong here. This is useful, but it's really only useful in a laboratory setting. Assessing hypnotisability is important for if you're trying to study hypnotic phenomena. You've only got so much money to do your science with, and every participant you have come into the lab to do !!SCIENCE!! with is precious. By quickly filtering out "high" and "low" hypnotisability participants, you can get the most out of your work.

What that means, though, is that "hypnotisability" as determined in a laboratory setting is tailored to the research environment. Academic tests of hypnotisability will tell you fairly reliably whether someone can be hypnotised with minimal training and using methods the test was designed for.

More importantly, academic assessments of hypnotisability as seen in hypnosis research do not tell us whether a person is particularly susceptible to hypnosis in general, how other methods of applying hypnosis might work, and so on.

Don't get to thinking that researchers are silly, either. Characterising hypnosis and developing meaningful tests is a current research question because the scientific community is aware of existing limitations with established measures of hypnotisability. Hell, it's an open question whether or not the concept even makes sense.

But for our purposes out here in the real world doing weird things with hypnosis, I think it's much more sensible to not concern ourselves with the idea of hypnotisability. Our context is so far removed from the laboratory that it's probably going to cause us more trouble than benefit.

For my own salt, I've yet to meet somebody who can't be hypnotised effectively or whose skills as a hypnotic subject don't improve with practice. So long as that holds true, I don't think there's much point worrying about it at all.

[relaxxattack]

Hi i want to thank you for the QPR vs Moirail venn diagram. Its a rly excellent way of showing the difference. My gripe is about human romance, and how people will either 1- conflate it in a 1:1 ratio with Matesprit, or 2- claim it is “all the quadrants”. I personally feel both are false equivalency, and that the human romance is similar to both pale and red rom* and SO i was wondering if you agreed w that assessment, or if not, if you have the time to explain your thoughts on human traditional romance vs the quadrants (perhaps w another nifty graph)?

* which is why Rose’s destructive tendencies during sburb & her descent into addiction on the meteor were not addressed by kanaya, who feared palezoning herself like she did with vriska

OH MY GOD! YES!!!! why am i getting such great asks today?!

no, you're EXACTLY right. people are constantly conflating matespritship in those two ways; "all of the quadrants" being especially irritating (since Some humans occasionally argue, Occasionally in a kinky way, and i guess that means that they totally have all of kismesissitude covered?? :/).

matespritship is its very own thing. of the two interpretations above, i feel the idea that it's 1:1 to human romance is the closest to true. i mean, that's what they literally say in the comic, for gog's sake.

humans do not truly incorporate moirallegiance, kismesissitude, or auspisticism into their lives in any meaningful way. while it's possible for humans to sometimes have romances that might seem more like one of those than matespritship, they're considered abnormal or toxic-- and they often ARE, because humans do not have the same sort of biological drives or social understanding of these things that trolls do. humans do not understand the true needs and ramifications, or even the ROMANCE of moirallegiance. humans would be hard pressed to understand a kismesissitude in a 'healthy' way. i don't even need to mention how auspisticism flies over people's heads.

so, yes, humans only have the one quadrant. (and karkat vantas, i am sorry to say, is not going to "human date" anyone as the "solution to his quadrant problems". this would literally be the same as him trying to stick only to matespritship, and we all know exactly how that turned out.)

however! matespritship is not an exact 1:1 on human romance either. the direct quote from the comic is;

"[It's] the closest parallel to the human concept of romance trolls have." [x]

this is not really expanded on much in the text, honestly-- the intricacies of the social and biological traits of matespritship aren't shown enough for us to draw clear distinctions between them and human romance.

however, i think you're right that rose and kanaya are the best example we have of that-- despite them both aiming for matespritship, they have cultural misunderstanding quite often from some of rose's flirting, or even just her needs, crossing wires into a pale threshold that kanaya is weary of.

it's entirely possible that the differences between troll and human "hearts" might have made it difficult for kanaya to really connect with rose's problems and discuss them with her.

which might explain why when things go "better" for them in the retcon, they're portrayed reading a book on troll romance together:

it could be implied here that searching for a more in-depth understanding of quadrants actually helped rose with her ability to connect to kanaya-- and maybe, reading into it a little too hard here, this also could have been an opportunity for kanaya to work through her vriska-based hangups with the pale quadrant. that's entirely speculation on my part, though.

at the end of the day, we don't really KNOW enough about the details of quadrants for me to paint a clear picture of how matespritship differs from human romance. i mean, i could try, but it would certainly be more of a headcanon post than an analysis one!

[the-raven-lady]

Psychoanalyst anon here. ‘Why does every warhammer x reader fan have a breeding kink?’ ‘why do we keep writing about astartes nutting inside us??’ Look, and I’m metaphorically grabbing you by shoulders here, 99% of the x reader fics everyone writes are about the Horus Heresy narrative. The very famous 60-something book series called the Horus Heresy. The very famous book series about a family tragedy.

The entire premise of it is not only about daddy issues, but also about how extremist beliefs destroy families, and it’s also about how you can never leave a family, no matter how hard you try. 10,000 years in and every single space marine still carries a legion/chapter specific bit of trauma with them, I mean take a look at the blood angels, they straight up have their dad’s ptsd. It’s not something any of the marines or the primarchs or the custodes can’t run away from, a tapestry cannot run from the thread it’s weaved from, a person cannot run from the genetics that created them. And the genetics that created them are like, the literal worst, straight up coloniser dna.

In many books they refer to each other as ‘blood relations’, and in many books that blood is spilt over and over and over again. On first glance the space marines, primarchs, and custodes seem to be just a parody on that ‘manly macho man’ trope, but the closer you look at it you start to realise that it’s all about the cyclical nature of generational trauma.

So is it really that surprising that a lot of people who enjoy the ‘worst family ever’ book series would also have a breeding kink about it? I think that what we’re doing is just engaging with the source material in a meaningful and slightly kinky way.

The other reason for why most people here have a breeding kink about it is even more obvious. The entire kink is just a part of your brain that controls reproduction going a tiny bit overdrive sometimes. And how could it not? The characters in the HH series are always described as either being the most gorgeous, powerful, or intimidating people to ever appear in your pitiful baseline field of vision. So of course the ‘maybe I should have kids’ part of your brain would fixate on a big strong beautiful guy that could protect from all harm.

Especially so when it comes to the primarchs, because that’s literally how the Emperor intended them to work. ‘You see how hot this man is? Yes? You want your kids to be 50% him, don’t you? Well congrats because you can! All you have to do is just send any young children you already have to your nearest astartes initiate program-’

But again, I’m not a licensed anything so don’t take my word for it. I don’t know your brain.

Thank you for blessing my inbox. I'm sorry I fell asleep before you appeared.

I know for me personally, my breeding kink existed far before any interaction with 40k. I actually think the assessment of "Big man who is pretty" is closer to my side of things than the daddy issues side of 40k.

Now that I'm sober, I posit another explanation as an addition to what you've already given: It ties back into domination and devotion.

Being marked and claimed by someone large and powerful who can protect you definitely appeals to the lizard brain, but I think there's a little bit more to the consensual domination of being marked with someone's seed that appeals to me personally. And generally, the before, during, and after tend to be full of praises and devotionals and excitement from your opposite. "You're going to look so good carrying my children," etc. Getting doted on and taken care of by a devoted partner is probably the second largest appeal to me, but you've already eaten us alive over that and left no crumbs, so I digress.

I appreciate

[bookreviewcoffee]

The Secret History Novel by Donna Tartt

From the very prologue, the author plunges us into a key event that served as a turning point in the main character's life. This very well sets the mood of the whole book, and as you read, the summary is already in your mind, so we gradually see how everything actually comes to him.

Very cleverly the author intertwines all acute social themes: alcohol and drug addiction, parental indifference or violence, rich people who are simply ashamed to go to work - the difference in the financial situation of estates; the theme of same-sex love, incest, psychological deviations, suicidal moments and the standard of love, betrayal, friendship, etc.

I still can't decide for myself exactly what was the point of no return for the guys, what exactly had such an impact, why things turned out this way. There is no one to blame: Henry or Julian - I have only two options. However, if you start reasoning, all their actions can be assessed and justified. A child of wealthy parents and an arrogant teacher (has ancient Greek driven everyone crazy?!). But all the events, the characters' choices, and their relationships add up to a final picture, which, it seems, cannot be put together in any other way.

I definitely enjoyed it, I can't take that away. Despite the sheer number of pages, there wasn't a single one that was boring or didn't bring any reader satisfaction. That said, I was a little disappointed. It's understandable that when a story is told by only one of the characters, one shouldn't dream of revealing the others as much as one would like, but still. There was just a little bit missing for me, except that even that drop felt a thousand times more meaningful than it should have. What was going on in the twins' lives, what Francis was missing, what Henry was really like. These questions kept swarming in my head and kept me from fully savoring what I had written.

It turned out to be a kind of "confession of a murderer". Although the protagonist did not forgive himself for deliberately taking the life of his comrade.

@arcanewraith @ancientsstudies @abernathyvalois @silverystardustt

[thegreenthepeacetheorange]

Everlark (Mockingjay, Ch. 23-24)

the fact that she automatically goes to unlock peeta's handcuffs when she sees his wrists are bloody even though he is still dangerous to her

i can't remember who did the analysis of katniss with gale's injury vs peeta's in this chapter but if you know of it please reply to this with the link to it!

but anyways, it's gritting her teeth, jagged stitches and smearing on cream for gale vs attending to peeta, gently rinsing, bandaging

with each page, it becomes clearer that peeta is returning to himself, for him to be able to remember the blood poisoning comment and the way she risked her life to get his medicine in the first games

"i think.. you still have no idea. the effect you can have" SCREAM. this is one of my fave things peeta ever says to katniss and he remembers it!! still!

"i don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can." thats LOVE baby. literally none of the others are able to get through to her, but him. not even gale. she values peeta's opinion so much. it matters in a whole other way

"but if he's right and i think he is" girl, the others said the exact same thing and you didn't wanna listen lol

cute that this reassurance and belief from peeta is what gives her "new resolve"

shoutout to gale for highlighting the QQ kiss, as he should

the doubt in peeta's voice when he says it was just for the show. because he remember it, remembers the feelings that were mutual, the desire spilling from katniss in that moment that was undeniable

gale thinking he's still part of the equation of katniss's love life at this point is so funny it's almost sad. that he thinks it's still a choice

gale's assessment of how katniss will pick really rubs me the wrong way. he doesn't know her at all.

katniss being rightfully mad at his incorrect assessment. and her contemplating his words here highlight how much passion, love, desire and compatibility are actually important to her. for him to reduce her down to survival instincts is terrible actually. because those other things actually drive her far more.

her being angry at peeta for not refuting it. girl, a few pages ago he was asking you if people can grow wings. let's give him a break, hothead

"as if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or hunter will extend my longevity" what's funny to me about this is that "baker" shouldn't even be part of this equation. a baker for survival for extending longevity would be out of place any other time. but actually the baker here is so important to her and her life that it works. in the end it is a baker and a hunter, but katniss doesn't pick on survival. she picks on what means the most, where her love grows and thrives the most.

katniss feeling peeta's eyes follow her and gale out of the room. she's so hyperaware of peeta at all times. has been from book 1 chapter 2

katniss giving peeta permission to take the pill be closing his fingers over the pill. like he'd been waiting on the permission for her by keeping the pill in his open hand.

peeta charming tigris and katniss picking up on it. we're so back

katniss's desperation like she's back in the QQ

peeta embraces her back

"not as steady as they once were, but still warm and strong. a thousand moments surge through me. all the times these arms were my only refuge from the world. perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone forever"

this passage highlights the significance of when they grow back together and his arms being there to comfort her. she thinks it's gone forever so how much more meaningful when it comes back to her

"thousands of moments" that many moments. moments we haven't been privy to because they were so often and so habitual that katniss didn't always need to spell it out

katniss walking and still looking back to see if she can see peeta

and when everything is going down, she holds onto the idea that he may have gone back when he felt the attack coming. even though she must know he never would have. this is an arena after all and he knows his job is to protect her

katniss clearly loves gale as a friend and she doesn't ever want to see him hurt/tortured/killed but he ultimately takes a second seat to her love for peeta. always an afterthought, never the bride

contrasting the moment that gale is captured by the peacekeepers with the moment that cato has peeta trapped. even though her and gale had talked about what to do, in that moment she's confused, doesn't know what to do, her instincts don't kick in. but with cato, she automatically understood, within milliseconds, that peeta wanted her to shoot cato's hand when he marked the x there. thinking thinking

RIP prim. honeslty still a very chilling moment all these years later

[isfjmel-phleg]

Not exactly a Psmith centric question but compare and contrast the friendship of Psmith and Mike with that of Ukridge and Corky and/or Garnet would be interesting since they feel like they should be more similar than they are (eccentric gets his friend mixed up in hijinks)

Okay, it's been a while since I've read any Ukridge stories. The last time was in the Nightmare Class, and That Man concentrated on emphasizing Ukridge as "clear-sighted," i.e. always right in his assessment and subsequent treatment of other people (like apparently regarding a young woman as, and I quote from a class handout, "first causes, a sex object"). Totally coincidentally, Ukridge was also a character that That Man personally identified with. Just so you understand--I come to this with some baggage.

Ukridge is a comedic character. He was never intended to be read as a Role Model or as someone who is Embued with Special Wisdom. His job is to show up and create havoc and ultimately fail and never, never learn anything from his mistakes. That's why he's funny. @allieinarden, if I recall correctly, once compared him to Kramer from Seinfeld.

Anyway, the reason that we view Mike and Psmith's friendship very differently from that of Ukridge and whichever of his hapless friends is narrating at the time is that these relationships play very different roles and have different outcomes.

Psmith and Ukridge do both drag their friends along into their sh(o)enanigans. They are both colorful characters, outgoing and loquacious and charismatic, with distinctive styles of dress and speech. They're both manipulators. But they're not working from the same motivations. Ukridge is perpetually hard up for money, and most of the time he's pursing some get-rich-quick scheme, directly or indirectly. Psmith is only mercenary if he's broke (which isn't often except in the last book), and more often he's securing his own comfort, chasing a whim, seeking some kind of petty revenge, or acting on behalf of a friend.

And that's the big difference. Psmith can be and very often is motivated by a genuine regard for his friends, usually Mike. Although he does sometimes put Mike through uncomfortable situations (friendship does not totally prevent Psmith from being a jerk at times), time and time again he goes out of his way to help Mike too. He confesses (falsely) to a prank Mike has been accused of to save Mike from getting expelled. He basically pays for Mike's entire existence when they're at the bank and later Cambridge. He gets involved in the intended theft of a diamond necklace in the last book because the profits will go toward helping Mike and Phyllis. Psmith is totally unhinged in a lot of ways, but he is absolutely ride-or-die for a friend.

Ukridge does not have this kind of relationship with either Corky or Garnet. His friends are useful to assist him in his schemes or lend him money and other items, but I can't recall any instances in which Ukridge goes out of his way to do his friends good, or sacrifices anything for them, or in any way indicates that he values them for their own sake. He's not really malicious, but he is utterly self-absorbed and seems to think that people exist for him to use. That's where a lot of humor of his character comes from. His friends in turn seem to regard him as not someone who they genuinely care about and connect with but an inconvenient force of nature that will inevitably rope them into something they don't really want to do and cause them a lot of stress. Neither party in these relationships seems to truly value the other, so there isn't really friendship there in any meaningful sense. And that's where the humor comes from.

The Ukridge series is like "what if there was this weird guy and he showed up to make your life comedically miserable?"

The Psmith series is like "what if there was this weird guy and he showed up to make your life less miserable, albeit with misadventure along the way?"

[meztliel]

Day 4: Rain/Umbrella

For: @dbshipsweek

Pair: Truten

Rated: Teen+

***

Goten and Trunks have shared many things throughout their lifelong history.

Toys and weapons, friends and enemies, laughter and anger… even the same body. An umbrella had not been one of them until today.

“Gotta protect your stupidly expensive suit.” 

Goten, looking ridiculous (and adorable) in a hooded, green waterproof poncho, dutifully holds an umbrella up and over Trunks’s head, exceeding his role as a newly-hired executive assistant to an almost annoying degree. 

“I'll just buy another if it gets ruined,” Trunks says, his blasé tone undermining his appreciation of the chivalrous gesture.

They were coming back from their lunch break at their favorite spot when the trickle happened, lasting just long enough for Goten to pull out his rain gear before the rain really started hitting. 

His best friend, now turned employee, had warned Trunks about the likelihood of rain, despite the skies being blue and the clouds mostly white moments before the downpour. 

His friend has always had a stronger sense of intuition when it comes to all things living and natural. A keen insight of people and animals, of monsters, gods, and aliens. Of nature and, of course, the weather. 

Meanwhile Trunks has, much like his grandfather, relied more on strategy rather than instinct; on finding ways to succeed in both a battle and in business through methodical means over “gut feelings.”

Not that either one of the men is devoid of one quality to make room for the other; Goten doesn't jump into a fight without first assessing the risks and advantages he has over an opponent, and Trunks can read energy –or ki – without needing to hone in using his elevated Saiyan senses. 

They work well together because of their innate, complementary qualities, combining forces to make an almost perfectly balanced whole. His Yin to his Yan. His other half. 

Trunks fists a hand above Goten’s grip on the metallic stem of the umbrella, wrapping the other arm to pull Goten into and under the dome along with him, the patter of raindrops drowning the heartbeat– Goten’s heartbeat– drumming in his ears as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder to the Capsule Corp building looming just up the street. 

They've been physically close numerous times. Besides joining bodies to become one single entity, they've fallen asleep on the couch together, have wrestled on the ground, bathed fully naked in hot springs. But the closeness that was once normal and regular between them has somewhat recently transformed into something that feels more…intimate, more personal. A layer of intimacy that isn't quite tangible, defined. Beyond physical. 

“There's no point in us both being under an umbrella if you’re gonna get wet,” Goten says. Despite his words, he doesn't make an effort to separate from Trunks, his wet poncho cold against the blended material of Trunks's designer suit. 

The two men shake off what wetness remains stuck to them and dry off with towels handed to them by an intern, making their way up the polished steps and matching their pace with one another, appearing more as business partners than an employer and employee. In a way, they are, though their professional relation is only one aspect of a deeper, infinitely more meaningful bond. 

Goten runs his fingers along his dark, damp hair one more time, a simple act of grooming that has Trunks staring in, he realizes, appraisal. He stares even longer as he takes in how Goten's business-appropriate hairstyle has resumed to its natural, tousled and spiky state. Trunks prefers this hairstyle on him, however, in a professional setting, it unfortunately won't do.

Without further thought, Trunks whips out a comb and restyles Goten's thick, incongruously silky spikes to something like a business-casual pompadour, setting it with a salon-grade hair pomade he keeps in his briefcase in case of, well, rainy days. 

“Lookin’ sharp,” Trunks declares, “You're welcome.”

With a roll of his eyes, Goten swipes the comb from his hand and does the same for him, tidying up his parted, indigo hair. Trunks suppresses the urge to contently sigh at the sensation of his scalp being scraped by the teeth of the comb, wishing for an unbidden, fleeting moment that it was Goten's fingers running through his hair instead. 

Lately, he's been craving frequent physical contact from another person, and Trunks thought he could satiate that need by getting a girlfriend he hardly likes but is extremely attracted to. Nice, but ultimately unfulfilling. 

What he really wants is not something he's ready to say out loud, to accept fully and openly, outb of fear it may ruin what they do have, what has always been and has always worked. Over and over he has rationalized that what he really wants will imbalance and disrupt their connection, will create an upheaval he's not prepared to fix and resolve the way he fixes and resolves problems that arise in the company, in battle and in lesser personal relationships. 

“Your hair is getting long. You should let it grow,” Goten says, evaluating his work with a ponderous expression. 

He hasn't given too much thought about his hair. Too busy, all the time. If not with work, with other thoughts. 

“So schedule me an appointment with Ferrer.” Ferrer is the only hairstylist he trusts. Ferrer also hits on him on every visit, but Trunks doesn't mind because Ferrer is also super hot, though their flirtatious exchanges have never crossed professional boundaries. As it should be. 

“You got it, boss,” Goten says with a salute, a minimal amount of sarcasm behind his words and gesture. 

Sometimes it feels weird that he's technically his childhood best friend's boss, but as he often is in other aspects in life, Goten isn't bothered by being second rank to anyone. When your father is the savior of the world, of multiple friggin universes even, and your older brother saved the Earth once when he'd been almost a decade old, then you kind of learn to accept you're not the best of the best, but you're still pretty great on your own. Goten is more than great, really. 

Before they separate to go to their individual offices, Trunks pauses.

“And schedule a training sesh with you for later today.”

The smile that tends to be perpetually stamped on Goten's boyish face widens, bright as the sun parting the clouds.

“Where at? The gravity chamber? A  barren, neighboring planet?”

“Have your dad take us somewhere unexpected. Somewhere it's not raining.” 

Though, Trunks thinks, it could be fun sparring in the rain, their clothes wet and clinging to their bodies, the wet sound of flesh hitting flesh, Goten panting and soaking… removing his top to unburden himself from its weight, his bare chest heaving as rain mixes with his sweat, slickening his taut skin…

“He's gonna want to spar with us and end up kicking our asses as per usual.”

“I'll ask Bulla to ask my dad to keep him busy.” Vegeta only ever listens to his little princess, and occasionally but not always, Bulma, his wife and Trunks's mom. 

“It's a date,” Goten says and, upon catching on to how that could be misinterpreted as something unprofessional to the colleagues around them, he quickly adds, “You know what I mean.”

 ‘It's a date’ … Well, it could be, if Trunks stopped being a coward and closed in on the tension that's been brewing between them in the last couple of years since entering adulthood.

“Actually, Goten,” Trunks calls out from behind him, prompting Goten to halfway turn mid-walk. “Let's train at my place.”

In his family's vast sprawling land. In the rain. 

[cornyonmains]

Something I really like about Only Friends is the characters are so complexly written and layered that I kind of wind up being an apologist or detractor for all of them at different points in time. I don't really have a black and white view of the characters, which is usually the only thing you have in BL.

Top's a fuckboy with substance abuse issues. But also, he seems like he genuinely wants connection, and I feel bad for him sometimes because it's so clear he wants Mew to be affectionate with him, and Mew just isn't.

Mew is controlling. A giant walking defense mechanism that can't connect will with people. But also, he's surrounded by people who don't have his best interests in mind, and as he's opening up, we're seeing that he's not some criminal mastermind. In fact, that's the mask. The real Mew is just some dumb college kid who's into a guy he's scared of being vulnerable with, because he's never caught feelings he couldn't control. It's so obvious someone messed Mew up REAL GOOD.

Boston is.... He's an objectively terribly human being. He's also a miserable human being though, a lot like Ray, and he places so much of his value on sex he doesn't know how to make meaningful bonds. It's clear he's nuts about Nick, that he wants to monopolize his affections and attentions, but he doesn't know how to translate that into something healthy. Like Mew, his relationship with sex is fucked, and at the core of an inability to bond. I actually think he's jealous of Mew because there's a parallel there, but whereas Boston is derided for his relationship with sex and inability to connect, Mew is praised. Boston is a shit human being, but he is to be pitied.

Ray's kind of a dick. He's self-centered, won't take no for an answer from Mew, he has substance abuse issues, and saying Sand wasn't his boyfriend because he's holding onto that hope for Mew was fucked. But he's also got major depressive disorder, his parents sound like real pieces of work, and Khao does such a great job of conveying his fragility you can really sense how close to just breaking apart he is. He fucks up, but you still want him to get to a better place.

Sand, oh dear god, this boy has my heart. He's not perfect. Yeah, he sells hooch, he smokes weed, he parties. But he's got flaws too. He works too much, his head's in the clouds, he's destined to wind up on a sexiest mugshots website, and he falls too hard, too fast. He lets himself get led around by the nose by Ray. Sand's the easiest character to like on this show. He's got a hustle, but he's also got 'dude I wouldn't be deeply uncomfortable to be in a room alone with' energy.

Nick's not completely guiltless with his relationship with Boston. I've got a soft spot for him because he's a sweet, quiet kid, and I have a habit of adopting introverts. But he's not like Mew, he knew his way around both dick and dicks from the start, and wasn't blind to who Boston was. He bugged the car. That was a little too extra. I still wanna buy him cheeseburgers and tell him these boys ain't shit though, because he's so miserably in love with Boston, and Boston might be up front with him, but he's still stringing him along, telling him what he wants to hear, and giving more when Nick expresses interest in seeing other people. Was recording Boston and Top some pure creep mode shit to do? Yes. But do I support him using the recording to put Boston in his place? Yeah, I do.

Cheum is another easy to like characters, but we don't get to see much of her, so aside from simply liking her dancing queen energy, I can't really make an assessment. I like that she's the only one in the group actually helping Mew with the project. Also, I laughed when she clocked Ray as most fuckable. Most queer woman would agree, and Jojo is out here making us feel attacked.

Anyways, in summation, I'm thinking of opening a GoFundMe to get therapy for fictional characters. I still can't believe we've got 7 more episodes of drams to get through.

[jolalibrary]

ix. not his place. not your place.

javier peña x dea f!reader | chapter nine of nowhere to run

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers. no use of y/n. use of a nickname. mentions of smut. feelings. angst. anxiety. ptsd. love thoughts. word count: 6.5k.

AN: sorry for the wait, I got really in my head about it all, but thank you to @yeyinde who listens to me ramble about my writing woes and also to the brilliant @guyfieriii who tells me things my brain won't let me believe.

dedication: i dont normally do dedications, but a special one to @thelightsandtheroses because her love for this has made me want to keep chipping away, even if i lost my way. thank you for being such a light.

You’d love to say that you'd been his the moment you had stood in his office. 

But you hadn’t. 

You fought losing yourself in his brown eyes more times than you’d like to count. 

Somewhere between his face being between your thighs and you riding him, you’d been sucked in—like a moth to a flame. 

You’d been able to peel back the thrown-up walls, while he’d been assessing how to take down yours. Until the two of you are both standing in rubble, staring at one another more bare than you have been in bed. 

“You have to work with Don Berna?” 

He’s looking at you, swiping his tongue across his teeth. Your heart falling in your chest. 

“Shit…”

“Indeed.”

The house of cards is floating down, haphazardly falling, ready to land and squash those who don’t get on the right side of it. You’re never sure if he is on the right side—not because of his past, but because they’re always one step behind. 

Chasing something, anything—everything. 

One thing away from finishing it, from drawing a red cross over another photo. 

It’s why you gnaw your lip, why your nail polish is picked off from your index, middle and thumb on the one hand, and one hand only. It’s what made you begin unravelling: the sight of your undoing evidence each time you stapled or picked up the phone. 

Because… you like him. 

Truly, like him. Could even, possibly, maybe love him. 

And it makes you want to plead. Beg him to move closer, at least. Close the gap. Let you clutch him. So much said, without words being spoken. A soft glance, warm eyes and a kind smile—both given and returned. 

“Don’t…”

But he does. 

Taking soft strides to close the gap, hand reaching up to take hold of your cheek. You know he can see the fear shimmering in your eyes. It sitting in the pools that you try to blink away. Hiding your anxiety, how much you want to protest but choose not to. 

You knew that was the thing with love, you could fight it, attempt to bury it, smother it in sex, whiskey and other destructive decisions, but it always cracked through. Always rose, standing in its flaming glory like a reborn phoenix. 

“Javi. Please…. Please don’t….” Die. Leave me.

“Not a fucking chance.” 

You let his forehead press to yours, eyes closing, managing to choke out, “Good.”

At some point along the way, before he’d gone to Cali, he had handed you a key to his place, and you had told him where your spare was. 

Easy, convenient. Practical. 

Those were the words you chose and the ones he leaned on. The two of you allowed them to be the reason you took the step, not because it made sense or felt right. 

Doing so allowed the two of you less rigid plans when it came to meeting. It allowed you not to rush as he sat outside your place, not needing to tap his steering wheel as you flicked lights on and off, dashing across your windows. It meant you didn’t have to wait to begin showering or cooking when it was time to be at yours. 

It also meant the two of you didn’t need to look in his mirror—just in case someone saw. Something he’s thankful for now, more than ever since your friends are back. 

In the days before the attempt to take down Miguel, it felt right to be in your possession for many reasons. Leaving his pocket—all heavy and meaningful—and finding a home in your palm. 

Because it also stood for something else. 

Just in case. 

The words linger, heavy and pulsing in the air. In case you need me for anything or shit hits the fan. 

Both of them are things they should keep an eye on and consider. It’s in the air, how dangerously close they all were—how things were in place, yet no clear direction paving its way. 

Then there was you. 

You who has shared all that you have with him, but won’t answer him truthfully when he asks if you’re okay. You save that for your nightmares. 

It’s another reason he handed you the key: a gesture, a promise: I’m here. So much so he hadn’t been sure how you’d react, watching you stare at it for a second before your fingers closed around it, and he felt able to breathe. 

Then you’d smirked. Is this in case I need your signature, sir? 

If his name hadn’t been shouted, he’d have congratulated you for it—slipped his tongue past your lips and tasted the coffee on your tongue. 

Instead, he spent the evening signing his name against you. First, your neck, then your collarbone, before he wrote over and over with his tongue between your slit—carving each letter, gripping your hips, controlling them as they tried to meet him. One of his palms flat on your stomach, making you wait—

Paciencia, he whispered. 

Blowing cool air over your soaked core, watching you write to wriggle, twisting yourself to meet him. Little pleas and begs leaving your lips, the same one that is more wit than honest. 

It was different. The way you two fucked. 

It had been for a little while, but that night it was noticeable, a shift ever present in the room—words sitting on the edge of his tongue as he captured kisses and swallowed your moans. 

He missed it when your nails didn’t slide down his back; he craved the way you looked at him before you let go. 

Things he hadn’t focussed on before, not with you or anyone else. 

Then, there’s the morning when he wakes to find you next to him. Sometimes asleep, sometimes just waking the same as him—sleep-filled eyes washing him in beauty, warmth, and a future that feels like he could have it. 

Though, Javi hadn’t expected to hear from you tonight—never mind seeing you. 

Had assumed that you’d be catching up with Van Ness, the two of you have clung to one another in the office—some part of you visibly snapping back into place before him. He’d have been jealous if not for how you iced out Fiestl—a smugness sitting behind his teeth as he nodded at the three of you before faking a reason to hide in his office. 

Your voice was barely a whisper when he picked up the phone, softly asking if you could come around—or whether he could come over. 

Something you never ask, which is why he’s there in record time, finding your spare and sliding it in. 

For saying usually, your door has a petulance for letting him in, the lock turns in with ease, greeting him with the darkness inside—all shadowed ornaments and streams of light from cars passing your window. Your curtains are limp, undrawn—not perfectly slid into their place as usual. 

Nothing seems as it should be, not even how your place makes him feel. Usually, it wraps warmth around him, all hopeful—swamped with happiness. Your home feels cold and withdrawn tonight—like it’s at a loss. 

The door clicks with a finality, placing the key inside the glass bowl with a chime, yet he doesn’t hear you call. Not a Javi, not a Peña. 

With each heavy step he takes, he expects light to blind him—your hand over the light switch, smirk so broad that his mind automatically takes a photo of it. It never happens. His hand moves for his phone, the other motioning for his gun as he passes the open kitchen, living room and bathroom door. 

His mind goes into overdrive, wondering if anything seemed out of place, if your voice had given anything away as he pauses outside the only one shut: your bedroom.

“Cariño…?” 

He considers knocking, tapping knuckles against wood as a warning, as a sign when he hears silence. But he twists the metal door knob in hand instead, opening it, expecting to find emptiness—made bed, cushions placed at the head. 

Javi finds none of that, removing his gun from his waistband to put on the side table—his phone following suit. 

Because what he finds instead is lit by the occasional headlight and the weak stream of the streetlight. Cold ochre shimmering across balled-up sheets, used tissues and the broken mess of a person at the centre. 

At first, he can’t tell if your eyes are open until a car slowly drives past—light reflecting from the walls and hitting your open irises. 

He says your name uneasily, each letting falling consciously from his tongue as he moves close to the bed. Only receiving the lowest hum back from the duvet and destruction.

The mattress dips, your body unmoving still as his fingers find the string of your bedside lamp. 

“I’m turning the light on—just need to see you.” 

He wishes he hadn’t. 

Black stains against usually manicured cheeks, tired, empty eyes staring into him—all forbidding as they wince and then land on him.

Javi knows shattered pieces typically cut skin, but his hand finds your exposed shoulder—coldness greeting him, sliding down the pads of his touch to his wrist and bones.

“Cariño.”

He says it differently, more a calling than questioning.

You blink, trying to erase your distress and pain—but it hangs all the same, like a banner, there all for him to see. 

“You came…”

His chest tightens, something falling from within as he releases a feeble breath. He knew, suspected it for a while, that you weren’t okay. Not pushing, not knowing if his words could be ones that could heal you. So he said nothing, let silence do its thing between the two of you, as his thumb brushed your cheek. Wiping across spilt grief and fresh tears.

“What…” 

You swallow it loud in the quiet—eyes furrowing before widening, as though hearing his words repeatedly.

He smiles, knuckles resting on your cheek, thumb stroking the edge of a smile he misses. 

“Talk to me, cariño. Please?”

More fall from your eyes, sliding down like rain droplets against dry cheeks and a sorrowful stare. If he could, he’d take it all from you. Urge the ball that clogs your throat to shrink—the one that lives inside you and has gotten matted with your soul. He’d do whatever you needed him to do. 

Your eyes fall from him, landing on a spot—darkness blooming over the colour as they unfocus. 

“I thought once you knew, it would feel easier. The same way I thought I’d be okay with seeing him back, Chris. Thought the distance would mean I didn’t hate him, but then I saw him and…” 

More fall in single file, orderly. 

Something tugging at the corner of his lips, because only you would have tears that fall in unison—that march down your cheeks and cut across your misery. 

“Did you know that I didn’t have a nickname before her? Luna—the moon. Said it was because I only came alive at night. The name was just for us—that name. Threatened to punch someone back in the States for using it.” 

Smirking, he watches as you blink. A river, cloudy with memory, scales down your face, tracing the outer edges of your nose and hanging expertly on your cupid bow. 

It catches—whatever comes next. 

Clings to the back of your teeth—rots on the tip of your tongue as he continues his ministrations on your cheek. Watching, studying—waiting for a cue, a mark. A sign. 

“…I don’t mind some, but there’s something about him using it that way.” 

You pause, the smallest of laughs slipping from your tight lips. “I wish you could have met her. She’d like you. You think I’m witty, but she was so much better at it. Barely needed to think. Always a retort—both in English and Spanish, always ready...”  

The last word hangs, syllables dancing until they run out of steam and are swallowed by silence. His knuckles pausing on your jaw, clearing his throat, finding your eyes flick up to him. 

They smother him in heaviness, so much so, it almost makes him crumble. The edges of him weakening, the knot in his chest that needs to make you smile constricting, wrapping further around his oesophagus— 

“She sounds wonderful,” he manages to say. 

Your face scrunching, a mix of agreement and anguish fighting in battle on who should show first—should prevail. 

“She was.” 

It wounds him to hold your stare, for the stinging edges of your grief to dig further into his spirit. Injecting more cause into his blood, more reason to keep fighting, pushing—hunting injustice until bars surround it.

When he blinks, he’s freed. Temporarily, but enough to think. To rest his palm under your chin, keep your eyes upon him.

“You think you can let me in, cariño?” 

His eyes flick down to the sheets, the duvet wrapped around you, trapped under limbs. 

It takes a second, one which spreads across space for far too long, but you nod. Shuffling awkwardly so a corner emerges—one he can lift and slide in. 

Your blouse is gone, but the rest of your work clothes still adorn your frame. Javi’s shirt rustles as he seeks to bring you comfort—to find a way to pull you close without forcing you to flee. 

“This okay?” 

It’s tinged with nerves—draping between you as he finds you still watching him. 

He'd have missed your nod if you were almost shoulder to shoulder. Only catching how the edges of white teeth bite down your bottom lip. Spotting the tremble before he sees the unmissable wobble as your eyes fill until they’re shimmering with a new wave that’ll crash down and coat them. 

“Cariño—“

“Lune.” 

He looks at you, takes it in. The look in your eyes, the way they burn unspoken emotions into him. 

“French, I know. She had to make an adjustment, claim it back before we left. She didn’t let anyone, not even Ch….him. But, I think she’d let you call it me,” you whisper, all hiccuped and difficult. 

Something unlodges inside of him, a thing which is determined to rid those two words. Because he suspects you’re thanking him because you don’t get this. Usually pushed, nudged to the edge until you devastate.

He kisses your hairline instead. Feeling you curl into him, head against his chest—and then he braces for the first shake, the eruption of shudders ripple from you to him. 

And he clings, clutching to root you here—to him, with him.  

“Javi…” 

His fingers continue sliding up and down, feeling soft skin as your breath flutters across his cheek. 

“Thank… thank you for coming over.” 

He smiles, spreading over his lips before he can hold it back, opening his eyes to face you. “I’ll always come, cariño.”

“Prometes?”

“Promesa, baby.”

Javi rarely dreams of the after. But he has begun to. 

You’ve stayed over at his place more often as of late. Easier, you’d tried to protest, and he never complained. 

The thoughts the dreams leave behind knock on him more frequently, especially when the darkness slides over the two of you, when you’ve gone quiet before soft shallow breaths fill the space in his room. It there, sitting on his tongue, wanting to ask:

What are you gonna do when it’s all over? 

A question which festers and burns—eroding a hole in his mouth and the back of his brain. It throbs more when he feels you curl against him, craving some form of touch before the two of you have to rise and pretend all over again. 

It’s why he likes it when you stay. When he can start the day with his palm on your cheek, lips slotted over yours. Pulling you flush against him as you whisper his name into the air—not tired of him, not even close. 

Because after it’s rushed, you need to do this or do that. The pretence needing to be kept up—him rushing to get in before you, more so now your friends are back. Fingers shakily doing his tie until you spot him in his kitchen, half-dressed, barely ready for the day, and your fingers smooth over his. Helping, shifting your hips against him as you loop his tie and knot it: the definition of a multitasker. 

Letting his eyes take you in, he lowers his hands to your hips. “You keep doing that, cariño, and we’ll undo your handiwork in a moment.” 

He likes the way you smile around him. 

How soft it is, the sharp edge you’d once purposefully wrapped it in, now gone. Faded. Vanished. 

“I could fuck you with your tie on, Peña.”

Javi knows that. Almost lets you prove it. Mouth opening to find words to say—

“You have a meeting, remember.” 

Gritting his teeth, jaw sliding to the side, he nods. 

Your fingers drop from the fabric as something sits in your eyes—a set of words that roll around that pretty head of yours he’s yet to decipher. 

“You think you’ll come here tonight?” 

Javi asks, hopeful. Not wanting to assume—not even with his spare on your keychain and most of your things in his bathroom. A smug look crosses your lips, making him leave ahead of you even harder. 

“I’ll be here. Prefer your water pressure than I do mine and the hands that come with it.”

He tortures himself by sitting in your lingering perfume on the commute. 

Fingers tapping on the wheel, thumb and index brushing in tight circles over and over as he parks his car, trying not to think of bubbles, water dripping down, you against the tiles. 

Like most mornings, he notes how dull the place is when you’re not around before he picks up the metaphorical weights he carries. The ones stuffed with expectations, getting it done—passing the board with the photos he can see when he blinks. 

Each minute until you arrive, the weight digs in. In the same way, it did before the night, he took you back—only being removed from his shoulders by your fingers and yours alone. 

It’s the relief you provide that makes him flick his eyes up as he hears someone arrive, casting a glance through the blinds—all on edge until he sees you. Until he knows you’re safe—something prickling, pecking at him that you’re not. 

It’s worsened since you told him everything. Since he saw you in the centre of your bed, all broken and at a loss. A part of him was angry with himself that he hadn't tried to take the weight from your shoulders, hadn’t noticed how close you had woven yourself, how unspooled you’d become. 

Worst of all, Javi wonders if there’s still a target on your back. Your face stuck up on some wall like the Godfathers are stuck on theirs, a thought easier to silence when you’re in sight. 

He knows it’s because he cares, feels things. It creeps into his chest, unwrapping, unfurling—spreading its vines until they loop around his muscles and bones. Making him feel so much it burns a hole in his tongue, in his heart—

“Morning,” you say, file in hand. 

His eyes lifting from the paper, watching you smile—body relaxing. 

Your words linger in the air, all innocent, airy as though you hadn’t said it to him already two hours ago. Fingers in his hair, nails scraping along his jaw as he rocked his hips into you, filling the air with breathy mornings and right there. 

He smirks, taking the file from you as you step into his office, beginning your usual morning rundown of his day, who has left messages, and what he hasn't done that needs handling. 

It’s not until you begin talking about having a meeting yourself, that he forces his head to look up from the file, does he take you in. Eyes dropping down your frame, not able to help himself, until—

“—so I have to go—“

“Is that my shirt?”

You pause, words dying on your tongue before you softly begin to smile. “How would I be wearing your shirt, sir?”

“Are you wearing my shirt, cariño?” 

Folding your arms, you shift your weight on the spot. His eyes scan behind you, spotting and noting that no one is within ear reach. Working out the probability of whether he has time to hook his finger in one of the belt loops of your trousers, pull you to him, shut the blinds and kiss you until your lips are swollen before duty calls. 

“If I were wearing your shirt, it would be because I ran out of time this morning to iron my shirt because someone needed assistance with their tie. So if this was yours, it’s merely being borrowed.” 

He swallows—something stirring inside of him. 

Because you’re wearing him, here. Out in the open, around their colleagues. He’d be able to look out of his window and see you dressed in him, marked in him. 

You’ve buttoned half of it, tucked it into the band of your trousers. His fingers want to trace the vest underneath the open buttons—take you in for a second, admire the way it’s styled so it looks less like him, and more like something new you’re trying with a pair of your trousers and heels. 

Your confidence falters; he watches it—how it wrinkles out over your face. “Wait…Javi, do you mind?” 

“Fuck no,” he says, more gruff. “Not one fucking bit. It’s just…”

“Just what?” 

He shifts his jaw, staring at you, tracing his eyes up and down your body—knowing how each curve feels, how your skin tastes. “I’m not going to be able to fucking concentrate.” 

“Wh… Javier Peña, do you like women wearing your clothes?”

“Not women. You.” 

You pull a face, smirking. “Well, that’s good to know.” His brow arches, watching something glimmer in your eyes. “Because you have quite an impressive shirt collection, and guess what I like?”

Tracing his bottom lip with his thumb, he tries to stop himself from tracing his eyes up and down you. Hearing people come in, the office slowly springs to life behind you. 

“What’s that, cariño?” 

You lean forward, allowing you to drop your voice. “Knowing to take it back, you’ll have to take it off of me—once I get to yours, tonight, that is,” you whisper, soft and breathy, a hint of silk to each of your words as they slide into his ears. “Have a good day, sir.” 

Failure was something he was being served more and more frequently.

This time, it was dealt to him when he’d allowed a part of himself to relax—to feel like they were close to a win—having gone from panicked to relieved when he felt Jurado’s wife against him.

Her all curled up, trembling. The scent of mud, sweat and something he assumed had once been perfume rotted into his nose as the jungle faded from view. 

It’s why he allowed her the comfort she so desperately needed, giving himself the chance to feel the joy that he had managed to fix the mess he’d caused by not thinking of every single option. 

Then, like grey clouds holding back her storm, there was a clap of thunder—Christina's eyes were then full of sorrow and fury, digging into him as though they were made of knives. Yet, it had been her words that did the slicing. 

It hadn’t meant a damn thing, not accounting for a single thing. All of it, from listening in on her and Jurado to now, a giant waste of fucking time. The phone call confirmed it.

He was dead. All that chasing, the jungle—

Javi had intended to cool down before he headed back to the office. It had all boiled inside of him, unable to think straight, that was until his eyes landed on you. 

Finding you at your usual spot, bent over, the low light making you squint. Your head lifts to glance at your screen before back down to the files on your desk, fingers rubbing at that spot on the side of your forehead—your tick, your tell. 

Then you lean back, hand brushing over your face before landing your eyes on him. At first, he watches you relax, relief flooding your expression—likely due to the fact that he’s safe. You'd been forthcoming with how much you'd been worrying.

Then, a smile. One that is quickly swallowed by concern. It amazes him how quick and astute you are—lifting yourself, grabbing something without taking your eyes off him as he approaches, nodding to Stoddard as you clear your throat. 

“Could—can I talk to you about a lead?” 

He nods, swallowing. He gestures for you to lead the way as he follows you into his office. It isn’t until the door closes, wrapping his arm across himself and playing with his other elbow, does he see you throw the file on the desk. 

“There’s no lead. I just… you looked like you needed to talk.” 

It's instant, the way he softens. Looking down, letting himself feel the calming wave you cast over him without knowing you even do it. 

The airport. The jungle. The call. 

He’s not even sure where to begin.

“She thinks I’m a piece of shit. That’s… that’s what she called me.”

Slowly, you move to the mini-table-turned-bar as you pour a glass—one for you, one for him.

“And maybe, I am…” You extend the glass, his hand taking it as he nods, running his thumb over the top. “I mean, I get tunnel vision—and I just have to….” 

He sighs, feeling you watching him, before it all comes out.

From the moment they reached the jungle to the airport. Your eyes not leaving him, likely seeing how easy it is for him to undo—how he’s coming apart, crumbling, pieces of him snapping off. The words keep coming and coming, the stress releasing a hold on his chest but doubling on his shoulders simultaneously.

It isn’t until he’s done, your silence, thick and loaded, does he even feel he needs to ask:  

“Y'agree with her?”

He has to ask, watching as you undo the thought. 

Studying your expression as he coats his tongue and lips in deep amber and misery. He used to drink to celebrate. Somewhere between Colombian takedowns and Escobar, it began as a way to stop himself thinking. Now, he’s unsure if it calms him, deafens things or just numbs him—or better, a concoction of the two. 

You lean against the wall, wrestling with your thoughts. He can see it—the thin line that appears between your brow and the way your fingers dance along the crystal glass. 

“I can… see why she’d think you were one.”

He takes a large sip, raising his brow. “Well... fuck, thanks.”

“You don’t—this doesn't work because I lie to you. We work because I’m great at feeding that self-deprecation you’re carrying around.” 

He smirks, snorting into the glass as he watches you take your first sip. Not hissing or scrunching—sipping it like it’s water. Suspiciously so.

He hears you step forward, closing the gap, placing your hand on his shoulder, nudging him to turn entirely towards you. “You’re a good person. The only time you’re a piece of shit is when you don’t do that thing with your tongue to me. She's hurt, Javi. Understandably, so.” 

He smiles, and you brush the sides of it with your thumb. 

Because he knows he’s experienced in non-committal fucking. Well-versed, almost excelling at it, until you. You who he wants the opinion of, the person who makes his world splinter and crack in the best way—more so when you dig your nails in, and he paints your walls in ropes of white. You are different. 

He's thought it since the beginning, when you barged in, all confident and smug. Now, it’s so much harder to ignore, to bury—to smother in other problems and issues. 

All of the realisation snapping inside of him, the walls he’s built coming down with ease, as your palm remains on his cheek—all intimate and full of care. 

“Starting to think you like me.”

“Get rid of that thought, sir. I merely tolerate you.”

“Liar.”

You blink, dropping your hand.

Holding your eyes steady, Javi lets the seconds add up, sliding into a minute. The air tightens with understanding as it rises like a slow tide threatening to pull you both under and drown you. Realisation twists and gnaws in your chest, not able to blink, not able to turn. 

He sighs, knowing it too. Releasing you, watching your head tilt before you roll your eyes, and then you’re moving to close the blinds—the office slowly fading from view before you approach the last turning so all he can see is you.

You who is looking at him with a mixed expression he hasn’t got the energy to decipher. Thoughts, suspicions, all rolling around his head, mixing horribly with the expression of Christina Jurado staring at him as he ended that call. 

“You do matter to me.” 

“Tell me you like me, baby,” he says, likely knowing that you're struggling for breath. 

Him doing the unspeakable—making a move, so off the board, he’s confirming neither of you is playing. Likely haven’t been for weeks. The signs were all there if you really looked, really focused on it. 

You smirk, shaking your head as you step back. “I like you, you know I do.” 

Hand slowly spinning the glass in your hand as you sink into the chair opposite his desk. Eyes staring into it, the amber sloshing from side to side. 

“I just…”

“Cariño…” your eyes look up, meeting him. “It’s different for me too.” 

You nod, biting the inside of your mouth as you rest your head on your palm—elbow digging into the arm of the chair. 

“What now?”

“What do you mean?” 

You scoff. “Well, do we stop?”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I want you to answer a goddamn question without asking another question. Because this is humiliating as it is.” 

“Having feelings for me that bad, huh?”

You smile, barely—but he notices it. “No. But, I—I’m not good at it—being with someone. Being in a relationship. I'll fuck up. I’m broken and…. without even fucking meaning to I'll—”

Sighing, he swallows. “Bonita… I don’t care.” His hand grips your cheek, tilting your eyes up to him. “I’m no good either. You deserve—fuck, you deserve far better than me, but I’m selfish, a piece of shit. So, I can’t let you go, so let's just call this what it is.” 

“You don’t know—“

“I do, cariño. I do.” 

Your eyes fill with tears, staring at him, unsure if you’re going to agree or push him away. That is, until your hand comes over his wrist, holding him—just like you usually do. 

Then, you turn him, so his frame hides you. Your lips press to his, kissing him as though you didn’t care. The two of you are now experts with both your tongues than words—able to articulate full-blown sentences with your mouths pressed against each other. 

Now, you're in his arms after all the sheer determination—after doing nothing but fighting him. The low light from the lamp casts a soft glow over you both, offering comfort, hiding how everything else around the two of you is burning. 

“I hate how good your cock is.”

He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. “Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem.”

Strumming his fingers up and down your side, he smiles against the top of your hair. Letting the moment settle, the confessions being filed in a happy place in his mind. 

“Are you okay?”

“Now?” he asks, fingers toying with your hip. “I’m better.” 

For a moment, he just watches—takes you in. 

It goes back to the night in the bar when half of your face had been shrouded in mystery, and the two of you had gotten off on the wrong foot. If Murphy were here, he’d say it was typical Peña—somehow managing to fuck the woman who hates him. 

But then, you’d never really hated him, just like he hadn’t really ever found you difficult. 

“Let's sit,” you say, joining him on the sofa, the leather creaking under you. 

The silence is an odd comfort—so used to cracking under quiet, yet with you, he settles. 

No one to disturb it, the peace. No one was ringing or asking for him. 

Even the office outside has gone quiet. 

That one thought, which has been hammering and hammering, rises—bubbling at the top of the sea of shit he has to undo, answer for and deal with. 

“If you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing?”

It’s likely too deep for such a day. Knowing he should take the win that the two of you have agreed to be something more concrete than convenient fucking, but it falls from his tongue quicker than he can say I’m okay or let’s go. 

You think, eyes sliding to the corner as an array of expressions flash across your face. A frown to a relaxed smile, a shift of your lips to a soft sigh. 

“Not sure. Maybe run a coffee shop? A cafe. Want it to be a local place, lots of gossip.”

Watching you lick your lips, he lets himself take you in. A mental photo snapped, locked away in the vault he’s drafted just for you. 

“One of those places where either the coffee is good, but the cakes are bad, or the cakes are good, but the coffee is bad. Because I’m one person, y’know? I’m not fucking superwoman.” 

His fingers tease the edges of yours—wanting to keep you here, in this moment. Not step back out into the sound of phone calls and typing.  

“There would be this will-they-won’t-they with a local guy. He’d come in, and everyone would study our interactions and gossip about how long he stood at the counter.”

Smirking, you turn your head, confronting him with a wicked smile—a sight that makes his heart beat. 

“What about you?” 

Shrugging, he laces his fingers in yours. “Probably be on the ranch. With my dad. Helping. Do the good son thing, for a bit at least.” 

“Well, you can only do the good son thing if you’re good.”

Nudging you with his knee, he shakes his head. “Hey. I’m a fine, good rancher.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He sneers. “Come see it, baby. I’ll show you all my moves.” 

You smile, and like this—after today—it’s something more stunning than he can find the words for. Not sure he’d ever be able to describe it, what it does to him—how it feels like an arrow has been shot into his chest, inflating his heart, making it grow twice as big. 

Licking his lips, he smiles wider—almost allowing it to spread to his eyes. “You open your cafe in my town. We’d be the talk of it.” 

“Because you already tried the buns.” 

“First thing I’d talk up.”

You laugh. Sweet and weightless. It flushes through him, easing the stress from his muscles. Basking in it, the momentary pause on the job, the mission—the reason. 

“I’d make sure a Catrina or a Mary would have overheard me telling people you’re good with a whip. Let them gossip.” 

“Oh, there’s actually three Marys, and I’m sure there’s at least two Catrinas.” 

Shrugging, you wink. “See, I’m fitting in already.” 

“Texas would love you.” 

“Texas would be quaking in its cowboy boots.”

“That too.” 

The two of you go silent.

All comfortable and nice. No thoughts rushing through him, no darkness ebbing in the corners—it’s like it is in the mornings. Where he can pretend the world outside isn’t Colombia but Texas. That his responsibilities are to make you smile and make sure a cow doesn’t crush his pop. 

You tap your fingers over his. “You okay?” 

“I don’t even fucking know.” 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

Turning his head, he meets your eyes, a little smile so effortlessly falling over your face. “I know.”

He moves, shifting so he’s closer, and you subconsciously move closer, letting your head find his shoulder as you take a deeper breath. 

“We could. I could.” 

You slowly look up at him, watching him stare off before glancing down. 

“It's not a lot, but you could make lemonade, and I could help my Pops do ranch shit. Live out our days in the field and between one another’s thighs.” 

“You’d get bored…”

“Of you?” he asks, shaking his head. “Never. I’m never tired of you, not even when you’re frustrating and annoying.” 

“You crave danger, Peña.”

He moves you closer, wrapping his arm around you to pin you close, dropping his mouth to your ear. “Guess we’ll have to begin fucking outdoors, see how far we go until we’re arrested for public indecency.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” 

His hand slides up your forearm, spreading warmth back through you. 

“Think about it, cariño. Yeah?” 

You swallow, nodding. “Would you wear a cowboy hat?”

He laughs, rich, light. “For you? Yeah.”

“Alright, I’ll think about it, sir.” 

It’s you who interlocks your fingers with his, squeezing—like a version of a signature on a contract. 

“I didn’t ask. How’s your day been?” 

You snort, not moving—not even to look up or find his eyes, thumb sliding over his hand. “Why?”

“You always hiss when you first have a sip of whiskey. You didn’t earlier.” 

Then you move—eyes finding his, something in them he can’t read—a look he can’t place. Your own moving from one eye to the other as you swallow. 

“I may have helped myself to a glass… or two.” 

Placing his fingers under your chin, he lifts your face. “Talk to me.” 

“Just a bad day, that’s all.” 

“Cariño.” 

Rolling your lips, you sigh. “Can we just go home?” 

Nodding, he drops his hand from his nose, taking the glance balancing precariously on his knee as he drains it. It’s only when he feels the loss of you, hearing you mumble about getting your coat—and your bag, that you need to nip to a store on the way—does it come back to him. 

Home. 

You’d said home. 

Not his place. Not your place. 

His teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, the softest twitch of his lips. One, that on another day, where it hadn’t felt like a complete fuck up, he suspects would be a smile, a real one. 

Fingers tap on your desk—hands you used to know, once upon a time. Lifting your chin, you stare at him. Chris. 

His face was all a mixture of annoyance and pleading, a sight you suspected didn’t mean good things for you. 

“You thought about it? Helping me.”

Your fingers pause on the keys. “If it involves me leaving this building, there best be a good reason you’ve even brought this to me. The shit I could get into—”

“I wouldn’t ask.”

You tilt your head. “Yes, you would.” 

“It’s for Van Ness, too.” 

Narrowing your eyes, you slowly stand. “We need a meeting room or a quiet space. I need—I need what you have. Photo, information.”

Chris nods, furiously so. “So, you in?”

Your head turns, glancing at the empty office—the one you’ve been staring at the entire time he’s been out of it. “I’m in for the debrief. That’s all I’m committing to for now.” 

AN: hope it was worth it!

[naavispider]

Happy late Birthday! Speaking of birthdays did you know Na'vis don't celebrate them. The closet things they have as a birthday is when a Na'vi reaches to a certain age of maturity.

So basically, Spider has never celebrated his birthday. I could imagine the recoms having a conversation about someone upcoming birthday (Lyle, Mansk, Z-dog, etc.) and Spider will have no clue on what they're talking about. This shocks everyone, Quaritch the most. He'll really have it out on Jake as no one celebrated or gave him a single childhood wonderment. In the end Quaritch and the rest of the recoms will do a little surprise birthday event for him and it'll definitely impact on Spider a lot.

Spider headcanons 🎉🎂 birthday edition 🎂🎉

when he was a toddler, none of the scientists were really sure when his birthday was. The birth had been kept quiet by higher ups in the RDA, and no one was supposed to talk about it before the battle, so there was no written record of the birth.

Norm eventually decided that they had to find out somehow, so did some digging and found out it was a March birthday (I'm biased so what) going by Earth's calendar. It took him some time - he had to go through all of Paz and Quaritch's old video logs and diary entries, assess the calendar, pick out key events that could hint as to the exact date. Even today, he suspects he knows the date but there is no actual, written conformation of Spider's birthday anywhere. They celebrate it on the 25th - Norm's best guess.

As Spider gets older and more independent, the scientists start to forget more and more about his birthday. He's never had a cake, never had anyone sing to him. Some of the scientists he was closest to make him a card every year, but if it wasn't for Norm they'd never remember. So Spider never really sees the joy in it. For him, it's just a painful reminder of Paz, the woman he lost and longed for most in the world.

One year (when he was 14 or 15) Norm mentioned to the Sullys that Spider's birthday was coming up and that maybe they should do something special. Jake of course knew the importance of birthdays, coming from Earth, and enjoyed explaining the custom to his kids. Kiri made him an intricate feathered arm band, and Tuk carved him a simple but beautiful bead for his hair. Spider was overwhelmed and speechless. He thought that night that maybe, just maybe, he belonged with the Sullys.

The next year came and went and they forgot.

After Spider got captured by the recoms, Quaritch eventually decided to work out just how old Spider was, and in doing so, realised that his birthday was already coming up (the 26th). The kid would be 16. He didn't know why or how, but he knew he wanted to mark it somehow.

He confided in Wainfleet, who suggested that Quaritch just do something simple and effective. Something meaningful that would show Spider that Quaritch really cared about him. Quaritch knew this was the perfect time. He secured the knife that his human self had carved almost 16 years ago (though it felt like only a few weeks), and offered it to Spider on the evening of his birthday.

"What's this?" Spider asked, frowning as though it was some trick.

"Take the knife, kid. It's just something your old man made you after you were born." Suddenly Quaritch got rather self conscious and pressed the handle quickly into Spider's hand. "Happy birthday."

Spider's eyes widened as though he'd forgotten. Maybe he had. "It's the 26th," Quaritch said, trying to prompt Spider.

Spider frowned. "The 26th?" he said, confusion etched on his face. "My birthday is the 25th."

Holy shit. Understanding swept through Quaritch immediately. Of course, there wouldn't have been any formal confirmation of Spider's birth, so he couldn't actually blame the lab coats for getting it wrong. Even still, it was pretty sad that the kid hadn't even been sure of his own goddamn birthday.

Quaritch corrected Spider, and that opened the door to a whole load of questions. Mainly about his birth... and about his mom.

The recom spent the majority of the rest of that evening patiently answering any questions that Spider had, and Spider could have kept going all night. This was the most answers he'd ever gotten. He couldn't stop himself - it was like Pandora's box. For the first time in forever he felt connected to Paz, learning all about his birth - what his possible other names would have been, whether they knew if he was a boy or girl, how much he weighed, the fact that he had almost needed a c-section, how much Paz held him when he was born, what Quaritch's reaction was, what the RDA's reaction was.... Spider was taking it all in like water in a drought.

The other recoms all gathered round too - hearing Quaritch reminisce was comforting and entertaining to listen to. Some of them had even been there at the time.

Of course, the answers are all given through Quaritch's lens, and Spider didn't miss the details that the colonel skipped over (like the fact he obviously wasn't at the birth), but all the same he listened eagerly with stars in his eyes until eventually, he fell asleep dreaming of Paz.