#perhaps an ill-advised series of comments

[msclaritea]

Explained | Snow White live-action remake: Why is Disney classic stirring modern controversy? - Entertainment News

"Zegler's honest, but perhaps ill-advised, remarks on the original film's dated portrayal of gender dynamics and her vision for a more empowered Snow White added fuel to the fire. In an interview last year, she told Extra TV, "The original cartoon came out in 1937, and very evidently so. There’s a big focus on her love story with a guy who literally stalks her. Weird! Weird! So we didn’t do that this time. We have a different approach to what I’m sure a lot of people will assume is a love story just because we cast a guy in the movie. All of Andrew’s scenes could get cut, who knows? It’s Hollywood, baby (Andrew being actor Andrew Jonathan who plays the role of a prince who awakens Snow White with a kiss)." 

The response to her comments, let's say, was less than wholesome. Traditionalists yearning for the comforting embrace of nostalgia and seeking a faithful recreation of the animated classic, reviled Zegler, sharing on social media claiming how Zegler is dark-skinned and ugly as compared to the image of Snow White they have in their minds. They will probably continue to complain until the movie comes out. or even after that. Some did celebrate her comments, and the chance to challenge conventions in a new adaption of the classic tale for modern audiences.

The clash between tradition and progress extended to the portrayal of love and feminism. Zegler's assertion that the prince in the original was akin to a "stalker" was met with resistance from those who romanticised everything about the original. Once you become emotionally attached to something or even an idea of that something, reason vanishes. Zegler's declaration that the new Snow White wouldn't rely on the prince for salvation challenged the very idea of the story those traditionalists had in their minds. Thus, Zegler became not Snow White but the Evil Queen for them."

YO, CAN SOMEONE SEND ME SOME BOOTS? I JUST STEPPED INTO A VAT OF BULLSHIT! Below is a list from Wiki of Love Action remakes of Snow White, just in the 2000s. There were over 12 others before then. Two of them from Germany, featuring ONLY the Dwarves. Was the writer of this article counting on short term memory?

7 Dwarves – Men Alone in the Wood (7 Zwerge – Männer allein im Wald) (2004), a German comedy film

The Brothers Grimm (2005), an adventure fantasy film directed by Terry Gilliam and starring Matt Damon, Heath Ledger, and Lena Headey

7 Dwarves: The Forest Is Not Enough (7 Zwerge – Der Wald ist nicht genug) (2006), sequel to the 2004 German film 7 Dwarves – Men Alone in the Wood

Sydney White (2007), a modernization, starring Amanda Bynes

Blancanieves (2012), a silent Spanish film based on the fairy tale.

Mirror Mirror (2012), starring Julia Roberts as the Evil Queen Clementianna,[93] Lily Collins as Snow White, Armie Hammer as Prince Andrew Alcott, and Nathan Lane as Brighton, the Queen's majordomo.

The Huntsman series:

Snow White and the Huntsman (2012), starring Kristen Stewart, Charlize Theron, Chris Hemsworth, and Sam Claflin.

The Huntsman: Winter's War (2016), which features Snow White as a minor character.

How is it that people are throwing so-called fits over live adaptations when some of these others are quite recent and varied in storyline? We're all used to the modern twisting of fairy tales. What some are not used to is being so inartifully and clumsily lectured about male female relationships by an actress who looks about 12 years old. You know what this is about: Interference and ongoing attempted sabotage of the Disney brand.

[sociallym]

It's been a while since I've posted to all followers but in the week when the NSPCC revealed an 89% increase in grooming crimes against children over the last six years and Childline reported having given over 900 counselling sessions to children who were victims of 'sextortion' in the last two years alone, now felt like the right time to say something from a professional standpoint.

As a professional who has advised people how to use social media for business for more than 10 years now, and in my current role as a Designated Safeguarding Lead in a secondary school, I now find myself in a unique position as someone who should be using his knowledge and experience to help. I still love social media and how it can help small businesses and underdogs compete with massive corporations, but being a father myself, I am equally worried about the risks that the platforms represent when, like any other technology, they are in the wrong hands or used by those with ill intentions.

I am considering writing a series of posts/talks designed to help parents understand the risks to their children that social media can represent. I've always felt that when it comes to social platforms it's all too easy to put the onus on tech companies to make their platforms safer or put controls in place to protect children. Our responsibility begins as adults, to make ourselves more informed, to have difficult conversations with our children and hopefully before the damage is done.

Perhaps, that's where I should come in. Maybe I should be helping to bridge the gap in peoples' knowledge and offering advice where it's required. It's a new direction for Socially-M as a business/speaker but it's very close to my heart in both my professional roles inside and outside of school.

As ever, I am always grateful to hear what you have to say, so your thoughts are very welcome. Let me know what you think in the comments below, or feel free to message me privately if you don't want to share your experience publicly.

Yours Socially

M

[sews-over-hoes]

The next Avatar hails from Ba Sing Se, a shy, introverted young man born into a political family with rumored shady dealings. Unfortunately, our Avatar discovers his fate following a terrible tragedy of some kind: someone wisely took advantage of the several years between Korra’s death and the full training of the new Avatar to do something truly awful (to be determined). Already, his family is implicated in the destructive event, and conspiracies fly, especially when his Avatar status is revealed through a series of carefully-worded press releases. Namely, the question arises: did his family somehow manipulate the Avatar line to ensure their child took on this important mantle, thus covering their tracks and bolstering their reputation?

The flames of this theory are only fanned when our Avatar is held quietly and secretly within his family’s mansion; the young man makes periodic appearances but always seems shy, even fearful of other people. A string of tutors, both for bending and for other aspects of his education, come and go from the family home, but little information is actually available about the world’s newest hero.

One of those tutors is a middle-aged man named Meelo, sent by his sister Jinora, the current leader of the revived Air Nomads, to train the Avatar in air bending. Jinora hopes Meelo’s positive attitude and ability to make friends with anyone will make him more successful (although he’s annoyed to leave his grumpy husband behind). Meelo immediately notices that something is up with this family. While the new Avatar warms to him immediately, Meelo suspects the family is not enabling the Avatar to be all that he can be. To Meelo’s shock, the young Avatar doesn’t even seem to be aware that he can contact the Avatar lineage via meditation. He teaches the boy, who takes to it quickly. Upon his first successful meditation, however, we see the awful truth we have all feared: the only former Avatar spirit he can speak with is Korra, who is ill-equipped to advise a young man who has been raised in fear by a paranoid and overbearing family.

Meelo is summarily dismissed, returning to his sisters and put-upon husband to inform them of his suspicions. They concoct a plan to free the young Avatar of his baffling bonds, but he is one step ahead of them. The young Avatar, perhaps 13 or 14 now, misses his friend Meelo, and has become frustrated with his lack of action. He is also frustrated with Korra, who continues to be utterly incapable of dealing with an Avatar who seems to have no instinct and comes to her to ask her permission for almost everything he does. It is clear they are not going to be okay.

Eventually, our Avatar leaves his home, having been inspired by a book Meelo had snuck him: a biography of Toph, which falls squarely in “forbidden literature” by his parents. (The book, of course, was written completely against Toph’s wishes, and the sheer number of instances the book says “Toph declined to comment” is staggering.)

The young Avatar sets out to learn about his Avatar heritage and do his damn job, his penchant for research and “book learnin” leading him from one resource to another. We see appearances from all of Tenzin’s kids, Mako, Bolin, lots of people. Meanwhile he drops into meditation to speak with Korra every chance he gets, even though they literally do not understand each other AT ALL, and the encounters only serve to piss both of them off.

Eventually the Avatar has to learn how to trust himself blah blah but all of this to say please give me a next Avatar who literally only has Korra to deal with and can’t stand her.

[mangokiwitropicalswirl]

Gillovny and Buyer’s Remorse

I don’t know if this is necessary or even helpful. We probably don’t need anymore voices weighing in on the state of things in the fandom, so if you’re sick of things and want to look past this, please do. If you venture below the cut, please take this in the spirit you know I intend it -- as a longtime X Files fan with a sometimes-too-soft heart that was weaned on MSR yearning, but who is also striving for a clear-eyed grasp of reality. Here goes:

 Since the events of last October, we have had two stark options. 1. To believe that G and D were in a romantic relationship that had come to an abrupt end sometime in September (factoring in Chicago Con, Schmoopie shirts and kind comments about “new incarnation of friendship” uttered at cons early last fall).  Or, option 2. To accept that what we saw, read and observed between D and G over the preceding 2 (3?) years was literally nothing more than their typical handsy BFF behavior and a liberal dose of fandom trolling.

Many people were easily able to accept option #2 and move on. Others felt that option #1 might have been the case, and if so, well, earlier behavior on twitter was understandably coming to an end.

But Option #1 didn’t really bear out as we observed a few continued playful interactions between G and D on twitter and nothing but positives on Ds end when he spoke about her at a con in January. And then came the Webby’s, which put to rest any idea that there might have been an acrimonious breakup of any kind.

Which circles us all back to option #2. Which is where we are today.

I see a lot of posts claiming that Gillovny fans are “angry” at G for her trolling of fans throughout the past couple years, but I haven’t seen much of that anger. What has been hard to stomach for those of us who have been slow to accept Option #2, is the accusation that I am somehow “not happy for Gillian” because she isn’t “dating who I want.”

This is ridiculous.

Of course I am happy if G is happy. Who she dates is something I have absolutely no control over, nor would I want to. She obviously knows herself, knows what she needs from a relationship, and has her own history with men to work with. I -- and I dare say, none of the folks who shipped Gillovny -- would never suggest that I somehow know better for her than she knows for herself.

And yet, we’re stuck with feelings. Lots of feelings. And I have been trying to pin down the nature of those feelings a little more precisely. It’s not anger, because that would assume there was something to be angry about. And it’s not sadness, because again, why should I be sad if Gillian is happy?

No, the feeling I am feeling is a very serious and intense case of buyer’s remorse.

Because I. Fucking. Bought it.

I bought into the Gillovny ship big time. It honestly was part of what brought me back into the fandom because, lord knows, the narrative of two old sometimes-at-odds costars now blissfully happy to be together (in whatever form) was a damn better narrative than ANYTHING written in season 10. And here’s the crux:

I bought into the Gillovny ship because it was being sold to me. They sold the ever-loving shit out of it for several years.

Some people will say we should not have bought it, that Gillian always maintained it was a game, that David tried to sternly shut it down numerous times. But to say we shouldn’t have bought it is sort of like saying to a person during the subprime mortgage crisis that they shouldn't have taken the stupidly low mortgage rate on a beautiful house that’s sitting right in front of them. Gillovny was sitting right in front of us. It was set up for us to buy into.

And even though occasionally a realtor might pipe up and remind you, “Hey this house has kind of a shaky foundation, perhaps don't buy it,” we did anyway. I bought it. This gorgeous newly renovated Victorian with the wraparound porch and a pool in the back where you can swim all day in your red speedos.

Why did we do this? Mostly, because we LOVE watching them together. The intensity of their smiles at one another could power the fuel needs of a small country. It was the sight of them together that powered us through more than a few (cough *half* cough) lackluster seasons and films of a weird, incoherent show about aliens.

Don’t mishear me, either. I don’t mean to imply that there is NOTHING between D and G. There is obviously a shit ton of chemistry and a lot of affection. That is REAL. It always has been. What I’m talking about is the Gillovny narrative and how far it was teased and toyed with, which is something altogether different.

But now, we look back on this house that we bought, this narrative, and we realize there's never been a foundation. We bought the big beautiful house at the persuasion of the delightful realtors, and now we are left trying to figure out how to pay for it all emotionally.

And our friends down the street who (wisely) never made a down payment on the house, are laughing at us, telling us to grab our stuff and MOVE THE FUCK OUT when we are still enamored of the beauty of the place. We took out a 23-year mortgage and now we’re underwater. It’s hard to just pick up and move.

Not only that, from the moment of Gillian holding up the Duchovny jersey at the 2015 TCAs to the August 2016 Schmoopie shirt, it has been 100% in David and Gillian’s best interest for us to buy into Gillovny.  I’ll say that again. Despite repeated denials throughout that timeframe, AND some noteable non-denials (e.g. WHHL), it remained in their best financial interest to fuel the rumors and draw attention to themselves by any and all means. And I’ll add -- it is also in Orlando Jones’s and Bryan Fuller’s, and anybody else interested in harnessing the power of Gillovny to garner attention for their show or project. Gillovny sells, bitches.

Think of it like the realtor trying to sell you the house you can’t afford.  Sure, she may occasionally remind you that maybe you shouldn’t buy into this one, but in the end, she’s getting the commission, so why would she really try that hard to stop you?

If you:

bought the XF season 10 DVD,

subscribed to Netflix to watch X Files, Aquarius, or The Fall,

bought photo ops or VIP packages at any of the Comic Cons,

bought tickets to Streetcar,

donated to Lick-my-Face, Childreach Int’l or other DDGA charities,

tickets to David’s concerts,

David’s album,

Gillian’s novels,

Gillian’s WE book and its various causes and events,

David’s novels,

a magazine with their photos on the cover,

a photo sold by a photographer (hi Mark Mann),

started a Tumblr blog (hello there ad clicks),

followed them on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook (hello Q score)

Or any of the other numerous ways in which money can be generated by your interest in and devotion to them as interesting and noteworthy individuals, you have participated in this celebrity transactional relationship.

I am not pointing fingers because I certainly have done about 30% of the things on the above list. The nature of our relationship to celebrities is by necessity one of transaction. We buy what they are selling, and in this case, we were buying the narrative of Gillian and David together. Their chemistry is ceaselessly watchable, so much so that it spills over from the X-Files to fuel interest in their other projects. They have used it to marvelous success.

But remember that every time you spend money on a DVD or a concert ticket, a theater ticket or a book, you're engaging in a transaction between yourself and their brand. NOT between yourself and a real, actual individual.

Here are my own actual financial Gillovny-prompted expenditures:

Season 10 Revival DVD - $19.95 (free shipping, thanks Amazon prime)

David’s new novel on Kindle - $12

Donation to Gillian’s Skype call auction - $75

Purchase of two of Gillian’s shirts for SAYes charity - $125

Grand total = $231.95 

This might sound crass. Or it might sound obvious. But it bears remembering as we work through our disappointment that the romantic narrative we were sold had no basis in reality. Tweets and media mentions are all part of brand creation, and both David and Gillian have benefited from the idea of a relationship between them. It never made sense for them to shut things down entirely as long as there still remained projects and charities to bring attention to. Gillian’s charity t-shirt auctions were a marvelous way to monetize the Gillovny brand for good.

Where we’re stuck now, though, is that all of a sudden, we have been asked to buy something else. Back in the fall, Brand Gillovny went offline, very nearly taking X Files season 11 with it.  In its place, we have been offered, Brand The Crown, and Brand Serious Charity Work, Brand Feminism Book and Brand Rockstar.  Some folks have made the switch to these new brands easily, while others are still reeling a bit from the sudden change.

What saddens me is the attitude that if someone hasn’t been able to transfer their brand loyalty seemlessly, somehow that means we aren’t as genuine a fan of David or Gillian as we should be. Let’s just remember, none of us has a relationship with G or D. We only have a relationship with their image, and therefore, it is okay not to want to continue a relationship with an image that has changed in a way that we don’t like as much.  I don’t have to move into the house next door to the house I actually wanted just because it’s in the same neighborhood.

It’s pointless now to go back over the last couple years looking for clues or debating what was true and what wasn’t. It would be easy to pass all sorts of judgements on the appropriateness of certain branding choices (I’m looking at you WHHL and Schmoopie shirt), but no answers will satisfy everyone.

I hope that thinking about D & G in this way might help those of us who’re reeling from the death of our dream house, and also help those who have successfully moved on understand those of us who may not have done so yet.

Peace fandom. And hope for a great season 11. Because MSR is why we were here in the first place, and fiction is forever.

[2405omu]

Can I ask for more Dysfunct Interim please? Its my favorite fic right now, I think I've read it like eight times at least. I just got into the Imperial Radch this summer, and your fic was also my gateway into the MB series. Also I really want to know what Mercy of Kalr was thinking watching MB, because it probably has a very interesting view of events XD.

Oh jeez that's amazing to hear thank you so much!

And yeah I really want to work on Dysfunct (I'm excited to see where they're going too) but I got caught in a job that is just not a great fit for me lol.

I can give you a teaser though! If you'd like a mercy of Kalr POV. I have more written that hints at what it's thinking but I think I might save those :)

In the episode of Signature Identity Jian had shared with me, the human protagonist had just done something ill-advised. Outwardly in response, Jian frowned at the wall. However, she was speaking in our shared space, and her comments are as follows:

That’s a massive fuck up, what an idiot.— (the dramatic music swells, and the human looks panicked) I fucking told you so, look at that. Humans are so stupid. You’d think he would have taken the fucking hint, but no, he has to be fucking determined because it’s his dream or whatever. He could have at least woken his son up or performed some tests on the fuel. Even I know you have to do that before attempting space-flight in your shitty homemade shuttle.

It was an anthology series. This episode, Stellar Harvester, was a period drama set before spaceflight was common. Here, they worked with the theory that humanity originated from a planet with at least one moon (this one had four) and humans had tested spaceflight by visiting the closest; they had also established that a governing body controlled the rights to spaceflight (Large governing bodies in control were a reoccurring theme in Jian’s media.) Stellar Harvester focused on a human who had been part of an official space-flight project, but left to care for his family; however, he still dreamed of going to space and built a rocket on his own, with his son, unofficially. The governing body was demanding that he dismantle the illicit space craft on threat of fines and/or repossession of his large agricultural property where the rocket was stored.

In response he had just attempted a premature launch, failed takeoff, and crashed. The camera was currently focused on his prone body in an ancient medical facility, surrounded by his children and marital partners.

It was ill-advised. I told Jian, who responded with more derisive heckling. Amaat Eight had just grabbed Amaat Six’s shoulder.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” she was saying, but her vitals were indicating doubt and apprehension. Some anxiety. “But I just don’t want you to…” she hesitated, uncertain in the face of Six’s frown. (Amaat Six wasn’t actually offended, yet, but was prepared to be. She was actually mostly concerned by Amaat Eight’s uncharacteristic struggle for words.) “I don’t want… you to have an unbalanced relationship. It’s not healthy, offering Citizen Jian things that she won’t return. It can hurt you.”

Amaat six was relieved by this outcome, and her shoulders relaxed. She smiled at Eight. “It’s appreciated, but I know that already. As I said, I don’t expect anything like that from her— In fact, I don’t think that’s what I want from her at all, at least right now. And if that changes I will handle it as I go,” Amaat Eight relaxed slightly, but she was still apprehensive. Six pat the hand that Eight had set on her shoulder, and gently removed it. “I do appreciate it though, truly. If you think I’m being an idiot, I expect you to tell me.”

This actually eased Eight, and she scoffed. “I always think you’re being an idiot, how will I choose only a few times to tell you?” she paused to allow Six to shove her. “Ah! Perhaps I will ask Ship to set a constant reminder for you.”

I considered interjecting. Perhaps informing them that it was, indeed, an option while feigning ignorance about the jest. (By now, all my officers knew that I would be feigning ignorance of anything, but most of them still found it amusing. Eight and Six were perfect targets for that sort of thing.) I chose to let them be for now, but shared the moment with my Fleetcaptian. She was interested, amused, and just a little bit exasperated, as I expected.

Jian paused Stellar Harvester, grimacing now. She had decided she wanted to watch something else, now that the human was going to rebuild the rocket and try again. Jian hadn't said it yet, but she didn't have to.

Are we skipping to the next episode?

I used 'We' carefully. In most contexts, Jian wanted to be isolated. A singular 'you'. However, when watching media it seemed to discomfort her somewhat if I didn't imply I was watching as well. A participatory 'we'.

No. She replied with immense distaste. I don't think this is a good series for me. Someone somewhere has to appreciate it for it to have the ratings it does, but I sure as fuck don't. The episode stayed paused for half a second as I assume she considered this, then it and the remaining 10 episodes of Signature Identity dropped from the queue.

Medic dropped a cotton-tipped applicator on the floor as she was restocking her supplies, and the burst of irritation, exasperation and throttled rage manifested as a derisive grunt directed at the floor. She lifted the offending hand to glare at each finger individually, then held it out in front of her at a few different angles, critically measuring the shake.

Medic needs assistance with restocking. What are we watching next?

Jian didn't so much as burst into action, as she simply went from not moving to walking. It's a strange thing to describe; even when I had ancillaries, there was a shift in body language between stillness and motion. Jian seems to be made of stone one moment, then fluid the next. She has told me that some of her code that mimics human function annoys her, and that she has turned the smaller movements off (respiratory reactions, tactile stimming, etc.) So I assume that is it the uneven balance of a perfectly human walking gait (with an error margin of .4%) with none of the perfectly human fidgets that make it so uncanny.

I don't know yet. Do you have any stored media?

A new question, but one I had been expecting for the last 9.62 hours. I passed some of the musicals and feel-good movies I kept for when my officers were ill. I had other media, but this is what I gave to Jian.

Jian has offered to help you with restocking. She is on her way.

Medic snorted as she slid the top panel of her cart shut. "Now did she offer, Ship, or did you not give her an option?"

I told her that you may need assistance.

There was not a way to make myself sound sly, but Medic reacted as though I had.

Oh. This is awful. Jian was shuffling through the musicals, skimming the synopses with a speed I still wasn't quite used to from anyone but myself or another ship. Let's watch this one first.

She selected My Hours of Sunlight's Embrace and started organizing the queue while the opening sequence played, occasionally making a comment on the production quality, or the obvious differences between her media and mine that were already becoming evident.

I had seen this one several times, though it wasn't exceptionally popular among this batch of my officers. In fact, they tended to favor the musicals with more explicitly romantic or sexual sub-plots. (I wasn't surprised that Jian had seemed to filter the Media I'd shared based on how much it focused on human relationships). I settled part of myself with Jian anyway, careful to give her an indication of my partial awareness. New perspectives were always enjoyable.

[takaraphoenix]

This is one of my favorite types of bizarre AO3 interactions and I’m wondering how many others have experience with that.

It starts with someone being a prick in your comment section. Unwanted criticism, literally just being “I don’t like this” like that is of any interest to you as the author, or a more ill-mannered take on that. Either way, a shitty comment.

You, as the author, replied to them one way or another to let them know their comment was uncalled for.

And then a third party joins in. A reader who actually came to leave a nice comment, saw the shitty comment and gave their two cents defending you/your fic/your writing and calling the asshole out on being an asshole.

That’s never a two message exchange. It usually escalates into a lengthy argument. Until, at one point, the original commenter will go back to your last reply so they can reply to it and complain why you, as the author, aren’t reigning your commenter in.

And let me add that I’ll never let these things escalate into genuine threats or uncalled for language. But I am absolutely staying out of these conversations because I am no longer involved in this conversation; I had my own conversation with the original commenter and whatever’s going on right now, it’s between these two people.

That’s the fascinatingly bizarre part for me though. This person not only decided to be an asshole about free fanfiction - like, there’s a back-button, if they dislike it, they could just click out of it, but no, they decided to go into the comment section and had the need to let the author know they disliked it - but they did so in a public space, accessible for third parties.

If you post something online, you have to expect a reaction. If you can not handle the backlash of being an asshole, perhaps consider not being an asshole! Just, as a general piece of advise.

But the additional assumption that, what, I have some kind of hive-mind with my readers and as their queen bee I control their actions? The thing about posting something in a public space where everybody can reply to it is that other people might have thoughts on that too. I mean, what, I went to my readers and cried about a mean comment, pointing them the way of the commenter and ordered to “torment” the asshole?

No, my Dear Anonymous Shitheads series specifically never features what fic the comment is on because I actually don’t want that kind of behavior. I don’t want someone to feel the need to enact revenge on my behalf or whatever and go terrorize the shithead at hand.

It never occurs to these kind of people that other people may come across someone being an asshole and might just not like that. I, personally, would probably be that way too, to be quite frank. If I’d click into the comment section of a fic I just read and that I adored, just to see someone shitting on it, I might not be able to keep my five cents on the matter to myself either, because that kind of behavior is just shitty.

Whenever this happens and that original commenter then comes whining to me about not reigning in my readers, I just kind of... shake my head. Because you come barging into my house, where I am having tea and a nice conversation with a wanted guest, just to yell at me that you hate my furniture and that what I’ve done with the place sucks and when my guest speaks up to tell you you’re out of line, you turn to me and complain that I let them talk to you like that. In my own house. Into which you barged to be a prat. Absolutely brilliant, just brilliant, truly.

[cosleia]

The Uncertainty Principle, Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Read the full series

kylux, post TROS. A story of survival, love, and Force physics. 1665 words, Part 5 of ?

--

Silence hung between them like a dense fog. It wasn’t awkward, exactly, but there was an electric undercurrent to it that made Kylo want to do something—to stand up again maybe, or to say something. To get Hux to look at him again.

He was about to make a probably-ill-advised comment about Hux’s wardrobe—he was wearing the same silly jumpsuit he’d been wearing at the space station; was it any wonder Kylo had assumed it was the same day?—when Hux abruptly spoke first.

“You went from Ajan Kloss to Exegol in an Imperial-era TIE scout?”

“Yes,” Kylo said. “Which reminds me—”

“It was in working order?”

“No,” Kylo said. “I had to fix it up first.”

Hux’s eyebrows pinched together in thought. “You left for Ajan Kloss some time after I was shot.”

Kylo grinned. Hux was leading the conversation right where he wanted it to go. “Yes.”

“Shortly before the Steadfast’s battlegroup joined the Final Order at Exegol.”

“That’s right.”

“And you had to repair the TIE before you could leave.”

“Yes.”

“It must not have taken very long,” Hux said, sounding dubious. “The hyperdrive on a TIE scout that old would barely be able to travel that distance in that time.”

“You’re right,” Kylo almost crowed. “I didn’t trust the hyperdrive. I beefed it up.”

Hux outright gaped at him. “You,” he said. “‘Beefed it up.’”

“Well,” Kylo said, drawing out the word, “it helped that I studied Starkiller Base when you were building it.” He grinned again. “You really are a genius, you know.”

Hux’s face went red. He ducked his head like an embarrassed child. But then he blinked, raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at Kylo. “You modified the Death Star superlaser?”

“Got it in one,” Kylo said, pleased.

“How?” Hux demanded. Now he looked angry. “Tell me everything.”

Kylo did.

He’d expected that Hux would be flattered that Kylo adapted his work, and perhaps even impressed that Kylo understood the physics behind quintessence. But as he spoke, Hux’s expression only grew grimmer. When he finally wrapped up, remarking with a self-conscious shrug that he’d known the engine would blow upon arrival but he hadn’t figured out how to avoid that, Hux unexpectedly reached for him, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. Kylo’s breath caught.

“You seem tangible enough,” Hux muttered. He let go and raised his datapad again.

“What?” Kylo asked. His shoulder felt hot where Hux had touched it. He wished Hux was still touching it.

“You absolute buffoon,” Hux said without looking up. “You don't even know what you did.”

Kylo bristled at that. He suddenly wanted to slap the datapad out of Hux’s hands.

Not too long ago, he would have indulged that desire. It would have been practically instinctual. Now, it was a struggle to hold himself back, to clutch his knees and keep his hands still, but he did it.

“What do you mean?” he asked in as level a voice as he could manage.

Hux glanced up at him, looked back to his datapad, then did a doubletake that was almost comedic. For a long moment he simply stared at Kylo, eyes intent.

Kylo wasn’t sure how he must look; he knew he wore his emotions on his face, but right now he didn’t really know what they were. “What is it?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Nothing,” Hux said, but he put the datapad down, and his face seemed to relax. “About your rocket.” Kylo waited. Hux licked his lips. “Er. Perhaps I can illustrate my point with an example. Do you know why I didn’t modify our capital ships to use hyperspace tunneling?”

“They’re too big,” Kylo said.

Hux shook his head. “Size has nothing to do with it. It’s about mass.”

Kylo frowned. “Isn’t that basically the same thing?”

“No.” Hux reached toward him once more, this time tentatively; when Kylo didn’t react, he settled a hand on his shoulder again. “The amount of mass doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that there’s mass at all.” Hux’s fingers flexed against Kylo’s shoulder. “I don’t understand why you’re not dead,” he muttered. “Why you even still have mass.”

Kylo put his hand on top of Hux’s, partly to get his attention and partly to keep him from taking it away again.

Hux's eyes flicked to their hands and back to Kylo’s face. He looked startled. “Ah,” he said. “That is. Er.” He closed his eyes and cleared his throat.

Kylo squeezed Hux’s hand. It felt nice. “You were saying?” he prompted.

Hux cleared his throat again, but he didn’t try to withdraw his hand from Kylo’s. “Phantom energy doesn’t have mass,” he said, meeting Kylo’s eyes. “Mass can’t travel through sub-hyperspace. Any amount of mass.”

Kylo frowned. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying,” Hux stressed, gripping Kylo’s shoulder hard, “that when you entered sub-hyperspace, you should have been destroyed.” He squeezed again, as if for good measure. “And yet, here you are.”

“Destroyed,” Kylo repeated, his eyes going slightly out of focus. He’d been in something of a fugue state when he modified that hyperdrive, operating on what had felt like instinct. He’d thought he knew what to do from then on. He’d thought that the Force was guiding him.

Ultimately, the mission he had so eagerly accepted was just another way to lose himself. He’d been so willing to do anything, anything at all to help Rey, that he’d almost lost his life.

Before Exegol, before Ajan Kloss, when he’d told her of his talk with Palpatine, she’d responded derisively, ‘Serving another master?’ He’d denied it, and he’d believed his own denial. But it turned out she’d been more right than even she knew. Luke. Snoke. Grandfather. Palpatine. Rey. All he’d ever wanted was to be himself, to have his own identity. But all he’d ever done was look to others to define him.

“Ren,” Hux said.

Kylo shook his head. “Yeah.”

“You’re not about to disappear again, are you?”

Kylo let out a sort of half-chuckle. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I was just thinking.”

“Do I want to know?”

The wry humor in the question made Kylo smile a little. Hux probably would want to know; he was the type who wanted to know everything.

Kylo wasn’t sure he was ready to share his personal revelations with anyone. Strangely, though, Hux didn’t seem like a bad choice for it. Maybe that was because he wasn’t in a position to control Kylo. Or maybe Kylo was just tired of being alone with his thoughts.

It occurred to him that this might be the first time in his life that that had happened. He had no way of knowing how long Palpatine had been whispering in his ear, stealing his secrets, manipulating his thoughts and beliefs.

Kylo had had plenty of time to think on his long journey from Exegol, but he hadn’t thought too heavily on this aspect of things.

He decided to continue not thinking about it.

“Mortality,” he said instead of revealing any of that. “I almost died and didn't know.”

“Ah,” Hux said. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He considered Kylo for a moment. Again, it looked like he wanted to say something.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Kylo said, squeezing Hux’s hand where it still lay under his.

A flush rose to Hux's cheeks. “You’ve changed,” he blurted.

“Yes,” Kylo agreed, nodding. “You’re very observant.”

Hux’s reaction to this was a beautiful, gratifying scowl and a deepening flush. “But not completely,” he amended.

Kylo cocked his head to the side, suddenly curious. He hadn’t done a whole lot of thinking about Hux before Exegol, but Hux obviously had opinions about him. “Do you think you know who I am?”

“The thing about men like you,” Hux answered, “is that it’s impossible to know how to please you. What works one day is the absolute wrong thing the next. And any misstep—” He cut himself off, cheek twitching.

“Yes?” Kylo prompted.

Hux pulled his hand away from Kylo's shoulder. “Before you interrogate me further,” he said, “I would have your word that you will not perform acts of violence on my ship, property, or person.”

Annoyed by both the turn of the conversation and the removal of Hux’s hand, Kylo opened his mouth to ask why Hux would even say that. He obviously hadn’t come here to hurt Hux. Hux was the only thing he had left.

Hux...was the only thing he had left.

Kylo closed his mouth.

“Well?” Hux demanded, and there was a small thread of tension in his voice that wasn’t there before.

Kylo sighed. “No, Hux, I’m not going to do anything. It’s like you said. I’ve changed.”

Hux wasn’t the only thing he had left. That was ridiculous. He didn’t even know why he’d had that thought.

He’d spent way too much time watching that security footage.

Hux took a long breath, then let it out. “I don’t know if I can believe you, but you haven’t harmed me yet, at least.” He raised his chin. “People like you expect things to go your way, and when they don’t, you punish everyone in the vicinity for it, regardless of fault.” His hands balled into fists in his lap. Kylo had to look away from the intensity in his eyes.

Snoke—Palpatine—had always encouraged Kylo to follow his feelings, to use them. Anger was especially useful, making Kylo powerful. He hadn’t worried about anything beyond that. After all, his goals were the First Order’s goals. His will was the First Order’s will. His pain was the First Order’s pain.

Only now he knew that wasn’t true at all. He’d been nothing more than a pawn of the emperor. The First Order had never really been his.

The ships and crew that escaped the doom of the Final Order—if anything, they’d been Hux’s, not Kylo’s. Which reminded him...

“Do you still want to rule the galaxy?” Kylo asked.

[demonsonthemoon]

Standing on the Edge / We’re Already Falling

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton Word Count: 3499 Rating: M Summary: Clint doesn't do romantic relationships. Bucky doesn't do sex. But they do do something together. One night, Clint has a request. "Do you mind if I jerk off?" Featuring akoiromantic!Clint. Notes: If you are here expecting smut you might be disappointed because the smut I was planning to write disappeared in between whole paragraphs of introspection. STORY OF MY LIFE. This fic has been sitting in my draft for more than a year and I STILL had to rush it to post it in time for #AggressivelyArospecWeek, so apologies if it is super wonky and there are typos everywhere. This is vaguely inspired by personal experiences and fantasies, because relationships are fascinating and I like to self-reflect. Also please note that I'm allosexual and the perspective I have on asexuality is totally external. So if you have any comments about the way I wrote it that might further my understanding of asexuality and help me write it better, let me know! Content warnings: Bucky's asexuality in this is explored partly in relation to his history of abuse so if that sounds squicky or triggering to you, be careful!

Read it on AO3.

The feeling of Bucky's lips on his wasn't anything new to Clint. That didn't mean that the pleasure of it was wearing off, far from it. First kisses were never the best. No, the really good one only came after, when you knew what the other person liked and they knew your preferences as well. When you could play each other like finally tuned instruments to elicit your favorite sounds at will. Those were the best kisses.

The one they were sharing now was quite high-ranking on that scale, at least according to Clint's opinion. They were both freshly clean from a shower, and Clint was quickly letting go of all the tension from the mission he'd just come back from. He was finally reaching the good side of pent-up where sensations were pleasurably heightened but not making him paranoid. Then there was the fact that Bucky was softly biting on his lower lip and had a hand in Clint's hair. Yeah. It was a pretty good kiss.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered at they broke apart for hair. They didn't go far from one another, just hovering on that edge of kissing again. Clint had a hand on Bucky's face, softly running a thumb over his stubble, the other over his hip.

Bucky smiled, then kissed him again. It was funny. Clint swore his lips tasted different when he smiled. It was one of his favorite flavors.

This thing between them hadn't always been that easy. There had been a time when Bucky's only two moods were “shadow in the corner” and “murder glare,” which had not been conducive to much physical intimacy. (Not that Clint had been unwilling. Everyone who knew him was aware of his attraction to danger.) It had taken a while for Bucky to become comfortable, both with himself and with the people also living on the Avengers compound. Clint had understood that. The guy had been through a lot. He'd still barely remembered who he was when he'd turned himself in after a year of leading Steve and Sam around on a merry chase.

But he'd gotten around to it. The whole being a person thing. Being something other than a weapon.

Yes, Clint had been a little protective of him. Still was. He could relate to the guy. A few days of alien brainwashing was obviously different to a few decades of being Hydra's puppet, but it still gave them more common grounds than most of the other Avengers.

They'd started getting along, and then they had started getting along, and now Clint was shirtless and kissing Bucky in his bed and it all felt really nice.

Really really nice.

“Shit, fuck,” Clint whimpered against Bucky's mouth, drawing away slightly. “Wait a sex- sec. I have a question.”

The beginning of their relationship (Clint always made a face at the word, but he hadn't found any other one that fit) had involved a lot of awkward conversations about boundaries. Clint had been on the verge of e-mailing his therapist about it several times. She would have been so proud. Clint wasn't ready to admit that, but it had felt nice for once not to be the only one tiptoeing around a minefield. That's what it had felt like in a lot of his other relationships, and most of his other partners hadn't been subtle in letting him know it was his fault.

Bucky didn't make him feel like it was his fault. He had plenty of minefields of his own and seemed grateful to have Clint here to help him figure out their layouts.

It had almost been funny when they'd realized how little they matched one another.

Clint didn't do romance. He'd learned the hard way that however much he liked the person at first, and even continued to like them, in a way, he couldn't sustain romantic attraction for much more than a few weeks into a relationship. And the pressure of a romantic relationship was just too much for him to handle. After a series of self-sabotaged messes and a divorce, he'd been forced to admit that it wasn't worth trying anymore. He'd mostly resigned himself to one-night stands and the occasional cuddle with a friend. Wanting regular physical and emotional intimacy outside of a romantic relationship just wasn't something he figured he could get.

Bucky, on the other hand, was totally open to the pursuit of romance. At least as much as someone with such severe trust issues as he had could be. But he didn't really do sex. At least not for now.

It had been kind of funny to find all of that out, but also not at all. Clint was very happy that they'd decided to figure something out anyway. He'd been even happier when the something in question had turned out to involve having a close friend he could regularly make out with but who didn't pressure him into being with each other all the time, being wooed or going on dates.

Their relationship probably looked like weird and misshapen from any outside perspective, and sometimes even from Clint's, when his nerves were too raw or his mind was too numb and he looked at the universe and only saw the result of his failures. But it was theirs, and whenever Clint felt like his skin was his own again, he found he was willing to fight for it.

It was a weird yo-yo motion, with a string that threatened to snap every so often, but so far it was still turning.

Clint couldn't help himself, and he gave Bucky another peck on the lips. Just to erase the frown that had formed on his forehead as he'd pulled away from their kiss.. “Don't worry. There's no good or bad answer here.” He tried to keep his tone confident and casual. Spy training came in handy in these kinds of situation. Of course, the fact that Bucky was just as well trained meant he could usually read through Clint's bullshit, but well. One had to try.

Clint took a breath, and smiled. “Do you mind if I jerk off?”

Bucky froze against Clint's hands. His eyes widened just the slightest bit.

And then he looked down at Clint's crotch, and the blond bit down on his own lip to avoid letting out a thoroughly undignified squeak. The outline of his erection was clearly visible through the worn material of his post-shower sweatpants. Bucky somehow seemed surprised by it, even though there was no way he hadn't felt it rub against him at any point of the previous proceedings.

Clint felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He wasn't embarrassed about sex. He didn't think that was what it was. He was just very aware of the request he'd just made and the fact that Bucky's attention was still lingering on his cock.

“You don't have to say yes. I really don't mind if we just make out some more and cuddle. I just thought... Well. I just thought that if you didn't have to... participate, you might still like to watch?” The blood in his cheeks was quickly approaching boiling point. “Or not. I don't know. I just thought I'd ask.”

Clint forced himself to close his mouth and stop talking before he fell into a spell of ill-advised chatter. For a few excruciating seconds, Bucky stayed silent. At least he was looking into Clint's eyes again, instead of at his dick. Small mercies.

“Is that something that you would like? If I watched?”

“Um.” Clint swallowed. The fact that Bucky's gaze followed the movement of his Adam's apple was enough to force him to admit he didn't want to lie. “Yeah. Yeah. I'd... I think I'd like that a lot.”

Clint didn't know what reaction he'd expected at that. A joke perhaps. Or at least a raised eyebrow. He hadn't expected Bucky to move forward like a hunting animal jumping on his prey and kiss him. Clint opened his mouth and let the kiss deepen. He wasn't an idiot, he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to get kissed passionately by Bucky just because he was confused. So he moved one arm over Bucky's shoulder, found a better angle and kissed back, giving as much as he got.

He hadn't lied when he'd said he could do just this for hours. Who cared if it made him feel like an awkward teenager again, one who was all too happy to agree to “no sex on the first date” because he didn't know how to tell his at the time girlfriend that he hadn't ever touched a condom in his life.

Clint wasn't frustrated. He jerked off a healthy amount, and in the time between he got to hang out with Bucky and get kissed senseless. There was really no drawback to this situation.

And sure, Clint had desires. Fantasies. There were many things he thought about while he jerked off, and quite a few of them inlvoved Bucky in different stages of nakedness and with various amounts of their naked skins touching. But he also had fantasies about a lot of people he had never had and would never have sex with, and that was fine. He was friends with Bucky, and his comfort whenever they spent time together was a lot more important than Clint's libido.

But he had wondered if maybe... If there could be a way to get more of what he wanted without pushing any of Bucky's boundaries. He already felt bad for not being able to give Bucky everything he wanted, everything that he deserved. Bucky should get to be with someone who would go on dates with him, who would kiss him in the rain and hold his hand it public, and whisper I am so glad that you're my boyfriend against his ear. After all the ways he'd been used and abused, Bucky deserved the certainty of someone who loved him in all ways, all the time.

And Clint wasn't that someone. Clint couldn't give himself to someone in that way without feeling trapped, without tainting the beauty of every gesture with his own fear of being controlled.

Asking for this, for this selfish thing that wasn't sex but was so so close, it was a dangerous thing. It felt like taking something more, and Clint had never felt like he deserved anything in his life, not most of the bad, but not really any of the good either, and he didn't want to be that person who just took and took from someone who had already lost so much, but Bucky had always told him to just ask and he had, and Bucky was still kissing him like there was no other way to say what he meant to say and-

“Okay,” Bucky panted when he finally pulled away far enough to form words. “I think I want to see that.”

And, fuck, this was definitely something that Clint had fantasized about before, that's why he brought it up, but his imagination paled before the real thing, before the livewire tension all across his body and the way Bucky looked hungry in a way he'd never had before, and then Clint was being pushed back against the pillows of the bed and Bucky was slowly peeling off his sweatpants to expose the boxers underneath and this was all too much already. Bucky looked so smug about it too, like this was a perfectly normal things for them to do, like anything below the belt wasn't an entirely new territory for them. Bucky settled cross-legged on the end of the bed opposite to Clint, and tilted his head in a sort of go-ahead gesture. There was such open curiosity in his eyes, and Clint hadn't known that that was something that did it for him, but it really, truly was.

In all of his fantasies, he hadn't had to think about how to jerk off, he'd already been doing it as he set the scene in his head. He had felt a certain thrill at the idea of being watched, but none of the nervousness that came from putting on a show. And that probably wasn't what Bucky even expected from him, but Clint still felt weird. It felt like the worst case of stage fright he'd had since his first performance in the circus when he'd been a teenager.

Clint took a deep breath. He looked up into Bucky's eyes, carefully trained on his, and slowly pulled his boxers off.

*****

Bucky could tell that Clint was nervous. He wanted to so something about it, but he had no idea how. Clint had been the one to offer this, to ask for this, and Bucky was just along for the ride. A ride he definitely thought he would enjoy, but he also couldn't be sure, and he didn't want to push Clint but didn't want to stay totally detached either and...

And Clint was now touching his dick, hand in a loose fist around it, going up and down, thumb brushing over the head to gather a few drops of precome. And he was staring at Bucky as he did all that, worrying his bottom lip and staring at Bucky like he held all of the answers in the world.

He was surprised at how big the urge to touch was. He wanted to put his mouth on Clint's and bite down, bite properly instead of whatever Clint was doing to deal with his nervousness. He wanted to put a hand in Clint's hair and lick along the side of his neck and then look down at where his hand was still moving on his cock.

But he didn't do any of that, even though he had before (except for the looking part), because if he did he might trip on his own boundaries, might trigger that trapwire inside himself that made him retreat.

So he just watched instead, held Clint's gaze when it met his.

This was a new things for the two of them, but at the same time... it wasn't. Not really. Because this wasn't about sex. Sex was something that Bucky felt totally detached from on a good day, and on a bad one it was something that made him nervous, made his stomach twist and weigh heavily.

He couldn't explain why, because he hadn't ever had a particularly bad experience with it. At least he didn't think so. (He hated that he still wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, because so many memories had been taken from him and he couldn't ever know if he had gotten all of them back.)

What he remembered, at least, wasn't bad, although it wasn't good. Bucky could see himself, another person in another time, lying in fresh grass with a girl, her perfume just heavy enough to make him slightly light-headed, to take the edge off the feeling of wrongness he was experiencing as he touched her, let her touch him. He could feel the purely physical pleasure of the act, perfunctory, but nothing else.

This thing right now with Clint was nothing like that, because it wasn't about the sex. It was about Clint and it was about pleasure, but physicality was only one tiny part of this equation.

Bucky watched Clint's hand run up hand down his cock, and he didn't wish that it was his instead, but that didn't stop him from being fascinated by the movement, by the way Clint's dick responded, hardening further, and by the quiet sounds that caught in his throat.

A thought crossed his mind, and Bucky stood up. The fact that Clint immediately stopped moving made him feel... something. It reminded him that, yeah, Clint was masturbating, but this thing still actively involved Bucky. And Bucky let himself be involved, since he ruffled through his nightstand and threw Clint a half bottle of lube. Clint's eyes widened even as he caught the bottle easily. A soldier's reflexes. “You-”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I don't have the same libido as you, but I've still got enough experience to know it's better when it doesn't chafe.”

“Right,” Clint replied, scratching the back of his head in an embarrassed gesture. The combination of that and his erection sticking out made him look completely ridiculous, but Bucky only smiled in endearment.

He settled back at the foot of the bed, crosses his legs and make a vague gesture with his hand.

“As you were,” he said with a smirk.

Clint stared, mouth agape. “You...” He chuckled. “You are such an asshole.”

Bucky didn't deny it, but he also noticed that Clint wasn't too bothered, pouring lube into his right hand and carefully warming it up. He looked slightly uncertain again, slowly touching his own dick. Bucky didn't say anything, but he watched. That's what Clint had asked for. That he watch.

Clint worried his lower lip and hummed in his throat as he worked up a rhythm again, and Bucky watched.

He liked Clint's hands, the calluses on his fingers, the various scars from knife fights and careless handling of arrows. He liked them for the stories they told, the one that had been erased from his own fingertips by serum and metal. It was something he kept to himself, unlike Clint who took great pleasure in telling Bucky how hot he looked and which pants he should keep wearing because they framed his thighs just right. Bucky didn't look at Clint's hands like Clint sometimes did his, with a far-away intensity in his eyes and his mouth just the slighest bit open. But that was okay.

Clint didn't look at him like he wanted to be what made Bucky happy, his everything, his forever, with a yearning to share as much of the other's life as he could. But Bucky...

Bucky looked up into Clint's eyes, scared of everything his own could say, but it felt like the other man could hardly see him, too caught up in the movement of his own hand and the sensations that ran through his body. It didn't make Bucky feel alone, though. Quite the opposite. Clint was including him in a moment that could so easily have been private and it was thrilling, it made Bucky feel powerful and wanting. Bucky could have touched, Clint probably would have liked him to touch him, and Bucky felt his arms strain towards the other man, but stayed still. This made the moment feel purer, safer, better somehow, and Bucky didn't get it, not really, but then again, there were so many things he didn't get about Clint and his relationship, this was just one more thing on the list.

Another fragile compromise, another precarious equilibrium, just like everything that had followed that fateful “Can I kiss you?” during a conversation that had felt half like a fight and also like the most comfortable Bucky had been in years, because Clint hadn't been scared of him and he hadn't been careful, and he had asked to kiss him and Bucky had said yes.

And barely seconds after their lips had touched, Clint had said “Okay, this doesn't have to go anywhere, but in case it goes anywhere, we need to set boundaries,” and Bucky had thought “I think I might love you.”

These days, he tried his best not to say it aloud, but he thought Clint still understood it sometimes, like right now when Bucky had finally reached out and kissed Clint one more, and the other man's hip had thrust up twice before he came, one hand grappling at Bucky's shoulder and gripping his shirt. He was panting into Bucky's mouth, eyes wide and a little scared, and Bucky kissed him again until Clint whined, louder than any sound he'd made as he orgasmed, and Bucky couldn't help but be selfishly pleased by that.

He felt warm and relaxed. For once, the arousal coiled in his gut didn't feel uncomfortable, there was no pressure for it to go anywhere.

He pulled away, and watched as Clint carefully got his breathing back to normal. “Thanks,” the blond said, a slightly pathetic attempt at filling the silence between them.

“You're welcome,” Bucky replied, too quiet and not snarky enough, but they both smile and pretended not to know what had been said behind the word. They didn't destroy the balance.

Clint looked at his hand and made a face, and Bucky pushed him out of bed with a laugh, telling him to clean up. He chucked off his own shirt, which was stained by Clint's come and oh, what a strange thought that was. And then he settled into bed.

He was pretty sure Clint would join him, tonight, though he didn't always. If he was lucky, they'd have breakfast the next day. He didn't expect to see much of Clint for the rest of the day after that though, but that was okay.

It was an equilibrium.

[enklavefest]

Love in an Elevator

Username: @anglophile-rin (tumblr) Anglophile_Rin (Ao3)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079174

Prompt: "Klaus and Dave live in the same apartment building. Perhaps this story can be told entirely through conversations they have in the elevator i.e. one trying to flirt with the other who is oblivious, the first time one asks the other out, coming home after their first date, having a fight, making up, getting a bit steamy, meeting the siblings, one of them spontaneously proposing…? Basically, snapshots of their lives told through a series of minute-long elevator rides.“

Tags: Klaus Hargreeves, David "Dave” Katz, Klaus Hargreeves/David “Dave” Katz, mentioned Allison Hargreeves, mentioned Diego Hargreeves, mentioned Vanya Hargreeves, recreational drug use, substance abuse, first kiss, semi-public sex, blow jobs, post-traumatic stress disorder - ptsd, flashbacks, pre-season/series 01, modern David “Dave” Katz, war veteran David “Dave” Katz, gratuitous making out, a little light stalking, meet the family, love confessions, ill-advised rolling papers, Klaus’ cryptic comments and dubious anecdotes, ghosts

Author’s Note: Please excuse the cheesy Aerosmith title - Elliott’s House are a bunch of dirty enablers.

Dave glanced up from his phone, but quickly saw he hadn’t arrived at his floor yet. Instead, another man walked in; all flowing limbs and tousled hair with dark glasses on his face. He immediately threw himself against the back wall, tipping his head back and bracing his arms behind him on the handrail.

“Hey, uh, what floor?” Dave asked, realizing the man had no intentions of pressing the button himself. 

“Oh! Right. Uh, 16th, please. Apparently, my sister requires my immediate presence, hangover be damned.”

[nerv0usm3chanic]

CORRUPTION

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

--

((NOTE - This is an introduction to a new PERMANENT AU feature exclusive to nerv0usm3chanic. Please see further, generalized information regarding this AU here: X

Be advised that each of these chapters are VERY LONG. The full content will be tucked under a read more after a brief introduction segment.

DO NOT REBLOG.))

--

Vivi frowned as she spotted Arthur perusing the shelves of Tome Tomb. He wasn’t often in here except when meeting up with Vivi for hanging out later...which, now that she thought about it, hadn’t happened in quite some time. The blue-haired woman made a mental note to invite Arthur and Lewis over for one of their terrible movie nights before heading over to talk to the blond.

“Hey Artie!” The blond jumped at her sudden greeting, his hand over his now racing heart as it registered who it was that spoke to him. “Oh jeeze! I’m sorry for spooking you, Arthur.” She couldn’t help but let a small giggle.

“N-no worries, I’m fine.” Arthur assured her, taking a deep breath, “I um...I was just looking up some things here.” He gestured to the shelf, a series of books on it and many of which hopefully containing his desired topic. Vivi peered over, tilting her head and quirking an eyebrow.

“These are all about ghosts and magic...ooh! Did you hear a rumor about something spooky?” She was getting excited now, “Are you researching for a case, Artie?” Her eyes sparked with her excitement. With a nervous swallow, Arthur nodded slightly, scratching at the back of his head.

“Uh, y-yeah, you caught me.” He coughed, “I heard some rumors of ghosts causing some magical energy fluxes and-”

“Ooh! So exciting! I’ll have to get with you on this later after work!” Vivi clasped her hands around his and practically bounced in place. Just as suddenly, she bounded away to continue her workday and Arthur sighed. Thankfully, he got away without further questions, but he hated the idea of having to explain exactly why he was researching this topic. He’d have to take a rain check if she were to invite him anywhere.

--

“Is this everything?” The shopkeeper asked in a calm, neutral drawl. Arthur nodded silently, drumming his fingers - both the metallic and flesh and bone - on the counter as Duet collected the first of the three books. A blightly-colored eyebrow quirks and the mysterious person looked at Arthur meaningfully. “Are you sure?”

“U-uhm...I think so?” Arthur quailed, glancing sideways as he saw Vivi pass by with a cart of books to be out away. With worrying amber eyes, Arthur begged Duet to stay quiet about his purchases. They too glanced at Vivi before setting the book down with a soft sigh and giving Arthur a serious look.

“Something is off about you, Kingsmen. And I don’t like it.” They commented in a hushed tone, sure to keep their conversation between Arthur and them alone. Their implication was deeply ominous and Arthur shrank at the connotations. Duet relaxed slightly, easing their dark tone and casually checking out the books Arthur had selected as if nothing had been said. After a moment, Duet looked to the blond again.

“You are...researching...yes?” They offered a much more sensitive tone, prompting Arthur to nod and sigh in some relief. “Perhaps there is someone...I can recommend to you.” And with another subtle gesture, Arthur saw a flash of gold from Duet’s sleeve. He blinked as the shopkeeper slipped the thing in between random pages in one of the larger books.

“Was that a...a card?” Arthur asked as Duet finished ringing up the books. They didn’t answer, just placed the books into a plastic bag and looked to Arthur again.

“That will be $43.23.” Duet’s flat expression indicated they had no interest in continuing. Them making a directed glance over Arthur’s shoulder was enough to say why: Vivi was nearby. Arthur nodded, pulling out his wallet and retrieving the necessary funds.

“Thank you.” Arthur nodded, passing a $50 bill and taking his bag of books. He had no need for the small amount of change, especially if Duet’s lead pointed him in the right direction.

--

“This is it?” Arthur asked himself later that evening, looking at the gilded card and with the large book in his lap. There wasn’t anything even written on the card, just a golden embossed moon and beneath it, the words ‘qui petit auxilium’. Arthur didn’t know what it meant and he frowned angrily as he flung the card off to the side. He pouted further when the card spun gracefully and made a smooth landing on his nightstand. “How am I supposed to get help with this stupid spirit if I can’t get a straight answer?”

‘I can hear you, boy.’ The spirit snarled in his head.

“I know you can.” Arthur growled back, turning to the book for help and turning pages to look at the index. The blond proceeded to read from a selected section, investigating all he could from what little there actually was on ghosts and their affects on people.

Pages upon pages on skeptical theory, a chapter on the effects of those under possession - or assumed so - and a handful of paragraphs on magical side effects. None of which described lightning or electricity. There was a small section on hearing the voice of the spirit that plagued, though it was played down shortly after with most victims actually being mentally-ill. Arthur grew frustrated. Hearing that voice constantly tease and taunt him, a spirit that made electricity fly from his hands at the most inconvenient times, and the constant strain and worry...

With an exhausted sigh, Arthur shut the book, using the attached ribbon as a bookmark. He set the book on his nightstand and flopped onto his mattress...before looking to the card once again. Metal fingers reached out, taking the slip of thick paper and turning it carefully. The moon glinted bright in the lamplight as it turned and again the words showed bright.

“Qui petit auxilium...I wonder what that means?” Arthur whispered, weariness beginning to weigh on his eyelids. ‘I just...I just wish I could find something...someone to help me.’ With that thought, the blond curled onto his side, ignoring the devious hums of the other voice in his skull.

--

Despite his doubts, Arthur continued his research, both through the books he purchased and online. He even created a new throwaway Reddit account to search for advice and ideas on how to deal with things. Most if it was hooey and there were a lot of folks going to him to sell their ‘holistic’ home remedies for his ‘condition’. With a sigh, Arthur closed his laptop and rubbed at his tired eyes, bags growing darker each day.

He was the definition of exhausted. By this point it had been more than a year since his possession and he still hadn’t gotten used to the meddling voice in his head or the electrical surges that liked to flow around his metal arm. Arthur scowled at the appendage.

“You were supposed to help me feel normal again.” The mechanic growled at the inanimate arm as it laid peacefully beside his computer.

‘Normal was never an option after you and your friends stepped into my trap.’ The blond ground his teeth a moment before aggressively pushing back from his desk. He needed a walk. Arthur said as much when Lucan asked where he was going.

“Awrigh’ lad...bu’ Ah got dinner cookin’ righ’ now. If ye want it warm an’ fresh, be back in a half hour, okay?” Lucan asked. Arthur gave a tired grunt of ascent and loudly closed the apartment door behind him. The dark-haired Kingsmen looked to his father in concern. Arthur was rarely this moody, even in his teenage rebellious phase and it worried his family.

--

There was a flash of gold in the bright moonlight as Arhur played with the strange card over and around his fingers. The nights were chill and even walks at 6:30 pm were lit by streetlamps and moonbeams. Arthur liked going for walks at night. Fewer people to run into, to talk to about how poorly and pale he was getting, to look at his arm and feel sorry for him. Amber eyes narrowed at the thought.

He’d seen the pitying looks all three of his friends gave him...and he understood why, but it hurt to see them think anything poorly of him because of his still-new disability. He wanted to be normal again. He wanted to have never gone into that cave. He wanted Vivi and Lewis to have listened to him and his bad feelings. He wanted to...to...he sighed in defeat, looking to the card Duet had given him as he walked past a series of old houses in the nicer neighborhood on the outskirts of Tempo.

Research led to only dead ends...to all but one question he had.

“Qui petit auxilium...help to those who ask for it.” A nice sentiment...but ultimately useless if he didn’t know who to ask for help. His only clue was the golden moon that seemed to glow full under the light of the pale white moon above his head. Funny...they both seemed to match at this phase. Arthur hummed idly as he thought about it and looked up.

“A shooting star...” He murmured, coming to a stop in front of another old pseudo-Victorian-style house, the walls covered in ivy and all of the windows dark with some boarded up and others curtained off. He watched the meteorite sail in a surprisingly long trail across the sky. Before it vanished, he closed his eyes and sighed out softly:

“I wish I could find answers...I need help. Who do I go to?” He opened his eyes to see the meteorite had gone. “...please?” For once...the spirit in his head was silent. Arthur felt its presence, but heard nothing. That in itself was remarkable. On another outlet of breath and a soft nod, Arthur turned his head from the sky and turned to make his way back home...when he heard a loud creaking from his right.

Startled, Arthur whipped his head towards the previously-abandoned house. The door was opened and a bright light poured forth, golden and warm and beckoning. The blond didn’t even notice the soft pulse of magic from the card in his hand as he cautiously made his way through the front gate and approached the front porch. He didn’t even notice that the windows remained dark and empty of all life.

The entity in his mind was suspiciously quiet as he set foot on the creaky wood and carefully approached the door.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone home?” Arthur called out, hopeful to gain the homeowner’s attention as he poked his head inside. “I think your door lock may be...broken...” Words trailed off as Arthur took in the sight before him: a comfortable entryway complete with classically ornate wallpaper and decorations given gold trim to compliment their warm tones. He stepped further inside, fascinated to explore more.

Arthur came across a sitting room with the back of a large wooden chair facing him, a fire dancing merrily in its hearth. He sucked in a cautious breath when he noticed a dark-skinned elbow resting on one of the arms and a draping golden cloth pooling at the front of the chair.

“A-ah um...ex-excuse me for intruding...” Arthur started, pausing to swallow nervously. “I-I um...I actually was walking by and your d-door seemed to creak open on it’s own. I’m...I’m not sure, but I think your lock may be broken. I just wanted to let you know, just so you’re not surprised...by intruders...like me.” Oh, he could have done this so much better. Waiting at the front door and knocking would have been a much nicer way to alert the homeowner of this issue.

“I appreciate your concern, but you needn’t worry. I will be just fine.” There was a flutter of nerves in Arthur at the low, feminine tone. Internally, he was both intrigued and frightened by the energy he could feel exuding from around the woman in the chair. Then suddenly he was more frightened when - in the corner of his periphery - he saw the door lazily creak shut and click securely in place.

“Come around so I may see you.” A soft request that rang as a command through Arthur’s rattled skull as she raised one hand to beckon him forward. He nodded despite the fact that she couldn’t see it and carefully made his way around the armchair before finally seeing the commanding woman who owned this obviously magical home.

She was quite the opposite of who he expected to be living in a decrepit-looking house. Shimmering golden locks were tied back neatly, held back by a pearly comb while the rest spilled gracefully around and over her mostly bare shoulders. Arthur blinked at the shimmery golden dress she wore, something he estimated to be worth five or more months of his earnings at Kingsmen Mechanics and she wore it like a second skin with how confident and relaxed she was in her seat. His eyes briefly assessed her arms - obviously strong with muscle, but still lithe and feminine with their bearer’s grace - before he met her gaze.

Arthur swallowed at the bright glow that emanated from her eyes. A firm gaze that studied him with obvious wary scrutiny and a touch of irritation that carried to the slight downturn of the corner of her dark and light contrasting lips...Arthur averted his eyes to her shoulder as the homeowner assessed the mechanic.

“You asked for help...for a problem you cannot resolve by typical means.” A statement, not a question, but Arthur nodded anyway. There was a beat and then the woman let out a soft breath, so soft that Arthur was sure a mouse couldn’t have been quieter. “You wouldn’t be inside this building if you weren’t in genuine need. Take a seat and tell me what plagues you.” Arthur looked to the matching armchair beside hers as she gestured her other hand towards it.

“Th-thank you...” Arthur says gently, nodding to the woman and taking his seat. Once comfortable, Arthur begins to spin his tale.

That was the night he met Luna, the Witch of Secrets...

--

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

[recentanimenews]

OPINION: How Cells at Work! Taught Me to Embrace Self-Care

  CONTENT WARNING: This article contains references to mental illness as well as self-harm, eating disorders, and alcohol abuse. Reader discretion is advised. 

  The next chapter in the story of Cells at Work! has arrived on Crunchyroll, and with it, we can continue the story about you, your body, and your 37.2 trillion cells. This is the story of how Cells at Work! saved my life and helped me become a healthier person. 

  I won’t get into the nitty-gritty details of the things that have happened to me — we don’t have the luxury of time. What I will say is that my most recent psychiatric ARNP, while doing my assessment, said I had six lives’ worth of trauma packed into my 26 years. I chose unhealthy coping mechanisms. I struggled between the desire to feel everything and nothing at all, where poor circumstances bred poor decisions. 

    Initially while facing suffering, I was jaded. But after several abusive relationships, my feelings transformed into a helpless acceptance that I was unworthy of good things. The depression infected every instance of my life: I stopped eating; some days it took me three hours just to convince myself to shower; some days I couldn’t convince myself to shower at all. I swung between frantic insomnia and using sleep as an escape. 

  When I reached out to family and friends, I was met with an overwhelming tirade of toxic positivity. It felt like I was drowning beneath the riptide while they were standing on the shoreline screaming at me to learn how to swim. And so, I turned to anime. Anime has always been a part of my mental health regimen. I found that if I was able to laugh during a crisis, I was able to slowly reel myself back from devastating action. Several series have played this heroic role, and in this instance, it was Cells at Work!. 

    Cells at Work! was delightful, and like many, I was charmed by its cities of anthropomorphic cells: the somewhat ditzy and directionally challenged AE3803 red blood cell; the stoic and sometimes ruthless U-1146 white blood cell; the adorable platelets; the chiseled killer-T cells. It was a lovely little slice of life and comedy venture, giving me a much-needed escape from reality.

  When Cells at Work! CODE BLACK started airing, I was more than eager to jump back into the quirky land and follow my cell friends for some comedy giggles, and at times, astute observations. I hadn’t read the manga, and I didn’t know this story would be one of a deteriorating body full of danger, loss, and chaos. 

  Suddenly, it all became real: the true consequences my actions were having on my body and the trillions of cells that are a part of it. I saw the effect downing a bottle of wine in one sitting would have on my liver cells; the demand facing my blood cells with an ever-decreasing supply of food and energy; the repercussions self-mutilation would have on my poor platelets — that doing so would be evicting cells just like AE3803 from her home, ridding her of her purpose, and ultimately denying her life.

    But unlike all of the conversations I had with others before — the counselors and the well-meaning mentors and the concerned friends and family — what I felt wasn’t disgust at my previous actions. It wasn’t circles of sorrow and self-hatred, nor was it an endless cycle of guilt and shame ... I wasn’t revolted by what I had done, rather, I was determined to be better. 

  My cells can’t yell at me. They don’t speak English. They have no HR, no benefits package, no union. I’m their only ally and advocate, the only one who can make their world better and work easier, perhaps even more meaningful. So I have to listen or they will strike and all the lights will go off. I have to, because if I don’t, who else will?

  When I thought about it less like it was my blood and my body, and more like I was the mother or caretaker to all of these little beings, I was able to do things I couldn’t before: eat, exercise, hydrate, choose healthy coping mechanisms and refrain from self-mutilation. I now had a purpose, which wasn’t so loosely defined as “self-love.” I wanted to be able to provide a safe home and a good working environment so all of my cells could do their jobs.

  Slowly, I began to change. 

  Bit by bit, moment by moment, I took steps to try and help my cells. 

  I began to set an alarm to remind myself to eat. Eventually, this led to tracking those meals to see if I was getting balanced and proper nutrition, and later to meal planning to ensure the blood cells could do their jobs efficiently and without worry. I invested in some supplements to help me sleep; I stopped looking at electronics at midnight to give my brain time to wind down. I started each day by doing some simple arm motions and stretching, moving up to walking and gentle yoga routines, to finally going for a run this last week, in hopes of helping my blood circulation and increasing my blood pressure since I have severe hypotension.

  I’ll admit, some days are harder than others. At times, I mess up. I don’t manage to cook a healthy meal or I can’t get out of bed. But these slips are tenfold healthier than my previous coping mechanisms and I acknowledge that I’m human. Mistakes, accidents, and blunders are bound to happen, but I can minimize the damage and I can try to prepare for those days when they come. Some days the destructive urges are there, but the key is that I don’t act on those harmful impulses. I’m able to control myself and reach for healthier alternatives because I can’t bear the thought of hurting my cells more than I already have. I have to be better for them.

    So many times I have had people tell me that I have to put on my own face mask before helping someone else. While that all makes sense in theory (I can rationalize it), putting it into action and practice is an entirely different experience. It doesn’t in any way recognize that having a life and living it for oneself is a lot of pressure. The overbearing crush of expectation compounded with the unrelenting belief that I am undeserving of basic life necessities. How many of us feel unworthy?

  In the face of death, severe stress, and exhaustion, NT4201 (AE3803’s junior) asks: “Even if we try our hardest, do you really believe it’ll change anything?” 

  How many times have I asked myself that question, unable to find an answer? 

  Fortunately, Cells at Work! provides one for us. Throughout the series, we see cells helping each other as they go about their daily lives. It’s not just that their tasks are their jobs and that is their sole purpose. They strive to work their hardest for the others that live there. AE3803 persists because “Everyone is trying their best. I also have to do this too.” 

    In Cells at Work! CODE BLACK, AA2153 has a similar experience. He asks white blood cell U-1196 if their jobs are really worth risking their lives for. She replies: “We might be working so we can find the answer to that.” The series confirms our experience — there are things we cannot control; bad things happen. Even so, there are actions we can take and people we can rely on because we’re not alone. 

  I couldn’t do it for myself. But I could do it for them. 

Cells at Work!’s personification was the allegory I needed to commit to self-care and a healthier lifestyle. It reminded me that sometimes it’s not the big things that keep us here ... sometimes it’s something as small as a single cell working their hardest that leads to revelations and meaningful change.

    I hope I can live in a way my cells can be proud of. I hope I can give them a better life. 

  How has anime helped you practice self-care? Which anime has encouraged you to lead a healthier life? Let me know in the comments below!

    Annie is a writer for Crunchyroll Features. She hopes her platelets know how much she loves them, and she still has a mega-crush on white blood cell U-1196. She also runs Annieme, a blog committed to anime and mental health. Follow her @anniemeaddict.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features! 

By: Annie M

[nelllraiser]

BM and TJ: A Light Snack | Frank & Nell

TIMING: present. LOCATION: soul on the rocks. PARTIES: @frankmulloy and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: frank gets more than he bargained for on his shift in the form of a bar fight that nell may or may not have started. he doesn’t get paid enough for this.

Soul on the Rocks wasn’t Nell’s usual haunt when it came to getting a drink. It had something of a reputation for housing seedy guys who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Not to mention Creepy-Joe who just stood in the corner as if it was his job. But the often questionable nature of its patrons also made it a decent place to pick up a few supernatural bounties from time to time, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that she was up to her ears in hospital bills that needed paying. So Soul on the Rocks would have to do. Regrettably, it didn’t seem that a new job was in the cards for her tonight, and it couldn’t have been all of fifteen minutes before some guy had already managed to piss her off with comments that weren’t welcome even after she threatened to break his fingers. Sure— she technically threw the first punch, decking him clean across the face before he could realize what was happening, but as far as she was concerned he’d been asking for it. It only took a quick breath for the other bar-goers to smell a fight brewing, and quite a few of them readily joined in, always eager to get the blood pumping. Soon enough there was a notable mass of writhing and punching humans, with Nell at the center of it trying to get a hit in wherever she could manage it. “It’s not my fault you’re an ugly bastard!” she yelled blindly at the latest person to try and kick her.

What godly force did Frank manage to piss off in his past life that every shift he’s on at the piss pot bar somehow ended up with somebody getting their teeth kicked in? Somehow, in the end, it was usually always Frank. Pheromones, he found were only of any use when the want to fuck is greater than the will to fight, Frank’s--what word did the shrink say to use? Not curse...ahh yes-- ability only served to fuel the former. Which was probably for the best. With great effort, Frank put away the glass he had been cleaning, and threw the towel over his shoulder--not unlike a willing fighting entering a ring. Only thing was, Frank wasn’t a willing fighter. He just wanted to do his job, get paid and go home. Frank wanted lots of things, like not wanting a stray elbow to ram into his side from an over-zealous spectator. “Move,” came after he had already physically moved that, and several other bodies from his way. An easy task when you towered over a lot of them. Frank had to move a lot of people in his job, it was probably one of the reasons why he was hired. At the centre of the commotion, he grabbed the closest body to him, taking care that it was skin on clothes and not the alternative. He pulled one back and pushed at the other, creating a separation that (hopefully) reason could exist in. That was Frank, he was reason. “Alright people, you wanna beat each other’s face in, you do it outside. Not in here. Let’s all be adults about this, no one needs to be kicked out.” Fuck, he was fucking tired.

Nell was in the zone, kicking and punching and dipping like she was back in the supernatural fighting Ring she’d been a part of no more than a few months ago. Before… helping to blow it up, of course. Ever so slowly, the crowd was seeming to thin, and she could hear a booming voice ring out over it, though the words were hard to actually make sense of. All of the sudden, a large, blond shadow moved over her, and it seemed that another had entered the fray. He was huge, but that didn’t stop her from sending him a challenging glare, a frown etched onto her lips as the adrenaline continued to pump through her veins, her heart thumping in unison with the simple manta of ‘fight’ that was running through her mind. She still couldn’t quite figure out what he was saying over the din of the scuffle, but decided it didn’t matter. If he wanted a fight, he could definitely have one. “Fuck off!” she yelled without thinking, and as his arm came close, she reflexively reached out to bite, like an angry puppy that was working off of instinct. Perhaps if she’d taken a single second longer to look at the man she would have recognized him as one of the bartenders, but thinking before action had never been her strong suit in situations like this.

Frank has been kicked, punched, headbutted, slashed, and in every other manner in which is violent. He’s yet to have been bitten however. His first thought shouldn’t have been (but it was) oh...this is different. His second thought was, “what the fuck?!” As he grabbed the girl by the scruff of her shirt and pried her teeth off his arm, a wet dotted half moon embedded into the skin as a reminder of his misjudgement. This proved to be another momentary relapse of attention that resulted in a fist across his jaw from her opposer. One that carried enough force behind it to jerk his head to one side. Now, Frank seldom got angry, and he wasn’t angry now, honestly! What he was, was loud, and stern, and the two were often mistaken for one another owed to his size. This was probably another reason why he was hired. “That’s enough.” One hand still firmly holding the scruff of the little she-wolf-- wisely keeping her at a distance where no teeth could attach itself onto any unsuspecting limbs-- the other grabbed the collar of her opposition’s shirt, as he hauled them both toward the door. With more force than he had intended, Frank shoved idiot number two out the door, watching with some small sympathy as he stumbled toward the curb and then onto his face. His jaw reminded him that he need not waste anyway. Now, to idiot number one. “You,” he said, “now I’m gonna let you go, but I swear to god if I so much as see a single tooth…” Gingerly, he does.

When she felt the hand tug her by the collar, some cursed cross between a snarl and a growl found itself rising from Nell, and she instantly started squirming, trying to get a hit on anything she could touch while trying to move enough that he would be forced to drop her. “Let go of me!” she yelled insistently as a warning to a man who was well over a foot taller than her, apparently uncaring of any possible consequences, and still not quite having the clarity in the haze of the fight to realize that this man worked here. She could feel her magic kicking in and pooling in her gut, asking for direction as fight soundly squashed flight into a pulp, running away having never been an option. Unleashing any magic probably wouldn’t be wise at the moment, though— and she tamped the rising feeling down as she was finally released, still refusing to stay still the entire time to the door and even for a moment after the man’s hand had left her collar. “Who the hell do you think-” Nell had been in the middle of asking who exactly this man thought he was, but she finally got a good enough look at him to recognize him as one of the people that had been on the other side of the bar, slinging out drinks. “Oh…” she said rather ungracefully as realization dawned on her. He’d been trying to break up the fight, hadn’t he? “He started it!” she insisted with a wild point towards the man that had just been tossed to the curb. In another moment her arms crossed over her chest, and the rampant aggressive nature that had been on display before ever so slowly began to chip away. Oh shit. She’d bit him, hadn’t she? And not in the way most men liked. “If you see a single tooth you’ll what?” It was less of a genuine challenge and more of a beginning of trying to salvage things.

That was a good point. What was he going to do? The answer was one he knew immediately and so did pride, and it halted the reply on his tongue. Nothing, Frank wasn’t going to do anything. What were the alternatives? Throw her to the curb? Swing a wild fist at her face? Anger had lost its hold on the girl and he could slowly see reason and comprehension formulating behind her eyes as she was no longer blinded by its red lens. Any suggestion of further violence would be ill advised, and while Frank wasn’t the smartest guy around, he wasn’t stupid. In any case, Frank never had much of an appetite for violence. He was always the type more ready to take the punch than to cash it out. Kindness, he thought, was a more valuable currency, although it wasn’t as if he readily gave those out either. “I’m going to call you a cab and send you home.” Somehow that sounded more menacing in his head. He was already pulling out his phone and punching in a series of numbers. One of them was getting a cab, and it was up to her whether she’d be joining the sorry idiot that was slowly picking himself up from the side of the curb. “Sit down, and shut up.” His previous display of bravery significantly injured, he sat down without a word. Good. Frank put his phone to his ear, the other hand absently nursing the bite mark on his forearm. “And by the way, ‘he started it’? What are you, seven? Actually...did anyone ask for your ID— hello? Hi, yeah, I need a cab at Soul...yeah, Soul for the Rocks...For one,” he turned and gave her a pointed look, “or maybe two, we’ll see when you get here.”

Nell’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as his claim of calling a cab was revealed, as if she were scrutinizing it for any possible bluffs. But she didn’t have a chance to comment on it before his phone was already out, and apparently he hadn’t been joking about getting at least one cab. As the other man in question plopped down, Nell didn’t let up in glaring daggers at him, finding that entertaining enough to preoccupy her for the moment being. Her middle finger was itching to come up and flip off the douchebag, but she kept her arms firmly folded where they’d settled, trying her best not to be threatened with a cab once more. But she didn’t care much for the bartender’s phone call as he jibed at her. “I’m not seven! It’s true! He’s the one who was being a dick!” It probably didn’t help that her foot stomped instantly against the ground with the words, not unlike someone who was throwing a tantrum. “My ID?” The exasperation and indignance that entered her voice was akin to what it might have been if someone asked if she liked mimes. The most horrible of offenses. “I’m twenty-three! And it’s for one!” she insisted without hesitation, standing on tiptoe to try and get as close to the phone the giant man was holding to tell the cab driver that she’d be going nowhere in a taxi. Then she addressed the man grasping the cell phone directly. “Besides- I have my bike here!” Her thumb jabbed towards the spot where she’d parked her motorcycle. “And I didn’t even really drink.” She’d been looking for work, so getting drunk wouldn’t have been smart.

She actually stomped her foot. “Yeah, now I’m convinced.” Frank was tall, she was not, but keeping her away from his phone proved to be an uphill battle as she tried to speak into the receiver, threatening the space that he had carefully crafted between them, with each new attempt. He spared a fleeting glance in the general direction of her thumb, hoping to appease any further attempts. “Alright, alright, will you please just-- hello?...yeah, yes, I’m still here...excellent...thank you. I’ll be waiting outside. Thank you.” Now that that was out of the way. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you incapable of exercising some form of restraint? Oh and if someone is being a dick, you call security to kick them out, not start a brawl in the middle of a crowded bar.” Or bite people when they’re trying to help you! The latter never made it past pride’s careful guard, though the thought was betrayed in the form of his hand returning to nurse the tender spot. The cab pulled up not much sooner, and to keep himself from saying or doing anything else that might betray his thoughts, he turned his back to the woman and proceeded to stuff idiot number one into the back of the cab. Producing a handful of notes from his own back pocket, he deposited them into the driver’s window. “Just him. Make sure he gets into his front door please, thanks.” There was a pause as the driver muttered something through the window, Frank turned his head back to where the woman was standing. He seemed to have to think about his reply, but at last decided, “no, just this one. Thanks man.”

Nell’s frown only deepened as Frank’s sarcasm pervaded the air, her hands quickly going back into a stubborn cross over her middle. “I’m just saying,” she grumbled, not actually entirely finishing the thought aloud. This time she waited not quite patiently, but in a manner that was much more subdued than before as he finished up his call. Unfortunately, her offense was quick to return as soon as he started asking questions again. “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t you ask what’s wrong with him?” Her open palm jerked roughly towards the man still sitting desolate on the curb. “Why am I the one being yelled at for restraint when he’s the one who doesn’t keep his hands to himself! He could learn some restraint!” Her features quickly returned to something akin of an angry pout before she continued on, raising her nose stuffily into the air. “Security looked...busy.” It was a bald-faced lie. She hadn’t even bothered to look at security. Nell watched as his hand found the place she’d bitten him, and again her exterior lost a few of its prickles. “Did I...bite you hard or-?” An inkling of an apology was creeping through her voice. After all, even if the guy in front of her was making her bristle, he probably didn’t deserve to be bitten in a fight. “Is it bleeding?” she asked, trying to get a closer look. As the taxi pulled away without her in it, Nell scowled after it— as if she could burn a hole through the seat where the man she’d been fighting was sitting. “So you work here.” It wasn’t so much a question, and she wasn’t sure where she was going with it, but it was something to say that was neutral rather than combative.

“I’m not yelling at you!” Frank was in fact yelling at her. He realised this too and softened his tone to one more closely related to a sort of...diplomatic reprimand. “I’m not yelling at you, I’m just saying, there are better alternatives to fixing a problem than by punching it. And that was a test by the way. You failed. The security; that’s me. I wasn’t that busy.” At her remark, Frank’s eyes fell on his forearm, as if noticing the degree of injury for the first time. The dark spots of blood rising to colour in the indents left by the set of teeth; just sitting beneath the surface of the skin as no puncture was actually made, but still carrying with it the threat of spilling over if there was. A bigger ring surrounded the mark, red and angry, but would surely yellow and then disappear over time. Probably by tomorrow morning at the latest. Now that he was taking the time to examine his injury, he had almost forgotten that he was punched, and now that the adrenaline was no longer needed, the pain in his jaw made itself known. Frank pulled down the sleeve of his jacket. Stepping back before she could step forward. “No, it’s not. Don’t worry about it.” The change in her demeanour was welcomed progress, although this wasn’t saying a great deal considering how ready she was to, quite literally, rip into him before. “Well, I’m not here for the friendly crowd.” There was a pause as a sort of peace had settled between them, and Frank was not oblivious to how fragile it was and was even more careful not to break it. “Look, are you okay?” 

Nell was all too ready with a rebuttal to his claims of not yelling, but before she could get it out he rectified that particular situation, and she bit her words off before they could manage to surface. “I don’t know- punching always seems to work pretty well for me. And I tried to tell him to fuck off. He didn’t seem interested in doing that.” There was a flicker of humor to her voice this time, her temper once again fading into something less volatile for a moment. “Okay, well that’s not fair. You can’t give me a test without telling me. What kind of teacher are you, anyway? But you’re security?” she asked curiously, looking him over and ignoring the fact that she’d been caught in a lie. Again the disapproving curve of her mouth only dipped deeper as he tugged down his jacket. “If it’s not bleeding, then let me see,” she said— her tone firm once again, but filled with less hostility and more determination. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him stepping away. Maybe he just liked personal space? Or maybe he was worried she’d bite him again if he said something to anger her which was...fair enough. “Are you saying I’m not friendly?” she continued along the vein of a truce they’d managed to find, her fickleness in her emotions knowing no end. Confusion was quick to grip her as she blinked at his question, her knee-jerk answer of, “What?” probably too much of a give away as to how unexpected his query had been. “I mean- I’m fine,” she tentatively replied, not particularly used to people she’d bitten asking how she was doing. If any new bruises did arise from the scuffle tonight, she’d be hard-pressed to identify them with the steady collection of purple and yellow spots she generally sported from her line of work. “What about you? You’re not dying or something, are you?”

Alas, what more could Frank say to that? It wasn’t as if Soul was known to attract the upstanding citizen type. For most of its patrons, their problems could not be solved any other way so they found comfort instead at the bottom of a shot glass or a beer bottle, or a well placed fist on an unsuspecting face (and then there’s Joe, but he’s another species entirely). All Frank could really do was make sure nobody kills each other in the process; and fights never last too long when Frank’s on shift, which means he must be doing something right. “Well I’m not a teacher, I’m the deterrent.”  Frank kept his arm firmly by his side, one foot behind him in a strategic shift of weight should she prove to be as persistent as he suspected. It looked bad, yes, but that was now, and there was nothing more awkward than having someone witness an ugly injury, and the next day to find no trace of the previous night’s violence. He’d rather avoid that conversation if he could help it. “I’m saying you need to exercise restraint, and take people at their word when they say they’re fine and drop it.” However, a great deal could be said of one’s character, and their history, when their first response to ‘are you okay?’ was ‘what?’, and her reaction was not lost on him. But for the sake of keeping peace, and with no visible injury to invoke any immediate concern, he did not press. “Trust me, as long as my head stays on my shoulder, I don’t die easy.” He thought that he said it with enough casual grace to warrant no great suspicion. “I’ve worked here long enough to say with some confidence that tonight was not the worst night I’ve had. Come on Bitey McFierce, if you promise not to punch anyone else tonight I’ll pour you a beer.”

“Well if you’re not a teacher, then why are you giving tests?” Nell quipped back in the same moment the man had finished his sentence. It seemed she was still making the shift from aggressor to casual nuisance. Again, she took him in all at once, giving him a look over before saying to the tree of a man, “I bet I could take you.” It was still meant to have a home in that in between place they’d seemed to have found themselves, testing the waters of how far she could take her teasing. But then she was giving him a hearty eyeroll as he continued to preach the virtues of restraint. As for whether or not she’d drop the subject of a potential injury— she carefully mulled the thought over, deciding just how far she wanted to push. She was pretty sure she hadn’t tasted blood, and if he wanted to be some macho man and pretend he was fine when he wasn’t...it wouldn’t be her funeral. On the other hand, pure stubbornness was egging her on. “You’re bossy.” Was all she settled on after chewing the inside of her cheek. “But I should warn you I have rabies.” That was transmitted by biting, wasn’t it? She wasn’t entirely sure. But what a strange way to phrase that he didn’t go down easy. As long as his head was on his shoulders? Maybe she just wasn’t familiar with the saying, but it also made her think of how the undead were rather indestructible unless they lost their noggins. His casual delivery of the words were enough to make her brush past it, though. “Bitey McFierce?” she echoed with a cross between a scoff and an amused snort. “That’s the best you can do? I don’t know why I expected better of you, but I did....Turkey Jerky.” It was the first thing that had come to mind when she thought of things that might be hard to chew. “No promises,” she answered without thought, both being raised in White Crest and her general everyday experiences with fae nearly replying for her. Still- it was light enough to come across as still being her impish self, and Nell had intended it as such a thing. “And my name is Nell.” This didn’t seem like a moment to explain that it was short for Penelope. “Maybe you can come up with something half decent with that.”

It takes everything in Frank to bite back a retort. It would only serve to prolong this nonsense back and forth that she’s somehow trapped them in, and perhaps that was exactly what she wanted. If you can’t him, annoy them to surrender, which is why he was determined to give her precisely the opposite. “I am sure that you can,” he said, and the words, oddly, did not hold even a shadow of sarcasm. Of course, beating someone was easy when they weren’t willing to fight back, although a gut instinct told him that she was the type to enjoy a challenge or not at all. Or maybe she just enjoyed winning, who knows? He’s been wrong about people before. Although it seemed he was at least correct in her persistence, the woman would not shut up. “I am.” And he was. “Consider me warned.” He said, bearing the brunt of her nuisance with infinite patience. Although a weathered wall was not without its cracks, and the occasional jibe could, and did, muscle its way through every now and then, usually when he least expected it. “Turkey Jerky?” What the fuck did that mean? He can’t imagine a single characteristic about him, or his behaviour that might even resemble a jerky. Was he a jerk? He thought himself perfectly restrained, all things considered, her on the other hand... “Right. That’s reassuring.” Frank scratched his arm. His words were accompanied by a wary look and delivered with no great confidence. At least when he returned to his usual spot behind the bar, he knew who to keep an eye on. Nell, that can’t be a real name. A nickname, he decided. Yet deep in the pit of his stomach he felt an itch: what was her real name? This wasn’t Frank. The impulse was biological, totemic, ancient, and it made him uneasy. He scratched the back of his neck. “Frank. And I’ll let you know as soon as you come up with something that makes more sense than turkey jerky.” 

[soybeantree]

a baby changes everything

pairing: do kyungsoo x (reader)

genre/warning: artificial insemination, drama

word count: 2.3k+

description:  when you decided to have a baby, you knew everything would change, but this is not what you expected...

a/n: november installment of our ‘trying to write a kyungsoo story for every month that he is gone’ series.

parts: o1 | o2

Cars splash through puddles as they whiz down the streets. Rain continues to patter down on the bus stops awning. Resting your hand on your stomach you attempt to quell your little one’s movements with a soft whisper. He continues to push against his boundaries, ready to enter the world or perhaps eager to protect his mother. Your nerves have much to do with his unease. Your internal whispering have had the same affect on you as it did on him. There is no calming your nerves.

Your bus arrives, and with a deep breath, you push yourself up and board. A thirty minute commute stretches between you and the upcoming encounter. It drags on, while simultaneously rushing ahead. You’re not ready for the meeting, but neither would you be given more time. They gave you a week to come to a decision, even though you knew your answer the day they asked. Your son is your son, and you will fight to keep him.

The first day you met your son’s father was the day his family requested you relinquish to them your rights to your unborn son. He sat silently at the end of a long boardroom table, his eyes fixed on something beyond the room’s windows. His lawyers and secretary were anything but. They chattered incessantly and at a speed which left you confused and irritated. Eventually, you tuned them out as your focus rested on your sperm donor. He was rich, presumably well-educated, and based on the current diatribe due to become the CEO of his family’s company. The question which circulated most through your head was “why?”. 

Why would someone like him go to a sperm bank? Clearly not for money. Perhaps treatment for an illness. Was he saving it for some future spouse? Were you given his sperm by accident?

In the end, why didn’t matter. What mattered was that your son was his son, and his family wanted his son. Your son was to be his heir and the heir to their company. You would become his surrogate, relinquishing all legal rights to him.

At the end of the meeting, they offered you a contract which outlined your duties for the remainder of your pregnancy and beyond. It included a gag order and the information regarding your compensation. They gave you a week to decide. As you prepared to leave, they delicately advised what would happen should you reject the offer. They had the means and the legal team to ensure your son ended up where he belonged, and when they succeeded you would end up desolate and destitute. The world passes by in a blur of gray. Water droplets race down the bus windows, and you watch them, betting on which will win. The distraction fails, so you stop. Your hand returns to your stomach, and this time you hum instead of whisper.

Telling your family you were going to undergo artificial insemination had released chaos. Your mother went silent, but her judgment was tangible. Your sisters vocalized their disapproval. You were still so young. You had plenty of time to find a guy and get married.

Telling your co-workers had started the gossip mill. Their disapproval stemmed from the opposite direction. You were a successful career woman, steadily climbing the corporate ladder. A child would complicate your life, and a woman didn’t need to have a baby to be complete.

You smiled politely and thanked everyone for their concern. On the day of your insemination appointment, you arrived early and prayed for success. A month later you received the wonderful news.

The comments petered out after you shared the news. The disapproval remained in their eyes though. You continued to smile politely as you planned for your new life.

Everything was going to plan which should have been a red flag that something would go wrong. Early in your third trimester after all your baby-showers and after you had completed your baby’s room, you received a visitor at work. His business card identified him as a legal representative of EXO Corporation, a corporation known the whole world over. You doubted the validity of his claim. Your employer had no connection with EXO Corporation, and your only personal connection came via the products you buy from their subsidiaries.

The man assured you he was indeed a part of their legal team and requested to arrange a meeting with you and the corporations president. You had snorted, the reaction involuntary but accurate. With a clipped smile, he informed you that they would send a car to pick you up the coming Saturday.

A car had arrived that Saturday, a week ago. It took you to the meeting which has haunted you and robbed you of sleep. This Saturday, you left before a car arrived.

The bus pulls up to your stop. You whisper a thank you to the driver as you descend the stairs. The EXO building looms over you, leaving you in its shadow. A chill shakes your shoulders. Raising your umbrella, you square the and march forward.

“Ms. Y/L/N.” You skitter to a stop and glance around for the source of your name. Do Kyungsoo stands beside a sleek black car, reminiscent of the one which came for you. From beneath his umbrella, he raises a hand in greeting, and you unconsciously mimic the gesture. Snapping your hand to your side, you politely nod before resuming your march. Ire burns in your stomach, but you smother it with reason. You need to be clear headed for the coming battle.

Arriving at the elevator, you tuck your umbrella in your purse and wait in vain for the doors to open before he comes. Kyungsoo takes the spot next to you, but the crowd of workers inhibits conversation. You board and ensure the crowd separates you. As the elevator ascends, the workers exit on their floors until only you two remain.

“I had hoped to speak with you before today’s meeting.” And he had tried. Every day at exactly 5PM, he would call, and after going to voice mail, he would send the same text. If you are available today, I would like to speak with you. “We still have a few minutes before the meeting. I intend to grab some coffee. We have water and juice.”

“I’m fine.” You decline with a polite smile. “I’d prefer to keep my time here brief.” The elevator dings, and the doors open. Kyungsoo motions for you to exit. He falls into step beside you and opens the door to the boardroom. Your upbringing forces a ‘thank you’ from your lips.

While you and Kyungsoo may be early, the legal team is earlier. They already sit around the table, vultures ready to pounce. When Kyungsoo enters, they stand and show their respect. He returns the greeting and situates himself at the head of the table. The legal team sits and motions for you to do the same.

You remain standing and meet their eyes. “Thank you, but there’s no need. I’m not selling you my baby.” Anger burns in your chest as you utter the vulgar response.

The head of the legal team smiles with all the sincerity of a fox. “Ms. Y/L/N, that’s a rather crude way of looking at this situation. We are merely compensating you for your services.”

“I don’t need compensation because I haven’t provided any services to your president or this company. I chose to have a baby. I chose the sperm from the options given to me. I chose to be inseminated. This baby,” you rest your hand on your womb, “is my baby. As we have no further business, I will be going. Goodbye.” You nod to them before exiting the boardroom. Indignation and threats fly at your back, but as the door closes behind you, they fade into silence.

Once more setting your hand on your belly, you feel peace. Your son has finally settled down to sleep.

In the nursery, you sit in the rocking chair you spent weeks agonizing over. Relaxing into its plush cushions, you commend yourself for your good decision. You have no regrets regarding your son, but certain decisions weigh heavier on your mind. The EXO corporation has maintained silence since you gave your decision, but their threats linger. If they decide to pursue legal action, you may lose your son.

The door buzzer breaks you from your revere. The rocking chair cushions are easy to sink into but difficult to climb out of. After much struggle, you free yourself. Eying the chair, you second guess your decision. The buzzer sounds again, and you table that thought for later.

Staring at the door cam screen sends fear winding through your veins. Kyungsoo’s face stares at you. He reaches for the buzzer again, but you open the door before he can push it. Body blocking entrance, you meet his eyes. He offers a smile which you refuse to return. With a nod, he pulls his hand from behind his back to reveal a take-away bag from your favorite restaurant. Your eyes narrow as you inch the door closed.

Clearing his throat, he lowers the bag. “I probably should have gotten something generic and not from the background check we did.”

“Probably.”

“It’s a peace offering. I was hoping we could talk. If not, the food is still yours.” He extends the bag, the smell of the food wafting forward. Your stomach growls, and your son nudges you. With a sigh, you grab the bag, keeping your fingers far from his. His arm returns to his side as he awaits your decision. Curiosity and fear mingle in your mind. Stepping back, you open the door wide.

You leave him in the entryway as you head to the kitchen. He enters as you finish transitioning the food from the container to a plate. The bag only contained one portion of your favorite dish. You settle at the table with your food. He takes up position in the kitchen’s center, hands clasped behind his back.

“I wanted to let you know that my corporation will not be suing you for custody. I have told them that we will respect your decision.” He begins as you chew on your first bite. Relief floods you as tears prick your eyes. Swallowing, you nod in acknowledgment but keep your attention on your food. “I also wanted to apologize.” Your next bite lodges in your throat as your knuckles whiten around your fork. Kyungsoo silences.

“Continue.” You offer before standing up and heading to the cupboard to grab a glass.

“I’m sorry for the way my company and my family treated you.” You pull a water pitcher from the fridge. “I’m also sorry for allowing them to harass you, my reasons for doing so were cruel.”

“Because you wanted to steal my son.” Your voice remains steady despite the roiling in your stomach. You set the pitcher beside your glass. Your hands are shaking too badly to pour.

“Because I didn’t trust you.”

“Trust me?!” Your eyes flash to him, your hands balling into fists on the counter top

He maintains your gaze. “I had concerns that you had chosen my sperm on purpose and intended to use the baby to exhort money from me. After meeting you and seeing your love for your son, I put my concerns to rest.”

Anger still burns inside, but you release your fists and pick the pitcher back up. You guzzle the first glass and pour yourself another. This one you hold in your hand, swirling it and watching the ripples. “Is that all?”

"No." You glance back up. He continues to stand in the middle of your kitchen, his attention fully on you. "I also came to ask you to consider allowing me to be a part of my son's life."

“Why?” The word snaps out.

“Because he is my son, and the only child I will have.”

“What?” You breath the question as you set your glass back on the counter.

“Last year, I was in an accident.” The tabloids had covered it ad nauseam. “What was left out of the news report was that the accident left me infertile. Information which could be detrimental to the corporation.”

“Did they have you save your sperm in case of something like this?” The “whys” you pondered resurface as you take your glass and return to the table.

A smile cracks his face, and he chuckles. “No. That was a lucky happenstance.” Curiosity tingles the tip of your tongue, but you seal your lips. The smile continues to play on Kyungsoo’s lips. He motions to the chair across from you, and you nod. As he sits, he continues. “After high school, I went through what my parents call my rebellious stage.” You snort around a bite, pieces of food flying to the table. Covering your mouth, you clear your throat and attempt to regain your composure. With him sitting across from you in a perfectly tailored three piece suit, you find it hard to imagine him going through a rebellious stage. He shakes off your reaction. “I ran away from home, lived on friend’s couches, worked odd jobs. At one point, I became desperate for cash, and my friend suggested selling my sperm. Any option was better than swallowing my pride and crawling back to my parents.

“After the accident when my parents and the board began to worry about the future of the company, I told them about the sperm. They went to the bank, but-” He shrugs. You know the rest of the story.

Running your thumb through the condensation on the glass, you contemplate his story and his request. “If I say, ‘no’?”

“I will respect your decision, but will request that if my son ever wants a relationship with me, you will allow it.”

“If I say, ‘yes’?”

“I will respect the boundaries you put in place.” You settle your hands in your lap and meet his gaze once again. You search beneath his calm demeanor and find the flicker of hope. 

“You know a lot about me.” He swallows but nods. “May I get to know you better before I decide?” The hope brightens, and he nods again.

[fromtheringapron]

Random Notes on Episode #1 of Sunday Night Heat

I miss Sunday Night Heat. I miss wrestling weekend shows in general, but Heat holds some particularly unique appeal to me. Back in the day when I was too young to stay up and watch Raw in its entirety, Heat was usually the place to get my wrestling fix. By the time I started watching it, Heat was pretty much an afterthought, but it would recap the past week’s Raw, so it also helped keep me up to date on storylines. Even in its latter days, you would get a lot of weird stuff you wouldn’t get any other WWE show and, thanks to the WWE Network, some of it is finally starting reemerge.

The premiere episode of Heat debuted on August 2, 1998. Contrary to popular belief, a lot of stuff happened on the show in its first year on the air. As Smackdown did not yet exist, it was actually WWF’s B show for a short while, often furthering storylines and even once saw Mankind win the WWF title in the famed empty arena match. The first episode gave a small inkling of what was to come. Here’s the results from the card that literally nobody remembers:

Edge defeated Jeff Jarrett (with Tennessee Lee).

Droz & The Headbangers (Mosh and Thrasher) defeated Kaientai (Funaki, Men’s Teioh, and Dick Togo) (with Yamaguchi-san).

WWF European Championship Match: D’Lo Brown (champion) defeated Ken Shamrock via disqualification.

#1 Contenders’ Match for the WWF Tag Team Championship: The Rock and Owen Hart defeated Kane and Mankind (with Paul Bearer) vis count-out.

Edge as a rookie! D’Lo Brown as Euro champ! The Headbangers in general! What a time. Outside of the card, here’s what also randomly caught my attention:

Early Shane McMahon is Obnoxious: The early, early days of Heat were our formal introduction to Shane McMahon and, oh boy, it was rough. Thought it wouldn’t be long until he became a mega spoiled prick, the first episode sees him woefully miscast as a babyface color commentator, which is absolutely NOT his thing. First of all, his overall presentation is just weird in retrospect. He comes down to the ring in what would become Jacqueline’s entrance music, which already sets a jarring tone. Not only that, but he’s joined by two women named Alley and Kyla (or at least I think that’s her name? I couldn’t hear it well). Who are they? What’s their relationship to Shane? Why are they more random than The Wrestling Classic’s Susan Waitkis? Then we get his commentary and, woof, if you ever want to hear a human being speak in all caps for an entire broadcast, be my guest. It’s a far cry from the man who’d become known for failing several feet off various structures, somehow avoiding serious injury every time.

Droz’s World: Perhaps the most bizarre segment of the first episode is a segment inspired by MTV’s The Real World, starring everyone’s favorite puke artist Darren Drozdov. He tells the story of how he threw up on Mark Henry’s hand during training. Yep, that’s literally it. Fortunately, Tom Prichard is here to offer some color commentary to the event, saying “IT WAS GROSS!” and how Droz’s puke was filled with “corns and beans.” Oh, and then Droz shows a tattoo of a dog on his ass for good measure. Somewhere, Vince McMahon can be heard laughing in the distance. It’s oft forgotten how much the Real World was parodied back in the late ‘90s, even before the reality TV genre ever really exploded in popularity. Remember how it found its way in She’s All That?

The Val Venis/Mario Lopez Feud: One of the best parts of watching old Raw episodes is having to listen to the commentators awkwardly plug the USA Network’s original series. After all, a plug for Silk Stalkings just doesn’t feel right if you’re not watching an Undertaker squash in jest. The first episode of Heat carries on with this grand tradition and hypes the hell out of Pacific Blue, which I’ve never watched but sounds like some Baywatch/Miami Vice/crime procedural schlock. It takes it even one step further by having star Mario Lopez in the audience, who then proceeds to get into a fight with, um, Val Venis (in the midst of his castration storyline with Kaientai no less)?!? The WWF seriously tried to tease us with a Venis vs. Lopez feud in 1998. I’m not even really sure who the face in that situation would be. It sounds ridiculous, but can’t be any more so than what WCW was doing at the exact same time with Jay Leno.

Bart Gunn and Shanna Moakler: Did you do a double take reading that headline? One half of the Smoking Gunns and one half of MTV’s short-lived reality show Meet the Barkers! In the same room! On TV! If there were ever a more random pair of people to share TV time, I’d like to know it. Anyway, continuing the theme of plugging Pacific Blue as much as possible, we have  cast member Shanna interviewing Bart Gunn (dubbed here as “LeFTY”) about his upset victory in the ill-advised Brawl 4 All against tourney fave Dr. Death. Of course, Bart yammers on a bit about knocking Dr. Death out with his left hook. Blah, blah, blah. I’m sure if you adjust the volume a certain way, you can practically hear Jim Ross seething behind the commentary booth.

The Main Event is a Mess: If you thought they would’ve ended the first episode of Heat with a bang, guess again. It doesn’t even end with a whimper, really; more like a slow, drawn-out fart. The winner of the main event tag team match would go on to face Steve Austin and The Undertaker, example #457 of tag champs who are actually mortal enemies. The match is just a lazy brawl where everyone involved doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass, despite Shane’s best efforts to once again to bring the excitement by speaking in all caps. The Rock and Owen Hart win over Kane and Mankind (Team Hell Socko?) by count-out, as Owen casually slides back into the ring after an outside brawl. I don’t know how Rock and Owen fared against the tag champs the next night on Raw, but it’s safe to say it didn’t lead to much. I know I have full access to the WWE Network where I can easily watch that but, hey, these guys didn’t put in any effort into this match so why should I? Fair is fair. 

And there you have it⏤the first episode of Heat in the books, ass tattoos and all. I hope the WWE Network uploads more episodes in the future. I personally want the MTV era on there. Anyway, they better upload them soon, or else I may just resort to finally watching Pacific Blue instead.

[salamanderskin]

Five times Caleb didn’t let the Mighty Nein take care of him when he was sick... and one time he did (parts 1 and 2)

Critical Role, campaign 2, pure fluff. Sometimes spelling sneezes, sometimes not, who needs to be consistent when you can speed-write kink?

1. Nott the Brave

Nott and Caleb share a room. It goes without saying. The rest of party tends to split by gender but it has been established that the goblin girl and the wizard are a package deal. They have been sharing spaces with the rest of the Mighty Nein when needed, but it’s just more comfortable this way, especially when they are both worse for wear. A journey in heavy rain and a handful of battles with no more than short rests in between has worn them down. The goblin perks up as soon as the fire is lit and her damp cloak is off. Caleb does not.

He sits by the fire and stares into it. He hasn’t even bothered to undress, just sits and stares, shivering. Nott ignores him at first but the sound of his teeth chattering goes right through her and she is drawn to his side, to peer up into his face.

“Something’s bothering you. You’re very quiet.” She accuses.

Her own voice always has a rasp to it, but there is one in Caleb’s too when he replies, dryly “and usually I am so very chatty.”

There’s a funny expression on his face so she pauses to let his thoughts crystallise. Wait, that’s not it, more of a puzzled tilt to his brows. His lips part, quivering, before- “hepCH!”- a sharp sneeze. He manages to dip his head behind a sleeve before the next shudders through him.

Nott winces knowingly, golden eyes full of concern.

“Are you getting sick, Caleb?”

“Nein- I-“ a hand creeps up to hover weakly before his face, and he is overtaken by a few more. “HepCHssh!-hetPSch!”

“Entshuldigung...” he shakes his head groggily and fishes out a handkerchief from the pocket of his cloak for a quick blow. If any others of their party had been present, he might have been mortified, would have denied his state vehemently. But it was just Nott, who had seen the worst of him ten times over.

“I hope not, but this does not seem very encouragi- ah-“ He raises a hand to interrupt her before she can speak. “No a healing potion with not do much for this. If I am getting a cold, it will have to go away on its own.”

“Okay.” She twists her claws together uneasily as she sees how pale he is. She likes him, needs him, to be at the top of his game. For both of them. “You should take your wet things off, at least.”

“Ja. Yes, I will do that.” He acquiesces to her good sense and removes layers of wet clothing, arranges it to steam by the fire. Next he draws his books from his rucksack and lays each on the bed to inspect them for damage. The edges of a few are damp but none of the text seems to have bled, which is the main thing. Nott sits beside him on the mattress and attends to her own precious collection of coins, buttons and rings. She counts them out of the bag and then back in again, twice, and leans back in satisfaction.

Caleb relishes the little press of her back against his side as he reads. She is nice and warm. A ticklish cough bursts from his throat and throws him double before he can warn her. It is a loud, convulsive sound that seems too loud to come from the wizard’s skinny chest.

It makes Nott yelp and she skitters down to the edge of the bed like a cat with it’s claws out.

“Sorry! Sorry, you made me jump. I’m not used to you making sudden noises.”

“I cannot help-“ Caleb manages around the coughing. He draws a gulp of water from his flask which

burns his throat going down but quiets the cough for now. “You will have to get used to it. I do not wish to startle you every time I... ieh...”

With impeccable timing he hears his own voice go weak and needful with a series of hitching breaths. The sensation is so intense that tears gather on his lashes and though them he can see his goblin companion steeling herself for the explosion. He muffles three sneezes into his handkerchief and looks up at her apologetically.

“Bless you,” she says.

“I didn’t make you jump that time?”

“Oh, no, I could see it coming. You have a very expressive face.”

He snorts in amusement and that makes him cough again. She scoots closer and eyes him closely. She doesn’t like the pale cast of his face under the dirt, or the shadows under his eyes. The tip of his nose is becoming a sensitive pink.

“You look like shit,” she says sorrowfully. “Worse than usual. I could ask Jester if she cast healing on you, see if she can clear this up a bit?”

“Nott.” He says firmly, “Will you ease off, please? Listen. Healing spells aren’t good for common illnesses. The effect won’t last long enough to be worth the magic. Besides, I’m not asking Jester to cure a cold. I rely on her for healing pretty much every time we get into an altercation. The rest of this team are so much more-“ he searches for the word, “-durable- than your average human. It’s embarrassing.”

“Beau’s human.”

“Beauregard is a human tank. Do you see her needing healing left, right and centre?”

“Okay.” The goblin shrugs. It is difficult to get a goblin sick after all and her sinewy body can take quite a beating despite her size. “Okay, Caleb.”

He sees her concern and pats her fondly on the shoulder. “You worry too much. I am not delighted by the prospect either but such is life. Go on, my little friend, why don’t you go down to the bar and see what there is to eat. I will stay here with Frumpkin and see if all my books have made it through the weather unscathed.”

The cat materialises when his name is mentioned and curls comfortingly on the wizard’s lap, making it clear he isn’t going anywhere.

“Alright. Alright then. I’ll see you later.” She gathers her hooded cloak and returns the mask she uses to hide her goblin features. Anxiety always rises in her when Caleb is threatened, a ferocious mothering instinct coupled with the knowledge that he is her hope for the future. He is all she has. A drink will make the feeling better, so she makes for the stairs without a backwards glance and tries to enjoy the rest of the evening.

2. Fjord (and bonus Pumat Sol) 

“Caleb?”

“Caleb?”

He shakes his head and realises that Fjord has been calling his name for a while (a minute and forty-three seconds, the helpful voice in his head informs him) and the noise won’t stop until he responds.

“Ja?”

“You zoned out for a moment there.” His half-orc companion tells him. “Pumat is trying to give you your change.”

Ah yes, he is in the Invulnerable Vagrant and the familiar shopkeeper is trying to push a mix of silver and copper into his hands. For the ink and incense that he doesn’t entirely remember buying.

“Ja, yes, of course.” He takes it fumblingly and flushes red. What is wrong with him?

Fjord goes forward to pay for his own purchases. As he waits, Caleb notices how cold it is in the shop. His limbs prickle with goose flesh under his coat and he even shivers. Summoning Frumpkin the cat into his arms helps a little, but not enough. Why do the Pumats not use their considerable magic to heat this place better? He paces, trying to keep warm, but the movement jars the headache brewing behind his eyes.

Pumat number three’s loud voice isn’t helping the headache at all.

“Excuse me, Sir, we don’t allow animals in this establishment due to their being sensitive objects a magical nature…”

He turns to explain that Frumpkin is not, technically speaking, a real cat, but both Pumat and Fjord give him a strange look.

“With respect, you friend there looks a bit pale.” Pumat comments to Fjord. “Perhaps i could offer you one of our fine healing potions, for the road, because he looks like he might be needing it.”

Caleb tries to protest but Fjord adds, “You do look a bit peaky, gotta say.”

“It is nothing.” He insists. “Come Fjord, we have taken enough of Pumat’s time, I think.”

As soon as the heavy door of the invulnerable Vagrant has swung to a close, Fjord moves to block Caleb’s progress down the street. The human man always looks like he could stand a three nights of sleep and a good meal, but today he looks considerably worse. There are shadows under the blue eyes and the lids look so worn he can see the tracery of delicate veins there. He has less colour than Nott’s porcelain mask.

“Uh, not to be personal, but Pumat has a point. You look like death warmed up.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” Caleb finds his words catch in his throat. Clearing it makes him cough painfully. He follows Fjord’s astute gaze to the fist he has pressed into his chest, and lowers it guiltily.

“C’mere, let me-“ the half orc grips his shoulder too firmly for him to squirm away and presses the back of his hand against Caleb’s neck. His eyes narrow.

“Bit of a fever there, I think. Where’d that come from all of a sudden?”

The action is businesslike but the attention makes Caleb’s stomach flip between pleasure and shame. He wants to shake it off, but the moment the touch is gone he feels lonely in the absence of it. “No idea.” He says honestly.

“Better go back and get some rest, and let Jester have a look at you.” Fjord advises.

Caleb squirms. No need to waste a spell when he can surely sleep this off. Besides, his head is pounding hard enough that loud, vivacious interrogation is the last thing feels like right now. “Maybe.” He compromises. “I will go to my room any case.”

He turns towards the direction of the Inn but the cobblestones waver and shift before his eyes. He reels drunkenly and the only reason he doesn’t fall is the sudden pressure of a strong, orcish arm against his elbow.

“Danke.” He whispers.

“No problem. I got you.” Fjord affirms, gently righting him again. “Are you, uh, gonna be okay to walk back on your own? You need a little company?”

“Oh, nein. I can manage,” He gently, but firmly removes Fjord’s arm from his own. He is flushed in the face now, the blue eyes are glassy and bright, but he is standing straighter.

“Are you sure?” Fjord presses.

The look Caleb shoots him is unexpected. There’s that streak of pure fire that they occasionally see in battle. Evidently their wizard has just decided that this is a battle, one he intends to wage without help.

“I said I can manage, thank you Fjord.”

“Okay, okay.” Fjord holds his hands up in surrender. “Off you go then.”

Fjord watches as Caleb makes his way down the street, just to be sure. He thinks he can see the man’s thin shoulder shaking through his coat, some deep ache in the bend of his back, but his step is steady enough after that initial wobble. He considers popping back into Pumat’s for the extra healing potion, then decides again it. Caleb is a grown man who has clearly seen some shit. If he wants to handle this himself, let him.

[the-knights-who-say-book]

Star-Scales

They still told stories about Axaria’s dragons. How huge they were, how terrifying. How they blotted out stars and planets, and made a new aurora with the light of the sun glancing off their opalescent scales.

They still told the stories, even though they had killed every dragon they could get their hands on. They had the gall to pass those stories around like the jeweled scales and razor-sharp tusks that they passed around the black market, more valuable with each passing year since Axaria’s dragons had been eradicated.

It made Sol furious just to think about it, so she would have avoided them. But unlike the exorbitantly expensive scales and tusks, the stories weren’t hard to come by. They followed her around.

Some of the stories were fiction.

An example of a lie: the tusk of an Axarian dragon retains its powerful strength even after its death, and can be ground up into a medicinal powder to transfer that strength.

But some stories were true.

An example of a legend: the Axarian dragons had always been a nervous and skittish species, as prone to freeze during danger as they were to fight, and had long depended on a handful of trusted humans to guard them from human threats.

Sol heard mostly lies as she navigated the thronging marketplace. Lies about great battles and knights who faced down ferocious dragons one on one. Lies about stolen girls and the princes who saved them from the dragons’ clutches. Lies about how the Jasparian king had wiped out the dragons to prove that he was god-touched and god-chosen, that he would rule forever on his throne carved from dragon bone, kept alive and strong by powdered tusk looted from the battle fields.

Sol knew that the powder tasted like ash and did nothing of the sort. The king had probably also figured out as much by now, but that didn’t stop the Jasparians from passing the story from mouth to mouth.

She preferred to keep her distance from the Jasparians who had settled in her valley to make a living out of the death that still marked the landscape, scavenging what bone and fang and scale and tusk they could from the battlefields to sell to the wider world, turning up less and less each year. Soon the remains would run out and this town would no longer be fed by the sluggish blood of slaughtered dragons. But it would still be built on their ruins. Long after the townspeople finally began sowing the battlefields for crops instead of corpses, the stains of a bloodier past would linger.

She preferred to keep her distance, but she couldn’t always. She had hungry mouths to feed, not the least of which was her own. When supplies she couldn’t hunt or gather herself ran low, she took herself into town.

A thin layer of snow crunched beneath her feet, grinding between heel and cobble. The first fall of the season, the townspeople’s terror. Thick snow would make their scavenging work hard. Frozen ground would make it nearly impossible. They rushed to beat both.

Those who ran businesses and did work that didn’t relate to the dragon fields had less to fear from the coming winter. Their income was steadier, more predictable. Those who relied on the dragon fields’ yields had the opportunity to strike rich, but they might not strike at all. As the hardest season bore down on them, scavengers worked with a quiet frenzy and the last merchants made preparations to depart as soon as the haul came in. They would take the treasure to Jaspar, loudly auction off tusks to the king’s men or perhaps quietly to his enemies, sell glimmering scales to ladies who would wear them in exquisite patterns on their skirts or to apothecaries who would concoct miracle “cures” out of them.

Winter was dangerous for Sol too. Living outside the town left her vulnerable, and heavy snowfall might trap her in the caves for days at a time. She needed to stock up on supplies. Only this relentless practicality could drive her into town.

Like other merchants, Carrion did business out of the rooms he rented while in town. A wooden sign that hung out his window, bearing the symbol of a crossed pen and dragon tusk, indicated he was still open for business.

Her boots left wet prints down the entrance hall to his door. She had ignored the rug on which she was supposed to wipe them, which was woven with the image of a green dragon with a pen in its mouth, its delicate thread-work smeared with the mud of countless other feet. Carrion did not comment on this when he answered her knock. As usual, all his attention stayed on her pack from the moment she entered his room, even when he clasped her hand and when he poured them tea, which she wouldn’t drink, and asked her polite questions, which she wouldn’t return.

His greed was absolute and undisguised. She appreciated this about him. It made him the most trustworthy merchant she’d ever met. He would never spread awareness about the strange Axarian girl he did business with, for fear that she would do business with anyone else if they found out what she could offer.

In this they understood each other, though her understanding of him was somewhat more complete than his understanding of her. They knew what each other wanted. She took things from her pack and set them on the table. Delicate scales no bigger than the pad of her thumb. Chips of tusk. A talon the length of his pointer finger, though equivalent to an adult dragon’s pinky nail.

“You have a talent,” he said gleefully, examining her offerings. It wasn’t a compliment, more an expression of his own luck. Her talent for finding remnants of quality fed his greed. He fingered the smooth fronts of the scales, their rough backs, examined rippled edged. “I’ll give you five copper pieces each.”

“One silver each.” She didn’t enjoy haggling, and resented him for making them go through it each time.

“Ah, but they’re so small. I cannot give you the same price I would give for one of those.” He waved one hand to scales stacked on his desk from previous dealings, some as large as dessert plates, but his eyes never left her scales.

“Mine are higher quality.” They shone nearly as clear as mirrors, and had the perfect flexibility to be used in embroidery. Larger scales came from older dragons, dulled and stiff with age, edges ragged. They would need to be sanded, top layers excruciatingly peeled off, before they were used in jewelry or decorative armor.

“One silver piece for every three scales,” he conceded, which was the price they both knew was warranted and expected. They moved on.

The sky was taking on the purple tint of evening by the time Carrion had paid out and she had spent half her payment to load her arms with furs, long-lasting foods, and an ax blade to replace one that had melted. The snow that had crunched pleasantly underfoot earlier seemed to slow and dampen each step she took home, lugging her purchases and sweating under her cloak.

The slit-entrance to her cave was nearly hidden in the dark by the time she got there. Dragging a boulder away to make the entrance wider, she was almost bowled over before she could drag everything inside. Rigel launched himself into her arms with the intensity of one who had been abandoned for a year rather than half a day, keening loudly into her ear.

“Stop it, stop it,” she mumbled, trying to keep hold of his wriggling body while fending off his siblings. Pollux and Altair crowded around her legs, threatening to trip her with their constant shuffling. Altair snuffled the hand she used to push his snout away from the food, and let out a dissatisfied series of clicks and caws.

She stroked their heads and long, elegant necks, knocking a loose scale from Pollux. “You couldn’t have lost that this morning?” she asked. Pollux stuck her snout in the snow to sniff her own scale. “Take,” Sol told her. “Take. There you go. Inside now.”

Pollux gently took the scale in her mouth and scampered inside, Altair chasing in case she knew something about food being inside that he didn’t. Rigel stuck close to Sol’s legs as she gathered up her purchases and came inside, letting out irritated chirps when she failed to hurry.

Inside, Pollux climbed the single chair to reach the bowl on the desk where she dropped the loose scale, flapping her thin, undeveloped wings for balance. Rigel made anxious noises at her too, causing Altair to pick up his whining, in case he ought to be worried as well.

Eager to halt the litany of dragon cries sooner rather than later, Sol pulled strips of meat from the hooks that hung out of the dragons’ reach and clicked her tongue for their attention. They gathered quickly, jostling each other. Sol fed them in birth order: Pollux, already growing telltale female ridges above her eyes; Altair, whose tail was still more thorny than spiny; and Rigel, who hadn’t even begun to shed his baby scales yet.

While their sharp teeth were busy with food, Sol took the opportunity to examine them at their most distracted and least scratchy. Pollux’s talon was regrowing nicely from her ill-advised tussle with a boar. Sol wished she could have kept it as a keepsake. It hurt her heart to think of Pollux’s talon set into a silver hilt to make a souvenir dagger for some Jasparian noble—someone who would think nothing of it except as a remnant of some ancient beast. Not a battle-sacrifice from her little Pollux with bright eyes and hot breath, who was currently making a valiant effort to keep ahold of her dinner with one less talon than her brothers.

No one deserved these pieces of her dragons. But they were what kept them all in provisions as Sol waited these long years for the hatchlings to grow up.

Sighing, Sol levered herself up from the cave floor, leaving the dragons to feast alone, and went to poke at the fire. The great egg at its center smoldered with more heat than the flames, and a dark shape within it moved restlessly as she stirred the coals. “Soon, little one,” she crooned. “Soon, soon.”

It was the last dragon egg left. She’d nearly thought that it was dormant, that it hadn’t survived its mother’s death on the battle fields. But life still simmered inside it, taking its time to coalesce. She hadn’t dared name the others before they hatched for good, but she called this one Saiph, as if it needed to hear a name to know she was waiting.

As she hummed to the fire, Rigel came and sprawled out on the floor with his head on her lap, and she stroked the smooth ridges of his back, the soft membrane of his growing wings. At her touch he stretched them out, his eyes closed trustingly. She traced his narrow snout and tiny tusk nubs.

If the king had his way, his men would dig the tusks from each of her dragons and grind them up so the king could have another spoonful of ash. All for nothing but his reputation. But he could build himself a fortress of lies if he wanted—once the hatchlings were grown and he had to match his lies against legends, the walls would come crumbling down.

Altair settled next to her, his solid warmth small but concentrated, sitting right on Rigel’s tail with studied innocence. As Rigel chirped in annoyance, Pollux plopped herself onto the hatchling pile and leaned her head on Sol’s shoulder. Between dragon-warmth and the fire’s heat, the cave glowed hot as a beating heart.

Soft clicks came from the egg, as if Saiph was pecking experimentally. The dragons and the dragon-guard waited patiently.