#or I misremembered and it's moved to the even hour | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

purple-alien-ufo · 10 days ago

Text

who am I? Ch.1

Pairing(s): existing Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal, future Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x reader.

Summary: your best friend is missing. Weird visions. Parents are lying to you. You have lost memories. What happens when two gorgeous witchy women come into your life and want to help you sort it out? Will you get the truth for once?

Warnings: grief!!, weed use, dark thoughts

Word count: 3.5k

A/n: first time posting on. I’m getting used to the formatting. So bear with me if it looks like shit 😂

Enjoy ☺️💜

The air is crispy and cold as it fills the room from your open window. The chilly air enters your lungs. It's almost nostalgic. You feel your limbs are heavy, and your head is pounding. The cold is nice and soothing. You look at your alarm clock and it reads 12:12 pm. You try to hide under the blanket. The October autumn air is thick, and you just want to lay in bed all day. Forget all your troubles. But you can't, you annoyingly need money in order to survive.

You sit up and groan loudly, stretching your limbs, absolutely dreading the day ahead. You have to leave for your dead-end job as a barback at a gay bar in town in about an hour.

You had to move back in with your parents after losing your best friend who randomly went missing only last month—absolutely no trail. Every theory you had went cold. Your tracking skills are not that great. You are not very tech-savvy. You and Darcy were loners together. It seemed that you were the only person looking for her. Even the police were no help. They told you maybe you misremembered what day she was supposed to be home. You got home from work the night she went missing, your shared apartment to see everything was normal just for the fact your best friend, Darcy, didn't come home that night. She was supposed to come back from visiting her parents. You didn't ask where they lived nor have you been able to get in touch with anyone who knows any valuable information. No one knows where her parents lived. You only knew they lived far-ish away. And they had a rocky relationship, they had a problem with her being gay and all. This was the first time she went back home

You get up out of your bed, dragging yourself to stand upright. The rage of thinking about the situation is surfacing. Your skin feels hot to the touch. The grogginess is taking over as you take careful steps towards your dresser you grab out your black jeans and a random band t-shirt. Seems like you are going with Stevie Nicks. You feel like shit and think maybe a shower will fix it. You stop to look at yourself in the mirror. The lack of life in your face is abundantly clear, and so is the lack of sleep hanging under your eyes. Your broad frame is smaller than usual from the lack of eating. You were always muscular even from little to no activity.

Life has been unfolding terribly. Lack of desire, lost with zero direction, no motivation to finish your degree in history minoring in witch folklore which you were supposed to have already graduated from last year. Everything feels either too much or entirely a waste of time. Nothing is a big enough distraction either. You don't feel the flames of passion anymore. Merely out of reach of fulfillment. You have always felt out of place, never felt like you belonged even with your family.

Your parents are being weird as shit. Even worse than normal. They pushed you to go to college right after graduation, then since everything, they have been acting as if they don't want you back. You asked them what was happening, they would lie through their teeth saying nothing was going on. Everything they say persuades you into believing they are hiding something. The hesitation in their voice, the scrambling for words.

Lately, they seem to be avoiding you, they used to go on vacations when you have off time from school. They went as far as lying about a business trip when they just went to a town over. You only found out when you found a credit card bill. You don't even have enough energy to care to be real. They seem as if they are anxiously awaiting for you to do something. Your mother doesn't even make direct eye contact and your father tries to never be alone with you.

You realize there are holes in your memory. You can't remember part of your childhood, nothing from 5th to 6th grade, nor the winter of junior year. They are blank with no context. You have a feeling of longing missing something other than your memories. You haven't asked your parents because they will just lie to you.

You know that right now is a tough time. But it's not like you are going to do anything fucked up. You are about to turn 24 in a month, and sure this is not how you pictured your life but you’re not dangerous, right?—Why does your whole life feel like you've been left out living it? Like a side character labeled as a starting character in a movie.

Sighing you rub your face trying to wake up staring at the shower. You gingerly step in, As soon as the water hits you, your eyes close causing flashes of purple and green to flicker behind your eyelids, and your breathing picks up pace. You start to feel the sounds of the shower become muffled and your surroundings feel distant. There's a low humming in your ears.

You try breathing slowly trying to calm yourself down as you feel a panic attack coming along... You see a woman about 10 years older than you but she looks a lot like you but with scarlet hair, yours is brown from dyeing it, you hated the platinum blonde you were born with. You see flashes of her crying from various moments of just screaming and crying. Almost like clips in a movie. You feel her grief, her sadness, and the despair she holds as if it was yours. You feel the need to take it away. Every inch of your body feels like it was just covered in years of suffering and misery.

The Flashes of purple and green come back you now can see clearly. You are looking at the ground at first, hands gripping the dirt, but they are not your hands. Once you look up but you don't recognize where you are, you look around and see some red robot-looking human. You realize you have no control over your limbs whatsoever. Which means this isn't your body. You are just a viewer. Meant to observe what is unfolding in front of you right now. There to see. There too feel what she felt.

You look before you to see the robot kneeling in front of you. She is crying. Trying with all of her might to even stand right now. Maintaining her emotions as best she can.

“It's time,” he says

“No,” she says, trembling, the floodgate threatening to burst.

“It isn't fair that it's you but it is. You have the power to destroy the stone,” he says like he is stating a simple fact.

“It's okay my love you could never hurt me,”

Your hands rise trembling in front of you. Your hands blast red from your fingertips. Blasting right into his head. She feels like she is going to fall to her knees. But she needs to stay strong and do this for the greater good.

You can feel her feelings and hear her thoughts as if they are your own.

“It's okay,” he whispers sympathetically as the stone is breaking. She looks back at the people surrounding you, seeing them one by one get flung. She raises a second hand, blasting the stone.

He keeps repeating “It's okay” reassuring and comforting her that everything is okay, even though he knows he's going to die. He's worried about whoever's body you are in. He doesn't seem to be in pain. You look back and see the purple alien heading for you. Your arm shoots to hit him, splitting your power between the two.

A dark murky purple smoke circling your wrist and legs until it covers your body completely. You give into it as it grips you up in a warm embrace holding you, then your vision goes black, and you come to, blinking your eyes into focus. You are lying in a fetal position at the bottom of your shower. The once warm water is now ice cold. You spring out of the shower landing awkwardly on your hip. You hit the cold tile crawling back towards the door, ignoring the physical pain in your hip. You were scared about what just happened. Your chest hurts from breathing so hard. Your whole body trembles against the ice-cold tile as you stare blankly into space. The millions of thoughts rushing through your head begin to feel overwhelming. You feel like you are about to cry when... You smell a strong aroma of rain with the undertones of freshly chopped wood. It feels like the purple smoke from earlier, relief. It's almost like you are next to the source itself. A magnetic force, all while being comforted as if you are being held. Your breathing slows and you relax a bit but you remain still in the corner knees up to your chest. Your thoughts slowly fade almost completely.

You try to get yourself right. But it's not working sitting naked on this damn floor. You decide to just say fuck the shower get dressed and go to work.

If you sit here any longer you'll just end up sitting here spiraling. Trying to answer all the questions you don't even have yet. You would rather get paid for thinking than do it for free. For one what the fuck was that. And who was the robot she cared so deeply for? There was a deep, deep sense of agony, fear, and just- pain.

The purple smoke felt like home. Like it was going to take away all of your suffering. You couldn’t help but give in to it. You wanted to feel it again. The peace it gave you, felt like what a mother's hug is supposed to feel like. One that brings you false comfort, the world is a good place. Or cream you put on a burn. Gentle and Soothing.

You spring up off the bathroom floor throwing your clothes on your partially wet body. You feel like running away. You shake the thoughts out of your head. You gather your stuff for work. Grabbing your joint container.

═══*.·:·.★ ✦ ★･:･:*═══

Since you left early you have time to relax before your shift. You grab your joint container and light up one of the 4 joints you had. You don't smoke a lot just a couple of times a month. Or when things get to be too much. You recline your seat and turn on your music trying to center yourself. The only exception - Paramore starts to play. You feel the tears brim, your breath caught in your throat. You quickly change it. It is? Was? Darcy’s Favorite Song. She dedicated it to you when she told you she didn't hate you like she did everyone else. You have a strong feeling she isn't dead. You know she is in trouble but she can't be dead. You have to have hope. You skip it so ‘Where is my mind- pixies’ Starts to play and you feel your whole body relax. You lean your seat back, looking at the top ceiling of your car. The “visions” I guess you could call them? They keep replaying them in your head. Questions and thoughts flooding in, like.

What could they mean? Was it real? What is with the purple smoke and woody smell I can't get out of my head? Why can't I get the scarlet hair out of my head? Why am I itching to go to work? I hate my job. Today feels different. It feels as if something awaits me. Like my life is changing and I don't know it

═══*.·:·.★ ✦ ★･:･:*═══

Your day is achingly slow. You have cleaned everything that needs to be cleaned. You sit there and wish it would get busy. At least 5 tables or so. You just give up and sit down at a table pulling out your phone. You sit and scroll for a minute and people start flooding in. A ton of people out of nowhere just start coming in and being sat. You spring into action getting ice and clearing off tables. A small smile spreads across your face. Something to do something to keep your mind off of things.

All the tables start to order drinks and food. Giving you something to do finally. You get the feeling you're being watched as you are clearing this table off. You try to look without being noticeable. You see people eating and talking. Some tables are on their phones.

But there is one table that catches your attention, there sits two women, one has their back turned to you. a beautiful older woman. Brown wavy hair, fair skin that compliments the color, and pricing blue eyes staring right back into yours. She is smirking at you. Your breath catches. You feel nervous but drawn to her. You don't realize you froze under her gaze until you start moving towards her. Now standing in front of their table.

“Hey there cute thing, we would like the have a chat with you,”

“I am on the clock,” you say nervously feeling like a dear caught in headlights.

“When does your shift end?” the other mysterious woman to your left said leaning in closer. She is equally beautiful. Her skin is tan and her eyes are a rich chocolate brown. Her hair is dark brown loose wavy curls mid-length. You can smell her perfume wafting from her. Earthy and rich almost like you're standing in the middle of the forest on a rainy evening. It gives you a familiar feeling.

“Uh 8,” you hesitate. Under their gaze, you feel extremely warm but nervous.

“Would you be interested in going out with us tonight?” the one on your left says. Smirking. your ears start to ring. You think you miss hearing them but once you see women too your right lean in to see what you'd say. You rethink that. You have only just met them. Why do I feel scared to disappoint them? You feel the need for their approval.

“A little too forward?” the one on your right says. Her voice is smooth. Comforting “Don't worry, if you say no, you won't be letting us down. Or if you'd like you to. You can pick whatever we do, we just really need to talk to you ” Agatha says scooting towards you. They are sitting down on a high-top table. While she is sitting down she is taller, it makes me wonder if she is taller than you while she is standing too. Your knees feel weak.

You look at the one to your left.

“So what do you say, our little dove?” she says smiling

“I'd usually say no to strangers but tonight why not? Could we just go somewhere quiet?” you mentioned sheepishly, awkwardly standing there shifting on your feet. “You said you needed to talk right? Well, can I ask what it is about?” you say staring Agatha right in the eye. She seems hesitant, she glances at Rio, only for a moment her flirtatious expression faded.

“Great, well we don’t wanna get you fired. We’ll see you after your shift, you will get all the answers to your questions then,” the woman to your right said, winking at you and biting her lip. You nod, She avoids your question altogether. But how could you when Her piercing blue eyes are consuming you whole as she gives you one last good look over?

“I’m Rio by the way and that's Agatha,” the woman you now know as Rio said. Agatha’s eyes are dark and glossed over as she leans back looking you up and down still, now licking her lips.

“What's your name hon?” Agatha teasingly asked. Her voice sounds like honey. You feel the heat in your stomach churn.

“I- uhm y/n, y/n, O’Connor,” you stuttered like you were unsure of your name. You threw the towel you were holding over your shoulder, folding your hands in front of you. Shifting unsure why you feel so miniature under their gaze. Like you don't need the tough exterior. They seem to like you being unsure and awkward. They find it amusing.

“Hmm, y/n, that sounds beautiful,” Agatha said, smiling wickedly with a low chuckle. Your breath hitches and your movement stops. You start to blush at her praise. You hated your name, it didn't feel right.

“Honey behave, you are gonna scare the poor thing,” Rio said, slapping Agatha’s hand that was resting on the table, only for her to grin mischievously “Well we will see you in about an hour and 57 minutes,” Rio says, as she checks her watch. You smile and nod.

“Okay see you then,” you say smiling at them both. Agatha winks. Her arms folded in front of her, her one hand holding her chin up with her index finger with her nail poking into the skin, grinning, as she just watches you. Rio leans back in her chair as waves seductively waves each individual finger as you walk off. Your body is buzzing and feels warm. You don't even like eye contact let alone people looking at you. Why do you feel warm under their gaze? It makes you act unsure of yourself. You lack your usual I don't care attitude. You could have stood there for hours though talking to them.

You haven't dated since high school. You broke it off with the girl you last dated because you felt unenthused. As it drained you to have to pretend some you were not. You were expected to be normal to blend in. You couldn’t do it. To have always been told you were too much, or you are abnormal and deviant. Like you either couldn't fill their boxes or you over filled them. But it was especially at home with your parents because they made you feel it.

The only person who accepted you was Darcy. But she's gone. Or is she? It’s all too confusing. You have a significantly hard time admitting she is gone. Because it doesn't feel like it. You can still feel her if that makes any sense.

You have always known you were gay. It was obvious. But that wasn't what people were talking about when they said they didn't expect you. It's like they know something you don't. A secret about yourself is written across your body like a scarlet letter. But only they could see it. You sure get the humiliation from it though. You just want to know what it is so you can fix it. This is the closest you have felt to getting the truth. The subtle promise in their voices. Like they carry the elixir to your uncertainty. They barely said anything but it was all what they were not saying that led you to believe they knew something.

This day can't get any more stressful.

The rest of the time starts to drag. You’re excited for your shift to be over. What are they going to take you to do? Where are they from? Who are they? So many questions, and too much time in between getting answers. You feel panicked. Like you did earlier. Your breathing picks up. Your heart is pounding in your ears.

You get flashes of red in your vision. All of a sudden when you walk through the swinging door into the back of the house. You are transported into what seems to be a subdivision. You look around for anything to give away where you might be. No remnants of the bar in sight. Surrounded by houses and clean-cut lawns. Houses that look like they are straight out of a home good magazine You only see a woman with scarlet red hair–. This time she is on her knees, hands resting in her lap. Her eyes gazed far into space. She looks lost and defeated. You walk up and kneel to her level. Looking at her in the eyes. She looks past you for a couple more minutes. You were not expecting her to be able to see you but. Just closely observing her. She feels familiar like you know her not just because you look alike. You feel like this should be a reunion. But who is she? It's on the tip of your tongue. She has the same facial features as you, but older and more tired.

Then she blinks looking straight into your eyes. She looks at you horrified. Her bottom lip trembles. Rage spreads across her face. You stumble back, losing your footing.

“Who are you?” she says in a broken voice.

“I uh-, you can see me?” you said. Your hands start to shake in your lap

“Yes, now tell me where you came from, you shouldn't be here,” Her tone shifts. Her posture straightens. Her hand raises next to her. Her hand raises with a red ball of power in it.

“I’m uh-, I-I don't know how I got here. I swear.” said as you put your hands up defensively. Your heart is pounding in your ears. She is looking right at you with this angry but hurt stare so strong you swear you can feel it. “I’m not here to hurt you. I promise” You say gently. Sitting flat on the ground with your legs crossed

Who does she think she is?… I want her to leave. I can't deal with this right now.

You hear a distant voice say that sounds like her.

Is this really happening?

Let me know what you think. reblogs, likes, and comments are more than welcome. I don't mind constructive criticism either 😎

-Grey🩶

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x rio #rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda vision #eventual smut #grey🩶

91 notes · View notes

flonbowe · 3 months ago

Text

MAJOR BROTHERSHIP SPOILERS, ESPECIALLY RELATED TO ZOKKET!

You have been warned

So they’re like, a toxic relationship right?/hj

OK JOKING ASIDE These two are very interesting to me, and since we've known about Zokket longer, I'll be talking about him first in this thread of reblogs and posts

Zokket

So to get the elephant out of the room, I earnestly don’t believe he is just Cozette brainwashed

Like Aside from small details like the body shape being larger than she is, Zokket's voice sounding very much so different in not just the voice bleps, but in his actual grunts and noises (Especially so before his boss fight), there's things like Zokket's personality, behavior, hell he's even flat out referred to as a separate person a couple times.

Cozette after being freed only ever mentions being under Reclusa's control, and putting on a mask to become Zokket. A mask that breaks once Zokket is beaten.

The way Zokket is defeated, the way the Glohn energy flees off of Cozette's body, coupled with the fact it was specifically a mask Cozette said she donned to become Zokket, tells me outright that Zokket isn't exactly brainwashing, but instead a type of spirit or possession used to carry out Recluse's will. Now All this to say Zokket is his own person, and a very interesting person. Unlike most other Mario characters, he's a very flat character. Intentionally so don't get me wrong, that's the point. He's focused more on numbers than people. He doesn't "misremember" names, he actively doesn't care. His first proper scene is him misnaming the Extension Corps multiple times, with him getting more aggravated the more they try to correct him. He visits Shipshape a couple times through out the game, and most of those visits usually end with him mocking the idea of having connections and overall being very bitter. He's a cold cold man, and even during his boss fight he revels in making the bros hurt each other. There's also some interesting extra details via hidden logs from Cozette while being possessed, and Zokket writing his plans through her body. Quoting from those logs "The egg says its name is Reclusa. Yes, it told me its name, and that makes sense. The egg speaks directly to my brain. The egg has also shared this important truth. Loneliness is sublime . The egg only SEEMS not to move. But it definitely speaks in my brain. I now know my only calling: the resurrection of Reclusa. Loneliness is sublime . All connections will be severed. Reclusa will rule a new era of isolation. Once I have completed my task, I, too, will know the bliss of isolation. Loneliness is sublime . Approximately 284 hours, 56 minutes, and 29 seconds until the resurrection. "Beyond the Glohmatic Ray" "I have distilled the isolate energy from Spite Bulbs. That will be the source for Glohm. I can then focus and amplify it through the Great Lighthouses..." "The So-Called Extension Corps." " I met these buffoons on Slippenglide Island and employed them as generals over my army. They are intensely incompetent but loyal. Do they seek glory, or are simply afraid? They will be superfluous after the rebirth. I will need some means to dispose of them" "Building an Army" "My soldiers, my hands in the wide world, are simply junk repurposed and rebuilt. I gave them language so they might cooperate., but it is absurd to see these junk piles speak. I cannot imagine a place for them in the new world after he is reborn. They will suffer. They may rebel and become ungovernable. No matter--they are ephemeral things." after Recluse was revived, Zokket intended to torture the Zok Troops, his minions, of which HE created. Zokket doesn't just hate bonds, but seems to actively wants to break them. He strayed from his goal of reviving Reclusa by using some of the Glohm to make handheld rays to make people miserable and hate each other, instead of just using the Lighthouses for Reclusa. He threatens the Corps when the revival is almost complete, which would have come to fruition anyway had they succeeded. Zokket seems to fully understand bonds, and despises them. He's not apathetic, he's actively resentful... Except For Reclusa Excluding voice clips, the only time he laughs, is here.

His only use of positive language, and its when he's dying, where he should be at his lowest. Instead, he gets excited, happy, happy to see his Great Inspiration finally return to this world. For a man who hates bonds, he seems to have a great deal of care for his master. A master he was willing to die for, who he was destroyed for. Not even Connie, who he can't forget because of Cozette's lingering consciousness, all Zokket can muster for her is remembering her name, unlike Reclusa. So Who is Zokket? Zokket is a very cruel, bitter person. He's distant and calculating, planning and very exact, very precise ways to revive his master. But he's also sadistic, planning misery for anyone and everyone involved in his plans, for the goal of isolating the world for his master, Reclusa. a master, who he has a deep level of fondness for, the only person he actively shows happiness towards, a person who he spends his alone time with, his purpose, his great inspiration. That's Zokket (At least, my thoughts as to who Zokket is)

#mario and luigi #m&l brothership #mario & luigi: brothership #mario and luigi brothership #brothership spoilers #zokket #reclusa

125 notes · View notes

snzcaretaker · 14 days ago

Text

𝕰𝖉𝖜𝖎𝖓'𝖘 𝕵𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖑

(Please excuse the random bit of blanket over his butt - covering that up for Tumblr's sake.)

Previous Fic | Below are Edwin’s journal entries between his encounter with Ambrose, and receiving his letter. He got sicker :( I also left some blanks instead of inventing names for minor characters and places - just seemed more convenient for now. CW: contagion

January 3rd - The New Year’s Ball was a disaster. If not for Ambrose, I hardly know what I would have done. He found me in a back room, already delirious and - But I can’t speak of it, even here…partly because of its disgusting nature, and partly because of the affection it brought out in me. Which is more mortifying? All I can say is how grateful I am to Ambrose. Things could have been much worse.

At any rate, I must be stronger. Will return to work tomorrow. I am wanted in L____, where there is a land sale to be arranged. I am quite well enough to go. Healthy exertion will put all these thoughts out of my mind.

January 4th - Trip to L_____ brought nothing but misfortune. All the household there was sick with congestion, and Mr. ______, in addition to driving a terribly hard bargain, coughed every other word. But the real troubles began on the return journey. The left front wheel of the carriage sank into a concealed hollow under the snow. The sky was very bleak, and bitter cold seeped into the carriage interior until my nose ran in complaint. We were stuck in the snow for hours and did not reach home until after sundown. I’m afraid I cursed at everyone, and kicked the side of the carriage like a child in tantrum. My driver is a good man, but he will like me even less now than he already did. The devil take my temper…

But how could I help it, in the midst of panic and frustration? I was so close to being well again. Feel unusually tired now, but hopefully that will be mended by morning. I cannot afford to be ill again so soon.

January 5th - Awoke late, with a sore throat and a feeling of great dread. I did my best to overcome any weakness by persistent activity. I went for a short ride, and chopped wood until I came over faint. Nonetheless, I only found that the cold moved from my throat to my head and nose. Servants finally persuaded me to take supper lying down. They will talk. I refuse to call for Dr. _____, though. That will only confirm the gossip, and further damage my reputation. Half of E_____ County already thinks of me as fragile.

January 6th - Attempted to work from bed. At least correspondence can be attended to. However, I blotted the ink so many times due to ill-timed sneezes that I soon gave up the effort. Am now lying in bed alone. Everything is dull and I feel unconscionably sorry for myself. Fever has set in - I know myself well enough to say I will likely only worsen from here. Will sleep again. [Page has clearly been sneezed on.]

January 7th - Felt utterly pathetic and miserable all day. All I can think about are Ambrose’s arms around me. I physically ache with longing to be held. How can I return to my lonely existence after being shown such kindness? Such a happy memory…it torments me because it can never be repeated. He was a saint, but no one is saint enough to want to know me after I’ve spent a whole night sneezing myself silly into their hand, an absolute mess. And I said such needy, adoring things…I hope I am misremembering…what an embarrassment.

Must stop writing or I will go to pieces again.

January 8th - Oh Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose. There is light in the world after all! How do these gifts fall into my lap? He feels as I do. That he could forgive me, even want me, after seeing me this way…I am overcome.

I wrote a few short lines to answer his request in the affirmative - everything else must be said in person. I’ll busy myself with making a guest room ready for him, and doing what I can about my appearance. Patient as he is, the last thing I want is to greet him with total dishevelment and a sneeze in the face. Though I might not have a choice. I feel so very weak even sitting up at my mirror, and my hair is not obeying me. Maybe I’ll just rest a little while longer…

#First POV from Edwin - I hope he sounds distinct enough from Ambrose!#snz art #snz ocs #snzfucker #snzario #snz fic #ocs edwin and ambrose

28 notes · View notes

trialbywombaat · 4 months ago

Note

🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺

Okay so I might not be able to commit to 171 sentences 😂 But I will for sure give you a good chunk 💖💖💖

He hesitates, trying to figure out how much Howie knows. He never technically came out to Howie, or anyone else at the 118. He'd relied on the LA first responder grapevine, the same one that had let him know that Bobby and Athena had gotten hitched; that Chim was engaged and had a kid. He settles on a vague-ish response and presses send. Not exactly what I was asking... He waits, and wonders if it takes longer for text messages to travel overseas. He doesn't know much about the science behind it, and he's never had much reason to look into it before, but maybe Evan would know. It seems like something he'd be interested in. If it doesn't take longer for text messages to travel overseas, though, Howie is being frustratingly slow. Probably for a good reason, but it's annoying nonetheless. He swipes out of his messages app and opens Instagram. He barely uses it, and only even has an account because an ex had convinced him to download it, but now he finds himself typing 'Evan Buckley' into the search bar and tapping on Evan's profile. It's only been a few hours, but already he'd started to wonder if he was exaggerating Evan's attractiveness in his mind. But looking at Evan's profile, at the endless supply of thirst traps and selfies he's posted, it's quickly apparent that Tommy hasn't misremembered a damn thing. Evan is exactly his type. His finger hovers over the 'follow' button. It wouldn't be weird to follow Evan, would it? They've already exchanged numbers, after all. Before he can tap the button, though, his phone buzzes again. A response from Howie. Not a particularly helpful response, though. It just says, ohhhh. He watches the three little dots appear and bounce around while Howie is apparently typing more, and he tries not to think about how much he cares about the answer. Finally, another message appears. Sorry man, but he is famously into women. Okay. That's okay. He won't deny the disappointment he feels settling deep in his stomach. He really had thought Evan was flirting with him. And usually his gaydar is pretty accurate. But he's not infallible. Part of him wants to argue that Evan could be into women and men. Maybe Chim just doesn't know about it. But the word 'famously' gives him pause. There's more to the story that Tommy doesn't know, so if Howie thinks Evan is straight, who is Tommy to disagree. He allows himself to feel the disappointment for a moment, to ride it out. But he isn't going to dwell on it. It's not the first time Tommy's been attracted to a straight guy, and it probably won't be the last. He knows how this goes by now. Maybe they'll drum up a decent friendship, and Tommy will have someone to watch Fight Club with when they're back in LA. Or maybe they'll drift apart, and five years from now they won't even remember each other's names. And even if it seems to hurt a little more this time, if he can't seem to get Evan's face out of his mind, it's probably just because they've spent so long together already. Because he'd sat there for five hours refusing to move for fear of waking Evan, of losing the warm pressure of his head against Tommy's shoulder, and he'd imagined what it might be like to wake up like that every morning. So it might take him a little longer to move on than usual. But he'll figure it out. He allows himself one last look at Evan's instagram before he tries to get some sleep. A goodbye of sorts. At the top of Evan's profile he sees a notification that's just popped up. Buckaroo_Buckley_ wants to follow you. He has no choice but to follow back.

#911 abc #bucktommy #evan buckley #tevan #tommy kinard #firepilot #my fic #make me write

29 notes · View notes

greetingfromthedead · 6 months ago

Text

2. Stubborn Wills

Series: Apple Blossoms Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader Word count: 3.1k

« Previous | Next »

A few days go by. You barely sleep, constantly checking on the man on your table, wondering if he will wake up. His skin turned pale, the fever got worse at first, and you struggled to keep him hydrated. You wet his lips with a damp cloth and dripped broth into his mouth carefully. You wiped the sweat from his body and kept the wounds clean as the days passed, hoping for signs of improvement. By the second evening, you rolled him onto the gurney that's usually meant for patients, claiming back your dinner table. Every time you changed the dressings on his wounds, they seemed to be getting better. The change appeared too rapid, and you started to question your own sanity. Are you imagining the changes? Perhaps you misremember the starting point, or maybe you've slept so little that the passing of time has become distorted. You think back to when Vash was under your care and realize he too healed quickly, much more so than most other people. You're reminded of the wings again. Are they humans in the first place? If what you saw was true, then definitely not. Something more must be at play.

You wake up with your cheek on skin. You feel groggy, and lick your mouth to collect the drool that has escaped from the corner of your lips. It takes you a moment longer to realize you're sitting, and then the memory returns. You were checking your patient's pulse, but evidently dozed off while doing so. You lift your head and realize you are still holding on to the wrist of the dark haired man; your forehead was resting on his hand. You rub your face and try to shake off the tiredness before looking for the clock. It's noon, and you guess you were asleep for a couple hours. That's too much, and you start to panic. You get up to immediately get back to taking care of your patient when your gaze goes to his face and you see his open eyes. The light blue irises are turned towards the ceiling, and he slowly blinks.

"Hey! Are you awake?!" You blurt out in amazement and lean closer. One hand supports you on the cot as you tower over him; the other goes to his uninjured cheek to slightly turn his face towards you. His eyes stay on the ceiling, but you're unsure if they are avoiding you or simply focused on something up there. You are too surprised to check. "Hey! Can you hear me?"

Knives doesn't react; he still looks pale and sickly; he doesn't appear like he is aware of his surroundings; his expression is empty and distant. You start examining him further in a hurry, checking his responses, and while he doesn't follow any commands, for a moment you could have sworn his icy eyes turned to you with a deep distaste. From what you gather, he is awake, just very weak and lethargic. You accept it as a small win that he is at least conscious. You take a deep breath, relieved that things are moving in a good direction, and with new vigor, you go to make some broth for him, hoping it will help him regain his strength.

"I'm so happy you're awake!" You cheer from the next room as you stir the pot on the stove. "And Vash will be overjoyed! You had us very worried!"

You ladle some of the liquid into the bowl and make your way back, leaving it to cool off for a little. You give him a thorough checkup again, removing the dirty bandages and wiping him with a damp cloth to cool him off and remove the sweat.

"You still have a fever, but I am giving you meds to deal with that, and your wounds don't look infected. They will heal with some nasty scars, I'm afraid. I'm sorry about that. I did my best, but you were ruffed up bad." You talk to him with a soothing tone, and for the most part, he seems almost asleep, his eyes half closed, not focused on anything. It feels like he tried to pull his arm from your grasp as you re-bandaged it, but his muscles hold no strength, and he barely moves. You ignore his attempt and just continue to carefully wrap the cloth around his biceps.

You take a break from tending to his wounds, deeming that the broth has cooled off just enough. You leave the bowl on your little rolling table by the bedside and lift his head up with one hand, the other brings a spoonful of liquid to his lips. But his mouth remains closed tightly, as if he has lost the will to eat. You gently coax him to take a sip, hoping he will find comfort in the warm broth, but feel his head shift instead, trying to turn away.

"Oh, don't be like that!" you sigh. "You have to eat! You need to get your strength back to heal."

You try again, but have no success. His eyes close softly, but his jaw remains locked.

"Guess you are just as stubborn as your brother. He at least made my life easier." You put the spoon back into the bowl. "But if you think I'll give up just like that, then you are wrong. I am stubborn too!"

You leave the liquid be and return to changing the dressings on the wounds covering most of his body and cleaning the sweat from the pale skin. He feels tenser than before but lacks the means to protest further. You smear every cut and bruise with ointment and pull out a syringe for the medication.

"Your choice. You can either cooperate and I'll give you your painkillers and fever suppressors orally with some liquid you need, or I will do it all with this thing and I have run out of friendly needles." You shake a sterile packet with a large needle towards him, but he doesn't react in any way. If you didn't know better, you would think he had fallen asleep. "Last chance."

You leave your tools next to the bowl as you pick up the spoon and bring it to his lips. Nothing. His mouth remains closed. His breathing is calm and steady, his eyes still closed, and there is a hint of a frown on his brow line.

"Fine, I did warn you. A hunger strike will not sway me, and I caution you to reconsider quick before I come up with some elaborate plan to force feed you." The spoon returns to the bowl once more as you place his head on the pillow. "I can be quite creative, and while you may be a hunk of muscle, for now you are at my mercy, and that means I will take care of you whether you want it or not."

He is incapable of putting up a fight as you administer medicine and, afterwards, some saline too. It's not ideal; you would really prefer him to eat as your supplies are dwindling, but for now you leave him be. You're just happy he is somewhat conscious, at least.

A knock on the door draws your attention, and you go to open it, sure that Vash has returned just as he promised, but instead you find a familiar crier, certainly here to deliver some news. He removes his hat as a greeting before entering the house at your signal.

"Good morning, Doc! I am here to bring excellent news!" He says it with a beaming smile. "The battle is over! Earth's Forces came and put an end to the fight! They have stayed to help us rebuild! I have very little information, sadly, but I did get some leaflets to be distributed."

The crier pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his large bag and hands it to you. As you open up the makeshift newspaper, you see it filled with text with no pictures or good formatting—clearly a rushed job. Your eyes skim the article, and at the very bottom of the page, you see, "Suspects Vash the Stampede and Millions Knives have disappeared and are wanted to stand trial in front of the Earth Forces. Both are wanted alive, and the bounty on their heads is $$60.000.000.000 each. They are considered to be armed and extremely dangerous.". You unfold the other papers that were between the news article and see two wanted posters. One is the already familiar image of Vash, but the other is slightly different; the face is mostly the same, but the expression is more stern, and the hair is shorter and slicked back. Both are depicted as blondes, and you have the good sense not to immediately turn towards the man laying in the cot on the other side of the room.

"Ah, I see you have a stay in patient again. A victim of the battle?" The crier speaks casually and takes a step closer to the bed on the other side of the room.

"Oh, eh, I am not sure. He is in bad shape; I found him in the desert." You lie, and the man doesn't seem to pay any attention to the slight hesitation in your voice.

"Is that so? Perhaps he's from a nearby village. Maybe I know him; I've been around these parts for a while." He speaks calmly; no ill intent is apparent in the way he acts.

"I wouldn't get too close. I'm not entirely certain that he isn't contagious." You finally lift your gaze from the wanted poster to the crier.

"Is that why his face is swollen and purple?" He asks as he immediately takes a step back.

"Yes, it could be. It swells up your airways and eyes. It's not pretty and could end badly unless you get help." You run with the lie and feel grateful to get away with it so easily.

"Ah, yeah, poor guy looks rough." He nods. "Well, I wish you good luck, and hopefully he will get better soon! Make sure to share the good news with him!"

"I will," you assure with a smile as the crier heads back out the door. "Do you need some water or food? You have a long journey ahead."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine. You need it more than I do!" He smiles again, and you see him get on his tomas before waving and heading away. You close the door and look at the wanted posters in your hand. You know better than to believe everything you're told, especially since Vash is involved. The man on your spare bed is Millions Knives, a wanted person with a very high bounty on his head and one of the two main suspects involved with the whole battle and the killing of so many people. You look at the image again, but the battered and bruised man in your care doesn't have the stern look of the person in the image. You push down the suspicious feelings and focus on treating him. That's the best you can do; you're no moral authority, just someone trying to fulfill the request of a friend.

You leave the folded up papers on a small side table and put a heavy vase on top to keep them from flying away with the draft. You don't even go back to read the article. It matters little right now, and the truth is always hidden in details that this piece of paper won't hold. You get back to work, washing and boiling the bandages, occasionally going back to the man to check that he still breathes and feel for his pulse and temperature to make sure he is stable. You offer him water, but he refuses that too, so you leave a wet rag on his mouth as you continue to monitor his condition.

Every half hour, you hover around him, checking for any signs of improvement or deterioration in his health. He doesn't respond to your questions, so you're left guessing when it comes to his pain and when you need to give him more medicine. You peek at the more serious wounds and wipe his face and neck with a damp towel. Sometimes he seems more awake than other times. The difference is hard to spot, but you go by the furrow of his brow. The more dislike he displays with his eyes, the more awake you guess him to be.

"You know… I wouldn't be annoying you so much all the time if you had your strength back." You talk to him after the third day of him being awake while lathering his large wounds with salve. "Believe me, I am exhausted and would love to sleep for more than an hour at a time, but you look like shit and I know you need me or you would wither away. So why don't you do us both a favor and eat or at least drink some water? We could both get a good night's sleep."

He remains resolute, not taking any of the water you offer him, and you let out a deep sigh of frustration. He hasn't gotten any better lately; the wounds look the same, and his body is too weak to put up a fight. He has at least remained stable because you keep administering him fluids and medicines, but it is taking a toll on both you and your supplies. Vash hasn't returned either, and you feel yourself nearing a bind.

That day, you go on an extensive search through all your materials. You work through every bag and box of tools, old vials, used and unused machinery, packets, and containers until there is no stone left unturned. And you finally find something that sparks an idea in your head.

You return to the man laying on the cot and grab his foot through the blanket to give it a little shake as you stand at the end of his bed. Knives opens his eyes; his face is now slightly less swollen and bruised, but his expression is still grumpy.

"Don't scowl at me like that. You know it doesn't work." You scold him before remembering why you came. "I'm here to make you a deal. You are running out of real estate where I can poke you with a needle, and it's not the best way to give you nutrients and water. Also, my supplies are running low, and there is a very easy alternative—that's to eat and drink. So here is where I offer you a choice. You can either stop with this stubbornness and accept food like a good boy, or I will insert this tube through your nose into your stomach and force it into your system."

You show him a long tube and wiggle it menacingly. You see his eyes move onto your face and stay there for longer than just a second, for the first time since arriving in your care. Then they move onto the tube in your hand. You aren't entirely sure how well he hears and understands you, as he has yet to follow any of your commands, but you feel hopeful.

"It's not pleasant; I can promise you that, but continuing as we have is not really an option either. I will probably sedate you just in case, but I doubt you would like any of it. How about it?" You look at him, searching for even a minuscule change in his appearance, but his expression remains stoic. "Don't be so difficult."

You put down the tubing on your rolling table and pick up a cup with a shaped rim like a pitcher. You lift his head and bring the cup to his lips, tilting it slightly to bring the water to him. Knives's mouth remains locked, and you're about to give in when he finally takes a sip. Relief floods through you, and you wait patiently while he takes a few more labored gulps. He struggles a bit; his constitution is still weak, and his throat is surely parched. Once you are sure he won't drink any more, you put away the cup and place his head back.

"Good job!" you cheer, your fingers stroking over his head. "I'll get you some broth too for nutrients. Swallowing will get easier, too, once you recover a bit. I'm glad you came around, but I will keep the tube on hand just in case!"

In just a few more days, he is strong enough that you can sit him up. You still have to feed him, bringing the mashed vegetables to his mouth with a spoon, and support his arm as he takes a drink. You no longer fear for his condition; the stitches are holding, the wounds are healing, and a hint of pink is returning to his complexion. His hands shake with the weight of the cup, and you have to pull and push a lot to adjust his position, but he is getting there. You let him sleep, no longer checking on him as often as you used to, and that means you can finally catch up on some sleep too. The reflection in the mirror had been quite horrendous at one point, and you're happy to have the dark circles under your eyes fade.

Knives has yet to say anything. You talk to him a lot, telling him about his condition and what you're doing, just filling the quiet house with your voice, hoping that one day he will respond. He rarely looks at you, and then too, you can feel the dipleasure in his gaze. You can only guess that it hurts his pride to have you taking care of him like this. He is quite a large and burly man; it can't be easy to lose his independence. You feed him, clean him, and care for his wounds, all while trying to maintain his dignity and sense of self-worth, but it's not easy with his condition still being weak.

You wish Vash was here; he would surely be happy to see his brother's condition improving. You know he would have a lot to say; it would be easy for him to have a conversation with his brother, and perhaps even get him to speak too. You don't know the man under your care; your monologue is superficial and nearly meaningless. You wish you could offer more to lift some of the dark mood from the house. Knives pouts a lot and purposefully averts his eyes when you enter the room. It feels like he endures your presence and help through gritted teeth, but you don't let it get you down. You keep up as you have, as that has gotten you this far in the first place.

« Previous | Next »

You can check out the Apple Blossoms Masterlist for more info.

Did you like this? Go check out my MASTERLIST and drop a follow for any and all future projects!

#trigun #fanfic #fanfiction #millions knives #plant boi #x reader #writing #knives x reader

29 notes · View notes

player1064 · 10 months ago

Note

Loved your Jamie Carragher character thesis statement post! It actually made me think of a prompt or short story if you are still doing them. A 5+1 story of Gary making Jamie contradict how he acts/personality. Maybe from the viewpoints of others and the +1 can be Gary defending Jamie personality/character. Again love your drabbles and stories!

im ngl i DID set out to do this as a 5+1 but I. ran out of steam a bit (bitches when their meds are out of stock etc). so instead have a 4+0 😅

---

Philip.

Phil has abandoned the boardroom and is wandering around Hotel Football in search of snacks when he comes upon a small kitchenette where Jamie is busy swearing at a kettle.

He hadn't realised Jamie was here too, he and the other lads have been stuck in a meeting with Gary for hours now and there'd been no mention of it, but it's not that surprising when he thinks about it.

"Alright, Carra?" he greets, and Jamie turns to him with a muttered fuck.

"Hi, Phil," he says with an exasperated sigh. "Your twat of a brother asked me to fetch him some tea, and –”

He gestures hopelessly at the counter behind him, which is in such a state it looks as though a small bomb has gone off.

"Oh," says Phil. "Tea is really difficult, to be fair. Can't you find one of the staff members to help you?"

"No, I –” Jamie runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "He asked me."

Redders.

Jamie sees it moments before it happens, in excruciating slow motion – like when a gun goes off in films. Gary’s hovering around Carra, trying unsuccessfully to get his attention, and when he gives up and reaches to jostle Carra’s shoulder Jamie waits for the inevitable snap.

Except, Carra doesn’t snap. He doesn’t jerk away, he looks at Gary and he beams. If it was any other person Jamie could’ve sworn he was leaning in to the touch, because Gary’s hand stays in place even while they talk.

When they’re setting up to film, Gary shifts his chair closer to Carra’s so that their knees are touching, and Carra doesn’t roll his eyes or move away. When Carra tells a joke that’s got Gary doubled over with laughter, Gary spreads a hand between Carra’s shoulder blades and nothing happens.

The whole day is full of things like that, tiny casual touches which should be normal, which are normal for anyone other than Carra. Jamie, worried that he’s gone mad and misremembered a fundamental fact about Carra, even tries an experiment once or twice: he claps a hand on Carra’s back, or he throws an arm around his shoulders in a friendly side hug. Carra twitches at the contact every single time, a miniscule reaction honed out of years of needing to be polite, and he carefully shifts away from Jamie’s touch with a suspicious side-eye.

When they’re leaving the studio that evening to go to the pub, Gary slaps Carra’s bum as he walks through the doorway and all Carra does is grin.

Stevie.

“Who the fuck are you texting?”

“Huh?” Jamie blinks, looks up at Stevie over his glasses like he’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, just Gary.”

“Didn’t yous see ‘im earlier today?”

“Yeah, why?”

Stevie is lucky if he gets one text a month from Jamie, even luckier if he sees him in person more than twice a year. It’s never bothered him much, he knows what Jamie’s like, knows that anyone not sat directly in front of him is prone to being dismissed as a distraction. There aren’t really friends in Jamie’s world, just allies and enemies.

So he’s not really sure what to do with this version of Jamie, the one who leaves Gary Neville’s company (and Gary Neville, really?) only to immediately open his phone and start texting Gary Neville.

Every time his phone pings he opens it up and does a stupid little snicker at whatever Gary’s sent him, never mind that he’s meant to be mid-conversation with Stevie. Every bloody anecdote seems to start with ‘so me and Gary were –’, or ‘Gary was saying –’. Even the stories that aren’t about work – as far as Stevie can figure out, there’s rarely a moment that Jamie’s not with Gary, or talking to Gary, or thinking about Gary.

It's weird. It’s almost like how he used to be about football.

Micah.

Micah can’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s time for Sky’s yearly ‘film Neville and Carragher making fools of themselves racing each other in a thinly-veiled attempt to rack up more views’, and Jamie is losing.

Jamie’s a runner, he runs. Gary does fuck all cardio beyond the occasional group fitness class, he should not be a full pace ahead of Jamie at the halfway point, and yet. Gary can’t seem to believe it either, because when he glances back at Jamie he grins and picks up his pace with a gleeful little laugh.

Jamie rolls his eyes for the sake of the cameras, but there’s a moment where Micah could’ve sworn he saw him skip, like he was deliberately trying to slow himself down. Which is impossible, because Jamie would happily out-sprint a child if someone told him it was a competition.

And yet.

When Gary wins he grabs onto Jamie’s arm to support himself while his whole body shakes with laughter, squawking out insults every time he’s able to catch his breath. Jamie laughs along, makes up some poor excuse about his hamstring going, but when he catches Micah’s eye he winks as if they’re both in on the same joke.

#i was gonna do a michael owen section where he says something stupid and jamie destroys him over it #and then gary says the same thing and jamie's like. that's so real you're so special and funny #but again. ran out of steam #thanks for the prompts guys i LOVE reminding everyone how insane jamie actually is #carraville #drabbles

30 notes · View notes

mako-designated-driver · 2 months ago

Text

Wait there's one thing that's puzzling me

If you save Treviso, the Viper gets blighted, right? If Rook is a warden someone (I think it's Tarquin? It's been a while, I might be misremembering) suggests they can help, and Rook can answer that Antoine and Evka will figure out something. The Viper insists Minrathous needs him and that he is not leaving, fair enough.

But then you get to Lavendel, and you meet Flynn. As you know, he was dying of blight, and Evka and Antoine gave him the joining without the usual catch of having to become a grey warden. That also makes sense.

Then, near Antoine and Evka, there's letters to Tarquin answering his questions about the blight, how it progresses and if there's a point when the joining won't help. They even finish by saying that they won't conscript the Viper, but they will be there "if he wishes". Apparentely, this is one of multiple letters.

Lastly, throughout the game you can see the factions using the crossroads to move supplies from one point to another.

So, dumb question: Why can't we just use the eluvians to take the Viper to Lavendel, have him take the joining (no strings attached) and have him back in Minrathous in a few hours? It doesn't seem like the wardens would be against it.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age spoilers #the viper

10 notes · View notes

is-your-blorbo-neurodivergent · 7 months ago

Text

does he have audhd, anxiety, and a mental illness?

submit your own characters here to be featured!

reasons under the cut - just a long infodump (no problem with that!)

reason: Autism:

- Strangely meticulous about rules while not understanding/valuing others

- Is literally an alien living among humans trying very badly to fit in and understand their customs -- very autistic feeling, even if he's evil about it.

- Sensory issues, specifically tactile and taste oriented ones. (Many autistic people feel for him in episodes where he struggles eating earth food and suffers physically for it)

- Low empathy

- Difficulty controlling his emotions

- Fixates easily (Usually on his mission or fighting Dib)

- Strange speech patterns, even for an alien. Other members of his species and other aliens we meet in the show do not talk like Zim, showing this is very much a him-thing, not an alien thing.

- Evil laughter? More like vocal stimming

ADHD:

- Frequently shown to dissociate/lose focus when he's in a situation he doesn't like or faced with knowledge he doesn't care about

- Very easily distracted

- Can hyperfocus on a task he values

- Makes meticulous ambitious plans with convoluted steps no neurotypical would bother with

- Bad at following structures and what's expected of him

- Shit memory but also brilliant and can recall hyperspecific things needed for his plans

- Mood swings

- Overlooks stuff that's obvious for most people

- Creative! :3

- Bad at structure and conforming to what he needs to be in most jobs

- Can be very energetic

- Every person with adhd I've met has loved the purple as a colour idk

MISC THINGS OF NOTE:

I do not feel I have the understanding to properly diagnose exactly, so please feel free to point me in the right direction of a diagnosis for... whatever these symptoms are. But I have to wonder about his dissociative moments, paranoia, self-obsession and his mood swings. There is a point in the show where the Tallest hang up on Zim and the dude literally just stands there COMPLETELY STILL for over an hour until he "wakes up" and the Computer tells him how long he'd been there. Zim wasn't aware at all how much time had passed or that they had hung up. Isn't that a bit concerning? It's the most extreme example, but it's not the only time he does it! Frequent dissociation is still SOMETHING, right? I don't which dissociation disorder this could point to specifically but still.

He constantly deludes himself into believing things that blatantly and explicitly aren't true and remembers things wrong to protect his own ego (tough to say whether this is done intentionally or subconsciously as a defensive move or something). He'll even misremember minor things as soon as they happen if he doesn't like them. Zim frequently holds his identity super high and uses his name like a great mantra to the point it's a bit concerning. Not sure what this is about. Might just be quirky but...

Many episodes take steps to showcase that Zim is practically ruled by fear and paranoia. Even in the first episode, he's so scared of potentially getting caught, he nearly triggers his self-destruct button so the humans do not capture him. Jhonen, Zim's creator, has said in interviews and the show bible that despite his zaniness and ego, Zim is actually a deeply miserable anxious character underneath, and that even when he wins, he goes right back to being miserable -- while fans typically (and very understandably) take what Jhonen says with a grain of salt, he's never wavered on this and it does make sense with the way the show works. It's possible this could be heavily masked depression/anxiety or maybe part of something else.

He also has a number of symptoms that line up suspiciously well with ptsd

( Being easily startled or frightened? Check.

Always being on guard for danger? Check. Self-destructive/reckless behavior? Check.

Trouble concentrating? Check.

Irritability, angry outbursts or aggressive behavior? Check.

Negative thoughts about oneself or the world? Check. He hates basically everything external to himself, except his robots, snacks, and leaders.

Exaggerated feelings of blame directed toward oneself or others?100% he blames external factors. But check.

Ongoing negative emotions, such as fear, anger, guilt, or shame? Check.

Difficulty feeling positive emotions, such as happiness or satisfaction? Check.

It's tough to say what these symptoms could all be in response to, but imo, I think being raised from birth to be a soldier for a genocidal space empire might be a bit more traumatic on its own than Zim and even other irkens are able to be aware of. We see Zim as a small child in a flashback and he's shown to be super loving/affectionate, which is a complete 180 to how he is in the show years later, before he's immediately sent off to "report for duty" (("duty" likely being military training)). This is 100% just headcanon and speculation tho so I don't feel right checking that box.)

ahh i wrote too much. anyway he's mentally ill your honor. idk what is going on up there exactly but it's NOT exclusively autism/adhd i know that much.

#anon for real had an autism moment with this one /lh #is your blorbo neurodivergent #neurodivergent #polls #autism #adhd #audhd #anxiety #mental illness #invader zim #zim

18 notes · View notes

alessandriana · 2 years ago

Note

I'm curious about the scar removal actually

So that one was prompted by an exchange I had on twitter. Tl,dr, the EXR translation made it sound like it was Jiang Cheng who was desperate to get rid of the scars: Although Wei WuXian had never been hit by a discipline whip before, Jiang Cheng had been. Even after desperately trying, he couldn’t make the disgracing imprint fade one bit. This was why Wei WuXian would never misremember scars like this. (CH 11)

But the "he" in that sentence is quite ambiguous! Is it referring to Jiang Cheng... or to Wei Wuxian?

When the official translation came out, it seemed to support the latter interpretation:

While Wei Wuxian had never experienced this particular lashing himself, Jiang Cheng had. Wei Wuxian had wracked his brain to help him lighten that humiliating mark, but all efforts had been fruitless. Wei Wuxian would never mistake the sight of such a scar.

Later in the book, we get the flashback to Jiang Cheng waking up in the Wen supervisory office:

Finally, Jiang Cheng propped himself up on his elbows. He looked down at the wound from the discipline whip on his chest and let out a bitter laugh.

When the discipline whip struck, there was no removing the mark of shame. Against his own conscience, Wei Wuxian said, "Don't look. We'll find a way to get rid of it." (CH 60, official trans- EXR doesn't differ significantly)

From these, it honestly seems like Wei Wuxian is much more invested in getting rid of those scars than Jiang Cheng!

...All this to say, I found myself really wanting the story where WWX insists on helping JC get rid of those scars (whether JC wants help or not) and there's lots of chest touching and WWX has to sit on top of JC for some reason, and it's very sexy and they end up banging about it: The End.

And now a snippet, for those of you who've made it this far (NSFW under the cut):

ETA: I've posted the previous scene here.

The weeks passed, and battles were fought, and some were won and some were lost-- and some were a mix of the two.

It was after one of these latter that Jiang Cheng found Wei Wuxian setting his brushes and talismans up in his bedroom again.

They'd been loaned the use of a manor house by a sympathizer. It had been partially razed by the Wen, but there were still several buildings in good condition. Jiang Cheng had taken one of the rooms to the west-- it didn't have a bed anymore, but he'd set up his camp bed and it had been more than acceptable. It did have a low table, and that was where Wei Wuxian had lined up his things.

Jiang Cheng blinked at Wei Wuxian, startled. He'd almost forgotten about the last time-- consigned it to his list of embarrassing moments involving Wei Wuxian, of which there were many, and moved on. He'd assumed Wei Wuxian had done the same, and had given up this idea of his of getting rid of Jiang Cheng's scars.

"Jiang Cheng!" Wei Wuxian called, as Jiang Cheng entered. "Good, you're back-- what took you so long? The battle's been over for hours."

"It's been over for hours for you, maybe," Jiang Cheng said. Wei Wuxian was the reason the fight today had been a mixed win instead of a pure loss. He'd come through in the end with a mountain of corpses he'd dug up from a nearby graveyard, and with their help the Sunshot campaign had been able to beat back the Wen attack, giving them some breathing room while they recuperated. "Some of us had to help with the cleanup."

Wei Wuxian lounged on the floor as Jiang Cheng crossed over to the screen in the corner and began to disrobe. His outer garments were covered in blood and grime-- thankfully none of it his or his disciples'. "You weren't injured out there, right?"

Jiang Cheng could hear Wei Wuxian flopping around. "What, me? Hah! Those Wen couldn't get within fifty feet of me."

"Good," Jiang Cheng said, too tired to address the boasting. He'd personally seen a Wen soldier nearly take Wei Wuxian's head off just two days ago.

Jiang Cheng stripped down to his pants. There was a washbasin here, too, which had been filled fresh with water; maybe one of his disciples. He rinsed off with the cloth laid next to it. With each swipe of the cloth, some of his exhaustion disappeared, too.

When he came out he was in a better frame of mind to deal with the line of talismans, ink, and other supplies on the table. He said with heavy skepticism, "You really want to try this again?"

For a moment Jiang Cheng thought he saw a strange look in Wei Wuxian's eyes, a mix of trepidation and excitement; a strange energy. The look vanished so quickly Jiang Cheng wasn't even sure he'd seen it, replaced by something more mischievous. He grinned up at Jiang Cheng and said, "Yeah! I'm pretty sure I've got the right idea this time."

Jiang Cheng sighed. "If you say so," he grumbled, heading towards the bed and flopping down on his back. "But if you're just doing this to fuck with me--"

Wei Wuxian cackled, gathering up his supplies. "Nope! Not fucking with you," he said, dragging the table over to Jiang Cheng's side so it would be in easy reach. Jiang Cheng expected he would try leaning over this time, to avoid the previous problem.

Wei Wuxian finished setting up his stuff, and then-- swung his legs over Jiang Cheng's waist again.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Jiang Cheng squawked, bucking upwards. But Wei Wuxian had come prepared for this gambit, and he hooked his ankles under the edge of the bed and hung on as Jiang Cheng tried to escape. Finally Jiang Cheng had to admit defeat. He lay back on the bed with Wei Wuxian above him, heart pounding more than it really should have been.

Wei Wuxian said innocently, "I told you, didn't I? This is a much better position for writing the spells out."

"Surely there's some better way you can come up with--"

Wei Wuxian shrugged. "Simple's always best." Grinning a little to himself, he leaned forward and began to write.

The brush tickled cool across his skin. Wei Wuxian braced himself with a hand on Jiang Cheng's pec to keep himself steady. He kept shifting and squirming on top of Jiang Cheng as he wrote, tiny little motions that echoed throughout Jiang Cheng's entire body. The result was entirely predictable. Jiang Cheng felt his cock begin to thicken and swell.

Finally he said, strangled, "Enough."

Wei Wuxian's eyes were fixed on Jiang Cheng's stomach as he wrote. "But I'm not done yet." Then he pulled back his brush to examine his work, hummed, and said, "Okay, I need more room."

Then he shifted backwards until he was sitting directly on top of Jiang Cheng's dick.

Jiang Cheng's hands flew up to Wei Wuxian's hips. "What the fuck!" His heart was hammering in his chest. He was going to throw up. He was so turned on he could hardly breathe.

Wei Wuxian didn't look up. "There," he said, and put the finishing touch on the spell, and then suddenly there was power flowing through the spellwork and also somehow it was coming from Jiang Cheng's dick, or at least that's what it felt like, and then--

--then the ink burst into flames.

This killed both the pending discussion and Jiang Cheng's boner as they endeavored to put it out.

Afterwards, they didn't talk about it.

ETA2: Chapter 3 here!

#mdzs #chengxian #memery #ask meme #jiang cheng #!myfic

105 notes · View notes

batsplat · 8 months ago

Note

thoughts on challengers ? 👀

haha okay sure. I was overthinking this when I first saw this ask but since then I've sent half an hour worth of voice notes to my number one person I send half hour's worth of voice notes to (listen she keeps encouraging me to) and I've ironed some of my thoughts out. also I should probably watch it again. some of this might be me misremembering shit. also it's not that serious. quick warning, this ended up being just. too long. it's basically just a long rant. under the cut it goes

so first of all, I really enjoyed watching this film. I liked the central premise a lot, I liked the chemistry between the characters, tashi was very hot, the score was fantastic, the cinematography was at least interesting, and a lot of the non-tennis bits are interesting

having gotten that out of the way. there's an interview where guadagnino says he doesn't watch tennis matches because he finds them boring, which to be clear is completely fair enough - but I do think it does slightly come across in how the tennis is filmed. there's definitely fun, neat stuff in there: the shot where it follows around the ball, the shot from underneath the court, all of that stuff. and I think there's obviously a lot of challenges with filming tennis when you have to make sure you can't, like, see the actors actually play tennis, and I don't know anything about film-making so I don't want to judge it too harshly. but there are a few established angles from which tennis looks good, and this film doesn't really use them all that much. it was interesting to what extent they went for side shots (basically from the tashi pov in the final match) rather than... well, picking a side, and at different points of that match actually giving the viewer a clearer sense of the visceral nature of what they're doing here. like, if you're going court level from behind the player, that's how you capture the weight of the shot on screen. which felt was a little bit... missing

okay... ffs this next section ended up kind of being tennis tactics 101, and then the other bit ended up being about how matches work. my basic point here is that I think this film did some interesting stuff with the tennis but, and this is part of my more longstanding frustrations about the untapped narrative potential of sports, I think you could've done a lot more and communicated a lot more through the actual tennis. not just for annoying people who want to go 'oh look that's an extreme western grip and explains why her forehand has so much spin but can also be fragile when absorbing pressure!!' but for the general viewing audience. I want to be very clear here: I do not really care about realism except when I'm being annoying in voice notes, I care about storytelling. if you understandably do not give a shit about all this tactics and match construction stuff, skip to the bit marked 3 for more of my thoughts related to the actual film

now you might go 'okay but this film isn't about capturing tennis and doing it justice - it's not even about tennis'. yeah, but tennis is the central metaphor! tennis is a relationship, right, but it's also a conversation. it's a way of communicating something to the audience, yes, in a way non-tennis fans can also pick up on. and a lot of the tennis looked pretty same-y. the points were very similar - the intensity was ramped up mainly by the characters just... whacking the ball harder, running side by side, and then sometimes they both move forwards. this isn't a realism issue, it's a storytelling issue. you can tell a story with a tennis point, you can construct these points in different ways to tell you different things

just to give you an example (I promise this is relevant): okay, the most common rally pattern in tennis is hitting cross court. so either you hit on the deuce court (from your pov, this is from the right side of your court to the left side of the other player's court, aka the forehand side for right handed players) or the ad court (the opposite, and thus the backhand side for right handed players). this is for a bunch of tactical reasons. the net is at its lowest in the middle so, y'know, you're less likely to hit it. perhaps most importantly, it's a question of angles and... okay look I don't want to bore the two people reading this with the details but just to very quickly explain, here:

say player a is hitting the ball along the red line to player b, the orange zone depicts the theoretical area in which the ball trajectory of player b's answering shot can go. like, if you want to get the other player to move 'out of the court', you can only do so by going back cross court... which is obviously where, in a cross court exchange, the other player is already standing. this is why a lot of the times, players don't 'recover' after their shots to the exact centre of the court, but instead make a judgement of where the centre is of the theoretical zone the opponent can hit. to put it in plain english: I hit a forehand cross, I don't move back to the exact middle of the court because I know where you can hit the ball back and I need to be in the middle of that - which skews to the right of centre. also, I just know it's more likely you're going to go cross again, because that's just how this works

you want to move the other player around, right, first of all to get the ball past them - but also to make it harder for them to attack you. you're trying to construct a point so that eventually they are the one who can't reach the ball/makes an error, not you. a lot of the times, continuing to go cross court is the smart option. it's less risky than going down the line, and also if your down the line shot isn't perfect, where it isn't a winner or at least a shot they'll struggle to attack, then you're setting up a situation where they have all the angle in the world to work with, where the centre of their theoretical hitting zone is nowhere near where you're actually standing and they can easily whack the ball past you

now, why the fuck does this matter when we're talking about the tennis threesome film? obviously, I don't expect the director to interrupt the film to explain angles to the audience. in tennis terms, 'go cross court' is tactics for babies, but it's still not something most viewers will be instinctively familiar with. but think about what it actually does if players keep exchanging shots cross court because they can't risk going down the line: they're engaging in a direct contest! they are measuring one shot against the other, my forehand against your forehand, my backhand against your backhand, and they are trying to assert dominance. sometimes, you have no choice to escape that exchange even when it's risky because their raw cross court shot is better than yours. sometimes, you're trapped in that exchange. how you can extract metaphors from that should be fairly obvious, and I don't think this should be visually too tough to get across - it's a power struggle between two people contained within a simple shot pattern. it adds variation to what the viewer is being shown (and, yes, it does make the points feel more realistic), but it's also a way of gradually ramping up intensity. my shot against your shot - who wins? who is willing to risk deviating from the norm? who sets themselves up for a trap - does patrick sucker art into attacking him down the line? can he then manage to counterpunch (to use attack as defence) by making it to art's shot in time and placing his response into the open court? who blinks first etc etc

look, this is only one way you can visually use tennis to add to the story. another common tactic is (if you're a right handed player) hitting forehands from the ad court, to 'run around the backhand'. that's an expression of dominance, it's a power play - you're trying to bully your opponent with your most powerful shot (which is the forehand for 99% of players, some might have better backhands but they won't have stronger ones), and you're deliberately recovering less to the centre. you're camping out on the ad side, and going 'yeah I don't actually think your down the line shot is good enough to hurt me, I actually feel very comfortable standing right here so I can more easily move far enough to the left to continue hitting forehands'. it's a tactic that is implicitly passing judgement on the opponent, and again, I refuse to believe you can't show this in a way that the audience understands roughly what's going on. have patrick bully art with his forehand into the weaker backhand or vice versa - they can use their faces to show how comfortable they are with their respective positions. y'know, make the actors act. have one of them find the backhand down the line, fire it into the bit of the court the opponent has completely left open. your characters are using tennis to assert dominance over each other, to manipulate, to deceive each other - you can do that with the actual tennis they're playing

you can also express character through tennis. I'm not saying different play styles function as a personality quiz, but inherently the way you play is going to reflect what you feel comfortable with doing on the tennis court. is your preferred point three shots long or twenty shots long? are you looking to dominate your opponent with your big weapons, or are you looking to trick them with your variety of shots and smarts in using them? or are you looking to just grind them into submission with sheer relentless consistency?

take the drop shot: a shot that 'drops' right after it clears the net as a result of how the player has put a different kind of spin onto it. ideally, it's so close to the net the opponent can't sprint forward quickly enough to reach the ball. how effective your drop shot is depends on several things. obviously, it's how good the shot and the placement and the spin you've put on it is. it also depends on where you're standing and where your opponent is standing, which means that particularly effective dropshots usually come after big, heavy attacking shots that have forced the opponent to move back and have allowed you to move into the court. and it also depends how good your disguise is: for as long as possible, it should look like the shot you're playing is going to be a bog standard forehand or backhand - until you readjust your grip at the last moment and slash the racquet downwards (vs the upwards motion you'd make with the bog standard forehand or backhand). this is a shot that depends on the element of surprise. it's about trying to fuck with your opponent, it's about choosing your moment. it's about playing with them! and you can get pretty memorable reactions from your opponent. if you wrong foot them well enough, they'll literally stumble when they realise what's happening and never even start running. maybe they'll comically flail their arms

I feel like when the men's world number seven throws his arms up in shock every time somebody hits a short ball, you can probably convey this kind of dynamic in a film

and think about what it says if somebody's using a shot like that. again, you're trying to fuck with the other player, and you are relying on your knowledge of the opponent to figure out when they might be susceptible to it. now, obviously, this is tough to do when you're playing someone for the first time and (unlike top level professional players) don't have a vast amount of data to work with and how often xyz shot works against them in xyz situation. this is generally why early in a match, it's a good idea to just like, test some stuff out to give yourself a sense of how they'd react, if it's a good idea to use it in a pressure situation (you also do a version of this in the warm up if you're smart, just check how they react to that high ball to the backhand! all about being curious y'know). but if you know someone, if this is an established rivalry, if this is someone you've played with since you're kids... well. then it's a different ball game entirely

patrick has the psychological edge in that match-up, right, and the whole point of that final match is that it shouldn't be that close but it's that close due to the mental dynamics between the pair of them. patrick constantly wrong-footing art and frustrating him is the easiest way in the world to visually demonstrate that dynamic. you're constantly trying to guess what your opponent is going to do, you're constantly trying to anticipate, yeah? you know what I said above about how you're 'recovering' to the centre of the theoretical zone and all that? well, sometimes you don't do that - you guess where the opponent is going to go. most often, you've got to do that when you know the opponent has a relatively easy shot and they can hurt you with it, so you have to play the probabilities and hope you get it right... it's basically like a penalty kick in football. it's a quick judgement you're making on the basis of past data, of what you think your opponent is thinking, of how big a risk you want to make - of when to time it, because if you move too early they can still change the trajectory of their shot and go the other way. maybe you even feint one way before darting the other. and your opponent might shoot one way or the other... but, sometimes they'll drop shot you while you're moving in one direction as you frantically try to change course. or, which is even more humiliating, they'll go straight down the middle - since you're no longer standing there

in narrative terms, what does it tell you if a character guesses rightly or wrongly? what would it say if art or patrick had that kind of intimate knowledge of each other - I know you usually do this, but I know you know that so I'm going to go the other way - round and round in circles, a mental contest between people who are so familiar with each other that it can become actively confusing to try and preempt their moves. tennis is a relationship and it's a conversation and the way we construct a point tells us a story about the history between you and me. it tells us a story if art, the six time slam winner and more accomplished player by far, is being read so perfectly by patrick that he's tripping over himself and getting in his own way and flailing. one of the most common commentating cliches is about the ball, or indeed the player, being attached to the end of a string. the extension of that metaphor is that one player is the puppet master and the other player is a puppet. easy visual metaphor bingo

you can literally express how the characters feel about each other by... where they're standing. if you're scared of your opponent's shot, then you're going to try and give yourself more time to react. if you are on the attack, then you need to move in, to take the ball earlier, to take time away from the opponent. to me, if you're showing fictional tennis, you really should be playing with time and how you can use cinematic techniques to play with that sense of time. now, you can do this on the broader level of the match, because your subjective sense of time is dependent on how well you're doing in a match. time never moves faster than when you're losing a six love set. but it's also obviously integral to actual points, because you are usually trying to maximise your own time and minimise your opponent's, trying to make sure you will always have enough time to get to the ball and making sure they won't (obviously often u kinda have to pick one of those because of how time works)

where you stand on the court is an integral part of that, for obvious reasons related to 'basic physics'. and, again, it's also psychological. take the return position, right, aka where you're standing when the opponent is serving. most people have a built-in preference for both the first and second serve, and a kind of basic 'return strategy' of what kind of shot they'd like to use and where to move. generally, you'll stand further back for the first serve because it's more powerful... but hey, maybe you have a slightly unorthodox return strategy where you're just trying to 'block' the first serve and use the weight of the opponent's shot against them, and then you step back for the second serve and have a massive whack at them. just as an example

and, again, this is another way in which you try to fuck with your opponent. there is nothing more annoying than seeing the twat on the other side of the net move in to the court by an insulting amount because they don't respect your shitty second serve and think they can take a swing at it from in front of the baseline. some players just do this in general - prime offenders on the women's side are garcia and ostapenko (and with all love to them, they do this more than is perhaps tactically prudent)

(for the other end of the spectrum, see another place from which you can theoretically return a serve from if you're out of your fucking mind) (this particular player's return strategy has been like a top five discourse point over the last few years but we do not have time to get into all that)

but you can also vary it up in a match, and you probably should if you're being smart. so for instance (and there's a specific match in 2022 I'm thinking of here), if you know your opponent has an awful second serve and a lovely little habit of double faulting when under pressure, maybe as the returner you just... well, look, the ball from the first serve has rolled right to your feet, so obviously you need to politely pass it to the ballperson, and maybe it just takes a little bit longer so that you know the server is looking right at you when you meander in front of the baseline to wait for their second serve. and then they double fault and that's the break of serve right there. you're not always standing that close to return second serves, but you're standing there when you know it'll make them most nervous. again, I am not saying the tennis threesome film needs to explain the difference between jelena ostapenko's and daniil medvedev's return strategies, but these ARE the kinds of things you CAN organically integrate, and give you very blunt and easy to understand messages about the characters and their dynamic

and like... different people have different play styles, yeah? let them express a little character! tashi is relentless, maybe she's constantly attempting to take everything with her forehand to attack and attack, or maybe she trusts herself to attack from any place with any shot. maybe she's so lively and confident and uncompromising that she uses down the line shots more than anyone else, or maybe there's surprising subtlety there in how the intensity and rage fades away for a moment as she flutters a slice across the net. what is it about her game that so captivates the two boys, its aggression or its complexity? is her game already more complete and well-defined and self-aware than it has any right to be from a high school student? or is it raw and untamed and a little wild and so full of potential?

art has a one-handed backhand and uniqlo gear in a very obvious federer allusion, but does he share any more with federer than that? is he particularly prone to rushing the net, especially after the serve? does he want to end points quickly? does he have good hands, is he trying to wrong-foot his opponent - or is he the one constantly getting wrong-footed as the others dance around him? is he constantly trying to assert his dominance, to end points quickly, and initially you think it's a sign of his power and confidence... but then you realise that it's insecurity - he's worried what will happen if they go on too long, if he gives too many chances to other players to outsmart him, if he's uncomfortable playing defence because it makes him feel reactive and weak. maybe in the second set he has to knuckle down and accept the rallies will be long and gruelling - which is a central aspect of tennis, it's about patience and managing risk. maybe he's so tense and nervous that he's just an error machine in the first set, but then he decides to just slow the pace and live with patrick in those forehand to forehand exchanges, let his natural weight of shot do the talking for him and force patrick to change things up

and patrick, with the unorthodox technique and the sleeveless shirts and the money and how he never really grew up - what does that tell us about his tennis? is it rough and energetic, big swings at the ball, layering on more and more spin to propel it high over the net? does he throw a massive forehand at art's backhand, making him hit it at a high point that is naturally uncomfortable for the one handed backhand? wouldn't it be interesting if you had patrick have a strong point to his game that naturally matches up to art's weak point, the chink in the six time grand slam champion's armour? what about the physicality, does he lunge further and harder and throw himself into balls just that little bit more? is he stronger than art, or is he faster, or is he neither? is he driven by instinct and gets in his own way less than art does, or is he tactically more astute and gets the better of art that way?

obviously you can't do all of those things in a film and you shouldn't because it's distracting. but what I'm trying to demonstrate here is that there is a whole range of potential storytelling you can tap into here. now, nobody's actually doing this, and my thing with challengers is that in many ways it came closer to the kind of narratives I would like to see. but then it still falls short just a touch, which is where the frustration comes in

a rivalry has got a history that is woken up again every time you step on court to face your old foe - you remember how they play, you already know what you want to do to beat them this time. you are trying to unsettle them. you know how they want to play and you want to deny them that opportunity. inevitably, any defined play style tells us something about the player and their personality and their approach to the game. the film is quite scarce on details about its lead characters and using the tennis more deftly would've been a great way to give us a stronger sense of who they are in a very economical, concise way. what does it mean for tashi's game that she can no longer run? yes, obviously it means she can't compete any longer, but the injury does different things symbolically depending on how big a part movement was of her game. often, tennis injuries directly affect your strengths. take a player who puts a lot of heavy spin on the ball by snapping their wrist - they are putting more strain on said wrist and may end up injuring it (a particularly terrible part of the body to injure for a tennis player). there's something extra cruel about that because it also affects how they'll recover, if they'll ever be able to trust that body part again. these are career-threatening injuries not just for physical but for psychological reasons. same thing if you're a great server with a shoulder injury... or if you're a great mover with a leg injury

also, and okay this probably did come across as nitpicking and it's not really an issue if it worked for people who aren't familiar with tennis... but omg the last point was so confusing. did check and this wasn't just a me problem, though I'd be curious if it worked for people less familiar with the game. when they came closer and closer to the net and hit back and forth, I thought what was happening was that they'd like, given up competing and were just hitting back and forth as a symbol of defiance or something. that they'd basically decided to stop playing the match and just play with each other. because like, you just can't do that in a match, the point would immediately be over especially if they're just standing there - they're too close! you'd immediately get the ball past! so I only realised when the film was over that it was supposed to be a really intense point... but I think that's the kind of thing where most people watching will probably be fine with it, so again. y'know. whatever. I do think you could have staged that point a little more cleverly to get to the same conclusion in a more natural way, but also. whatever. it's fine

(obviously there are also some other broader suspension of disbelief issues that I'm far less bothered about. the technique was like, not great, but also probably about as good as you'll get from actors, though again I would've liked a little more thought put into what they're doing beyond 'art's got a one handed backhand and patrick's got a quirky serve!' I thought the patrick serve thing was really neat and fun and theoretically you could hit a serve like that, though quite frankly in the men's game you'd probably be fucked because you need more racquet acceleration than that - but that does fit in with his character and the stubbornness and all that so it's fine. the art serve quirk... well, most players deliberately construct serving rituals like bouncing the ball several times or ball placement or whatever because it's the one shot in tennis that's completely 'on your own racquet' but is also really tough, so you're trying to trick your brain into always doing the same thing. I find it a little tough to believe art wouldn't have been aware of what he was doing, but again, not a massive issue. beyond my concerns about the lack of variation in the points they were showing, it did also trip me up whenever they were obviously stranded in no-man's land - you need to be either on/behind the baseline or right at the net and there's certain areas of the court where if you spend too long in them you are very much fucked. the whole concept of 'recovering' after a shot is like, as important part of tennis movement as getting there in the first place, and there's whole footwork patterns you use while you're hitting the shot and immediately afterwards to get yourself in position again. at times they'd just be standing in place in the fuck end of where on earth are you standing until the next shot comes and. listen. it really Does Not Matter beyond how it's fun to be annoying about this stuff but it did make me a bit twitchy)

so. match constructions and narrative arcs. I think if a literal match of tennis is the framing device of your film, you should think about the natural narrative tension that exists within a literal match of tennis. again, a match is a conversation, it has its ebbs and flows and peaks and troughs and all that other stuff. you are more tense at *4-5 30:30 than you are at 1-1* 15:0. you are feeling better about your life choices at 6-4 *5-3 than you are at 7-6(8) 0-6 *1-3. you change over the course of a match, as you test yourself physically and mentally and acquire a situationally specific data bank about yourself and the other player, as you notice and learn certain things about what's going on in your own game and your opponent's game. maybe you have a moment where you go 'yup the backhand's a catastrophe today, time to slice everything and hope for the best' or you go 'lol that's the third consecutive djokosmash they've hit, maybe I'll throw the ball high up again next time they get to the net'

also obviously all these things vary over the course of a match - and they do so more than they have any right to! there's no logical reason why 6-1 1-6 6-1 scorelines should happen, but they do! because game breaks and changeovers and set breaks and all of it can represent massive shifts in momentum. you play a *5-0 game differently than a *0-1 game, and suddenly those beautiful forehands you were ripping for half an hour are all flying out of the stadium and, shit, time to change tactics to defend more except now you're really screwed because you're playing your opponent's game. the most important thing to remember about tennis is that it fucking sucks. matches are psychological torture. I want to feel that part when watching the tennis threesome film

the basic mechanism of narrative tension in a match is the serve vs return dynamic. if you serve, you need to protect your serve, because those are the games you are supposed to be winning. if you return, you need to attack the opponent's serve, because those games represent opportunity. you want your service games to be short and fast and you want your return games to be long and tough and miserable for your opponent. and after every game, it ticks back again - you are literally passing the ball to the other side of the court. your turn, have fun!

there are a million different ways you can construct tension on a micro level within a match. you have breakpoints/matchpoints, obviously, which to some extent the film did feature. you have games that just get stuck on deuce, with neither player able to win the requisite two points in a row to release them, so it's like... basically groundhog day in sports as you keep trotting from one side of the court to the other, both players frustrated, one unable to escape the danger and the other unable to seize the opportunity. battle of the wills. games can completely realistically last more than twenty points. obviously you've got tiebreaks, which again the film did feature (though icl I had no clue what the score was supposed to be, again it doesn't matter but). you have the old cliche of 'it's not a break of serve unless you've backed it up' (aka by holding your own serve) and how common it is to be broken straight back for various nasty psychological reasons

I wish they'd played with this a little more, just showed a little more of why the players were reacting emotionally in the way that they were at certain stages of the match - rather than just basically reacting to the flashback we've just seen. like, there's plenty of reasons why a player might get particularly angry at a certain point of a match in a way that just feels a bit more organic. if tennis is the medium through which to explore this three-way relationship, then showcase that push and pull factor, those changes in momentum. the film suggests patrick has always had the upper hand - I'd make more clear this is the classic 'pigeon' dynamic where basically the head to head between two players is more skewed than it has any right to be given how 'good' those two respective players actually are. usually that means there's something funky going on with the play styles or it's something mental or it's an interaction between the two. patrick really cares about art, right, and then he's always able to beat him because he gets him and knows how to mess with him. art has the more raw ability(?) but it takes a bit longer for him to actually realise how good he is, in part because he always lost to patrick

the way they should've done this imo have a place where art does actually choke a sizeable lead, a kind of unexpected switch of momentum. like have this be the first set where art comes in hot and is y'know the obviously better player and all that, but then patrick just increasingly manages to unsettle him. make it a proper bad one, say *5-2 to 5-7. throw in a long deuce game. and then art is confronted with all his old demons again, his inadequacy, all that stuff. and then you've got the momentum switch after the set break when art manages to pull himself together. the thing is, they do actually show a fair bit of the match, but it's not always that interesting because it lacks a little bit of specificity, a little bit of detail... just make a few adjustments that accentuate the central dynamic. you don't have to go with this exactly but go with SOMETHING, 6-2 2-6 is such a nothingburger score lol like what does that tell us... 7-5 1-6 is what it's all about

(dumb nitpick corner: unlikely a time violation would get called between first and second serves, and if you do so then you'd better hand out a time violation if the receiver starts faffing about between points right after, rather than quietly talking to them off-mic. but hey, the establishment is corrupt, they obviously wanted art to win. also, there's a mistake on the scoreboard at the *5-6 game where they accidentally make it look like art is serving for the match at that stage, which would completely change the dynamic of that game and the previous game and the implications if art had let it go to a tiebreak - aka he would have choked. just slightly confused me when the umpire called out 'thirty love' after patrick won the point lol)

so maybe this all does come across like I hate the film, which I really did not. I enjoyed it a lot, and honestly it's not like there's much to choose from in terms of 'sports media that seriously engages with the narrative potential of the actual sport'. there were plenty of storytelling details I really vibed with, especially the dynamic between the central three characters and the push and pull between them and how they work as a trio. all three sides of the triangle were good fun. the way the two blokes were so in sync at times, that kind of easy intimacy and familiarity - again, I think you could have expressed that more through actual tennis but that did absolutely work for me

the actual 'playing a challenger before uso' thing was also fun, though I was wondering what his ranking was like because it must have still been kinda in the pits. like, you can't show up to a challenger as a top ten player. not that it actually matters matters but just. whatever. I do think the premise is neat

(though, that challenger audience was not keyed in enough! like omg if you're showing up to some random challenger to watch a top player on the injury comeback try to rack up some wins and the final is against the guy he played doubles with to win a junior slam, everyone watching would be SO aware of it. those spectators aren't just randomly being drawn into the drama, they know what's up!! you just know the challengers tv stream is racking up crazy figures. idk this is obviously more of a subtle thing, but I feel like it was supposed to give off the vibe of the non-tashi viewers being surprised by why they were being such weirdos all of a sudden but nah they would be ON IT with their patrick zweig backstory. including the fact he used to date tashi lol, like yeah they'd Get It)

I loved a lot of tashi's characterisation, how fucking obsessed she was with tennis and how everything was About Tennis for her... like yeah very real!! of course it eats her up!! I had a bit of a debate about this but I personally really liked the college tennis thing because it felt like a complete curve ball given her characterisation. it's good though, this idea that she wants to fool herself into believing she's more than hitting a ball but she's actually not... because of course she isn't.... none of these people are.... I like that element of self-delusion, even though it still... hm, I'm not entirely sure the film COMPLETELY sold me on that level of self-delusion because it was so obvious she didn't care about anything except for tennis... like it never quite felt entirely clear what she thought she was getting from that experience. but yeah, the central premise of it all... like the fact she just can't say goodbye to that world, that she can't really escape it, that she has to pursue something related to it to feel alive, even by proxy, the suspicion that all she needs art for is to have that kind of second hand thrill... really good!!

I was talking about this with the unfortunate recipient of my voice notes, and she's more familiar than I am with american college tennis than I am for the fairly obvious reason that only one of us has attended an american college. she said she'd discussed this with some of her friends and that that kind of injury did feel a touch unrealistic in the context of college tennis, partly because you're less likely to be playing with the kind of schedule that professional tennis requires of you. now, this doesn't really bother me, but I almost wish they'd leaned into the tragedy of it more - that it was unlikely and she didn't even get it while playing professional tennis! she was engaging in this grand act of self-delusion that there was more to her than tennis, which, let's face it, just really isn't a thing when you're a very good junior player, and she got injured before she ever even got close to 'making it'. it's tragic because it should never have happened. whatever injury art picked up (can't remember if they mentioned) would be statistically more likely to actually fuck you over, given their respective ages and time on tour and all that. you don't typically randomly get career ending injuries when you're running for a ball, not if you've trained properly - both in the sense that you're moving 'correctly' on the court and you've developed the muscles to protect yourself (which admittedly she was looking a touch light on). perfectly fine as a narrative choice, lean into it more

the churro college conversation between patrick and art was good, but that's another thing I would've integrated more into the tennis. like, the thing about him actually going for what he wanted and all that? you can do that through tennis! I also kinda wanted more of a sense of what tashi brought to the coaching dynamic, just something very simple and straightforward even the non-tennis viewing audience can understand. again, you've got this fairly obvious federer expy set up going on with art, and the glimpses we got of his game ... I mean mainly the one handed backhand, it does lean towards him being a player that's naturally oriented towards aggression. I would've maybe gone for the whole.... y'know. him not really being able to embrace that, him always holding himself back a little bit, not willing to fully give himself over and throw himself into the game. that tashi kinda has to get him to go for it, to go after the ball, to step into the court and use that technically excellent flat forehand stroke and trust himself to find those angles and rush the net and play the game, rather than letting the game play him. linking that into his loss of motivation post injury, where he feels like he's achieved what he wants to, where maybe he kinda retreats into himself. which is partly a motivation issue but also about trusting yourself post injury... not really being able to go after it in the same way any more, struggling to commit to that kind of aggressive mindset when your heart just isn't it any more. or something! just a thought!!

that's the thing right - sure, tennis might be a relationship, but the tennis will always be a character in its own right in whatever twisted threesome thing they've got going on. at the end of the day, the real toxic relationship is with the tennis! it's sad tashi can't leave it behind, it's tragic she's organising her whole life around something that'll always be lost to her. but it won't ever let her go, even though it hurt her, even though it caused her physical pain as well as emotional. it's the truest love in the whole film, tashi and the game itself, and all other love is subservient to that. it's also the most interesting relationship that needed to be... well, a little more foregrounded. she's always chasing that high, that moment of perfect communication and understanding and all that - and it's an entire lifetime of work, chasing the briefest of moments and now even that is gone. something she won't ever be able to recapture. she can't live her dream and she can't move on, so she is forever trapped, in stasis, frustrated and tormented by desires she can't act upon, the worst kind of repression imaginable. and it's not just about playing tennis in general - it's about playing matches. the height of competition, the moment in the point and in the match in which losing or winning feels like an equal possibility, where anything could happen but only one player will eventually emerge victorious... she's chasing the high of uncertainty, of suspense - the equivalent to showing up to the bedroom of two blokes and knowing anything could happen, not knowing yet what choice she will make, who will win, who will lose. if you really want to get abstract about this, she's essentially functioning as, y'know, the tennis gods with these two boys, where she is the one to make the choice of who wins and who loses. she is the one creating the uncertainty, the suspense. and she's doing it all for the love of the game, because that's all she ever truly loved

or that's what I think they should've gone for idk. I also have a few kinda dumb thoughts like 'ugh I needed more of a sense of what patrick's career looked like, are we talking never made it to the main draw of a 250 or slam quarterfinalist because both are plausible'. but anyway I think narratives in sports are neat and I wish more people did stuff like challengers did, even if I think I was just looking for something a little different from what that film was doing. you do kinda need somebody who's really into sports to do some of this stuff I feel, but. well. sports rivalries really is a bit of a tragically under-explored storytelling set up. they're good narratives. somebody write them

#basically i really enjoyed the film and i also would've really enjoyed editing it #sometimes you just dream of being the dick in the room going. okay does anyone know how good his fh dropper is #reminds me that one of my favourite games I sometimes play with voice note girl is transposing different athletes to different sports #like what their styles would be like if they did a different sport #because it kinda makes u think about what certain aspects of someone's approach says about them and what the equivalent is #anyway. I don't think you should be so beholden to reality that fact checking gets in the way of the narrative you're creating #BUT at times I feel like the actual 'reality' and the intricacies and the fine details can strengthen the narrative. like here!#//#also btw if anyone DOES read this and anything is unclear please do feel free to ask (obviously this goes for anything I post lol)#batsplat responds

16 notes · View notes

borisbubbles · 8 months ago

Text

Eurovision 2024: #17

17. MALTA Sarah Bonnici - "Loop" 35th place

youtube

Decade Ranking: 64/153 [Above Hooverphonic, below RAFAL]

TAKE A VIDEO, WATCH IT ON LoOOOoOoOOOP~

Officer, I'd like to report a robbery. Because THIS is not a last placer in Eurovision, are you fucking shitting me. Who the hell sees that performance and thinks "well this is obviously worse than Albania"?

Granted, Honeypie's struggle to climb off the bottom was always a steep one, long before Christer put the finale stake in her heart by having her open the strong semi. Malta's selection was the expected unwatcheable shitshow (amazing that somehow, Lux, Denmark AND Germany all managed to be worse) and it was a small miracle they picked something decent.

In this case the "decent" entry was shallow slutpop - LOOK I KNOW that term offends some people (get a life) but, that's what Loop was ok?! An anthem for the manwhores (or in my case, wannabe manwhores, in fact de facto hermits with a crippling fear of rejection) to be their salacious slaggy selves to. It's trashy and fun and as shallow as a puddle, which is how I like to see myself as. Under the guidance of Malta's lavish budget, "Loop" then blossomed into a budget SloMo and was the unexpected, but deserved winner of MESC.

(and she aborted that afterbirth Satan Banan in the process thank Mother Teresa for that)

Of course, "Being A SloMo" always comes with diminishing returns since the original holds such massive standards. Chanel to this day has the best live execution of a flirty girlbop. (evidenced by her clowining on Eleni during the opener of semi 1 ♥) "Budget SloMo" is going to struggle even harder than a regular clone with the powercreep, along with the Maltese flag, ALONG with the garbage R/O based on assumptions and betting odds (isn't it time we return to FULLY RANDOMIZED R/Os?) and along with the myriad of girlbops in the 2nd semi, most of which weren't outright trashfires.

However, despite "Loop"s many flaws, Sarah was always a shining beacon of grace and slaytitude. No matter what you think about the song (it's fine), that woman KNOWS how to put on a show, and that's precisely she did.

SARAH

FUCKING

SERVED

HUNTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Seriously, Aiko was good, but a lot of that the surprise factor of her discovering her newfound talent of breath control. I knew Sarah was good going into the semi, and she promptly proved that yes, all the diva's were born as a human beings. She was drawfucked, and that all it was, rly. (at least compared to Nutsa who had a similar package and a worse song). Sarah's✨ ditzy personality ✨ really shone through as she queened her way through her quartet of meatsack himbots.

(speaking of ditzy omg remember when all the dystopian joost shit went down on friday and sarah innocently announced amongst the confusion she had an IMPORTANT UPDATE TO MAKE AT 18:00, and it was her NEW SINGLE "Lose", ♥♥♥ every twitter dummy jumped to the conclusion that she was the 11th placer because her live had just been THAT GOOD ♥ and ofc she won the semi because she got to move on from eurovision 2024 fewer than 24 hours after her elimination, while the losers of the semi such as nemo contemplated quitting altogether. Slay, sister. 💋 )

"Loop" was also one of the rare instances of Malta nailing staging. I say rare and I mean it. Name two more examples? It's just both Ira 1.0 and Michaela, am I misremembering? Copy your homework from Chanel and you'll be good, lol.

So yeah, she came last in the semi. An NQ I can live with, but last is... unfair but hey, SHE WASN'T A DEMON OR A NUDIST or whatever the equivalent for semi 2 was (a traumatized zoomer monsterclown or a zionist nepobitch?). It's certainly was no help that Malta somehow decided to designate A DANCE BREAK (I initially wrote "the dance break" but lbr, Loop has at least five of them ♥) as the recap footage (pro-tip: the audience doesn't tune in for dance routines, but for the songs around them), but everything else was.. good? Vocals, act, even the song after a few retouches? There's obviously a ceiling to how high I can carry a "Loop", because it was never an actually good song, just a very fun empty vessel for Sarah to fill with her Ditzy Diva Deva personality. This spot (17th) is that ceiling.

For I recognize what "Loop" truly was.

The best NQ of the 2024.

THE RANKING

And that's indeed ALL of the NQs of the year eliminated before the verdant green (strong like) tier! I believe it's the first time that's happened since I started ranking ESC on tumblr? (it might be the first time ever ~ usually someone excellent is robbed). Hooray for (mostly) correct eliminations? And we have one more finalist to eliminate before we get there.

#eurovision #eurovision song contest #borisbubbles #esc #eurovision 2024 #ESC 2024 #Malmö 2024 #Malta #Sarah Bonnici #Loop #Youtube

16 notes · View notes

gwyns · 11 months ago

Note

“Azriel knew what Elain wanted! He took her to the gardens! I can’t wait for her to finally be seen in their/her book!”

Didn’t Lucien actually suggest to Feyre, for Elain to be taken out of the house for an hour or two? To take her to the sea, or to a garden? Funny how Azriel does this only after Lucien brought it up. Same with Cassian volunteering to rescue Elain first, offering her his knife, defending her from Amren, and so on and so on. Hmm…

yeah because wasn't elain in the house of wind for months before lucien arrived? and they only decided to move them once he and feyre had seen them?? and lucien said to get her out??? maybe i'm misremembering the chain of events but, even so... az had what, 2/3 months to get to know elain? to find out what she needed and help her out of her depression, and he didn't?? elain only started to perk up after lucien had been around her. hm... wonder why...

everything az has ever done for elain was first suggested by someone else, literally all of their "buildup" wasn't even him taking action, it was just him repeating what others said/did. this is the love story of the century folks!!!! 🥰

#antielriel #anti e/riel #asks #anonymous

8 notes · View notes

indeedcaptain · 1 year ago

Text

Regulatory Relations, chapter 8: The Amateur

LET'S GO :) One note that I forgot to mention from chapter 7: the latin in the wedding announcement translates to "to the stars through love".

Also posted on AO3 here!

☆☆☆

The rest of the shift passed in a blur of preparing for starbase arrival in five days and ruminating on the wedding in twenty-four hours. Janice Rand, after sending Kirk three padd messages asking if he needed help with anything and receiving no response, walked onto the bridge two hours before the end of alpha and asked Kirk point-blank about seating arrangements in the observatory for the next day. When he looked helplessly at Spock and shrugged, and the science officer only turned back to his sensors, Janice restrained herself from what Kirk thought would have been a well-deserved eye roll and told him that she and the yeomen would take care of it.

In the gymnasium two hours later, Spock had paired up his Suus Mahna students to show them how to move around each other. Kirk stood on the sidelines with Giotto.

“Congratulations, captain,” Giotto said, watching Spock circle the students and gently push their limbs into the right configurations.

“Thanks, commander,” Kirk said. “I appreciate that.”

“I always wondered, you know,” Giotto said. “There was something in the way you moved around each other when you sparred. It reminded me of myself and the missus, actually.”

Kirk turned to him in surprise. “You’re married?”

Giotto smiled, but only one corner of his mouth moved up. “I am, sir. Thirty-two years in a few months.”

“My congratulations to you too, then,” Kirk said, but he frowned slightly as he took in Giotto’s profile. “I’m sorry if I’m misremembering, but I didn’t think that you were listed as married in your personnel file. You’ve been with the Enterprise for… nearly twenty years, right?”

“That’s right, captain,” Giotto said. His voice was quiet, and he didn’t turn to meet Kirk’s eyes.

“So she’s not in the Fleet?”

“She is, captain.” Giotto’s face was turned to the demonstration in front of him, but his eyes were very far away.

“Wow,” Kirk said after a moment. “That sounds… extraordinarily difficult.”

“It is,” Giotto said softly. “I never wanted to ask about you and Mr. Spock, but when Scotty told me that April was trying to send him away, I was just…” He sighed. “I feared that you would go through what we did.” “And you and your wife aren’t stationed together because…?”

Giotto’s eyes finally met his. “Because she was my commanding officer on my first ship, and she and I both feared that if we went public with our relationship it would ruin her career. She said it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care, but I knew that she was lying. I couldn’t let her do it. This was a long time ago, too--- long before the brass started recognizing that relationships in crews were a strength, not a weakness.” He crossed his arms over his chest, still watching the group in front of him. “We married in secret and have lived separately ever since.”

Kirk turned fully to Giotto. “Sal, I’m so sorry.” He thought about the grief that he had felt at even the threat of losing his best friend to another posting. He couldn’t imagine enduring that, after being married, for thirty years.

“It is what it is, captain,” Giotto said. He eyed Kirk. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you that this is my last mission. I’m ready to go home.”

“And your wife?”

“She’s resigning as well. We’re going to buy a house in Cairo, near her family.”

Kirk hesitated, before reaching out and squeezing Giotto’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you. This crew owes you a lot. But I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, captain,” Giotto said. He smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. He turned back to where Spock was explaining something to the students, transitioning slowly and elegantly through a series of movements. They watched the Vulcan for a moment longer before Giotto added, “If I may be so bold, captain… it makes this old man glad to know that you and the commander will have the time that Mariam and I didn’t.”

Kirk’s throat constricted. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. Giotto nodded and turned back to watch Spock work. Kirk watched him too: watched the grace of his movement, the strong lines of his spine and arms and neck, the kindness and gentility in his instruction that so few got to see. Under the harsh lights of the gymnasium and with Giotto’s words circling in his head, he felt one of the bricks in the wall between his head and his heart crumble away. He had leapt at Pike’s suggestion not only because Spock was his best officer and his best friend, but because the idea of running out of time with Spock was ruinous to him. Kirk had wanted more away missions, more chess matches, more debates over breakfast, more of Spock’s incense seeping into his room at night. He wanted more of everything.

Spock bowed to his students, and they bowed back, before he left the mat and walked to Kirk.

“Captain,” Spock said, and Spock’s voice jolted Kirk out of his reverie. To his embarrassment, he realized that he had been staring dazedly at him for a socially inappropriate amount of time. Kirk blinked. “On what were you focused?”

“Nothing,” Kirk said. “Just staring into space.” He smiled and clapped Spock on the back before picking up their personal items from where they’d been abandoned on the ground. “Chess tonight?”

“Certainly,” Spock said, and Kirk waved to the security officers as they left. Giotto’s gaze followed them, and Kirk could have sworn that the hint of a smile remained on that craggy face as he watched them go.

☆☆☆

Spock made up for his loss to Kirk earlier in the week by trouncing him twice in a row. But when Kirk expected him to lean back triumphantly and cross one long leg over the other before folding his hands in his lap in the ultimate image of self-satisfaction, as was his custom, Spock only drew his eyebrows together and reset the chessboard for a third game.

“Alright,” Kirk finally said, as Spock placed the pieces on their proper squares. His usually nimble fingers were jerky in their movement. “What’s wrong?”

Spock placed the last tower on its square without meeting Kirk’s eyes. “Nothing, captain.”

“Bullshit,” Kirk said immediately. “Spock, come on. What’s going on?” Spock picked up the castle again and rolled it between his fingers.

“It is… illogical.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Every human wedding I have attended has taken place on this ship,” Spock said after a moment. “Each has seemed to have similar traditions.”

“Such as?”

Spock paused for so long that Kirk was about to prompt him again before he said, tightly, emotionlessly, “Such as kissing.”

Oh. Oh, god. He hadn’t even thought, beyond Janice’s questions this afternoon, about the mechanics of a wedding. He felt his face start burning. “Do Vulcans kiss at weddings?” Kirk ventured.

“They do,” Spock allowed. “But it is not the same as humans.”

“Would you rather do that?”

“No, captain,” Spock said immediately, more sharply than Kirk expected. “No, thank you. But I am---” Spock cut himself off, an uncharacteristic sound.

“Spock, we don’t have to do it. Kiss, I mean.” As he said it, though, a single cold drip of disappointment cut through his core. For a second, he saw Spock’s face up close in his mind, those warm eyes sliding shut, that stoic face relaxing minutely, lips parting---

Kirk blinked rapidly, clearing the sudden and unexpected image from his mind, ignoring the warmth in his stomach. “I meant it. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“It is not the act itself I am apprehensive about,” Spock said. Was he blushing, or was it a trick of the dim lighting? He stood and paced to his shelves, clasping his hands behind his back. “Forgive me, captain.” There was an unnatural pause. “I cannot help but be aware of the vast discrepancy in experience between the two of us.” Spock’s voice was unnaturally tight, like saying the words out loud was an act of extreme exertion. His posture was so ramrod-straight that it looked painful.

Spock’s odd behavior suddenly came into perfect focus. He was nervous. His proud, taciturn, aloof Vulcan was nervous about a kiss. Kirk was filled with an unsuppressable fondness as he watched Spock pretend to straighten one of his Vulcan artifacts on the shelf.

“Mr. Spock,” he said, filling his voice with feigned offense. “Are you calling me easy?” He stood as Spock whirled.

“Jim, no,” Spock said immediately, but the horrified look in his eyes faded as he registered Kirk smiling at him, coming to stand next to him. In the back of his mind, Kirk recognized their positions as the ones they had held only a few days ago, when Kirk proposed to him and Spock had agreed.

“You’ve kissed someone before, haven’t you?” Kirk had a memory of a pretty blonde woman laying on Spock’s chest, but now he couldn’t remember her face; only that the idea of her made him uneasy.

Spock tilted his head, but did not look at Kirk. “In a manner of speaking,” he said, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled. “Leila Kalomi. On Omicron Ceti III.”

“The botanist? From the spore planet?”

“Yes,” Spock said. Kirk angled himself to look up at Spock more closely: in the half-light of Spock’s quarters, the angles of his face were thrown into sharp relief. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “When I was under the influence of the plant.”

Yes, that’s what Kirk was remembering: the woman who had loved Spock, who had been the conduit for Spock’s uncharacteristic whimsy on the planet. He had felt so betrayed when he had been ignored for hours and gone to find Spock, certain that he was injured or worse, and instead found him tangled and laughing with someone in a field. He felt a flash of guilt as he recalled what he had said to Spock to break him out of the plant’s hold.

But then he considered what Spock had said, with growing horror. He asked quietly, “Would you have kissed her without the spores?”

Spock’s eyes flashed to him, then back to the shelf. “No, captain.”

Kirk wiped his face with his hand, all the more guilty for what he had said to Spock, even if he hadn’t meant it. “Spock, I’m sorry,” he said. He turned fully to face him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Kaiidth,” Spock said, but he sounded almost mournful. He cleared his throat. “Regardless, I now find myself to have little applicable experience and a public forum in which to make that readily apparent.”

Kirk turned around, leaning against the vertical post of the shelf behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Spock. Spock refused to meet his gaze. Kirk felt an almost physical click in his head as his conscious brain registered what his subconscious had been telling him for a while now: Spock was beautiful. As if for the first time, Kirk reconsidered the elegant lines of his eyebrows, the planes of his cheeks, the soft straight line of his lips. The warmth in his stomach burned again as he thought, shamefully, secretly, about what it would feel like to kiss him, about how it was a damn shame that Spock had not been kissed properly.

His heart pounded as he realized that he wanted to be the one to do it. Desire burned in his blood in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. He felt the memory of Spock’s hand on his hip, the dreamt memory of his arms around his waist.

Kirk asked, as steadily as he could manage, “Would it help you if tomorrow weren’t the first time?” One part of him screamed that he was being selfish. Another part of him was willing to do anything that would sap the tension from Spock’s unhappy posture. The last part of him, smaller, newer, deeper, wanted desperately to kiss Spock, to see his eyes close and feel Spock’s skin against his. Spock’s eyes snapped to him. Kirk kept his face neutral.

“Captain, I have already taken too many liberties with you,” Spock said. “I cannot ask you to---”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Kirk said, cutting him off. “I offered. You’re uncomfortable. I can help.”

Spock hesitated, but he shifted on his feet, angling himself towards Kirk. He looked down between them, and Kirk could see the soft fringe of his dark eyelashes against the pale green of his cheeks. Kirk had already known, in an abstract kind of way, that Spock was handsome. He was tall and strong, lean and graceful. But how many people had ever seen him vulnerable like this? How many people had Spock ever admitted an emotion to?

“Captain, do not feel obligated to do this,” Spock said softly.

“It’s just a kiss,” Kirk said, trying terribly to convince himself of the same. “Let me help.”

Spock’s eyes met his. Kirk shifted forward slowly, giving Spock time to pull back if he wanted. But he did not: Kirk saw him inhale, saw him tilt his head to the side to the slightest degree. He felt Spock’s trust in him like a physical weight on his shoulders. As Kirk paused, inches from Spock’s face, their breath mingling in the warm room, the force of how badly he wanted it pressed all the air from his lungs. If he was only going to get two chances at this--- this kiss, and tomorrow’s--- he was going to make sure he did it right.

Kirk stepped forward into Spock’s space, tilting his face up, bringing his hand to cup the back of Spock’s head. He put his other hand on Spock’s waist, pulling them into alignment. He felt Spock inhale one more time, saw his eyelids flutter closed just like he had imagined. Then Kirk closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Spock’s.

All the tumultuous racket and jangling anxiety in Kirk’s head fell silent at the brush of Spock’s lips against his, as his entire universe narrowed to Spock. For one infinite second, Spock stood frozen in his arms, unmoving. Kirk just held him close, waited for Spock to either push him away or encourage him on. Just as he was about to step back, taking Spock’s stillness as discomfort, Spock’s lips parted on a sigh and opened for him. Kirk opened his mouth to deepen the kiss and brushed his tongue against Spock’s lip.

His spine hit the pillar of the shelf behind him as Spock pushed them backwards. His arm wrapped around Kirk’s back, pulling him against his chest. Spock’s other hand came up to his face, his thumb sliding along his jaw, his long fingers threading through Kirk’s hair. Kirk let Spock tilt his head further, feeling Spock’s hand against the back of his head, the strength of his body against Kirk’s. He slid his hand further up to rest on Spock’s ribs, and he could feel the thrumming of the Vulcan heart beneath. After a moment of letting Kirk lead, Spock copied what he had done, hesitantly sliding his tongue into Kirk’s mouth. The wet heat of it lit him up, every point of contact sparking like static. He pulled Spock into him and Spock’s uncertainty melted away, and he pressed Kirk back against the shelf until he was arching against him. Kissing Spock felt as natural as breathing, lips and tongues moving in an instinctual rhythm that matched Kirk’s pounding heartbeat.

How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? As their lips parted, Spock bowed his head, pressing their foreheads together. Kirk heard Spock’s shaky inhale as much as he felt it, through the expansion of his ribcage under his hands and his chest against his own. Kirk opened his eyes to find Spock watching him, his pupils huge in the dark room. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Spock disentangled his arms from around Kirk and took a minute step backwards. Kirk released his hold on Spock and trapped his hands behind his back, bracing himself on the steady line of the shelf behind him. What now? What the hell could possibly come next?

“Jim,” Spock said, but he left whatever he had wanted to say unsaid, and instead looked down. A flash of uncertainty crossed his face. Suddenly the room felt suffocatingly warm, the collar of Kirk’s shirt too tight around his skin.

“Well, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, forcing a levity he didn’t feel into his voice. He reached out, grabbed Spock’s shoulder, squeezed it, dropped it. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about in terms of needing practice.”

“I---,” Spock said, and he clasped his hands behind his back, his porcelain mask sliding back down over his expression as he asserted control over himself once more. “Thank you, captain. I am… less apprehensive now.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Spock.” Kirk looked around the room, desperate to break the sudden tension, to free himself from the magnetic pull that was inexorably drawing his hands back to Spock’s waist, to the delicate skin at the back of his neck. “Shall we play another match, or call it for the night?”

Spock seemed to recognize and appreciate Kirk’s efforts at normalcy, because after a beat he quirked an eyebrow and said, “Two losses are not enough for you this evening, captain?”

“Best of five, then,” Kirk said, but he removed himself from the shelf and took three steps towards the door. Spock walked with him the rest of the five steps across his quarters and opened the door for him.

“Good night, captain. And thank you.” Spock’s voice was sincere, and his eyes were warm even as his face remained impassive. God help him, but Kirk was flooded with the need to steal another kiss before he left. Anything to feel Spock sigh into his mouth again. Instead he smiled and said, “Anytime, Mr. Spock.” He stepped out into the corridor and the turbodoor slid shut behind him. The walk to his own door had never seemed so long. Somehow he punched his own code into his keypad with numb fingertips and managed to get himself into his room before he collapsed on his bed.

As he flopped backwards to stare at the ceiling, Kirk heard Bones’s warning echoing in his ears: What happens when you get too close? Oh, but it was too late for that now. He was already too close. He was only human, and touch-starved after three years with nothing more intimate than back slaps and short hugs, and the man who understood him best in this universe had touched him with such gentle, easy affection and then kissed him breathless.

He tried to picture anyone else’s face: Gary’s, or Carol’s, even Edith Keeler’s, anything to displace the image of Spock’s open, vulnerable face right before he let Kirk kiss him. But he couldn’t keep anyone else’s image in his head. They all turned back into Spock. Spock, who had held him so closely and pushed him back against the bookshelf, who had admitted his fears to Kirk and then allowed him to help.

Kirk pressed his hands to his forehead as he recontextualized his feelings from the past few days: how he had felt when Spock caught his head from hitting the ground, when Spock recommended his thesis to his scientists, when Spock wrapped his arm around his waist and let him lean against his chest. He felt warm. He felt giddy. He felt protected, cared for, understood.

“No,” he said out loud. “It’s not like that for us. We’re just friends.” Kirk closed his eyes. Even to himself, it didn’t sound as convincing as it had in Bones’s office. His silent room mocked him. He wiped his hands down his face, dragging his cheeks down, feeling the words bubble up inside him. He could still feel Spock’s hands in his hair, on his face, tilting his head back, his tongue sliding into Kirk’s mouth.

“I want him,” he whispered, and it burned, and it was true. He opened his eyes. “Oh, shit.”

#spirk #my writing #k/s #kirk/spock #regulatory relations #fake married #k/s fan fiction #kirk/spock fan fiction

8 notes · View notes